vuka • jude

they are thinking of ways to hurt each other

"It's you, si!!" You smile, hands curling around his until he grasps the plush firmer. "It's mimikyu! The pokemon!"

Ghost looks between his hands and you, eyes narrowed under his skill mask. He rumbles in that low, trying to be soothing but not quite able to way "i think you got scammed, love. Pikachu has arms. And legs."

You laugh, miss the way ghost goes soft and warm at the sound, and point back at the plushie "no, it's a new Pokémon! It hides under a little disguise it built, but people still think it looks scary...a little like someone I know..."

"...It's supposed to be me. Yer a real mean bird," ghost grumbles, and you fully expect him to toss the plushie into a bag or pocket. Instead, he takes the clip it's attached to and puts it on his belt. Ghost squints in amusement at your expression "wot? You gave it to me. I'm keepin' him."

From then on, ghost an mimikyu are inseparable. No, he doesn't care that people do a double-take seeing him carrying around a little cartoon character, it's a gift from you and ghost treats it like one. Sure, next you see him mimikyu is oddly discolored, as if thoroughly scrubbed of blood, but you just laugh and say "Awe! He's battleworn! Just like my big guy, hm?"

Retired!141/early leave141 and what they’d go viral for:

John’s got a YouTube channel of his vintage car projects. Mostly of his hands working under the bonnet and him talking through what he’s doing. He does lean on the car and talk about the changes he’s made to them when he’s finished them.

Comments are like (why he make putting gloves on so slutty?). (Omg are those hand prints on the bonnet??) - yeah your hands were there when he took a quick break to fuck you over the car.

The guys want to be him and the girls want to be with him. There’s also footage of him asking you to set up the camera as it keeps falling down and he’s just got this smile on his face as he watches you do it.

Simon took leave early, who would have thought? He’s now a cosy gamer (needs the lifestyle change after the shit he’s seen), streaming his builds of the sims 4 on twitch. A lot of viewers watch purely for the sound of his voice.

He ends up building something he shouldn’t, a blueprint of some [redacted] site that’s burnt into his memory and you two have to move house. “Honestly love, I could do the desert and they’d think it were a [redacted] [redacted].” And he complains about having to start another channel and get enough followers to monetise.

Has definitely made the guys as sims too.

Kyle’s famous for his outfit of the day posts across multiple social media platforms. He never shows his face, records below his chin if he’s taking a video for a fit check and poses with a cap on/no face reveal.

Gets a load of free stuff to promote and earn money from. He gets more engagement on his solo posts, but does enjoy matching outfits with you too.

Gives the guys some of the stuff he doesn’t like as gifts. The guys also tease him in the group chat daily asking him for a photo of his outfit.

Johnny’s let go from the military due to his injury and goes viral for his art videos. He’s that guy in a cut up baggy muscle tee, crouched over a canvas painting. Shaggy hair as he’s growing it out to cover the scar on the side of his head. Does the odd video topless, paint stroke stained jeans. Ruffles his hair a lot whenever he stands back from the canvas and views his work. His eyebrow pierced and few more tattoos dotted around to cover some scars.

he came everyday at the shop, nervously placed his order without looking at anyone except straying his gaze just when you're handing him the unnamed coffee cup and then he would come by again the next day; same time, always on your shift.

and when you exchanged your shifts then it was purely coincidental that simon came making a second round for coffee just as unbothered and stiff and grudgy

huh, you wanted to see him smile or say something that wasn't keep the change.

“don't...this is scary.” your friend told you as much, with an ominous glance to where simon's bike made a stop outside as always on time.

“it might cheer him up though, c'mon.” you grinned—fixing the stupid collar—and greeting him with a big smile. “what would you like?”

simon perked, a physical spark in his ears and mouth. he stood like a brick for a moment because this was the first time you said anything to him. everyone had told you previously not to bother him and you did, they also told you not to mess up his coffee—always the same, and you did.

“the regular?” you tried.

simon nodded, then opened his mouth closing it again. “ah...yes, the regular.”

since it was a new dawn of new beginnings, you made his drink just he liked but smiled around the words and asked him. “So, what's your—”

“Simon.”

while you already knew his name from the card, but it was nice to hear him say it. he sounded exactly like he looked—but more fucking sexy.

You looped the 'o' towards 'n' feeling at once very much about improving handwriting. “Actually...” fuck, you couldn't believe you were doing this, “Uhm, you look like my first husband.”

simon's whole face shifted so much that you got anxious the way his eyes shone. Nerves popped out on his thick neck, and his arms flexed massively when he put hands in his leather jacket.

He stared, and you shockingly placed the coffee cup losing all your whimsy at once.

“So ya’ ere married.” simon said, all resigned and heavy and mysteriously dangerous.

“NO!” you explained, “Its a...it's a pickup line. I say 'oh woah you look like my second husband' and then you say 'oh how many husbands you got?' and then say I say haha, I never got married.”

You felt wild and erratic, feeling three heartbeat in one thumb, breathing hard then you swallowed, “Got it?”

it was a moment later that you realised this was how it must feel looking at the sun and not getting torn; simon smiled. a soft curl of his lips, a light trinkling around his iris, warm glow settling on his cheeks—impossiblily maddening, but a smile.

“how many husbands do you have?” he asked, very sincerely for an ordeal of playful pickup lines would allow.

all breath was knocked out of you, left with giddy anticipation and confetti, “I..I have never been married.”

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He can smell it, seeping under the door, piecing itself through the cracks in the wood, soaking into the pores of oak as if it were a fine lacquer: heat. The soft sweetness of vanilla almost acrid on his tongue, turned into something burning and alcoholic by the influx of hormones the usual milky afternote does nothing to smooth over the fermented air. And yet he draws in breath through his nose until his chest swells against the constraints of his armor. The sting in the back of his throat only warms him more to the idea of intruding on such a delicate time.

It must be painful, he thinks to himself, terrible to shut an omega away to whether the worst of the period with no one to sooth them but a middling maid. He's sure you're cramping, your poor body desperately searching for something to clamp down around, only to curl in on itself. If he presses his ear to the door he can almost hear the soft panting whimpers that you must be letting out. He can imagine the scene, his pretty charge with a pillow shoved between your thighs to keep from touching yourself, your skin slick with sweat, your night clothes sticking to you. It's not his place to intrude on your heat, he hasn't been invited, there are rules to these things, but God he wants to.

Wants to take you overwhelmed body into his arms and brush the sweat from your forehead until you're squirming away, insisting that even that much contact is too much, that you can't stand the touch of skin against yours. It is... immoral of him to think then about the way he'd roll you onto your stomach, muffling your protesting whines in your pillows and lift your hips to his mouth. To drink his own pleasure from you when you're too addled to stop him. You wouldn't push him away, no not you, his perfect princess, always so good for him. You'd fuss and whine, but you'd let him slip his fingers into your leaking cunt, would clench around them so nicely that he could delude himself into thinking you both wanted this.

He doubts you could take his knot, might not take more than the head of his cock, but you'd be so pliant and loose that he could try, could be a little mean. You'd forgive him for it, would blame it on the heat and not his own selfish desires. Not him, your fearless knight would never do anything to hurt you, you're sure.

It is only when his hand finds the latch to your door that he comes back to himself, the cold iron breaking whatever spell your scent cast over him.

omega johnny is married to another omega. its a frowned upon relationship, the kind that had friends trying to gentle parent them into splitting up and finding alphas of their own, or strangers spitting at them in the street.

whatever. johnny loves you and you love him. you couldn't imagine yourself with anybody else.

the only issue was starting a family. johnny couldn't get you pregnant and you couldn't afford to conceive any way but naturally (secondary gender wage gap is real).

this is where alpha simon comes into the picture. your head is already swimming the second he walks into any room and let's you get his scent.

he knows the effect he has on you. but he maintains a respectful distance, hyper aware of the rings on your fingers, of the wedding that had been so hard to get officiated.

but you both come to him begging. begging to knock you up with blonde haired, brown eyed babies.

it wasn't just you begging, but johnny too.

how could he not hold you down and drill his cock into you until you were crying, legs locked around you as his knot trapped you together.

he would do this as often as it took, fucking you whenever he had the stamina, until you were finally pregnant. not his kid, but johnnys.