Huahua's 梦想

NAME: HUA , she\her AGE: 23 y.o

㋡ hi-hello. i'm not a native english speaker, so my fic's might have some mistakes. and i am rly sorry about that in advance! :(

㋡ i’ll be posting stuff for a few fandoms: lds, jjk, cod. that’s all i’m kinda into right now, so yeah.

㋡ if you wanna use my work somewhere, please let me know first! if you use it without asking, just make sure to credit me. thanks!

sub!Zayne x Reader

synopsis: Zayne deserves punishment wc: 1330 tags: smut, fdom, msub, spanking, BDSM dynamic, sub!Zayn, dom!Reader, hands-free orgasm, tears, whimpering, whining, begging

Zayne liked it when you dominated him. That was a fact that was fucking hard for him to come to terms with, even if it all started gradually. First - cowgirl, where you'd pin his wrists down and then not let him come without permission. Then - sex toys entered your lives. Were they used on you? Fuck no. Only on Zayne. On his cock and his poor ass, because honestly… how the hell did he even manage to hold back when you were giving him a deep throat blowjob while playing with a metal plug in his ass, teasing that insanely sensitive entrance?

Honestly, it remained a fucking mystery to him to this day. Maybe through divine intervention and a few Hail Marys?

But yeah.

So maybe he should've been prepared for the fact that one day, all of this would go further. Much further. He'd end up over your fucking lap, belly down, bare-assed, with an embarrassingly obvious desire to bury his face in a pillow as deep as possible. Too bad there was no pillow nearby, and you weren't exactly rushing to make the next move.

Your fingers slowly slid over Zayne's bare ass, up and down, sending goosebumps racing up his pale back. You could see his tense muscles twitching under his skin when you touched that sensitive lower back.

— "Baby, tell me what you did wrong," — you whispered, so sweet and gentle that the man's heart fucking clenched in his chest. Just the feeling of the heat radiating from your palm made him want to whimper, - muffled and pathetic, - pressing his forehead into the bed.

— "I…" — Zayne stumbled, because… conversations like this were beneath his fucking status, you know? But his throat was raw, and his tongue moved on its own, against his goddamn will. Like some kind of need to answer you. To be good for you, fuck. — "I didn't take care of myself again today," — he whispered, involuntarily digging his fingers into the sheets harder. — "I skipped all my meals." — He swallowed, feeling your hand shift a little lower, to where his skin was thinner and hotter. — "I only drank coffee and ate candy from the nurses' station bowl…"

— "Good boy. And what do you deserve for that kind of behavior? We've talked about this, Zayne, how you're supposed to act when I'm not around."

The man squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed hard. His cheeks were burning, and the worst part was that all of this felt good. It sent a fucking heavy weight straight to his groin.

He wanted to bash his head against the wall because his cock, pressed against your thigh, twitched just as traitorously at the sound of your voice.

— "I didn't have time. I had to be at the meeting, and..."

You didn't let him finish. Your palm came down on one of Zayne's ass cheeks with a sharp, echoing smack, making him groan through clenched teeth. The hit wasn't too hard, but definitely noticeable. You also had to consider the fact that he was lying belly-down over your lap. This position alone was already embarrassing as hell for a "grown-ass, very fucking self-aware" Doctor Li. Pair that with his rapidly reddening ass.

— "That's not what you're supposed to say right now, Zayne."

The man stayed silent for several painfully long seconds, so you landed another smack on the other cheek. He exhaled sharply and said, very quietly:

— "I'm sorry…"

But then - silence again, which made you shake your head.

Another open-palm strike, this time - much harder. That almost fucking killed Zayne, because his ass started throbbing, fuck. So noticeably that he couldn't ignore it anymore. The fact that his cock was rock hard - also impossible to ignore.

You noticed that perfectly well, by the way. The tip slid against your thigh, leaving a wet trail, smearing sticky precum over your bare skin, and the man hid his face, - in the crook of his elbow, in his shoulder, anywhere, - just to cover himself. Because, god-fucking-dammit…

He liked this. In that completely shameful sense of the word.

And that realization made him want to fucking howl.

— "I'm sorry I didn't take care of myself…" — he rasped, biting his lips convulsively. — "I shouldn't have taken on more work instead of eating properly. I shouldn't have lied to you."

The moment the man said those words, you didn't strike again. You stopped, and instead of another smack, you stroked his reddened, burning skin. Zayne, over your lap, was breathing hard and ragged, and also - shifting restlessly, like he was trying to find that perfect position where his cock would press harder against your thigh. He didn't even notice he was doing it, too focused on you.

On your touch.

Zayne nearly started whimpering, literally fucking whining, when your fingers slid into the crack between his ass cheeks. You pressed slightly, making him jolt. His breathing fell apart completely; he gasped for air like a fish washed ashore, and felt another shameful sound get stuck somewhere in his throat.

But you didn't linger there. Your hand left his ass, and Zayne didn't know whether to exhale in relief or hold his breath in fear and anticipation. Then your palm came back. With a sharp, ringing smack.

— "Good boy. Now tell me, how are you supposed to behave tomorrow?"

Another smack. And another. You were hitting him faster now, quicker, not giving him time to recover between strikes. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left again - on the exact same spot. Zayne couldn't hold back his sounds anymore - they ripped out of him on their own: whining, whimpering, those absolutely disgusting, humiliating moans, because his cock was already leaking like crazy.

His ass was burning like he'd sat on a red-hot skillet.

— "S-stop…" — he exhaled, his voice finally breaking. — "Please… please, enough…"

You didn't listen. Or maybe you did, but you liked hearing him beg. Who the fuck knows? Maybe you wanted to ruin him right now.

— "I'm g-gonna…" — he whined, completely openly now. — "I'm gonna come, fuck… Please stop, if you hit me one more time…"

Zayne wanted to die. Disappear. Do anything - just so he wouldn't spill his cum all over your lap right now.

His voice cut off. His fingers dug into the sheets so hard the fabric looked like it was about to rip the fuck apart. Tears rolled down his cheeks - he didn't even fucking realize when he'd started crying.

— "B-baby…" — he sobbed, burying his face in the crook of his own elbow. — "Please… I can't anymore… I'm literally gonna come like a fucking..."

He didn't finish "like a fucking what." But you both knew.

His whole body was shaking violently. His ass - red, hot, marked with the prints of your fingers. And his cock - hard, throbbing, ready to explode from even the lightest touch.

You stayed silent, didn't answer, because why the fuck would you? You just drew your hand back again.

Zayne heard the whistle of air before your palm met his blazing ass cheek.

And he broke.

He came before the sound of the impact even faded. A convulsion ran through his entire body - from the crown of his head to his heels, making his back arch.

His cock twitched, pulsed, and the first spurt of cum hit your thigh. The second - right after, mixing with the precum already smeared there.

His ass burned so badly he could feel every single one of your fingerprints individually. And his cock, still half-hard, pulsed in time with his heartbeat, releasing the last, already pathetic drops.

Phainon, Mydei x Reader

synopsis: You dated Phainon and Mydei. wc: 746 tags: smut, cunnilingus, blow job, dirty talk, threesome

Dating Phainon and Mydei. The thing that, probably, a lot of people on your campus dreamed about. Tall and gorgeous, top of their classes, always ready to give a hundred percent. Just a living fairy tale - the kind that makes you fucking piss yourself with overwhelming happiness, like a dog seeing its owner come home, because there's so much of it that it doesn't fit up your ass or in your chest.

You, honestly, weren't that different from these people.

You loved too - literally to the point of a sweet ache in your heart, and, being completely honest, to the point of soaking your panties. And also those disgusting butterflies in your stomach that would start fluttering the second you saw those two faces. Like swallowing tapeworms rolled in sugar - fucking vile, but at the same time, you want more. A lot more.

And the problem was that sometimes you overestimated yourself. Too big of an appetite and all that shit - when you decide to chase two rabbits at once, and then they end up fucking you in every hole. Or however that proverb-idiom-who-gives-a-fuck goes.

— "Easy, easy. Don't rush."

Phainon was gentle and tender. His voice held nothing but pure care, multiplied by some kind of holy aura. Like he wasn't shoving his fucking cock down your throat, but feeding you communion off a silver spoon. Probably how Jesus himself would talk - reaching out a hand to both the poor and the ones who've rolled around in shit.

The man's hand on the back of your head pressed down gently. His fingers combed through your hair, turning what used to be a pretty decent braid into a goddamn bird's nest, while you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock. Gradually, trying to find that rhythm without taking it too deep.

But Mydei from behind, of course, didn't give a single flying fuck about all your efforts. You know, about the whole not choking like a normal person thing, or about your eyes rolling back because the tip hit the back of your throat way too fucking fast.

His tongue, - hot as hell, with that absolutely fucking sinful piercing in the middle, - traced either right over your hole or circled your clit. His fingers slid along your folds, wet with natural slick and spit, spread you open, letting him push even deeper inside.

You could feel your legs starting to shake more and more, holding you up worse and worse. You weren't doing a great job sucking, given the circumstances. Kind of a distraction, yeah.

— "You like that?" — Mydei whispers, pulling away from your pussy for a second. — "You're fucking dripping, and I've only just started."

You'd think if you ask a question, you'd expect an answer, right? But apparently this guy didn't give a shit, because the very next second he's pressing his mouth back to you, sucking on your clit, making your entire fucking body jerk. Another second - and you'd have bitten down on Phainon's's cock.

Phainon, for his part, instead of scolding anyone, just ran his hand through your hair, dragged his nails over your skin in a soothing gesture.

— "Be gentler. She's about to fall."

Mydei just snorts in response, and then, - roughly and without warning, - shoves his fingers inside your pussy. You lose your balance; Phainon's cock slides deeper into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

— "Oh, yeah? Well, too late." — and the guy starts fucking you hard and rhythmically, at some absolutely fucking insane angle. So much so that the sheets beneath you start getting soaked fast. — "And look - she just keeps obediently sucking."

— "Mydei." — now Phainon's voice sounds like a warning, but he does grip your hair tighter. You can feel how hard it is for him to hold back, not to fuck your throat deeper.

— "What do you mean 'Mydei'?" — he spreads his fingers apart, then runs his tongue over you again. Another minute of this, and tears are gonna start streaming down your face.

And he was right. Despite your gag reflex, the lack of air making your head spin - you did everything you could, taking that cock.

Phainon's breathing was ragged and heavy because, fuck, he couldn't just start bucking his hips all of a sudden.

sub!Jason Todd x Reader

synopsis: Jason Todd is a virgin wc: 1178 tags: virgin Jason Todd, first time, orgasm control, blow job, moaning, whimpering, msub, fdom, smut

Jason was a virgin. And honestly, that fact didn't fucking bother him at all. Like, a big ol' "don't give a shit plus don't give a shit" situation - a guy whose interests and thoughts revolved around… other things, okay? He wasn't about to hit you with some lofty, Aristotle-level bullshit. It was more just him being aware of some kind of line separating him from relationships and all that.

Basically, the fact that he just didn't want to "find" someone in that way.

At least, that's what Jason thought. About his independence from intimacy, from all those base desires that Father would've definitely condemned during Sunday confession.

And then you showed up. Like something out of some cheap romance novel that old ladies with smoker's voices try to peddle at train station kiosks.

And suddenly those "little things" weren't so little anymore. Because he wanted to be the one for you - and along with that came wanting to be cool and all that shit. So his lack of experience really… stressed Todd out. And that's putting it mildly. Because you, on the other hand, were the complete opposite.

It fucking showed way too much in your movements. In the way you kissed him, making his knees literally fucking tremble. He'd get hard like some snot-nosed teenager the second you slid your tongue into his mouth.

The tension in his groin was so sharp and hot that he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and sink through the floor right then and there, because Todd couldn't hold back a single sound.

That pathetic fucking whining when you pulled away after a few minutes. All his usual sarcasm would fly right out of his head - all those dumb little phrases that usually made you laugh.

He was just… shaking. Turned on, breathing hard, and dreaming of more - which you wouldn't give him right away. Jason didn't fucking know at what point he was supposed to slip a hand into his pants.

What if he rushed it and scared you off?

And you weren't helping at all. The way you pulled away from him so easily, then went right back to the movie like you were purposely teasing him.

On that point, he wasn't wrong. You loved seeing that mix of lust, pain, and involuntary worry on his face way too much.

This time was no different.

Your tongue slid along his lower lip. You bite it, pull Jason along with you, and he follows like a guard dog on a short leash. He doesn't even realize when he ends up on his back on the mattress - his head just softly hits the pillow at some point, and you're on top of him.

Right on his fucking hips.

Jason instinctively reaches for your waist, wanting to squeeze, to slide under your shirt - but you catch his wrists before he can even close his fingers.

— "Uh-uh," — you say quietly, and that tone makes everything inside him flip the fuck over.

Holy fucking shit.

You guide his arms up toward the headboard - one, then the other, - and Todd lets you. More than that - he doesn't even think about resisting. He just looks at you, completely mesmerized. Watches as you slowly let your hair down, taking off that black satin ribbon. And then you wrap it around his wrists, tying them together. Not too tight - just enough to make a point.

He could still easily flip your positions, after all.

Jason jerks, bucks his hips, because yeah. He's turned on, dreaming of you finally touching him. You grant that wish, placing your palm just above where his cock is straining rock-hard against his zipper.

— "Don't rush."

— "You..." — Todd starts, voice raw, then immediately shuts his mouth because your fingers just traced over his crotch through his jeans.

He arches off the bed, a pathetic moan ripping from his lips. That fucking whimper - the one he's ashamed of right up until he sees your reaction.

Just how much you liked those two sounds.

— "You want me to keep going?"

— "Yes," — he wheezes, probably before you even finish the question.

— "Just 'yes'?" — Jason lets out something like an animalistic whine. — "Come on, Jay. Be polite."

— "Please," he breathes out in a whisper. Then, when you don't move, he adds: — "Please... touch me."

You lean forward, catch the hem of his shirt, and pull it up, exposing his stomach - hard, with a trail of dark hair leading downward.

— "Good boy." — That word alone makes him fucking choke. — "Stay still."

You pull down the zipper on Jason's jeans, and he presses his head back into the pillow, freezing.

He wants to snap back at you.

Say something about how he's not a dog that obeys so easily.

But in that moment, you yank his jeans and boxers down together, and his cock - hard, already wet at the tip, and impossibly sensitive. So sensitive that just the touch of air makes Todd's whole body jolt.

You wrap your fingers around him, stroke from top to bottom and back, and the man loses whatever thread was connecting him to reality. His hips buck up on their own, fucking into your fist, and he moans so loud he startles himself.

— "Quiet. Unless you want the neighbors to find out what a loud boy you are?"

Not that your neighbors would give a shit - the walls are fucking thick enough.

He doesn't answer, because the next second, you go lower.

You do the thing that breaks him completely.

Your mouth, - hot and wet, - is on Todd's cock without any warning. Your tongue slides around the tip in a circular motion - so slow, fucking deliberate, that his calves cramp up. You take him into your mouth, pull back, then sink down again, deeper, almost all the way.

Jason howls.

Not moans - fucking howls, head thrown back, bound hands clenched into fists, sweat rolling down his temples. He whines, begs, says something completely incoherent. From that jumbled mess, you can only make out:

— "More… more, please…"

And you speed up. Within seconds, you grant that request - but then you slow right back down, turning this into pure torture.

— "You're… you're doing this on purpose," — Jason nearly sobs, his voice full of pure desperation. — "Fuck... I'm gonna…"

You run your tongue from the base to the tip, slow, with pressure, feeling the vein pulse under his thin skin. The man lets out a ragged moan, and you sink down a little deeper. You tighten your lips, creating suction.

— "Oh, fucking hell," — he whispers, head thrown back.

Another whimper escapes his lips. Each following movement of yours turns that sound into a full-on whine.

omega!Dottore x Reader

synopsis: Dottore is your omega. wc: 1477 tags: omegaverse, omega!Dottore, alpha!Reader, nesting, heat, pheromones, fingering, fdom

Omega!Dottore didn’t hate his omega nature. It was what it was, no point crying over spilled milk, yeah. But he understood very clearly that if he were to look for flaws in himself, his personality would be one of them. His demandingness. And also - that almost animal need for you, his alpha, to always be by his side. To sit as fucking close as possible, covered from head to toe in his pheromones. That scent of ozone, bitter almond, and burnt sugar, seeping into your skin so deeply that other omegas would give you a wide berth.

Omega!Dottore couldn’t stand a lot of things. He was irritated by human stupidity, which he considered to be the greatest vice of all humanity. For that - there absolutely should be divine punishment.

But what pissed him off more than anything was you, and the way recruits didn’t hesitate to stare at you. Those dumb looks of theirs, crawling all over your silhouette as you walked past. And the fact that you didn’t even fucking notice it.

Irritating.

You - one of the Harbingers. The one who takes part in all the combat operations for the Tsaritsa. An alpha who, unlike Capitano, didn’t make people nervously tuck their tails the moment you appeared. And, unlike Childe, wasn’t obsessed with that eternal “get stronger” pattern.

With you all that bastards could actually talk.

Discuss those shitty new productions at the Bolshoi, where the director clearly smoked something he shouldn’t have. The recently opened restaurant serving over-salted guts at the price of a Mora ingot. And just how bastardly certain things could be - from politics to the weather outside.

Dottore was possessive.

And when someone else reached for you with their filthy hands, - even if just with their eyes, - the omega inside him bared its teeth, ready to tear out throats.

Because how dare those small-timers even find the nerve to crawl up to you? To you, who, fuck, was already drenched from head to toe in his pheromones?

Omega!Dottore marked you. Sinking his fangs into your pale skin, deep and painful, drawing blood that tasted like metal afterward, tickling his tongue as it passed over the wounds. Sitting on your hips, he wouldn’t let you squirm or do anything. He loomed over you, bound your hands, and smiled that hungry smile of his, the one that made a tight, hot knot twist low in your belly. He wouldn’t let you touch him, or even yourself. And he’d shove those long, fucking beautiful fingers of his into your mouth, tracing your sharp fangs with his fingertips.

Then he’d move lower. To your neck, your collarbones, to where your pulse was beating like crazy, and leave hickeys. Biting, sucking on your skin until you started whimpering pitifully, your thighs trembling beneath him. Sliding his tongue, kissing the purple-red marks, and biting again, making you arch your back, gasp for air, clench your fists. You could break free, honestly. Shove that reckless omega onto his back, but… you didn’t. Didn’t want to. Preferring to be an obedient dog at someone else’s feet - simply put, in the hands that twisted you around like a ragdoll.

Fucking teasing.

Dottore understood that you were ready to do anything for him. If he told you to jump, you’d ask how high.

Omega!Dottore approached the arrangement of his nest before heat with a truly manic precision. He gathered your things, laying them out in a specific order that only he knew. And you didn’t dare so much as glance sideways at his quarters while he was doing it. You weren’t really allowed in there, anyway. what if your presence, a big alpha good only for fighting, disturbed something? Yeah, you were smart. No dumber than the other Harbingers. But you didn’t reach the level of genius that he did. You didn’t understand why one reagent was more important than another, or why you’d mix this with that, - something whose name alone made your tongue want to leap out of your mouth. So, yeah.

Dottore didn’t let you near.

He’d just state the fact: you need to take off this cloak and give it to him. Right here, right now, as you’re on your way back from the lab to your room - whether there’s a blizzard outside isn’t his problem. You’re not a fucking toddler; you’ll figure it out.

Omega!Dottore during the heat was fucking unbearable. The scent of his pheromones - so thick it easily filled every corner of the estate. Soaked into the furniture, the walls, even those goddamn vials in the underground lab.

He was dripping slick, burying himself in a nest made of your clothes, whining softly, brokenly. His thighs trembled as he gripped his aching, leaking cock with one hand, while the fingers of the other pushed into his wet, pulsing, desperate-for-you hole. He wanted to feel you everywhere, your cunt on him. Wanted you to fuckin' worship him, sink your fangs into the back of his neck, and not let him, - fuck, - not let him squirm.

Such a disgustingly pathetic need to belong - so unlike him.

The need for you, his alpha, to be there. For you to shove apart his useless-at-this-moment legs with your knees and then make him come over and over until his cum ran watery.

Until a dry orgasm twisted his very being, made him howl, made stars dance beneath his closed lids.

Omega!Dottore, who never loses that commanding edge in his voice until you push him over the edge. The moment you step into his quarters, he turns his head and says:

— "Get over here. Now." — not cute in the slightest, by the way. And not even a hint of a please or some kind of pleading, the kind omegas in heat usually have.

Yeah, the fuck there is. Just a straight-up order and barely concealed annoyance that you came so late. Yeah, the Tsaritsa's mission couldn't be postponed, but you could've been faster. Dealt with the insurgents in a day, not three.

Prepared his quarters for your absence better, instead of just bringing a few new vinyl records that, right now during his heat, were fucking useless.

You move closer slowly, feeling Dottore's pheromones flood your lungs. The moment you reach the bed, he grabs your arm, yanks you down, not even letting you go change first.

— "Get undressed." — and his fingers are already pulling the fabric off your shoulders, tearing the buttons off, because waiting for you to do it yourself is beyond his strength.

And his patience, too.

So you figure now's not the time to fuck around and find out.

You lean down, put your hands on the omega's legs, and spread them. He doesn't even resist, honestly, and you immediately run your tongue along Dottore's thigh, smeared with natural slick. And a moment later - you reach his ass, slide your fingers right to his hole, which never stopped dripping.

The omega is so wet that your fingers slip in without resistance - you just run your fingertip along the folds, and they're suddenly inside, down to the fucking knuckles.

That very second, the man gasps, ragged and sharp, and rolls his hips, impaling himself deeper.

— "Fuck..." — Dottore hisses, because yeah. That's so much better. Now that your pheromones are starting to mix with his, breathing feels easier.

No matter how much you want to tease the omega, now's not the time or place. So without hesitating, you add your tongue. Lick him in one broad stroke, and then - push inside. Right where your fingers already were. And the man arches his back, throws his head into the pillow.

Holy shit. This is insane.

This was that pleasure he couldn't give himself. He throws a leg up, hooks it over your shoulder, and pushes down. Literally, fuck, shoves you into him so you can't even think about pulling away. Drown in his slick for all he cares, but keep licking and fucking him with your fingers.

Those fingers that were now pressing so fuckin' sweetly against the bump of his prostate.

A second finger - and Dottore finally lets out a tiny, quiet sob, and then comes, without a single touch to his dick. But even after that, you don't stop. You keep stimulating him from behind, making him thrash on the bed.

— "I just came! Don't you fuckin' dare do this to me!" — he snarls, trying to push you away.

nerd!Gojo x Reader

synopsis: nerd!Satoru Gojo, who never expected anything else to ever catch his interest besides his studies. wc: 4252 tags: first time, love confession, cunnilingus, bondage, table sex, sex toys, dirty talk, orgasm control

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who seemed to be interested in absolutely nothing in this life except physics. From his school days all the way to this moment, the guy gave himself completely to that science. He participated in every olympiad, conference, and any other competition where he could snag some kind of medal or certificate, as if they were some fucking Pokémon. Satoru hated, to the point of fucking teeth-grinding, not understanding something, falling behind, not being in first place. Disgust would burn his insides instantly whenever he saw someone else's back in front of him instead of the coveted prize.

Not being the smartest in his class, in his grade, not seeing that "that's my son" expression on his parents' faces. He wanted to be the best in his field, and nothing else ever interested him.

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who realized very early on that good things had to be earned. People's attitudes toward you included. No one was going to fuss over you just because you have a pretty face. The world doesn't work on a "you're cute, so here are some treats and the warmest slippers in the world" basis.

Nowadays, considering all those stupid trendy psychology movements where quietly hanging yourself in a barn after a gang rape is already the wrong way to solve a problem or process it, they'd condemn that. Like, we're all good and amazing just because we don't walk around with shit in our pants.

No.

Satoru completely disagreed with that.

And yes, maybe that view was influenced by his father, for whom any grade below the highest was initially considered a failure. But Gojo himself wasn't a shrink, didn't know how to dig around in other people's heads and didn't want to, especially not in his own, so he preferred to do what was familiar, understandable, and what he did best in this situation - study. He simply took any and all criticism directed at him, and then moved on, not really thinking about whether it was even deserved.

Maybe his ninety-eight wasn't actually that bad. And his parents sour faces, like they'd eaten a lemon - that was their personal problem, which had nothing to do with him at all.

Maybe, somewhere at the very beginning, around six years old when all this started, Satoru might have thought about that. Now? Very unlikely.

— "Satoru, have you finished your project yet?" — Makoto asks literally four minutes after dinner starts. — "I hope you haven't forgotten the deadline for the university grant application."

Gojo lifted his gaze from his bowl of soup. The food, honestly, wasn't really appealing to him at the moment. The last few months had been busier than usual. Everything had piled on him: from final school exams to various competitions, fucking projects for his future university. Even his porcelain skin couldn't hide the bags and those nasty bluish shadows under his eyes. Moreover, because of it, the guy looked even more like a drowned loser. After all, completely dying, as you can see, hadn't quite worked out.

— "Almost," — he answered flatly, returning his gaze to the bowl. His wrist was aching nastily, since he'd had to do calculations until four in the morning. — "In the final editing stage. I chose the 'the influence of temperature on the electrical conductivity of semiconductor materials, a comparative analysis of silicon and germanium in various ranges’ topic. The calculation part is done, graphs are plotted and the conclusions are written up. All that's left is to proofread for typos and adjust it to the university's formatting requirements, then I can submit the project. Oh, and finish the presentation, small stuff. But that's just a few more hours, there's almost nothing left to do.

His father just nods curtly in response. Only after several long moments does he add a short:

— "Excellent. Don't drag it out."

And Satoru, honestly, no longer knew what emotion he was supposed to feel from those words.

Disappointment? Because, it would seem, these were great achievements. The guy himself looked like another few hours without proper sleep would make him kick the bucket, but every point was taken for granted. Yes, sure, maybe they were.

Gojo had to be first. He himself liked it, it's just…

The guy's fingers tightened around his chopsticks.

Probably, he wanted to hear a little "good job" directed at him? In such an objectively difficult period for himself.

He honestly didn't know what kind of reaction he wanted.

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who before you appeared in his life would never have thought that he'd be interested in listening to anyone else. Spending time not alone with himself, his textbooks, and the dimly lit laptop screen in his face.

— "So... you chose this major because you burst into tears over some myth as a kid? Seriously?" — He can't hold back a quiet laugh. It literally tears from his throat while Satoru feels you press your shoulder against his. And somehow, from this simple touch, something inside him clenches, so sweetly and therefore so unfamiliar.

It was strange. Just sitting on the floor with another person, leaning back against a bookshelf. The library was already sparsely populated, but in this section - even more so. Literally perfect silence with completely blocked sightlines. The downside was the dust, which kept making his eyes itch unpleasantly. But he didn't even rub them, he didn't move at all, afraid of missing something you were saying. Or simply ruining this moment, in which, it seemed, time itself had decided to suddenly freeze.

What kind of idiocy.

— "'Some myth'?" — You shake your head, because, oh my god, this man was awful in his cluelessness.

Of course, no negativity, just joking, because, as it turned out, you enjoyed telling Gojo things. That same Gojo, who at first seemed like the biggest bore of all bores. Yes, handsome, rich, and smart, the most famous boy in the entire freshman class, but nothing more. Then, literally right after that, came the opinion of what a narcissistic bastard he turned out to be. A "everyone's trash, I'm the only good one" situation, no exaggeration. Looks down on you, smiles condescendingly, answers as if he's doing you a favor.

So yeah.

Just two weeks ago, you couldn't have imagined that one day you'd be sitting like this next to Satoru. Shoulder to shoulder. On the dusty library floor, in a section no one had probably visited in a hundred years.

With Satoru, who would listen to you. Actually listen, not distracted by toxic mockery or his phone out of boredom. Asking questions, not out of some disgusting politeness that life forced him to have. And even, it seemed, joking, trying to get your opinion on something. Not to tear it to shreds with his super-cool arguments, but just... because he's interested in what you think.

— "The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice can't be called 'some myth,' Satoru," — you begin to say, feeling the guy next to you freeze. He, trying to be as careful as possible, moves a little closer. Literally a few pathetic millimeters, not wanting to accidentally cause discomfort, but it's enough to make your heart stop in your chest.

It makes you swallow hard.

Shit.

— "Orpheus was the greatest singer and musician. His voice could move even stones. He made the gods themselves descend from the heavens to listen to him sing. Orpheus married the nymph Eurydice. Soon after the wedding, Eurydice, fleeing from Aristaeus, stepped on a snake and died from its bite, and he..." — you take a tiny pause, choosing your words, and feel Satoru turn his head slightly toward you. The guy isn't staring directly, isn't boring into you with an overly open gaze, as if afraid that might make you suddenly stop talking. — "He went down to the underworld for her, because he knew he couldn't live without her. She had become his everything. The one. Perhaps they could be called soulmates? Something like that. But yeah."

Gojo doesn't answer. He just keeps listening, sitting silently beside you, watching you tell the story.

Now the corners of your lips lift almost imperceptibly. Then you're frowning instead, your eyebrows adorably furrowing at the bridge of your nose and...

The guy stumbles on that thought, because, fuck, "adorably"? Why did he... why did he suddenly use that word? It wasn't even in his usual vocabulary.

Why was he even catching all these completely insignificant details? The way you slowly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Or how your breathing hitches almost imperceptibly, and your voice gets quieter, the moment you get to the part where Eurydice dies.

— "With his music and singing, Orpheus managed to move Hades and Persephone. They allowed him to take Eurydice back, but with one condition: he had to walk first and never look back, not once, until he reached the surface, returned to the world of the living. Orpheus agreed. And he really followed the rule, but already at the very threshold, he couldn't take it anymore. The doubt that his beloved wasn't following him became too strong. He thought that one tiny, quick glance wouldn't hurt. Eurydice, already almost taking her last step, dissolved into thin air, returning forever to the kingdom of shadows."

Finishing, you fall silent, feeling a lump in your throat. After all, this story was, and always had been, your favorite. And the nervousness that you'd just shared it with Gojo was still flickering inside.

What if he found it boring? What if he thought you'd suddenly become way too chatty? To the point where you start praying to all known gods that the person would just shut up already. Just be quiet, finally letting you enjoy the blissful silence.

But the difference was that Satoru didn't want that. He, fuck, genuinely, with every fiber of his being, did not want you to stop talking, turn away from him, and go somewhere else. His entire fucking being, which had never valued the presence of others before, was now reaching out to you. Begging you to keep talking about your tastes, your hobbies, and what used to make you cry as a child.

What makes you cry now, because he wanted to know everything.

This feeling was so bright, truly deafening, that the guy couldn't even find the words right away. He just sat there, not breathing and not moving, turning into some kind of statue.

To inhale and finally, for once, answer something, Satoru needs several agonizingly long seconds:

— "What... happened to Orpheus after that?"

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who, it seems, fell in love with you. And had absolutely no idea what to do with this feeling. It was completely unfamiliar. Perhaps even wrong, in the sense that Satoru had no clue how he was supposed to act around you. Which buttons to push, what words to say, how to even breathe next to you without looking like a complete fucking idiot.

Life had turned into a real fucking disaster, because, as stupid as it sounds, he didn't have a behavioral template for this situation. Before, he had always… acted the same way, you know? Gojo would just wake up and then fulfill his duties: study perfectly, dabble a bit in his parents' company affairs, and cause absolutely no problems. Yes, sure, he was definitely an arrogant son of a bitch, but… completely deservedly so.

Gojo objectively surpassed most people, who looked more like some fucking herd in their impenetrable stupidity. They lived without thinking about consequences, made idiotic decisions, believed in random crap from the internet, and genuinely thought the world owed them something just for having a pretty face and one single adequate answer to the simplest question. Satoru looked at them and felt nothing but disgusted bewilderment.

But now?

The guy had suddenly become an absolute, fuck, idiot. That very person dragging along somewhere at the very bottom of the academic rankings, barely scraping through sessions and everything else.

He'd sit at a table in the cafeteria and secretly watch you. Watch you chat with your friends. Laugh. Fix your hair.

Gojo would watch, and then, with his entire being, wish he were there beside you in that moment. That you were smiling next to him, or better yet - because of him.

Such an absolutely selfish thought, after which he should probably bang his head against the table with all his might. Maybe it would help his brain get back in place, yeah.

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who honestly considers the day you started dating to be his happiest. It was a fucking constant for him, like the fact that the speed of light in a vacuum is unchanging.

That, fuck, moment when you, blushing and frozen for several painfully long seconds that felt like an eternity to Satoru, answered with a quiet "yes" to his confession.

It was more like an explosion, a fucking gravitational collapse followed by a thermonuclear flash. Like how stars die, except the opposite happened inside him - something was being born. Tearing his chest open from the inside, pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. It just happened somewhere deep, under his skin, in a place he hadn't even known existed before.

The guy could only hold your hand, smiling stupidly, feeling his cheeks gradually start to ache.

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who found a new passion for himself - exploring you. Gradually getting to know you better and better. What you liked, and what you didn't really care for. What foods you were allergic to, after how many cups of coffee you became almost uncontrollably hyperactive, and then couldn't sleep a wink all night. In the latter case, you usually spent those nights watching movies or TV shows.

This same tendency extended to things of a sexual nature as well.

Before, that sort of thing hadn't interested him much, and jerking off in the shower felt like the most routine thing in the world. But with you…

With you, he became insatiable. A little more, and he'd be frightening in his desire to explore every last bit of you - down to the very last drop, every single torn moan and tremor in your legs when they could no longer hold you up.

Satoru leaves bite-kisses on your thighs, sending wave after wave of goosebumps racing across your skin. His palms hold your legs firmly, not letting you close them, even though you're already shaking - finely, continuously, from the tension and that fucking painfully shameful arousal building inside you. You want to clench up, close yourself off, do something, just to stop feeling that greedy, insanely hungry gaze on you. Not to feel it sliding over your body, between your spread legs.

That, fuck, insufferably pleased look.

And the guy still wanted more.

He slides his tongue inside you, slowly and openly savoring every fucking moment. He parts your labia with his fingers, barely grazes your clit, and then traces around it with the tip of his tongue. Satoru repeats this action until you start to whimper.

And at the same time, Satoru simply cannot get enough of your moans. They're beautiful.

But even better are the pleas.

Quiet, plaintive, when Gojo suddenly slows down, freezes, breathes hotly right onto your wet, sensitive core, making you frantically grab the edge of the table you're currently lying on, stomach down. Your fingers slip across the smooth surface, your nails scratch the wood, and that desperate "Satoru, fuck, please…" tears from your lips.

Or.

"Yes!" — frankly convulsive and loud. — "That feels so good, more… add another…" — the moment the guy checks if you're okay? If he should move a little rougher? Or slow down instead?

And you could only do one thing - practically hand your soul over to the gods.

Because your, fuck, boyfriend got it into his head to eat you out right there in the kitchen.

— "Consider this a thank you for a delicious dinner," — he said right before pulling down your lounge pants along with your panties, and then laying you down where the plates had been just a few minutes ago.

He eats you out, paying absolutely no attention to himself. And every time you whimper brokenly, Satoru feels a pull in his groin so strong it makes sparks fly from his eyes.

But he endures it. Because first - you.

Your pleasure.

Your voice, breaking into a sob when he finally speeds up, presses his tongue against your clit and doesn't let go until you're arching over the table from the orgasm seizing your body.

˖ ࣪✧ 「 nerd!Gojo 」, who genuinely loved pushing you almost to the edge, and then not letting you come. Watching you squirm beneath him, your hands clench into fists, and hearing that desperate, utterly pathetic "please, please" fall from your lips.

Today you decided to try something new. Satoru himself had been asking for it for several weeks straight, but you, driven by too much awkwardness, kept refusing.

The guy cuffed your hands to the headboard with handcuffs lined with soft white fur inside. So you wouldn't chafe your skin.

He himself, enjoying it far too openly, fastened the leather strap, and then, slipping his fingers inside, ran them along the inside of your wrist. Right where your pulse beat fast and frantic, betraying you completely, despite the fact that you were really trying to keep a straight face.

—  "Is it okay? Not too tight?" —  And from his voice, you could tell Gojo was genuinely worried. Concerned about whether you were comfortable in this new position. After all, he really wanted you to like this experience, so that you could repeat it in the future.

So that you would lie beneath him again, completely open and utterly helpless.

— "Yeah... it's just, unfamiliar?" — You tug at your hands, testing the strength of the chain between them just out of curiosity. It clinks against the headboard. Unfortunately, it doesn't break.

Satoru, watching this, snorts softly.

Adorable.

He doesn't pull out the vibrator right away. He's not an idiot; this moment should be as long as possible.

First, the guy warms you up with his lips and fingers. Gojo leaves a multitude of kisses on your neck, collarbones, and chest. He traces your nipple with his tongue, draws it into his mouth, sucks, until you start arching toward him. And within a few minutes, red, bud-like hickeys bloom next to them.

Satoru bites the skin on the inside of your thighs, smelling of peach shower gel. Then he licks over his own teeth marks. And he also completely, fuck, deliberately ignores your cunt, leaking with slick. Kisses nearby, a pathetic millimeter from your labia, exhales hotly right onto your clit, but doesn't touch, making you writhe convulsively on the bed, buck your hips the moment you feel even the slightest touch. The handcuffs clink with every movement, the sheets are bunched up into a ball, and that pathetic, utterly desperate sound tears from your lips:

— "Satoru, enough already... I'm begging you, just touch me properly..." — Because your patience, unfortunately, wasn't infinite.

In response, the guy just smirks. Lifts his head from your thigh, looks up at you from below with that hazy, aroused gaze of his. And you can see from the darkness in the depths of his blue eyes that they have no intention of giving you what you want.

At some point, he pulls away, then reaches his hand a little to the side. To where the dark purple vibrator is already lying. You swallow hard, your saliva having become thick and sticky, you run your tongue over your dry lips and feel everything inside you tighten just from the sight of the toy in his hands. From the way his long fingers wrap around the smooth plastic, pausing right over the power button.

Fuck.

Maybe you shouldn't have agreed to this? Considering how pleased Gojo looked right now. You could, fuck, see it on him - that he intended to stretch this moment into some kind of fucking infinity, until you turned into a fucking puddle, capable only of ragged whimpering-moaning-whining.

Nothing coherent, just an absolute set of dirty sounds.

— "You can hold on a little longer for me, can't you?" — He purrs, turning on the toy and watching you flinch from the low, vibrating hum alone. The sound bounces off the walls, echoing low and pulling in the very bottom of your belly - an emptiness you desperately, madly want to fill. In the fucking ideal, with his cock, not its pathetic substitute. — "I've only just started."

Gojo trails the toy along your thigh, letting you feel the low vibration speed, which clearly won't be enough. But you, already impossibly aroused, still flinch and bite your lower lip, because how much longer, fuck, are they going to tease you like this?

You tug at your hands, once again praying that the fucking chain will break. But that bitch proves to be disgustingly strong, and you, annoyed by this fact, carefully kick the guy's thigh with your foot.

— "Hey, hey, easy." — He laughs, not at all offended by the action.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Finally, Satoru presses the vibrating head to your clit, and a real whine tears from your lips. You jerk, squirm, wanting to press harder into the toy.

Finally, fuck, to come, because this feeling has been building low in your belly for like ten minutes now, but those fucking bite-kisses were completely insufficient. You just couldn't, fuck, achieve an orgasm from hickeys on your neck or nipple stimulation. Thank you, sure, it's very nice, but still no.

— "Don't get too carried away," — sounds impossibly pleased, literally a moment before Gojo pulls his hand away, making your thighs tremble. Your vaginal walls clench convulsively, greedily, because... you were...

You were so close.

And you whine brokenly. Your head thrashes on the pillow, hair sticking to your wet cheeks, and that desperate, choked sob tears from your throat.

Fuck-fuck-fuck.

He did it without any warning. Caught the right moment, knowing it by how your body trembled, how the muscles beneath your skin tensed.

— "Just let me come already," — your voice sounds broken, frankly weak. Your eyes have already, fuck, started stinging unpleasantly with tears from all this.

How does this person even have the conscience for this? He just sits there, looking down at you with that drunk, satisfied gaze, despite the fact that his hard cock is visible through the fabric of his sweatpants. It, by the way, he clearly had no intention of giving you.

And the worst part was that, firstly, you agreed to it.

Secondly, you seemed to like it.

— "Wait a little more," — he whispers, leaning down and leaving a kiss right next to your cunt. His hot breath burns your overly sensitive skin. — "You have no idea how beautiful you look right now. Red, tear-streaked, legs spread, and slick still flowing. Maybe next time we should repeat this, but in front of a mirror? What do you think?"

You wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, if only Satoru would shut up and get back to action. To the vibrator. To his fingers. To his tongue. To anything - at this point, you genuinely didn't give a fuck, as long as he finally got you to that fucking release that had been building inside you for an eternity.

Fuck, and earlier you'd thought this man was a man of few words. Thought he was cold, distant to the point anyone couldn't get an extra word out of him unless it was to humiliate some overreaching classmate. Cuz it was so cool to show how stupid everyone was, only Satoru - fucking d'Artagnan. Now, his mouth refused to shut. And the worst part - he seemed to genuinely enjoy it. Watching you squirm from his words as much as from his goddamn hands.

— "Just imagine, you sitting on my lap right in front of it, while I slowly touch you..." — he continued to whisper, as if completely unaware of your state.

His fingers slid down your stomach - down, right to your pubic bone. They circled around, stroked the fold, making you flinch and clench your teeth until they fucking creaked. A little more, and they'd turn to dust.

— "You would see what I see. How you open up for me. How you drip. And how beautifully your face changes when I do this..."

And then finally, - thank every fucking god, - he presses the vibrating head back to your clit. He traces it around, then pushes it straight inside, making you arch off the bed.

Fucking hell...

What tears from your throat is no longer a whimper, but a full-throated, strained moan, hitting the highest note. Before your eyes - absolute blackness, broken only by colorful spots of various shapes and sizes. In your ears - the rush of blood and his satisfied, sated chuckle somewhere near your thigh.

What a bitch Gojo was.

omega!Simon x Reader, p.2 | part 1 (click)

synopsis: Simon Riley turned out to be your omega. wc: 7120 tags: soulmates AU, omegaverse, omega!Simon, alpha!Y\N, msub and light mdom, fdom and light fsub, angst, PTSD, age gap, depression, self-hatred, gentle sex, first time

Simon Riley is pain, so concentrated and bright that people find it easier to look away than to face it head-on. They twist their faces in disgust and fear, never stepping a single step closer.

Simon Riley is long, freezing evenings in an empty kitchen, where the only sound breaking the absolute silence is the whistle of a boiling kettle. It's the rustle of turning pages of a book that's been sitting on the nightstand for months, the one you could never seem to get to, and now you've suddenly picked it up because the loneliness has become too crushing. Like a slab of concrete pressing you into the floor, ready to turn your body into an unrecognizable mass.

Simon Riley is scars. They cross his body so densely that his skin looks like a map with no clean spots left. They form chains, lines, bracelets that wrap around his shoulders, his neck. You trace your fingers along these paths, slowly and carefully, feeling his skin prickle with goosebumps, the muscles beneath twitching - jagged and convulsive, as if from a stinging slap. As if in that moment, you were throwing him back into that fire, and any touch, even the gentlest, resurrects the memory of when the man was burning.

Or being tortured yet again.

He meets any display of affection toward himself with wariness, because in his head, Ghost can't be loved. He's a fucking soldier, broken and glued back together so many times that the shards have long since mixed themselves up. They sit in all the wrong places, forming countless ugly, crooked cracks and fractures.

Sometimes even he finds it disgusting to look at himself in the mirror.

So what about you?

So he was completely unprepared for the fucking opposite, because he simply had no template for that in his mind, battered by all the stones of the world. He could never even begin to count the number of times during missions he'd been dragged through the piss-soaked earth of every dog in the world, how many times his face had been ground into the mud while he tasted metal in his mouth.

In short - a fucking lot.

So his skull refused to form any kind of adequate reaction, apart from a specific, all-consuming what-the-fuck. Maybe slightly aggressive, because aggression is a natural response to an unknown irritant that's decided to invade such a perfectly constructed bubble of personal space and comfort. Of course, if that word could even be applied to his life without shitting your pants from the sudden laughter gathering in your chest, because what a fucking joke.

Simon Riley and a comfortable life.

Fucking hilarious.

Literally laugh out loud, until you get cramps and tears, until that nasty, hoarse cough, when it's not even laughter anymore, just a continuous, rib-cracking wheeze. After all, he'd long since forgotten what it was like to laugh, instead of shitting out a pile of sarcastic sounds designed to humiliate another overreaching idiot.

And yeah, of course, if the man had said any of this out loud, no one would agree with him. Soap would be the first to step forward, chest puffed out like a wheel, the one who was most affected by meaningless rudeness. He'd start talking about how you, LT, are actually fucking wrong, and look, I'm looking right at you, because you're my dear bro-brother-bro, and the only thing missing from our lives is some brotherly jacking off in the barracks at night to the sound of comrades snoring with a whiff of sweaty socks, because that, fuck, is the height of intimacy and trust, and here you are with your pain and untouchability.

John would talk long and loud, with those stupid gestures of his that made Simon want to either punch him or drink, smoke, and get the fuck away from sin. A migraine was definitely setting in.

In short, Riley was missing the jackpot with his whole emo-boy stare and unsociability.

Well, and a brotherly dick in the palm with the disclaimer "not gay," what a loss of the century.

And then you appeared. You, who weren't looking just for the sake of looking, but, it seemed… to actually see.

You, who spoke quietly, because within the first few hours together, you'd managed to understand just how much Simon valued silence, the absence of unnecessary touches that felt like red-hot iron on his skin.

You, who listened. And then, time and time again, stayed close to actually be there.

Not just hovering around because you had to, because it was the right thing to do, only to leave after a few minutes when the silence became too awkward and crushing, but you lingered nearby for one small eternity.

You didn't pry with questions. Didn't try to get under his skin with a thousand questions about what Simon's childhood was like, for him to have grown into such a miserable piece of shit.

And this was so foreign, so wrong, that it wrenched his arms and twisted his spine, and the man didn't know how to act at all. Bury himself back in that same piss-soaked earth? Or just disappear off all the fucking radars, ignoring what would happen to your lives, given this fucking true mate bond?

At this point, it was a shame he wasn't that much of a moral degenerate.

Riley… was genuinely afraid that one day he would hurt you. That was something he, unfortunately, was best at in his shitty life. And not because he wanted to, because no.

Never.

He'd rather tear his own throat out than knowingly throw another piece of shit that would definitely break you.

It's just that Simon was unequivocally a parasite, whose only skill was ruining everything around him.

Maybe not now. Maybe not even in a year, but one day - absolutely, unequivocally. And that would one hundred percent ruin your life.

He really hadn't asked for this little piece of comfort that you somehow managed to shove into his rotting, foul-smelling carcass.

He didn't deserve it either.

And Riley genuinely hated himself for being afraid.

For wanting you to stay.

It was… awkward.

And 'awkward' is such a soft, fucking, pathetic word that you might as well shove a gun barrel down your throat right now. A little gunplay with the aftereffect of brains splattering across the nearest wall, oozing down in slow, greasy rivulets while your legs twitch in one final, convulsive death throes.

Because 'awkward' is when you accidentally step on someone's foot in line for bread. This was something else entirely. Simply a total, utter, gut-wrenching fucking disaster.

You'd dreamed about a true mate, all that soulmate stuff, when you were about fourteen. You know, that period with puberty, stupid romance novels about students and their teachers or mafia bosses. Absolute cliché made of shit and sticks, but at that moment, you didn't give a fuck. You wanted it beautiful, passionate, with anguish and tears, with phantom pains in your chest and butterflies in your ass.

Now?

Now you just wanted to focus on your career.

On becoming a person? In some sense of the word. A daughter your mom and dad be proud of, not look at with that same involuntary disappointment because your achievements were never enough, the kind that made you want to slit your wrists with a dull spoon. Just so you wouldn't have to see that look.

A fucking defender, not an alpha who'd have people whistling behind her back because her true mate was Simon Riley.

Simon Riley, who, fuck, was an omega. A two-meter-tall, scary-as-fuck mountain of muscle, scars, and silent, crushing threat. And the fact that he was an omega and you were an alpha shouldn't have mattered that fucking much. Shouldn't have, fuck, but it still did.

Because you'd felt it.

From the very moment your fingers met, touched, something inside you clicked.

Broke.

And now, absolutely constantly, you wanted to protect this man, as if he had ever needed that protection in his life. Wrap him up. Literally hide him from a world that clearly hadn't been handing out gifts.

An absolutely wrong desire, considering how long you'd known each other. A few weeks at most, because the man had decided to take you, a useless fool full of stupid hopes, under his wing.

You simply didn't know Simon.

Even more fucking insane was the fact that you sincerely, as fuck, wanted to change that.

Literally understand this person and, as cliché as it sounds, what was on his mind. And there… oh, you couldn't even imagine all those kilometers of impenetrable shit, because there simply couldn't be anything else, given his profession and reputation. The legend of Ghost grew bloodier details every month, and you weren't sure how much of it was true and how much was the invention of terrified rookies who'd seen him once in the hallway and pissed themselves from one look at that fucking mask. After all, people said Riley's mask was made from a real skull.

Literally. A fucking human one.

But despite all these thoughts, swarming in your head like a trail of ants, you couldn't force yourself to utter a single word. Your tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of your mouth as you sat in the front passenger seat, your fingers clenched tightly around your duffel bag. They were white, your knuckles protruding, and you could feel your wrist starting to ache from the tension, but you couldn't let go.

Simon offered to put the bag in the trunk, but you refused, because you needed something.

Something to remind you of the reality of what was happening.

Something so that the emotions of the man sitting next to you didn't feel so… all-consuming. To the point where your nostrils, your lungs filled with the phantom scent of his pheromones. The one that seemed to saturate your very skin.

And it shouldn't have been there.

As Price had put it in his office, Riley was on a truly killer dose and mixture of various pills, blockers, thanks to which he resembled the most ordinary beta.

Oh, the joy of being normal.

But you still felt something. So fleeting it felt like a hallucination of a mind pushed over the edge by sudden news.

Bitter smoke, rusted metal, and something else. Something deep, rich, that made the alpha inside you pace in circles.

— "Um…" — you stumble, immediately getting angry at yourself for this disgustingly awkward pause. For not having that amazingly charismatic personality that could immediately find a topic, engage your interlocutor. Literally anyone, even a two-meter-tall, scary-as-fuck one with a skull mask on his fucking face. The mask, by the way, scared you involuntarily. It couldn't not, when you couldn't see his eyes. Blue, frozen, so deep that your heart painfully stopped in your chest. — "We're going to your place now, right?" — And as soon as you ask the question, you immediately want to bang your head against the dashboard. Fucking stupidity, oh my god. — "I mean… how much longer until we get there?"

Simon is silent.

Not even for a second or two. He holds the pause for so long that you start to doubt your own sanity. Did you even say anything at all? Maybe your words were so unintelligible that Riley just decided to not give a fuck rather than try to decipher them? Maybe you weren't even supposed to… talk right now? You'd broken subordination and all that.

It seemed to you that it should take a backseat, given the whole true mate and sex thing. But the key word was "seemed," yeah.

— "Twenty minutes," — when the man finally opens his mouth, his voice sounds so cold and detached that you feel sick.

Not because it actually bothers you. How could it? But rather because of your own nature, the stupid alpha that was now whimpering inside, tail tucked and ears flattened. It was her that this attitude was practically killing. Because it was pure instinct and a complete lack of brains, so the second nature didn't understand why her omega was treating her like this?

Pathetic and truly funny.

At these words, the omega doesn't look at you.

And you don't have the slightest adequate idea of his thoughts. Only his feelings, and already quite distant, not as bright as in the first moments. You could feel a well-smothered fear, rejection of everything happening now, and hatred. Apparently, Simon's towards himself.

Well, and the desire for you to shut your fucking mouth. That, honestly, is just a guess.

— "Oh," — you exhale, nervously licking your lips, dry from anxiety. —"Twenty. Okay. Got it."

Okay, fuck.

What exactly about any of this was "okay"? Right, nothing.

You were sitting in a car with a man who would unequivocally trade his life to be in a hot spot right now, or in a cauldron in Hell. Literally anywhere, fuck, as long as it wasn't here. Not in the cabin of his own, fucking, car. And not in a situation that was turning him inside out, even though he was trying his best to pretend nothing was happening. That nothing had happened at all, yeah.

He spoke coldly, with that barely audible strain that made it seem like every word he uttered was an extra piece of shit he was simply forced to spit out, otherwise he'd fucking choke on it. It seemed like every letter, before leaving his lips, was slicing through his throat, filling his mouth with blood.

And you were soulmates.

You don't know what to do.

You don't know if you can joke with him - though here, definitely not.

If you can ask about anything personal - already absolutely not.

If you can just be silent. Here, probably yes, but the silence makes your ears ring, and you can hear the windshield wipers working in the cabin, - that quiet rustle against the glass, - the only sound besides your breathing.

At that moment, you suddenly realize you're scared.

You're not afraid of Simon Riley himself, Ghost, whoever he is. Not at all. After all, you'd had time to observe this man, even if not that closely. You'd seen him cleaning his weapons while watching the rookies train. Seen him, sitting alone at a table in the mess hall, ignoring Soap when he started coming at him with his hugs.

You're scared because of the fact that you were now sitting next to a man who absolutely did not want you here. Who, for not one single fucking pathetic moment, thought of anything else. And who was most definitely cursing this day, your very bond, because of which you'd learned too much in a few seconds. Literally involuntarily dug through all his dirty laundry, forced tons of fucking pain to surface, and along with it, his refusal of his usual way of life.

Overall… quite understandable.

— "I…" — you try again to speak, but after a second you fall silent, because this time your voice betrays you, sounding so unnatural, like you've suddenly got a fucking rod shoved up your ass. Oh, charming. — "I'm sorry, I'm really… really sorry. I know this wasn't in your plans at all and…"

You don't finish, you simply can't, because you have no idea how to formulate all the shit going on in your head.

"How do you even talk to someone who, by some universal design, is supposed to be your closest person. Except instead, he looks at you like you're a whole puddle of piss on the road, an annoying obstacle he wants to get rid of with every fiber of his being? It's just a shame nothing works."

Literally the situation.

Simon, as he had for all those hours except for the short "twenty minutes," is silent. And this fact once again makes you want to shrink, tuck your head into your shoulders, just to become less noticeable. Maybe it would help Riley feel at least a little better.

Luckily or unluckily, your thoughts didn't quite match reality.

The man clenches his jaw so hard his teeth nearly grind into crumbs.

He has no idea how to talk to you.

The omega didn't know what to do with all that wrong, foreign warmth inside that appeared simply because you were there.

Then there was the fact that he'd forgotten how to talk to people. Not soldiers and those he needed to give orders to, but another person, who was now looking at him openly and trustingly. In whose eyes, words, he didn't sense that bitter fear, disgust, and desire to run away, because Ghost was Ghost.

He didn't have a fucking clue how to react to… care? The fact that you were trying to start a conversation, because that fell into that category, right?

Simon didn't know how to handle situations like this. How to respond to this expectation of something he clearly couldn't give.

And he wanted to help. This feeling, multiplied by the disgusting hopelessness of his own wrongness, stirred in his chest. It resonated with how nervous you were right now. You didn't need to be true mates for Riley to see how you were clutching that stupid bag. Those white knuckles, how you licked your lips. To hear the tremor in your voice that you were so desperately trying to hide.

Overall, your attempt to somehow break this awkward silence was really killing him.

So he really wanted to shit out something. Any kind of "relax, don't be so nervous, I don't bite." Absolutely any idiotic, simple little thing that would let you finally exhale, stop clenching up like a puppy thrown out in the pouring rain.

But he couldn't. Because his tongue wouldn't listen, the scattered words wouldn't come together into sentences, and every phrase flashing through his concussed head seemed wrong.

Riley kept silent, because after ten long minutes, the need for an answer was lost.

After another turn, the man gradually slows down, driving past rows of identical two-story houses with small lawns. Next to one of them, he finally stops and kills the engine, and then absolute silence hits your ears. No more noise of wheels, of little pieces of gravel getting caught under them during the drive.

This time, you don't dare make a sound or move. Simply because you're not sure if you're even allowed to. Getting out of the car and walking to the door seems like a perfectly normal, ordinary action, but right now it feels absolutely insurmountable.

And finally, after all this time, Simon exhales. Slowly and heavily. As if the exhale is pulling his guts out, then wrapping them around his neck in a noose, before quietly, almost inaudibly, he says:

— "We're here. Get out."

You swallow. Open your mouth to answer, but only a hoarse sound comes out:

— "Okay." — Another one. Because nothing was fucking okay, again.

Throughout this entire pathetic interaction, you hated yourself for your brain refusing to generate anything better. Less awkward, funnier, for example. What if Simon liked cheerful, open girls, not the ones sitting there like they've got an iron rod up their ass?

You really wanted him to like you.

Yes, of course, you'd ended up in this situation in the most awkward way possible. There was absolutely no pleasure in it. It even, perhaps, went into the negative. But… since you were in the same boat… and you already felt some, even if imposed by the bond, need to protect… why not try?

Why not try to turn this "fucking awkward" into just "okay"? At worst, "tolerable." Or something that doesn't make you want to climb the walls with a clear desire to tear your own fucking throat out.

Maybe it was also because you were soulmates, but Riley looked like someone you genuinely wanted to talk to. Like a human being. Not generate an hour's worth of "um" and "ah" bullshit, feeling like a complete idiot who'd forgotten how to open her mouth because her tongue was stuck to the roof and her brain was frozen, refusing to produce anything but a panicked "need to say something adequate, right now."

This situation was quite sad, when you thought about it. The fact that all those feelings, that sense of security and so much more, appeared only because of the "soulmates" label. You weren't getting to know each other gradually, slowly becoming closer and closer until, as they say, love blossomed in your chest and butterflies sang in your stomach.

Awkwardly unbuckling your seatbelt, you finally crawl out of the car. The bag of things slides awkwardly over your knees, and you sling it over your shoulder, horribly trapping your braided hair.

— "Oh for fuck's sake…" — an annoyed hiss escapes your lips.

Because come on, fuck. Can we not? Without all this shit where pencils fall on the floor, where nothing works out. Just not today, not right now, because you were clearly already on the fucking edge.

You didn't really feel like crying, probably. But falling down and not moving for the next eternity after this day? Absolutely.

Not even breathing.

Simon, pulling his own stuff from the trunk, also didn't really know how to proceed. Simply put, what to do with you? How to talk so you wouldn't run away, burst into tears, or start looking at him with that painfully familiar expression - that disgusting mix of fear and pity, because he somehow managed to live in this world being such an ugly beast.

The man wasn't used to sharing his space with anyone. One thing, a hundred years ago, when he was a green rookie who was supposed to live in a barracks with a bunch of other soldiers. The code of conduct for peaceful existence was simple: don't pry into anyone's soul, and no one will pry into yours. People started being afraid of him even back then. And quite another thing was his own home, even if that word could be used with a bit of a stretch.

But yeah.

He had no idea how to talk. The main thing was about what. Because all the topics that came to mind were either about work, - and they wouldn't be working, because Price had suspended them for fuck's sake, - or about the weather, - what fucking weather, when everything inside him was burning from the suppressants his body was now actively rejecting, - or about something so empty and worthless that he'd be better off just shoving his tongue down his throat and choking on it.

The man didn't have a fucking clue how he was supposed to act at all. Because his battered head had no template for "your soulmate is hanging out at your house, you need to start getting closer, otherwise this already unbearable life will turn into a complete and utter fucking nightmare."

You two just, shit, needed to fuck. To put it more civilly - have sex, to solidify this fucking bond, because right now, in real fucking time, all sorts of blockers were being flushed out of his fucking system. His body was just, fuck, rejecting them at the speed of light, because, oh my god, an alpha was on the doorstep. His soul-fucking-hell-mate. Not some "hey, hi, how's it going" for one shameful time, but a real, goddamn, nature-given one, impossible to hide from even if you buried yourself a meter deep. So all immediate plans should consist of an eternity spent in every position in the Kama Sutra.

Well, with short breaks to shit out kids, yeah.

Riley involuntarily winces, giving himself a good mental slap in the face. A ringing, juicy slap that makes his ears ring and sparks fly from his eyes. Not because he's afraid of sex. Not because he's shy. But because the last time he was with someone, that someone tried to kill him while he lay there with a bullet through his shoulder, unable to even lift his arm properly.

Read as: "I was tortured, and I kicked, because I didn't want to die in the bathroom."

Simon, of course, knew he was a depressive piece of shit who loved to immediately imagine the worst-case scenario, but here and now, he needed to stop doing that. At least out of respect for you.

At least because his own heart clenched painfully in his chest just from looking at you.

At you, who at that second was awkwardly standing next to the car, still clutching that fucking bag. He involuntarily wanted to offer an alternative, read as his hand, but those words, thankfully, didn't leave his mouth.

You, who were nervously turning your head from side to side, not daring to take a single step, as if you could be shot for it.

The man felt almost physical pain, because, fuck… you were just a young, inexperienced girl who still had her whole life ahead of her - a normal life, with stupid movies in the evenings or whatever people your age liked. With stupid arguments over dirty dishes. Simply, next to someone capable of saying "I love you" without that disgusting tremor in their voice.

You shouldn't be stuck here, next to him.

You shouldn't have to think about sex with an omega that ninety-nine point nine percent of people were afraid of.

Things shouldn't have turned out this way for you.

— "Come on. Don't just stand there like a post, you'll freeze."

Riley, pulling a set of keys from his pocket, unlocks the front door.

You, genuinely not expecting the man to even say something like that to you, nearly fly into fucking stratosphere from shock. Your jaw, it seems, actually drops, falling somewhere to your chest level.

Like.

Whoa, it's talking to me? And even, it seems, being caring?

At that last thought, the nasty butterflies in your stomach do a backflip.

And the omega was really… trying to do something like that. If you were just a fellow soldier, he probably wouldn't give a fuck. First, it's not working hours, not a mission. Second, well, if you freeze, you freeze, what are you, a child? Your ass is cold - move, don't stand there like a post waiting for someone to talk to you.

The difference here was that he, perhaps, wanted to say something like that? Somehow… fuck, show some concern? As if he wasn't just a complete soldier who only knew how to kill, be silent, and hate himself, but also a human being. Alive, fuck. Who didn't care if his own alpha froze next to him.

Riley simply couldn't find the words to describe this impulse.

Fucking hell.

Simon gave you a separate room.

And this fact evoked a rather strange emotion inside. On one hand, it was much calmer for you. Some personal space, no pressure from the need to be together, and all that similar crap.

At least removing some of the incredibly awkward interactions, you know?

On the other hand, there was the alpha inside you. That fucking, gut-gnawing need to be near your omega. In the same fucking space as him. And sleeping in the same bedroom, literally in the same bed, was one of the needs.

You wanted to leave a mark on the back of his neck. Sink your fangs into the tender skin, drawing blood. Scent the man with your pheromones. So no one else would dare even look his way.

Make him yours.

And these were two diametrically opposed things. They contrasted so strongly with each other that you involuntarily wanted to strangle yourself again. Just take the noose and tighten it, just so you wouldn't be torn apart like this into fucking pieces. Not feel how one "I want him the fuck out of my head, I'm tired of stewing in this stupid cauldron" fought with another called "I want to hug him, bury my nose somewhere in his shoulder, and stay like that for the rest of my life."

Shaking your head, - as if that gesture determined whether those damn thoughts would fly out of your skull or stay there to rot, - you throw your bag on the floor next to the bed.

Simon's house was a small two-story.

Spacious kitchen and living room on the first floor, two bedrooms on the second. One his personal, one a guest room. And a few bathrooms with a toilet, yeah.

You supposed you expected the dwelling to tell you something about its owner. You know, through family photos on the walls and shelves, some other decorations or something like that. But none of that was here… You were simply disappointed, because you'd genuinely hoped to learn something new.

To see Riley's parents, yeah.

You know, a family photo where the scary Ghost stands between his father and mother. Even in the same balaclava - it doesn't matter. But preferably, of course, without it. Maybe even with a smile on his face, which, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't picture properly. It would blur, like ink in murky water, as soon as you tried to grasp a single feature. After all, no one had seen Simon's face except, perhaps, Price. A security clearance thing and all that. The fact that you were even standing on his territory right now meant quite a lot.

Anyway.

All you were left with was an imaginary dick in your mouth.

Although, maybe you just hadn't had a chance to look at anything properly yet. That made sense, because Riley had immediately shown you the room and then left.

You wanted to say "fled," but could the Lieutenant himself be afraid of you?

Of course not, fucking nonsense.

Sitting on the floor, you start awkwardly unpacking your bag.

The countdown for the week Price had given you started now. And you didn't really know how you were supposed to have sex. Yes, of course, Simon's heat would start soon, and yours, in turn, the rut. You could say it would be easy, because just one look at the lieutenant's strong thighs, = fucking premium headphones, honestly, - made everything inside you freeze. But no. You simply, fuck, couldn't view what was happening through the lens of fuck-and-run, because that's not how it worked here. Certainly not for you.

You couldn't just fuck and then forget about everything.

You didn't see a one-time partner in this man. A damn body to use to quench the thirst tearing at your throat. And so you couldn't picture the moment of your intimacy. In every possible scenario, it seemed incredibly awkward, stretched taut as a string ready to snap.

Dick won't get hard, cunt won't get wet, literally.

You felt physically sick at the mere thought that you might never know Simon. That he would continue to be nothing but a legend to you, passed from mouth to mouth around the base, growing ever more fucked-up details. That any interaction between you would be forced, because otherwise - pain. Literal, fuck. Not some emotional pain you could tough out, then smoke-drink-forget. But the real kind, - with gunshots in your chest, with muscle spasms, with the feeling of your vertebrae being ripped out of your spine one by one with pliers. Thanks to the bond, fucking insane, that wouldn't let you just blacklist your true mate and then fuck off to the other side of the earth, pretending nothing happened.

You wanted to fix this. The question was how, fuck, if Riley looked right through you, spoke in monosyllables, and, it seemed, dreamed of you just fucking disappearing.

You left the room after several long hours. Honestly, it took you two or three attempts, maybe even four, because you, fuck, were counting. As soon as you approached the door, touched the handle, you'd freeze in indecision. This wasn't typical for you, because you were used to achieving things, literally gnawing your way to your goal. Typical alpha behavior society expects, yeah. But right now, that whole manner had evaporated somewhere, and you involuntarily feared even taking a step too quickly, as if it could destroy the house of cards that was already standing on divine intervention alone.

What if Simon didn't want you moving around his house?

Maybe it was assumed that you were obligated to stay in the guest bedroom until the moment of your intimacy? An unspoken rule you should have grasped the moment your feet crossed the threshold.

Or something like that.

The problem was, you hadn't caught any of that shit. And right now, you were slowly walking down the hallway, deliberately taking a wide berth around his bedroom. So that the urge to knock on the door wouldn't even arise. Not the slightest thought that, in essence, you could enter.

No. Absolutely not.

Going down the stairs to the first floor, you lit your path with your phone's flashlight. Didn't want to fall on your face, yeah. Tumbling down the stairs, breaking your neck, and lying on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling until Simon found your corpse in the morning - not the best plan for the evening. Making noise wasn't either, considering everything happening right now resembled a scene from some fucking stupid spy movie. Except instead of Lord Farquaad's castle, you were conquering Ghost's living room.

Pausing in the doorway for a second, you walk inside and start looking around.

Against the nearest wall, directly opposite the couch, stood a TV and a gaming console. The latter - involuntary shock, because… Simon plays games? That was news of the "no fucking way" variety. Before this moment, you'd never in your life have thought the man might like…

You move a little closer, shining your flashlight on a small shelf of discs.

Spider-Man and Death Stranding, also Diablo, Until Dawn, and various shooters, as if the man didn't get enough of that in service.

Or maybe he shot so well because he'd practiced his aim in Valorant?

Made a fuck ton of sense, yeah-yeah.

A smile involuntarily splits your lips.

These thoughts were amusing. You generally liked the fact that right now, even without his permission, you were getting to know Riley a little better. By a pathetically small drop, but one that still managed to warm you from the inside, like two liters of freshly made tea.

Unfortunately, this joy was short-lived.

You felt Simon before he spoke. On some fucking instincts, screaming that your omega was nearby. This sound came from somewhere behind your ribs, deafening and bright. First - the invisible, phantom scent of pheromones, burning your nose, and then the voice itself.

— "And just what do you think you're doing?" — In which, by the way, there wasn't a hint of anger. Rather, bewilderment, probably? Or weariness mixed with a complete, absolute lack of understanding of what kind of shit another person could get up to when no one was watching. The very maximum use of free will.

And the man truly didn't understand what the hell was going on. Why you were standing in front of the TV, shining your phone's flashlight and looking at game discs when you could just, for example, turn on the light? Some kind of fucking theater of the absurd live, or he just didn't understand today's youth. After all, there was a little over a decade between you. Of course, he was fully aware of the terror he could inspire, - the rookies crossed themselves when he passed, so the rumor went, - but… not to this extent? Not to the point where someone would be afraid to turn on the light in someone else's house, as if it could cost them their life.

Simon suddenly began to genuinely hope that it wasn't him. That it was you. That you just had some questionable hobbies, - like sneaking up on other people's things in the dark and examining them by phone light, - and that he wasn't such a scary fucking bastard to the point of "fuck, can't even walk around the house properly." Because if it was him, how was he supposed to share space with you, knowing you were afraid to even turn on the light without asking? Not that Riley was planning on having anything like a family life with you, it's just…

Fuck.

The man, perhaps, was counting on that same morning jog together.

Or breakfast? Don't ask, fuck, Simon himself, the moment he touched your hand, no longer understood what the hell was going on in his head. The marbles had clearly left the final fucking track.

He thought this week would be a fucking hard trial. But, apparently, he'd slightly underestimated the scale of the problem. And that's putting it fucking mildly.

You fidget, crumpling the edge of your t-shirt, not knowing where to put your hands, your eyes, or yourself, because the fact of being here, not in the designated room, suddenly felt wrong, while the omega takes a few steps into the living room. His hands, now gloved, easily find the switch on the wall. The next second, the room is flooded with dim, yellowish light - the bulbs clearly needed changing.

When you look at those gloves, you can't hold back a caustic, utterly nasty wave of disappointment. It gathers somewhere in your chest, more like poison. A kind of arsenic that, instead of death, brings a whole bunch of shitty thoughts that make you want to either howl or climb the walls.

Like.

"I want to take them off."

"I don't want Simon, my, fuck, omega, to hide himself from me."

And the latter applied, perhaps, to everything. Not just his undeniably simple body, but also his thoughts, to which you clearly weren't meant to be allowed. To be told about fears, anxieties, because now… Riley shouldn't have to go through all sorts of shit alone?

The problem was, Simon wouldn't let you that close.

Logically, but still, damn it, stupidly hurtful.

— "Well?" the man leans his shoulder against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest, and clearly expects an answer. The fucking answer you'd really, really like to avoid. For example, by hiding in a corner and saying "not it." I'm not me, the problem's not mine, and please, just go fuck yourself, Lieutenant.

Any option here seemed absolutely idiotic. Lying, telling the truth, and who knows which of the two was worse. Although, perhaps, there was a key point: you didn't want to lie.

You, even if you hadn't planned to find a soulmate, - that topic was lurking somewhere in the distant recesses of your mind, - were now ready to give your all, now that you had one. Otherwise, what was the point of you, as a person walking the earth right now, if you couldn't protect Simon or give him at least the slightest sense of security? And security, as you know, includes the absence of lies.

Perhaps you shouldn't have, like a thief, crept around someone else's house trying to learn something new about your omega. It's a shame you only came to that thought now, not, say, ten minutes ago.

Swallowing unevenly, you finally lift your gaze. Bury it right into the balaclava, into those eyes, so pained that your heart stops in your chest.

—  "I wanted to get to know you better, sir," your voice breaks unpleasantly for a second. —  "And I understood that you wouldn't answer me. So I decided… to look for myself, without disturbing you."

His emotions at these words are unreadable. His body language too, because the man isn't moving at all. He's just frozen, more like a fucking statue.

Riley, given your circumstances, didn't quite know how to react to these words. Getting to know him, - a completely perverted and fucked-up desire. In most cases, that meant digging up dirty secrets, the past, and all kinds of weaknesses, to then joyfully use them. To take Ghost himself, fuck, into your hands. Speaking in completely stupid terms, to monopolize a weapon in human skin. And he'd had his fill of that up to his fucking throat.

The difference was in how you sounded.

How you, fuck, smelled at that moment, because the omega's nose no longer had any filters. His pills, after just a few hours, had become so weak that he could already smell your pheromones. By tomorrow, he'd likely be able to break it down into its fucking components with ease, like perfume on some godforsaken website.

In the top notes, there was anxiety so strong it twisted his guts. The fucking fear was so concentrated and acrid that it involuntarily got stuck in his throat, not letting him breathe. Because of the fucking bond, it felt like his own, only adding to the discomfort.

In the middle notes, curiosity, so utterly simple and therefore utterly unfamiliar.

In the base notes, a mix of emotions the omega didn't want to think about at all, because he clearly didn't deserve that cocktail.

Anyone, but only, fuck, not him.

Not the one in whom you couldn't see an omega even under a magnifying glass.

Not a man who had killed so many that there was no point in counting. And yes, of course, it was his job, his duty, and all the rest. He saved people. But at the same time, he took a whole bunch of lives, innocent ones included. And their blood was something he could never wash from his hands.

But you were looking.

Intently and trustingly.

Tenderly, fuck, as if it were him who needed protection from this whole wrong world. And not because of some secondary gender, but just.

Just because he was him, and nothing more.

So Simon logically hesitated. He didn't like any of this. The fact that the wall he'd built for years was crumbling so easily. And he didn't know what to do about it.

His tongue disgustingly disobeyed him, and his mouth felt like a desert, when after several painfully long seconds of silence, he finally parted his unyielding lips:

—  "Next time, try just asking," he says, and despite the general sentiment, the notes in his voice are still steely. In a way, it wasn't intentional. Riley wanted to sound somehow more… Fuck, who knows, human? Not like a goddamn murder machine and a soldier, but just… damn it. —  "I can't promise I'll answer, but you won't get a disciplinary infraction for it."

"And drop the formality," he wanted to add, but that phrase ended up swallowed.

omega!Simon x Reader, p.1

synopsis: Simon Riley turned out to be your omega. wc: 6015 tags: soulmates AU, omegaverse, omega!Simon, alpha!Y\N, msub and light mdom, fdom and light fsub, angst, PTSD, age gap, depression, self-hatred, gentle sex, first time art: vhenan_virabelasan

Hating yourself is normal, just a basic, standard thing. Like the changing of seasons, or the fact that no two snowflakes are alike.

Probably, it was the only emotion that had stuck with Simon for as long as he could remember, following him all the way to the grave without ever asking permission. An unshakeable constant in the equation of his shitty life, the one you can't get rid of. The others were just passing actors, coming and going, but this? This was the foundation. The very thing his whole damn personality was built on, every sharp angle molded from it. Most people just try to 'work through' this point. Polish it over with affirmations like I love myself until they start believing their own lie.

Riley preferred honesty.

After all, I wish I’d just chug some bleach is a hell of a lot more sincere.

And no, Simon isn’t suicidal.

Not even close.

Because in the army, just as a reminder, there’s evaluation.

And boards. And the disgrace of being discharged with a 'mentally unstable' stamp. After that? His whole career, the one he'd fucking gnawed his way into with his teeth, would be over.

It was all he had.

The only thing he ever will.

So no, the thought about bleach wasn't a call to action. Just a statement of fact.

Acknowledging that sometimes, honesty with yourself just smells like chlorine, and that's the best way out of a way-too-deep pile of shit. He hadn't hit rock bottom yet, and wasn't really planning to, but better to always be prepared, right?

So, yeah.

Simon had always hated himself. The reasons for that perpetual hatred just mutated over time, split apart like some kind of disease. He was the only constant in that shitty equation - how could you exclude the main character? Exactly, you couldn't. Then there wouldn't even be a story.

At first, back when he was just a scrawny kid, he physically wanted to turn himself inside out, vomit up his own guts along with that lump of bitter disgust labeled 'me'.

Because he was weak. And weakness was a vice reserved for people higher up the ladder. The ones living in golden palaces, driving foreign cars, who had no idea how disgusting and pathetic poverty could be.

What it was like to be constantly hungry, practically kicking the bucket from the brutal cold every winter because decent clothes just hadn't materialized. And not just for him. Probably for every kid in that shitty neighborhood.

He was a small, worthless worm who couldn't protect himself from his alcoholic father's heavy hand. But that was only half of it. The worst part was something else: Simon was also completely incapable of helping his mother, who got it twice as bad: for herself, and for him, this useless little bastard hiding in the next room. Her muffled sobs through the wall cut sharper than any of his father's drunken ravings.

He hated his fear.

His helplessness.

His own childish, skinny arms that couldn't do a damn thing to help in that fight.

He desperately, until his throat was raw, wanted to blame it all on his mother. It's so fucking easy to find someone to blame, right? Accuse her - her, with the tears never leaving her eyes, her body constantly covered in bruises. Who, even then, kept forgiving him, time after time. Because of her, Riley was trapped in this Samsara, this vicious circle. Because of her weakness, her decision to push him out of her womb into this rotten environment.

Because later those same hands, smelling of cheap soap, would hold him gently. He’d hear, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry, followed by stifled sobs.

And in that purgatory he had to call “home,” a new steel realization formed:

He would never be an omega.

He would never be that creature, smelling of weakness and submission.

He wouldn't let his skin exude that sweet, inviting scent of prey, the one that screamed trample me into the fucking dirt, make me crawl through my own shit and still try my damnedest to live.

He wouldn't be a mother or a father for anyone, fuck that. Call a ship what you will, it'll still sink with a disgusting splash.

He wouldn't give the world a single chance to see him as that eternal, all-forgiving victim.

Riley would rather die.

Or kill.

Depended on the circumstances.

So it was the universe's ultimate, fucking joke, when life decided to shove Simon's nose, like a blind kitten's, not into a puddle, but into a whole sea of his own piss, by informing him on a crumpled school paper that he wasn't an alpha, or even a beta.

Such a fucking, tearfully idiotic game that for the next week, at the ripe age of fourteen, he seriously planned to smash his own skull against the cinderblock wall in the entryway to kingdom come. Shameful, sticky disgust flowed through his veins instead of blood. Disgust at himself. At the prospect of a life that had suddenly shrunk to the size of a stinking doormat. In his brain, against his will, swarmed the basest images: of his own ass, which, according to the logic of this fucked-up world, was only good for shoving other people's dicks into.

Of his body, this future carcass that everyone and their mother would wipe their feet on and use as a punching bag.

And of all that helplessness, sticky and all-consuming, where he was yet to finally drown without even the slightest chance at a glimmer of hope.

Such brilliant, simply shining prospects that the only thing left was to go to the nearest hardware store, pick out a sturdy rope and some soap, and put on a final circus performance for the lucky few. Give the neighbors a story for the rest of their lives. Riley could practically hear it in the moment:

Remember that gloomy kid from the third floor? Yeah, he hung himself.

And then the natural segue to his mother and father, their whole shit-soaked existence.

For years after, Riley did nothing but try to drag himself out of that pit. Stitch himself back together. Rewrite every inch of his being. 

The man did everything to ensure there wasn't a single trace, not a hint, of that pathetic secondary gender. That weakness imposed by fucking nature, something you could only burn out of yourself with a red-hot iron, followed by a whole mountain of different pills.

That disgusting omega inside, hiding behind his ribs, somewhere deep in his chest.

In his documents, of course, the fact was there in black and white. John Price and the higher-ups all knew that Simon 'Ghost' Riley, whose name made enemies swallow nervously, was an omega.

That behind his almost two meters of height, behind skin riddled with scars from bullets, knives, and burns, hid something utterly pathetic and disgusting.

Equal opportunity or not, the army still preferred alphas. At a pinch, fucking betas. Everyone else had it genuinely rough. It was the 21st century, after all - try dismissing the 'weaker sex' now. They'd jump down your throat so fast you wouldn't have teeth left to count. So yeah, anyone who still decided to join the military had to work four times as hard, do ten times as much, constantly proving and assuring everyone that slick from your ass wasn't any more of a problem than a knot on a dick. Funny? You bet, a fucking joke, just like Riley's whole life.

Every heat was crushed out of existence on base by strong suppressants. That filth, - read as 'omega essence', - could only raise its head on civilian time, if such a cursed occasion arose. But his reproductive system had been in the deepest shit for years, and the man couldn't give a flying fuck from the highest bell tower about that point.

Whatever, as they say.

Did he plan to start a family? Find himself some shithead alpha who'd stretch his hole with his knot, proving total and absolute superiority?

No.

Lord have mercy, in life, - thank you, military career, - there were already enough idiots.

No offense to Soap, his jokes were sometimes amusing.

An alpha girl or a beta who'd ride his own dick and be ready to shit out a kid who'd definitely be unhappy, given who his dad was? Also a negative.

So your appearance in his life literally became… the end? A war, maybe. Though that's an understatement, almost indecently so. War was more familiar to Riley than home; he was a regular there, someone who could easily come up with a plan from scratch.

You, though? You were a disaster. The final, irreversible kind. Ragnarök, the kind those Nordic types wrote legends about, just without all their poetic bullshit. Without gods or giants. Just… a soldier, a servicewoman.

An alpha girl.

A young, fucking rookie, without any of the scars decorating her ugly mug. And clearly without a life behind her that would warrant anything more than a brief obituary.

What a fucking tragedy, read as "nope."

The complete fucking opposite of him, where what was healthy could be counted on one hand, and that fact Simon was painfully aware of.

And, probably, he should clarify that the whole fucking disaster boiled down to one single variable: you were his soulmate. That age-old, rare-as-an-honest-politician bullshit that every pubescent teenager jerked off to in their wet dreams. The thing forty-year-old losers, who'd never managed a single normal relationship in their lives, drooled over, their last excuse, their anchor of salvation being this very 'soulmate' that was supposed to show up and make them happy by default.

So the fucking irony was that Simon Riley was the one who got 'saved'. The one who needed it like a hole in the head. The man didn't want a single damn thing that kept getting thrown his way with enviable consistency.

Instead of an omega, he would have preferred to be a beta. The most ordinary, gray, unremarkable beta, who couldn't have a true mate in any plane of existence. Without all that mystical bullshit, fatal attraction, and obligations imposed by nature along with heats every few months.

But here he was, standing and looking at you, while his fingers squeezed your wrist. Tight, almost to the point of pain, as if trying not so much to hold you back as to strangle the current passing through his skin, turning everything inside him fucking upside down.

Fuck, and of all days, he had to… not wear gloves today. Decide this once it would be fine, just because. No particular reason in his head, just not wanting to put anything else on. And now Simon felt literally everything: the warmth of your skin, your pulse, and the scent of your pheromones, because a soulmate didn't give a shit about any blockers Riley was stuffed to the gills with. And that fucking smell filled his lungs, making him choke on horror, on disgust at himself and this whole fucked-up situation.

And it all started with him thinking you showed potential as a rookie. What else could you expect from an alpha from a good, proper family? He had your file, like he did for all the other girls and guys under his command. He knew everything: that you were practically following in the footsteps of your alpha father, who'd been in the Marines. Omega father - a doctor, a neurosurgeon working in one of LA's biggest hospitals. So your red diploma, your genuinely brilliant test scores, - which in a real fight you could wipe your ass with and forget, - weren't surprising.

Riley had noticed you, planned to make an excellent soldier out of you. Not… this.

This was wrong and absolutely disgusting, representing him not as a lieutenant with miles of combat experience, but as some base creature. Because his heart, despite the panicked screams of his consciousness, that sticky fear trembling through his body, still, as if out of spite, started beating faster in his chest.

Happier, no less. Stupid and puppy-like.

Simon shouldn't feel fucking happiness because he was touching his true mate and the scent of her pheromones, that fucking oak mixed with disgusting vanilla, was filling his lungs to bursting, squeezing out even the air.

He'd rather fill them with cigarette smoke. Or gunpowder, the stench of his own burning flesh. Literally anything, fuck, just not this.

At that moment, he tried to hammer that thought home, but his absolutely idiotic heart insisted otherwise. And it made him feel so disgusted with himself, his whole carefully constructed life philosophy crumbling in real-time, that he might as well put a bullet in his head. Better that than watch his own personality decompose and turn into… who knows what.

Riley yanks his hand back faster than you can utter a single word.

"Training's over. — and his voice is firm, steady, with ringing notes of pure metal. Not a single crack in those tones to hint at the whole storm of shit, the self-loathing, burning his insides. At the cheap omega essence that, in that very moment, the second he tore himself away from his alpha, dared to raise such a howl inside him, as if the world really had decided to just up and collapse.

Never.

Not once in almost thirty years had that creature inside dared to speak up like this. Without asking, without permission. Occasionally, and even then through gritted teeth and accompanied by the remnants of suppressants, during his heats. And even then, no more than a quiet moan in the emptiness of night. But now… now it was roaring, howling, clawing at the inside of his ribs, demanding to go back.

To you.

Take your hand again, look into your eyes, and make you stay close, as close as possible. Until your smell filled his lungs to the brim, soaked into his skin.

They say after meeting your true mate, it feels like the whole world suddenly comes into focus, the previously shattered pieces slotting together into this perfect picture, ready for a museum. But the man was wrong here too, because for him this meeting rather signified a path straight to the scaffold. For himself.

For you.

Because you were the one who got the short end of the stick, fucked over the most. Right up to your goddamn head.

Apparently, it was because of this bond, because Riley couldn't seem to think about his own skin at all. Though he should have. Right now, his fucking head held only you, your well-being, your reputation, and your bright future that his presence would definitely screw up, and all sorts of similar shit, as if his own ass wasn't hanging over the fire much lower.

He was an omega, after all.

Even if he was a terrifying-to-death, two-meter-tall, scarred monster that no normal alpha would go near with a ten-foot pole. Who, really, would want to fuck a mountain of muscle that wouldn't just rip your head off, but would gladly bite it off and spit it out?

Right. Only the insane.

Riley didn't put you in that dubious category, knowing full well: you were definitely horrified. Felt incomparable, genuine disgust at the mere thought that for the foreseeable future, you'd have to spend time near him.

That now you'd be branded with the shameful, red-hot iron mark - the true mate of Simon, fuck, Riley. And that was scarier than any combat wound or enemy scar.

Hah, he knew from experience, his whole body was one continuous mess with no unscarred patch. They wouldn't see you as a person, a respectable alpha, a soldier, but as the one whose fate was now inextricably linked to Ghost.

In people's minds, the question would be far from any lofty matters.

What's it like to fuck the scariest man in the whole SAS?

And so the man had no idea how to proceed. There was a deafening silence in his head when it came to what he should do now. Just emptiness, with the howling of that creature on the periphery, still scratching at his ribs.

What to do? What could make this frankly shitty, unfair fucking situation turn into something even remotely tolerable? Not for himself, - to hell with his well-being, - but for you.

Lost in these thoughts, Riley involuntarily even missed the moment when your fingers closed around his wrist. The grip wasn't rough, but so firm and excessively noticeable that the desire to cut his own throat went from a merely ticklish-joking thought to a genuine need.

His temples throbbed with the question: how the fuck do people even cope with emotions like this?

An immediate, treacherous wave of goosebumps washed over his skin. Somewhere at the base of his skull, at the fifth vertebra, a jolt of electricity, short, searing, making him clench his jaw until it creaked to keep from making a sound, from uttering a single one of the words now swirling in his worm-ridden head.

The tiniest thing, a fucking trifle. And the inner dog, that hunted creature, is already hysterical, practically pissing itself from this sudden, contact with his true mate.

"No."

You simply couldn't let Simon leave now.

Not the next moment after all this had happened. God, it had only been a minute since that first, fateful touch, so why did it feel like an eternity? Why this persistent feeling of wrongness inside? And not towards the situation itself, but towards the idea of Riley, your omega, leaving this godforsaken gym now.

Your fingers tighten their grip. Your body acts first, before your brain can process the desire flaring up in your muscles, your very being. You simply feel, with some gut instinct, because of this new bond, his confusion. All that horror, multiplied by self-loathing so strong that, unlike any other feeling, it felt like your own. The others were distant, barely tangible things you had to hold your breath, concentrate, trying to perceive.

So some primal instinct wasn't just howling anymore, but genuinely snarling, almost drowning out everything else.

Protect.

Don't let go.

Mark.

And that last one, an absolutely base demand, because how could you even do something like that without full, sane consent? Now you were the one disgusted by this animal part of yourself.

"What are you intending to do now?" — the first and, perhaps, most logical question.

Because you were colleagues with a rank difference.

Because the fact of the bond brings not only, it would seem, an ideal partner, but also a multitude of other things you'd have to adapt to. At the very least here, a bureaucratic nightmare. You had no idea what paperwork and consent forms would need to be filled out, but the mere thought made your stomach clench unpleasantly.

And that's not even considering the details concerning the man's own opinion. No one, fuck, on base knew he was an omega. They simply couldn't not discuss something like that, picking apart every bone. But you, everyone else, thought Simon was a beta.

Except, perhaps, the higher-ups? They couldn't have missed something like that.

But yeah.

Riley's position, unlike your own, was far more precarious. You didn't have to hide your secondary gender, masking your true feelings behind a hundred and one rumors floating around the base and what didn't they say about "Ghost"? And your own identity fell into the most mediocre category. What, essentially, could the most ordinary rookie have achieved in this short time? Good test results? You could wipe your ass with those: you weren't the only one with them. And they hadn't even let you anywhere near real, serious missions yet.

And Simon had… noticed something in you. He, as they say, took you under his wing, started training you, hammering some hints of tactics and real, useful skills into your empty head. Gave advice that was worth more than anything else. All for what end? So you could do this to him? So openly involuntarily and fucking accidentally, by the will of blind chance, you could reveal one of his biggest secrets? And a damn important one at that, maybe the most important, considering everything he must have been through.

Now you were the one making him not just stand here, but experience all this shit, definitely fear this very exposure, and feel like absolute crap.

Unlike all those fucking romance novels, your appearance, the very news of the bond, wasn't any kind of gift from above for Simon. And you couldn't blame him for that, let alone be offended. How can you be offended at someone who's just had their face shoved into their worst nightmare? That's exactly how the man must be seeing it.

Riley, who had already taken a few steps, freezes. It takes him several painfully long moments to pull himself together, to gather every thought into some kind of pile, and to actually answer. Because, frankly, right now he only wanted one thing: to get as far away from you as possible.

Throw himself to the other end of the planet.

The need to be near, to touch, to do anything at all.

fuck.

The itch to lick your wounds, bite your neck, just listen to you breathe - was strong enough to make him sick. It was flooding him from the inside, turning every organ upside down.

And that very fucking fact made him want to be on the other side of the world. Because inside, despite all common sense, there flickered a stupid hope that then all this would end.

That their fucking bond, unlike the bonds of other, normal people, would just get scared shitless by such concrete and purposeful rejection and decide to fuck right off. Snap like an over-taut string. And he'd be alone again. With his self-hatred, this nausea, and those treacherously rare moments, fucking loneliness gnawing at his rotten bones. But that's how it should be, that's right and familiar.

Maybe the first stemmed from the second.

"To Price. Need to report what happened, fill out…" — Riley begins, and his voice at that moment is so hoarse, strained and broken, that the alpha inside you immediately raises its head, ready to tear the throat out of every living creature on the planet that dared look at him. Was that a healthy desire? Absolutely, fuck, no. Did it matter to you at this specific second, while you heard such naked weakness in his tone and smelled his pheromones, not sweet, but bitter, like ash? No. Not at all. — "Fill out the paperwork."

Left unsaid was the pathetic 'talk,' something Riley was simply incapable of in your presence. To admit that right now he needed his captain not as a commander, but as the only person who knew. Who might not look at him with the same disgust he felt for himself. And besides… you were strangers. The man only knew some small facet of you, and even that was abbreviated to fit into an army file. In training, you certainly couldn't open up, being lower in rank. He didn't… owe you any of this, really, but he couldn't help it anymore.

Simon simply felt your worry for him, so fucking stupid and persistent it made him nauseous. It hit him like an electric shock, making him shudder internally. Why the fuck? Why the fucking hell were you worried about him, when you should be worried about yourself?

Did he deserve this kind of treatment? No. Absolutely not.

"Let go of me and let's go." — he urges, because Riley, probably, desperately needed to keep himself busy right now. His hands, his head, because otherwise, destructive thoughts would definitely win. Overall… the pattern was I can't allow myself to ruin my soulmate's Life, thank you.

He had so many cockroaches in his own head that he couldn't handle them alone.

But for obvious reasons, he couldn't go to you or a shrink with them. The only two options were Price and work, but the latter, according to all those super self-aware people, was more a way of avoiding problems, because adults, responsible people, and so on, were supposed to talk things out.

Discuss, fuck, like it was so easy. Just pull every bag of internal shit out of the closet, all that 'I hate myself' that Simon couldn't even bring himself to say mentally.

He'd rather veil it, curse himself out.

You swallow hard, shake your head.

This was wrong.

You couldn't just go silently to the captain, as if what happened was something routine, normal, banal. As if nothing, really, had happened at all. You didn't even want to pretend, to start this fucking, pathetic charade, like you were animals in a circus.

So you stand your ground. Your fingers still grip his wrist tightly. And it was important to note that the man wasn't pulling away.

He was letting you hold him. Simon was tense, his hand in yours - tense too. But even so, he didn't yank it from your grasp, even though it would have taken him a second, if not less.

It felt like a silent admission that your presence, maybe, wasn't so disgustingly wrong.

As if there was a chance, however infinitesimal, that everything might turn out okay in the end?

"No. We're not doing anything without talking first." — honestly, you had no right to speak. You had to remember you were still on a military base. Plus two very simple facts on top: Simon Riley wasn't only higher rank, but older than you. How old was he? Definitely over thirty-two? Those were weighty things, but how the fuck did you care? Literally about everything, because this scary, unsociable Ghost had been your omega for five minutes now. And you felt every single one of his emotions. — "Just with me first. Sir."

You weren't ready to abandon formal address just yet. Riley definitely needed boundaries, his own carefully constructed walls - they were priceless to him.

"Just talk to me first. I am…"

Not just some stranger anymore gets stuck in your throat.

It sounded too demanding, too possessive. The man didn't belong to you at all. So you swallow it and force out something simpler, but no less true.

"I'm worried. And I want to know how you're feeling right now."

People had asked Simon this question before.

Teammates, Price himself. The utterly banal "you alright, mate?", "how are you, Lieutenant?" and so on. But he'd never wanted to answer them before. He saw no point, no need, because it all meant building, creating connections that carried risks.

Being alone was easier, safer for himself. If, of course, you forgot about his chosen profession, but that wasn't the point either.

But at this very moment, the second you asked that stupid question, everything inside Riley froze, stretched even tighter, and the chain wrapped around his throat constricted, almost breaking his fucking vertebrae.

The feeling that you weren't asking the Lieutenant, not Ghost, was too clear, too suffocating.

As if the question was aimed at the one hiding behind the skull mask. At that weak, pathetic child who, desperately like everyone else, was looking for warmth and support. Just a person who'd been through a fair amount of shit in this too-long life.

And he, fuck, felt like he was lying to you just by staying silent. That the lack of a proper answer, which he was simply incapable of giving, was a real slap in your fucking sincere face, with your furrowed brows and pressed lips.

He involuntarily found the last bit charming.

Simon jerks his head sharply, and then finally forces himself to pull his hand from your grip. For him, it feels like a step into the abyss; for you, a gunshot to the head, because for one agonizingly long moment, the world ceases its mortal existence.

Explosion. Dissolution into atoms. And all that shit.

"Drop the talk, just follow me."

Probably, putting those hard, steely notes back into his voice was the right decision.

The most fucking correct one, despite how everything inside was turning over, and the omega was whimpering, because your alpha didn't deserve that tone.

That...

She, fuck, was just trying to help, while you, Riley, were ruining everything again.

Well, at least this he did perfectly, yeah, no arguing with that.

Price met you, who'd come directly to his office, first with incomprehension, reflected in his thick, furrowed brows. He raised them, not at all expecting to see Simon with some rookie in his office. If you'd done something wrong, broken regulations, Riley could have handled it perfectly well without his intervention.

John didn't even know your name; you were absolutely nobody, just another green soldier who might not even make it. Maybe serve out a yearly contract somehow, then run away cursing this place with every known swear word. This feeling was justified by the oppressive atmosphere you'd brought with you. Not murderous, but rather… with heavy, hollow notes of doom from nowhere. As if above your heads hung the blade of a guillotine, ready to fall at any second.

So yeah.

Price's incomprehension was completely justified. More than that - it hung in the air like a thick, almost tangible cloud.

He puts down his pen, along with the report, then slides his gaze to Simon, then to you, and back. In his head - the unasked question of why the hell you'd dragged yourselves here. The reason had to be serious, and that was putting it mildly. Riley always preferred to deal with things alone. From the tension in the other's body, it was clear the problem was more… personal?

But what kind of 'personal' was even possible with you?

John could feel in his gut that the next words were going to fuck up his, seemingly, peaceful evening for good.

And the only thing worse was that it was confirmed.

Simon, as the higher rank and older, was obliged to report what happened himself. It was his duty, and also the one thing he could do right, considering everything else was already in the deepest shit imaginable. A small thing, yeah, but fucking important because there was nothing else left.

He started right at the core, seeing no point in beating around the bush or getting all weepy over this damn story:

"We're soulmates."

But brevity was still his strong suit, because having said that, the man immediately shut his fucking mouth, waiting for words from John. For his reaction, for anything at all. Even absolute condemnation and disgust, which, if he admitted it to himself, would finally finish him off.

And John?

John did absolutely fucking nothing. Apart from the absolute, cosmic shock that flooded him, from his fingertips to the back of his skull. The air in the office thickened to the consistency of cement, perfectly reflecting the mental state of everyone in it.

It should be clarified that no, Price was… glad. In the way you can be happy for another person while perfectly understanding that for that person, finding their true mate was a fucking disaster. And that's even considering that it's an amazing, incomparable stroke of luck, like winning several billion dollars in the lottery.

Not millions, but specifically billions. And not just once, but for the rest of your goddamn life.

But Price could see further.

He saw the price of that win.

He saw Simon, you, and understood that for his lieutenant, this "luck" currently looked more like the worst nightmare.

The man sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out how he, as captain, should proceed. Filling out all the paperwork now, every nasty report, meant putting Riley at risk. The fact that he was an omega would easily come to light, because someone's mouth would run.

Someone would notice that very paper among the others, and the shit would hit the fan.

"Simon, you're on suppressants," — John begins. He tries to put steel into his voice, some harder notes, but can't. There's still that painful tenderness in his tone, hand-in-hand with fear for the other's well-being. The man had known Simon since he was a kid, just as green a soldier; he'd literally grown up beside him and… deep down, Price had long considered him as a family, seen him as a son. Riley nods curtly, and behind his back, you instinctively straighten like a taut wire. The omega shielded you with his body, like a living shield, taking the full weight of this conversation upon himself. And Jonathan wasn't even attacking. He was just carefully looking for a way out of this trap so that everyone would end up with just a scare. — "And you've spent most of your heats on them. Let's be direct. Your soulmate is going to trigger a release in you very soon. Given the prolonged suppression, it'll be more intense than any previous one. Your partner will have a logical rut. And during that time, you can't be on base, because no pills will cover your scents. You understand perfectly well that we can't just reveal your secondary gender so easily."

And John, basically, didn't give a fuck about that in the way he did about all other omegas. The difference was in the attitude. In how Riley perceived himself when it came to this second nature and everything that happened to his body when it was in control.

He hated it.

You didn't need to be a fortune teller or some super smart person to understand that fact.

You, until this moment, honestly hadn't thought about all this. About all the… consequences and difficulties, because your brain was focused on one thing: omega's anxiety. On that string stretched to its limit somewhere inside, about to snap with a deafening twang.

Simon nods again.

He knew all about it. Had time to think about it on the way down the hall, to run through every possible scenario of the foreseeable future in his head. And not one, fuck, ended well.

Not one had this bond breaking.

That just wasn't possible, except by the death of one of them. And that was the last resort.

"Two weeks leave?" — Riley asks faster than you can open your mouth, as if sensing your desire to put your two cents into this damned dialogue.

You'd wanted to. Even though the words in your head were shattered into fragments, like glass shards after an explosion, and you couldn't gather them into anything coherent yet. Just isolated phrases, thoughts about the sheer wrongness of it all. About the fucking attitude towards Simon, your omega, who didn't deserve this by definition.

John shakes his head and leans back in his chair wearily.

A nasty migraine was starting to grip his temples.

"A week. If nothing happens by Friday - speed up the process medically. And you'd better spend it at your apartment, Simon. That's not an order. Just an advice that you should take."

The man nods again, almost mechanically, purely on autopilot.

Inside - utter hell.

He didn't know how to feel about all this.

How to even breathe.

On one hand, there was himself, still in his right mind. And in that state, he absolutely didn't want to just take you home. To an apartment that held far more of him than he'd like. That felt like waving a white flag. Some kind of fucking admission that he was ready to let you into his goddamn life.

No, even worse.

Let you in and, even worse, open up.

Pry his fucking ribcage apart and then show you everything that had been hiding inside for all these years.

All of himself, fuck, with his fears, nightmares, his time on leave - absolute unwillingness to move or even breathe.

Simon felt like vomiting his guts out at the mere thought.

On the other hand, despite all this, there was joy. A huge and absolutely treacherous joy that simply shouldn't exist somewhere near his heart. The kind that whispered: 'finally.' And that was the worst part, because it held an unacceptable hope for a better outcome.

sub!Caleb x Reader, p.2 | part 1 (click)

synopsis: to make Caleb even more yours, you want to put a chastity belt on him. wc: 3068 tags: msub, sub!caleb, pathetic Caleb, chastity belt, obsessive Y\N, needy, fdom, dirty talk, orgasm control, video call art: @/chimmyming

Caleb couldn’t shake the sharp, obsessive sensation, - so intense it throbbed at his temples, - that his entire body was slowly breaking apart into atoms and then simply dissolving into nothing.

He himself no longer existed. And everything ever connected to him - gone too. So that every memory, filled with endless pain, would just become a kaleidoscope of images flickering somewhere on the periphery of a fading consciousness.

Because what was the fucking point of any of it if the only person worth living for wasn’t beside him right now? It was because of you his body moved. Because of you he found the strength to open his eyes in the morning.

But right now, for several agonizingly long hours alredy, you'd been away from him. Saying he was languishing without your presence didn't fucking cover it, because that simple phrase completely failed to convey those goddamn, disgusting-from-start-to-finish emotions churning in his rotten, worm-eaten chest. In there, behind his ribs, wasn't a heart anymore - it was a tangle of frayed nerves, barbed wire, and broken glass that stabbed into his lungs with every breath, not letting him breathe.

The man never wanted to share you with anyone.

At first, this stemmed from a desire to protect you, to shield you from all the fucking evil in the world. The scientists, the professors, Even that fucking old hag whose disgusting face chased him through sticky, suffocating nightmares so vivid that when he woke, he had to stifle the scream tearing from his chest with a palm pressed against his blood-bitten lips.

He was sickeningly terrified of letting you go anywhere alone with them, because then you might simply not come back. They'd perform one of those experiments on you, the kind that would turn you into a fucking vegetable for an eternity. And that with no exaggeration. Neither dead nor alive, frozen motionless on snow-white sheets.

But then this need to be near you morphed into something new, dark, and even slightly terrifying, growing bigger with each passing day. Caleb genuinely didn't want to share you with work, friends, those goddamn "urgent matters" that tore you from his arms. Every single time resonated with a dull, aching pain somewhere behind his ribs.

The man realized how wrong, how twisted these thoughts were, so he held them back. He wasn’t a complete fucking idiot, after all, and he understood logically that he couldn't do that, it wasn't normal - to demand that a different person be only yours, belong to you alone, exist exclusively within your field of vision. Sometimes they slipped through anyway - in the craving to make you cover his body with your marks, in the rare, deliberate jealousy just to make you apologize afterward and shower his face with soft kisses.

But he really fucking tried. To the point his hands would shake and he’d bite his lips bloody at night, terrified you might hate him if you ever saw the rot festering at the bottom of his heart. Lying in his bunk, he couldn’t stop imagining the scenario where you noticed it, all of it at once.

And your face would twist in absolute, consuming disgust.

Yet all that “proper” thinking, “this is how it should be,” did nothing to ease the disappointment. The sick, sharp resentment coiling into a suffocating lump in his chest. It didn't give a fuck about any rational arguments, because it kept screaming its nasty little question: why did you leave just as he’d finally come home?

Why, knowing full well the date of his return, didn't you somehow warn your colleagues, your superiors?

Why was work more important than him?

Why... why did he have to sit on the bed right now, hugging the pillow where you should be, the one that still held pathetic traces of your scent?

Why was he without you again?

Caleb feels the corners of his eyes starting to sting unpleasantly. An absolutely pathetic emotion that he, as a fucking colonel, shouldn't be experiencing.

Just logically, you know?

A grown man, with immense power concentrated in his hands, currently spiraling into self-flagellation over some goddamn longing.

Because some organ called a heart decided to remind him of its existence in this way.

And yet some people had the nerve to call Caleb a heartless bastard.

Hah, how wrong they were.

The second it came to you, Caleb turned into nothing more than a goddamn slug, ready to crawl under your boot at the first opportunity.

What a fucking disaster.

Next stop - padded walls and a straitjacket.

You honestly admitted, even if only to yourself, that your behavior was wrong.

You shouldn't have been leaving Caleb right now.

Shouldn't have been making him feel lonely and miserable to the point where tears got stuck like shattered glass in his violet eyes. You could literally see how, in that moment when the fateful words left your lips, it hurt the man just to blink. Each movement of his eyelids echoed with a barely noticeable twitch, the brush of his lashes cutting him raw, making the transparent film over his eyes grow thicker, more unbearable.

How he bit the inside of his cheek, and you watched those spasms in his jaw as he desperately tried to hold back every single word fighting to break free. His teeth sank into the tender flesh, filling his mouth with a metallic taste, faintly bitter at the very root of his tongue.

But he stayed silent.

And you couldn’t even decide whether that was a blessing or a problem.

Your plan, after all, was to make Caleb even needier, even more dependent on you. To make the separation, which already felt like lava running through your veins, even more unbearable. You wanted to push that feeling to the point where it manifested as an ache in the bones, spasms in the chest that, without you nearby, felt wrongfully empty.

Maybe at this point you should start asking God for forgiveness and going to confession? Simply do everything to atone for this sin, this need to possess, essentially, another person's soul completely and without residue. For how much you enjoyed seeing Caleb broken, tearful, flushed and trembling because of you.

Still, you had to give yourself credit: you were sticking to your plan perfectly.

On the very first day, you only texted Caleb at ten in the evening, literally a few words, after which you "went to sleep." On the secon - same thing, just with a slight variation...

"I..." — the man swallows hard, looks away, and bites his lower lip. You see his Adam's apple bob, the muscles in his neck tense as he tries to push the next words out. — "Could you put some clothes on? Please."

And the truth was - he adored looking at you naked.

In lingerie.

In a thin, semi-transparent shirt.

Didn’t matter.

It's just... fuck, things were a bit more complicated now with that goddamn chastity belt, you know? One look at you, your shoulders, collarbones, breasts barely covered by thin lace, would make everything inside Caleb would cinch tight - pain, spasm, that suffocating knot low in his stomach.

He was perfectly aware of this fact.

You only shrug, still sitting in front of the phone propped on the table, wearing nothing but your bra, slowly braiding your half-dried hair after the shower. Strands slip between your fingers, falling neatly into place. And you, deliberately not looking at Caleb, can still feel his gaze even through the screen. Just how desperat, unhinged it was.

"It's very warm in the hotel, ge," — you reply in a casual tone, finally finished with your hair. The braid now lay draped over your shoulder, and the damp ends, touching your collarbones, left wet trails on your skin.

You slowly lift your gaze, catching his - pained, hungry over something so stupidly simple. You were just sitting in front of Caleb in your underwear. And that knowledge settles heavily in your own lower belly, making your heart skip a beat.

You involuntarily wished you were right there, trailing your fingertips down the man's sensitive back, making him break out in goosebumps.

Of course, his arousal was perfectly logical, when was the last time you'd had sex? Over a month ago?

Picking up your phone, you move to the bed in absolute silence. The view shifts with your steps, capturing every movement: how you sit down, toss your hair back, and slowly adjust a strap that's slipped from your shoulder.

The man, pressing his knees together, couldn't tear his eyes away from your chest. From those patches of skin currently visible to him. Caleb's pupils were so dilated that the violet iris looked almost black, as if reflecting all that impenetrable darkness swirling in their depths. His breathing was uneven, ragged, and even through the speakers you could hear air catching on thorns in his throat.

"Haven't you missed me at all?" — you say, furrowing your brow theatrically, placing the phone on the adjacent pillow, then sitting cross-legged.

Your fingers slide along the waistband of your panties, just for show.

Your plan was simple: arouse poor gege. Make it so that, without any chance to come, he'd languish, feeling this sweet pain, slowly losing his mind. Until only one thought remained in his head: please, I'm begging you, touch me and let me come.

You were supposed to return home, according to what was discussed, the day after tomorrow. In reality - tomorrow afternoon. So you could catch him off guard. Shocked, Caleb would freeze, unable to believe his eyes, and then, a moment later, hug you tightly, burying his face in the curve of your neck, whispering his "are you really here?"

Of course, he had the key, but... the man knew perfectly well how much his disobedience would upset you. He couldn't lie to you. Not with words, not with his body. So he could picture, down to the smallest detail, how you, understanding everything, would press your lips together, and then, without a word, simply drop the subject.

Cold indifference killed him more than yelling, fights, or anything like that. Anger, on the contrary, would bring Caleb relief, because then you'd still be talking to him.

Interacting. Therefore, that he could live with.

But silence - absolutely not.

Silence would rot him from the inside like acid poured straight down his throat. He’d writhe, cough up blood, beg every god that ever existed just to make you look at him again.

Just look, seeing him, your beloved gege, in front of you, not some faceless, alien creature.

Forgive him for breaking the rules.

For being too weak and pathetically wrong.

So right now, he just sat there, drinking in every millimeter of your skin with his eyes, involuntarily imagining how he'd leave kisses, hickeys, bites here and there.

This fantasy was so vivid for his body, starved for your touch, that he could almost taste you on his lips, his tongue.

"I miss you," — he finally breathed out, strained and hoarse, making you smile with satisfaction.

You shift slightly on the bed, change your position, supposedly getting more comfortable, and part your legs a little. A centimeter, then another. And Caleb, who hadn't taken his eyes off the screen for a second, chokes on his inhale. Air gets stuck somewhere in his trachea, refusing to go further, and the man freezes, afraid to move. His chest stops moving, he himself tenses like an over-taut string, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

Low in his abdomen, it wasn't just heaviness anymore. There was a literal fire. And his cock, compressed by the metal of the chastity belt, trembled, sending painful, unbearable impulses through his body. Literally fucking pleas for you to touch it. For your fingers, calloused from constant training with various weapons, to close around his length, trace the head leaking natural lubricant, and then make him come, explode, shatter into a million colorful sparks.

If not your hands, even his own would suffice for mediocre relief. Just to touch, squeeze, then start thrusting raggedly into his fist, imagining it was you. Do anything at all, just to relieve this tension tearing him apart from the inside.

The man's hips, living their own life, twitch involuntarily, grinding against the bed in search of even a little relief, help. And in the same instant, his muscles lock in an unpleasant spasm, sharp and turning him inside out, forcing a choked moan from him. This sound tears from his throat against his will, low and strained, full of such desperate agony you nearly bite your lip.

Fuck.

Caleb sounded way too tempting right now.

"God, ge..." — you click your tongue, adding as much sympathy as you can to your voice. — "It's only been a day, and you're already this needy?"

Caleb is ready to argue. He literally opens his mouth to remind you of the actual time frame. About how he'd been in a deep space tunnel for just about a month, so considering that, he'd missed you like a dog for way fucking longer.

A whole fucking month without you, your hugs, and the chance to talk.

But...

"Yeah..." — he whispers, grinding against the bed again. His hips move on autopilot now, thrusting into the mattress. A whimper escapes his lips, pathetic and utterly helpless, and his left hand clutches his groin, his own cock through the fabric of his sweatpants and the fucking metal of the cage. He tightens his grip, as if that could help, as if that way he could reach his flesh languishing without touch. And when no relief comes, he groans, disappointed, broken. The sound ricochets off the walls of the room, amplified tenfold. — "I'm begging you. I feel so awful without you. You... you can let me take it off, can't you? Please, it really hurts, and you're... you're sitting there like this right now... it's too much..."

He looks at the screen, and in his eyes, clouded with arousal, swims a mixture of plea and truly religious adoration. The way, perhaps, priests look at icons.

"My poor gege..." — Caleb exhales in relief, relaxing for a fraction of a second. Now you'll take pity, agree, let him get the key and... — "Did you forget your promise so quickly? About being obedient? About being a good boy for me, who knows the command 'wait'? Did I misunderstand you? Did I hear you wrong?"

His heart immediately skips a beat, then races in a frantic rhythm, ready to break through his ribs.

The man shakes his head desperately, squirming on the pillow, messing up his hair, which was already starting to stick to his sweaty forehead, even more.

Because no.

That's, fuck, not it at all.

He's ready to wait.

Ready not to come for a fucking eternity, if it means you'll be pleased with him. Praise him, tell him how much you love him and what a good job he's doing. Pet his head, pull him close, whisper something warm and gentle in his ear.

It's just...

"You’re the one tempting me right now," — he whines, burying his face in the pillow, sinking his teeth into the fabric and clenching his jaw so hard it seems his teeth might crack. He's breathing heavily and raggedly, as if the air had suddenly taken on the consistency of jelly, forcing its way into his lungs with immense difficulty.

Caleb feels like he's slowly dying inside.

Each new thrust brought not relief, but only another wave of pain, twisting his muscles in a disgusting spasm. But he couldn't stop.

"I'm just sitting here." — you shrug, and there's more innocence in that movement than had ever existed in the whole world before. "You got yourself worked up, and now you're acting like a dog in heat. A few minutes ago, I wasn't doing this..." — when the man focuses his gaze on the screen again, you slowly run your palm down your chest. Your fingers play with the fabric of your bra, pulling it aside slightly, exposing your nipple. Caleb's face was red. He lay there, biting his lower lip, watching what was happening as if this were the last thing he was destined to see in this life. — "Or this..."

Here, you slide your fingers further down, straight over your stomach, between your legs, then pull your panties aside slightly, showing off your wet, pulsing cunt. You're practically screaming that after this conversation, you'll be pleasuring yourself. Touch yourself with your fingers while your beloved gege languishes in bed, lying there completely alone, with his cock trembling in its cage, imagining how he could be the one making you fall apart.

"You chose to get turned on, ge. Why is that my fault? Why should I let you come early?"

Caleb's cock was leaking pre-cum. It was unpleasantly soaking his underwear, and the man could only whimper softly. Propping the phone up on the pillow as best he could, he places his right hand on his chest, squeezes his nipple, and lets out a quiet moan.

"No-no-no," — you hurry to say, noticing these manipulations. — "You're not allowed to come, even in the cage. Don't even think that'll work. Take your hand away. Right now."

"But..." — the man hesitates for several long moments. His fingers still squeeze his nipple, tugging, rubbing, unable to stop. His eyes dart across the screen - from your face to your fingers gathering your slick, from them to your lips, and back.

"No 'buts,' ge."

And Caleb obeys, even if not immediately.

"There we go," — you nod, satisfied. — "Good boy. We’re going to hang up soon. You’ll lie down and try to sleep. I know it'll be hard, but you'll be a good boy for me, right? And we'll video call again tomorrow evening, you'll shower with me on the phone, like we agreed. Until then - don't even think about touching your key. Okay? It only exists for emergencies, and I'm the one who decides what constitutes an emergency. Understood?"

The man hesitates for several long moments, desperately thrusting his hips into the bed a few last times in a hopeless attempt to find even a drop of relief.

sub!Caleb x Reader, p.1

synopsis: to make Caleb even more yours, you want to put a chastity belt on him. wc: 2645 tags: msub, sub!caleb, pathetic Caleb, chastity belt, obsessive Y\N, needy, fdom

You loved controlling Caleb, commanding him: from the rhythm of his breaths to the volume of the sobs breaking from his bitten lips. You loved watching how the fearsome colonel, the one whose single glare made every subordinate tremble in fear, turned into nothing but your obedient little puppy. That moment when the wariness toward the entire fucking world would vanish from those violet eyes, - usually so sharp, piercing through anyone who dared to come close, - replaced by an endless, all-consuming love for you, like some goddamn abyss.

The fact that instead of the desire to destroy the whole world, the complete opposite appeared there: the urge to lay it at your feet.

Needless to say, you felt exactly the same.

The need to protect, to shield the man literally with your own body if the situation demanded it. You wanted to tear open your ribcage with bare hands, just to pull out your heart and place it in his palms. You saw absolutely no point in breathing, in simply opening your eyes in a world where your beloved gege wasn't by your side.

In a place where you wouldn’t see that loving gaze directed at you, trembling with overwhelming tenderness.

Where there were no hands that, on pure instinct, wrapped around you in sleep, pulling you as close as possible to his solid chest.

Where there was no scent, - the only one, the dearest, that made everything inside you turn over and settle back into exactly the right order.

The ide-fucking-al Caleb.

Considering all that, the conversation that happened couldn’t really be called unexpected, could it?

Well, maybe for poor gege it still was unexpected.

"This?…" — Caleb stumbles over the word, staring at the open box lying on the table in complete confusion. He’s no longer pressed to your shoulder like some needy little pup; he’s just frozen there, genuinely shocked, but, even more than that, lost. As far as he knew, nothing had been leading up to this. The bite to the ass came out of nowhere, didn’t it.

Just fucking hell.

He clears his throat, coughs lightly, brows knitting together. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

Because what the hell is he even supposed to say?

Holly shit?

And you honestly liked the way he looked.

The fact that right now, reddish patches of a blooming blush were decorating his cheeks - delicate, almost translucent, spreading from his cheekbones to his temples and down, toward the neck hidden beneath his collar. The way the man was desperately licking his lips, dried from nervousness. And, the most fucking devastating part, he couldn't even bring himself to look at you right now.

At all.

Not once.

Those violet eyes of his, usually so bold and piercing, were glued to the table, to the small box, and to his own fingers, nervously twisting the sleeves of his black shirt.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

"A chastity belt," — you said the very thing Caleb couldn't bring himself to utter.

And the moment those words left your lips, the man flinched violently, his whole body trembling from head to toe as if an electric shock had passed through him, and finally, he caught your gaze with his own.

You had this distinct feeling Caleb was about to cry. That those violet eyes, so wide now, stripped bare of all their usual sharpness, would fill with tears, and salty tracks would spill down his flushed cheeks, drip onto his barely trembling lips.

Maybe he even wanted to, because he genuinely didn't understand: why? For what? Was this a punishment? But then for what, when everything had been perfect? You'd done nothing but praise him, leaving gentle kisses on his cheeks, lips. You pulled him into you, climbed into his lap, whispered so many compliments, so many confessions of love that it felt like poor Caleb’s heart might have actually stopped at some point.

Simply given out under the weight of the fact that you truly loved him back.

That all those years of waiting, every single night spent alone, denying his own feelings, drowning in a parade of vile thoughts - had been a lie. Just a nightmare that had finally been left behind.

And now - a chastity belt, which, logically, Caleb could only associate with punishment. With something wrong.

Something bad.

"I... I'm sorry..." — he stumbles, chokes on those two simple words, and then, with an immense effort, forces himself to inhale. The air scrapes into his lungs with a ragged, pitiful sound. — "But why? Did I do something wrong?"

And, oh, how fucking adorable those words were.

So much so that your heart starts hammering faster in your chest, the pulse throbbing up into your temples. And somewhere deep inside, around your solar plexus, a hunger flares up, an unbearable urge to devour this man whole. Entirely. To swallow sweet gege down without a trace, so he’d live under your skin, root himself in your lungs, grow through every single fucking cell.

To crush his lips under yours, kissing him until bright colors burst behind eyelids squeezed shut to the point of pain.

To catch every strangled moan, hitching sob, sloppy flick of his tongue.

Adorable.

You move closer on your own, erase the few centimeters left between you two. You can feel the tension rolling off his body in waves, see how every muscle trembles, how the vein at his temple pulses in time with his frantic heartbeat.

"Ge, it's the complete opposite,"— you whisper, taking his hands in yours. So carefully, as if Caleb were made of the thinnest glass that could shatter into pieces from one single, too-hasty, clumsy movement. You do everything to make the man stop clenching them into fists so hard from nerves that his nails leave red crescent-shaped marks on the skin of his palms. The perfect, composed colonel beside you was just a needy little puppy, ready to curl into a ball and whimper at the single thought that he might have somehow fallen out of favor.

You bring his hands to your lips, kiss every nail mark, every reddened patch of skin, his knuckles.

"I just want you to be completely, entirely mine. Isn't that what you wanted yourself?" — you whisper, lifting your gaze. You catch Caleb's eyes - uncertain, pained, barely glistening.

The man hesitates, because here, you were right. He truly did want to belong to you with every single part of his goddamn being, only...

"But I won't be able to..." — Caleb swallows loudly, his Adam's apple bobbing under the thin skin, betraying his tension. — "I won't be able to pleasure myself. And I need to shower, you understand? What will I do if you're away? It's... maybe it doesn't sound that bad, but the inconvenience outweighs any… benefits."

Yes, sure, a chastity belt could be considered a real symbol that he was yours.

However.

What about basic needs? How was he supposed to simply take care of his own body if you weren't there? Basic hygiene still existed, and Caleb hated being dirty longer than circumstances required. Of course, he was used to the smell of sweat, of a body unwashed for days - missions were missions. And he really would endure it, if you forbade him from showering. He would.

He would just be disgusted with himself to the point of uncontrollable trembling, to the point of wanting to tear his own filthy skin off while he was still alive.

You nod, then press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. And gege, too greedy for any scrap of affection, any tenderness from you, melts instantly under that touch. He tries to stretch the moment of closeness, turning his face just slightly, silently offering you the other side too.

"Well, the whole point of a chastity belt is exactly that, so you can’t satisfy yourself on your own, ge," — you say, and despite all your efforts, you can't hold back a barely audible chuckle.

The man tenses noticeably at these words. Were you planning to deny him sex with you? Wasn’t he satisfying you? Wasn’t he good enough? Were you...

"And, to get ahead of all your thoughts, I just want to control this aspect. To make it so you can only come with me, understand? Only from my hands, only after my permission. Nothing else. Be a good boy, nod if you understand. "

And Caleb nods.

The words ricochet off the inside of his skull, spinning through his fucked-up, overwhelmed mind, refusing to settle anywhere. "Then will you let me put it on you?"

With these words, you slowly pull away, making gege unconsciously frown from the too-obvious feeling of loss. He’d been away from you for a whole damn week, out on some fucked-up mission. And right now, his only real desire was to be as close to you as physically possible.

Constantly by your side.

But not all questions had been answered yet.

"What about hygiene? If you have the key, I..."

"We'll have two keys: one with you and one with me," — you answer faster than Caleb can finish his thought. And the look on his face in that same second practically screams, then what’s the point if I can just take it off myself? — "You'll shower with me, video call. It's simple. And besides... Gege, are you really planning to lie to me? Disobey me?

And this, this seemingly simple "disobey me," hits dead center, making Caleb's stupid and utterly pathetic heart freeze, only to pound painfully in his chest the next moment.

He would never dare.

Wouldn't even entertain the thought of undermining your trust, which he had earned so long and so diligently. Especially not for something as trivial as a simple desire to come.

"No. Never", — the man whispers. He moves closer to you, presses his forehead to your shoulder, buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling so deeply it's like he wants to fill his lungs with your scent to the very brim. — "I’ll be good for you. I will. Just…"

Caleb bites his lower lip, fingers tangling in the fabric of your hoodie.

"Don’t leave me."

Caleb, with his light house sweater rolled up to his chest, was digging his fingers into it so hard his knuckles went white, barely managing not to tremble like a fragile branch in a vicious winter wind. The fabric crumpled under his grip, gathering into uneven folds, while all his attention was fixed on you, on your hands and the cold glint of metal between them.

It felt strange, standing half-naked in front of you in the bathroom like this. With you fully dressed, composed and that hard expression buried deep in your eyes - eyes that, to him, looked more like two abysses.

A small amount of steam still lingered in the air after his shower, but even so, Caleb could have sworn goosebumps were running across his skin from the cold.

From the anticipation.

From that tight, sickly-sweet dread of what was about to happen.

"Ge, it's okay. Don't be so nervous." — And your voice sounded steady, not reflecting the emotions raging inside of you at all.

Ten minutes. Maybe less. And your beloved gege would belong to you more than before. You'd crawl under his skin deeper, bind him to you a little tighter, making him depend on you in a few new ways. Maybe, a little later, he wouldn't be able to take a single step without your knowledge, permission, or your gaze burning from the phone screen.

Did that realization thrill you?

Oh, fuck yes.

A tight, fucking hot knot was twisting low in your stomach, its heat felt even in your goddamn throat. Your fingers tingled with the urge to touch, to squeeze, to leave bruises on those pale thighs, on that barely trembling waist. Controlling your own breath took an enormous, truly inhuman effort, just to not give away all these emotions and thoughts.

The fantasies about what could come next.

Right now, Caleb was letting you do this, put a chastity belt on him, but what next? What else could you ask him for? And at what point might the man draw a line between you two, uttering that one word, "no"?

Taking the main ring, you guide first one, then the other testicle through it, and only then his cock, running your fingers over his post-shower heated skin. The metal had already warmed up, but it still felt foreign here, wrong, making Caleb flinch slightly. Air caught in his lungs at the realization that the step into the abyss had been taken, and there was, unfortunately, no turning back now.

Part of you wanted to stretch this moment into infinity. Another part understood how hard gege was shaking inside, anxious, barely able to find his place in this spacious bathroom and the silence that pressed down.

So yes.

Despite your own selfish hunger, you worked quickly.

And the moment the lock clicked shut, Caleb finally let himself exhale. Ragged and hot, dropping his gaze downward, to his cock, hidden behind the metal. He felt an unfamiliar weight, pressure, and it was strange.

Wrong.

So foreign that for several long moments, the man had to fight the urge to tear this cage off himself and then forget the whole thing like a bad dream.

But your gaze, so self-satisfied and tender, nullified all the negatives.

Now Caleb belonged to you a little more, right? And that meant nothing else mattered.

He just had to breathe.

"Good boy. Such a good boy," — after a short pause, you say, rising from your knees. You help gege unclench his fists, run your fingers over his whitened knuckles, massaging them. He finally releases the poor sweater fabric. You leave a kiss on his cheek. — "Not so scary, right?"

Caleb would have argued.

He would have protested, bring up a thousand reasons, told you how strange it felt, how the metal chilled his skin, how the weight dragged at him, how his brain refused to accept the new sensation. But all those words got stuck in his throat like a nasty lump.

Because, honestly, something else bothered him more.

Something that had been gnawing at him from the moment you opened that small box and set it on the table.

"Why did you decide to do this now?" — The man refused to say put a chastity belt on me. He’s too fucking embarrassed even to look down there, let alone say it out loud. Not just his cheeks - his ears, his damn neck are burning. His eyes dart somewhere between your chin and the bathroom tiles.

He didn't understand what he was supposed to do now, how to act. Should he keep standing half-naked in the bath, waiting for your next command? Or go back to what you’d two planned? Watch a movie, make dinner together.

Caleb had a whole list of plans for these two weeks of leave. A real, goddamn list, detailed and thought out to the smallest detail. He wanted to take you to the newly opened amusement park, to ride the goddamn Ferris wheel, squeezing your hand at the very top, drag you into those stupid haunted mazes where monsters jump out from corners. Wander through temporary exhibitions that always seemed to end before your schedules ever lined up. Pull you into one of those tiny local cafés that sold the exact little cakes you loved scrolling through on social media.

Just go on endless dates with you.

Hold your hand. Kiss the top of your head. Feel your warmth beside him.

You, biting your lower lip, hesitate for a moment.

"I got a call this morning. Something urgent came up. I have to leave the city for four days."

And, oh.

For Caleb, that sounds like the beginning of the apocalypse.

Caleb ツ I wanna be your good boy - omega!Caleb (click) tags: submissive caleb, orgasm denial, omegaverse, omega caleb, alpha Y\N, begging, whimpering, msub, a lil obsessive Y\N, pathethic Caleb

ツ Behave - sub!Caleb (click) | part 2 (click) tags: msub, sub!caleb, pathetic Caleb, chastity belt, obsessive Y\N, needy, fdom, dirty talk, orgasm control, video call. Zayne ツ

JJK

Gojo

ツ Am I good enough for you? - nerd!Gojo (click) tags: first time, love confession, cunnilingus, bondage, table sex, sex toys, dirty talk, orgasm control

Call of duty

Simon Riley ツ He is your omega - omega!Simon | part 2 tags: soulmates AU, omegaverse, omega!Simon, alpha!Y\N, msub and light mdom, fdom and light fsub, angst, PTSD, age gap, depression, self-hatred, gentle sex, first time

Genshin impact

Dottore

ツ Be mine - omega!Dottore (click) tags: omegaverse, omega!Dottore, alpha!Reader, nesting, heat, pheromones, fingering, fdom

DC

Jason Todd

ツ Touch me - sub!Jason Todd (click) tags: virgin Jason Todd, first time, orgasm control, blow job, moaning, whimpering, msub, fdom, smut

HSR

Phainon x Mydei

omega!Caleb

wc: 1062. tags: submissive caleb, orgasm denial, omegaverse, omega caleb, alpha Y\N, begging, whimpering, msub, a lil obsessive Y\N, pathethic Caleb

Omega!Caleb, your most beloved and precious gege, has always been needy. To the point of shaking and fucking bone-deep ache. It felt like his very being was built on attachment to you. On this goddamn need to be near, to feel your scent on him, your very presence. Absolutely pathetic, puppy-like in the most perfect, fucked-up way, the kind that made you never want to be apart from this person for even a second. Inside, there was a disgusting urge to tie Caleb to you.

Literally.

With handcuffs, rope. Whatever it took, as long as the result was achieved you know.

Omega!Caleb, who would wait for you for hours, sitting by the front door on the cold floor, his long legs tucked under him and his forehead resting on his knees. A true puppy, whose every dream boiled down to just one thing: his precious mistress, who was more like a Goddess.

The sun itself.

Behavior truly unbecoming of a colonel.

But did that matter to him? Of course not. The man was ready to trample any other part of himself, including his pride, if it meant you would be by his side.

Be his.

And only his.

Until his ribs ached, bruises bloomed on hips and ass, the very last breath, shared between the two of you.

Omega!Caleb, who made you, his alpha, cover him in your pheromones from head to toe. He provoked, bared his teeth, and smirked, pushing you literally to the edge. To that state where you couldn't control yourself anymore. The whole world would empty, leaving only one person in your sight: gege, staring at you with that disgustingly pleased expression on his face. He'd arch his back like some fucking gymnast, offer up his neck, and sear your lips with his hot breath.

Caleb knew.

He understood perfectly well the influence he had over you, and he wasn't the least bit shy about using it. He got drunk on the fact that he could control you just as much as you controlled him. Excitement would twist in his stomach the moment he saw your gaze darken after one of his stunts.

Spreading his legs for you, running an open palm down his bare, post-shower wet chest, he'd whisper:

"Please." — low and utterly pleading, sending electric shocks down your spine.

And a heavy, suffocating knot would tighten in your stomach.

Omega!Caleb, who loved nothing more than the sight of the marks you left on his skin. Bites, hickeys, hidden beneath layers of clothes, strict colonel uniforms. Before missions that promised to be especially long, he'd beg more than anything. He'd cling to your shoulders with his fingers, press his whole body against you, not letting you pull away.

Omega!Caleb, who never holds his voice back, hides those filthy sounds in his fist or behind a bitten lip, behind teeth clenched so tight it hurts. He moans loudly and whimpers when you finally, slowly lower yourself onto his cock, sensitive and swollen with arousal.

Far too slowly, truly cruelly, considering the fact that the man has already come several times before this. While you were stretching his ass for a long twenty minutes, during which Caleb was losing his mind more and more. He squirmed across the bed, arched his back, drew his knees together, trying to thrust into your palm, to grind against the fucking air, against anything at all, just to get more stimulation, but you cut it off every single time. You literally forbade him from touching himself, pressing his wrists to the bed with your free hand, driving him to fucking tears, to that state where his eyes began to roll back and helpless, keening sounds gathered thick in his throat.

Caleb was supposed to come only from prostate stimulation.

Only from the way your fingers moved inside his ass. Deep, unbearably precise, parting the soft, sensitive walls and finding that very knot that made his vision go dark.

And he came.

He did it almost howling, his voice breaking from the number of uncontrollable sobs, jerking his hips up into your hand only to feel nothing against his cock but disgusting emptiness and his own helplessness. And again, and again, until his consciousness began to blur and the world narrowed down to nothing but your fingers inside him.

So now, when you finally straddled him, it felt like a real explosion. As if the universe had suddenly decided to collapse, to tear itself into fucking atoms, and then rise again from that damned ash just so he could feel you.

Every inch of you.

Even if it was far too slow.

"Good boy, now breathe", — you whisper when you notice Caleb’s chest has stopped moving. That he’s holding his breath, his eyes shining madly, locked on you alone.

He was looking.

Looking, looking, looking.

At your bare breasts. At his cock disappearing inch by inch inside you. His gaze convulsively caught every fucking detail: the drop of sweat sliding down your neck, the sigh slipping from your flushed, swollen lips.

He was so painfully afraid to close his eyes, to miss even a fraction of this sight.

His hands trembled where you held them. His fingers twitched, curling into fists and uncurling again, as if he didn’t know where to put the overflowing feelings inside him. Beneath you his hips shook, trying to restrain the animal urge to thrust up into you, - deeper, harder, - but he was afraid to disobey.

Afraid that you would stop. That you would take your warmth away from him, that fucking attention.

"Please", — he breathed out hoarsely when you stilled, having lowered yourself all the way down, letting him feel every pulse of the tender walls around his cock. His throat jerked with the shaky gulp of air you’d ordered him to take, but his thoughts were only about one thing.

Only about you.

Only about what would come next.

Omega!Caleb, begging you to let him come inside.

He bites his lip until it bleeds, looks up at you from below with a completely lost, pleading gaze, and his cock jerks deep inside you at the mere thought of permission.