#softs fics

Your husband’s there, on the couch, some show blaring on the TV that you hate. You pause behind the couch, eyes trained on the back of his head, the shape of something you’ve grown to despise. You try to steady your breath, grasp onto any control before it shifts entirely, but you sound louder than the TV speakers.

You cross the distance, counting each step you take like a ticking time bomb. One. Two. Three. You turn to face him, prepare for the look of disgust he must wear. Prepare for the way your world is about to crumble underneath you.

Except when you lift your eyes, he’s dead asleep, passed out from drinks at the pub, and a twisted part in you wants to laugh. An ugly maniacal cackle, one that will make you keel over and make it hard to breathe.

You think it’s the only time this God has looked out for you. The only time you’ve believed in fate.

It becomes a routine every week after that, laid out on the butcher block like you’re the raw poultry Simon slices into.

You feel like you are.

He rakes his eyes down your frame, slowly, calculated like he’s thinking of every reference point to press his knife into your flesh. Drags his knuckles over your throat so he can feel you gulp, count how many breaths you manage to wheeze between your lungs. Digs his fingers into your breasts and presses his palm against your heartbeat like he’s measuring your pulse and imagining all the blood thrashing under your skin. Strokes your ribs with feather-light touches, counting each one down to the fat of your hips.

That's when he really grips, dimpling your flesh and watching as it gives under his fingertips. He does the same to your thighs, reverence only a butcher could have for warm flesh and fat. And when he parts your legs, he takes his time, like he’s committed to touching every part of your body, split you in two, and make you bleed.

You should hate it. A sacrificial lamb on the altar. But you don’t. Can’t really when it’s the first time anyone’s looked at you, all your sins and broken promises pushed aside, stripped you bare until all that was left was your bleeding layers, heartbeat, and quivering lungs that barely fill with air.

And he never asks for more, gives you his tongue and fingers without having to ask. Eats you out like you are a feast to be had, lingering between your folds like you are delectable. Two, three orgasms before your clit is so swollen and throbbing and you have to push weakly at his shoulders to stop.

He always comes back up with a smirk, lips and chin glimmering with your slick. Makes you taste it too, kissing you breathless like you weren’t already dizzy. Sends you home with a dazed smile on your lips, knees wobbly, thighs raw from hid stubble, and a pussy so drenched from his torment.

You use your mother as an excuse for your late-night returns, and it works, by some metric. Your husband believes it too.

It’s enough. It should be enough. It’s not. Not when you come home wanting more. Gluttony is a sin, but isn’t infidelity?

It takes weeks of coming home and hiding in your closet, burying your face into his coat, and imagining the taste of his cock before you act on it. Pressing your fingers to your tongue and picturing the weight of him in your mouth. You haven’t even seen it, just felt it through the seams of his jeans when he grinds it against the back of your thigh.

And it feels big. God, does it feel big.

You’re sure it drives you crazy more than it does him to be tightly confined, throbbing and leaking for attention. You think you want it more than he does because he doesn’t even touch it, doesn’t even palm himself when he’s got your thighs on either side of his cheeks.

Disciplined and controlled just for your pleasure. He even pauses when you finally work up the courage to ask, an expression on his face you can’t read because you can never quite read him. You think you overstepped your boundaries when you fall to your knees and he just walks away without a word, dragging a chair, so the legs scrape loudly against the floor.

You gulp when he sits and spreads his thighs wide before patting his lap twice.

“Come ‘ere.”

It’s unfair the way the sentence, the command, goes straight between your legs. And for some awful reason, you crawl your way over. Knees and palms hitting the concrete floor as you inch closer.

You should feel like the predator in this situation, stalking your prey with hunter eyes, except you feel like much less. An animal trapped in a cage, crawling towards the danger instead of running away in fear like you should. Towards the danger that wants to eat you whole, the danger that’s so fucking big that his thighs dwarf your shoulders with eyes so heavy as he watches you.

Possessive. Covetous. You’re not his to be had.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted as you glide your palms up the inside of his thighs. He cups your jaw, thumb running along your bottom lip as his face turns nasty when he sees silver glimmer on your finger.

“Take tha’ fuckin’ ring off if yer gonna suck my cock.”

You move so quickly your knuckles hit his balls and he grits his teeth, fingers tensing at your jaw. You stammer out an apology, face warming as you rush to stuff your ring in your pocket. It’s the first time he’s sounded jealous about it, and not just amused by the fact that your husband’s not meeting your needs.

He pushes his thumb into your mouth a little angry, stamping down onto your tongue until your mouth opens wide. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, pushes his boxers down just enough to free his already hard cock.

He’s big. Awfully big.

It’s the first thing you thought when you initially saw him and it rings true down to the girth of his cock. Thick and fat and veiny and red and so fucking big it makes your mouth water. Curly tufts of blonde hair peek through the base and something in your gut almost makes you groan at the sight. It’s a little ugly, and a little crooked, but you like that. It’s him.

You hate doing this for your husband, all you can taste is disgust when he has you on your knees, but Simon, Simon has you salivating like a dog, crawling across the floor like his pet, eager to be sat on your heels with a promise of something more.

And you must be taking a long time, sitting there staring wide-eyed at his angry tip because his hand curls around your hair and tugs you forward lightly. He tilts his head expectantly, jutting his chin up and then down as a silent command to go on.

He guides you forward with the thumb in your mouth, hooking in your cheek, and pulling you until your lips brush the tip, replacing it with his cock instead.

You breathe on it first, panting softly to catch your breath, and you haven’t even had it in the back of your throat yet. You’re hesitant, despite how badly you wanted this, licking from base to tip before swirling around the fattened tip. Your lips follow, dragging along slowly as your ring-free hand wraps around the base, pressed against his blonde pubes.

Your restraint slips away when a bead of precum dribbles from his tip and you catch it with your tongue. You moan as you taste it, salty and a little bitter, but all Simon. It ignites something hot and searing in your core, animalistic pride or maybe it’s possession that this is Simon’s cock on your tongue, his hands in your hair and digging into your chin.

Your lips wrap around him then, sliding just slightly past the tip. His grip tightens in your hair at that, but his face remains still, a silent tell. It’s a tight fit, lips spread wide around his girth so much so that it stings, but you push further. Until you can’t anymore and your throat starts to constrict.

You come back up for air, and he tsks like he’s disappointed you didn’t take him whole.

You try again, tears welling in your lash line as you take him deeper, and you attempt to bob back up, but his hand are quicker, pushing you deeper until his head notches against the back of your throat. You gag, nails digging crescents into the hair in his thighs, but he forces you down, somehow by some miracle, until your nose presses into the blonde hair.

It hurts, and you’re gurgling around him, saliva dripping down his length, but it’s not enough for him.

“Jesus, bird, jus’ gotta breathe through yer nose.”

He says it like it’s so easy, and you’re trying really, but his shaft is so heavy against your tongue, and you like it, god, you like how suffocating it feels to have him stuffed between your cheeks. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, and you groan obscenely around him.

He chuffs a laugh, “You like tha’?”

You nod, brows pinched as you look pathetically up at him. He just blinks, a smirk on his face like he isn’t buried to the hilt in your mouth.

Then, he rolls his hips, once, and you scratch at his thighs, tears spilling onto your cheeks, but the sick part that takes over when you’re around Simon makes you moan again like your body likes having him there, that deep, pressing into places your husband hasn’t even touched.

When he finally releases you, you scramble for air, lungs filling so rapidly it burns. And you’re a little dizzy from the mixture of tasting him and the lack of oxygen. Then he starts talking and all you can do is press your thighs together weakly at the deep cadence.

“Act all innocent, don’t you? Whole time yer moanin’ while someone fucks yer mouth.”

He guides you down again, tongue gliding along, but he lifts you back up, repeating it once, twice, again and again, until there’s a steady rhythm of bobbing. He lets up on your head when you follow the pace he sets, coating him in so much of your saliva that it collects at the base of his cock and makes his hair wet.

It’s a mess, you’re a mess of tears and saliva, and a neglected pussy that’s throbbing around nothing, but he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand that you only like because it’s him. Because it’s his cock in your throat making it near impossible to breathe.

“Suck yer husband off like thi’?”

And his voice sounds so steady, no inflection to it like he isn’t getting his dick sucked. The sentence hurts, landing somewhere hard in your chest. A reminder. Something permanently burned into your skin like a scarlet letter.

He pulls you off, “Huh? Can’t hear you.”

The words scald even more because you don’t and he knows that, knows that this version of you is reserved just for him. And he wants to hear it, some form of jealousy twisted in his own chest. But you don’t even get the chance because he pulls you back down and your response is just a choked noise.

All you can do is shake your head, and he smiles, scars on his lips and cheeks straining at the tug.

“That’s my girl.”

He draws it out like he means it, patting your cheek twice, thumb pressing into your cheek to feel the curve of his cock in your mouth. Eyes dilated and heavy. And you feel that, tuck it into the cavity of your chest to chew on later.

It’s a few more pumps before he presses deep again, before he groans low and guttural, holding you tight, and finishes in your throat. You swallow it, as best you can, gulping it down, and taking it for your own as he stays put in your throat.

When he finally pulls out, he’s gone soft, and there’s a sticky amount of saliva and spunk beading from your lips and his tip. You lick it clean, greedy, and maybe a little filthy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“That’s myyy girl.”

He says it again, a little breathless this time. Repeating it like he’s hammering it into your chest, so you don’t forget.

It’s the first time you’ve felt proud to be someone’s.

──────────────

“We can’t do this.”

That should do it. You’re proud of that, even if it’s not a believable statement. Some weight of denial before it turns into something you can’t control anymore.

“When’s the last time he’s made you finish?”

But did you ever have control over this?

Your eyes flutter, breath flickering in your lungs for a split second. That man hasn’t wasted a second on your pleasure.

“Never.” It’s a whisper.

Simon’s hands curl tighter around your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he’s actually angry at the fact. “Poor cunt.”

Your inhale a sharp breath, embarrassingly so.

“Jus’ let me get a taste, yeah?”

His fingers slide under your shirt, resting at your rib cage. Thoughts of how he could snap each rib, one by one, flash into your mind. Maybe he’s counting them, slotting the feeling of each ridge into a file deep in his mind like every other animal he’s slaughtered and cut into pieces. Maybe he’s imaging how easy it would be too.

Your mouth salivates at the thought.

“Show you how a cunt should be treated.”

You finally look up at him. “We shouldn’t.”

“You don’t ‘ave to do anything. Jus’ gotta let me do all the work.” He slides you off the counter, feet stamping to the floor before he flips you around swiftly, back pressed to chest, ass pressed to hips. Goosebumps bloom from how quickly he was able to turn you around, how easy it was for him to move you as he pleased.

You don’t have to do anything.

You think he said that on purpose. Like he knows that your religious guilt would bury its talons in your skin until you ran out of his shop without a second look. As if he’s the one doing everything then you won’t have any blame in it.

Your religions talons don’t compare to the fangs pierced in your throat. A snake. A wolf. The devil’s teeth holding you in place. You hope it doesn’t leave a mark.

You think about your mom. At a time like this, it feels wrong, but you see her, standing with a cross and sending you off to private school because you snuck out once. You think about how she would view you now, bent over a table with your butcher practically begging for a taste.

Your leggings are at your ankles before you can even finish the thought.

“Poor cunt.” He cups your pussy through your underwear, and his palm is so big and so warm it makes you shiver. “Just wasting away, huh?”

When you feel his fingers hook into the seams you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hide from the way you instinctively part your legs wider when they reach your ankles. Face burning when you just get tangled in the fabric and Simon chuckles. You choose to ignore the way you feel your underwear snap against your skin once and the sound of fabric tearing next. That’s a problem for later.

He helps you then, nudging your legs open with his foot, your hands falling flat on the counter. Your pussy on display, spread wide open for him, becomes an after thought when his fingers meet your bare skin.

“Fuckin’ mess back ‘ere.”

You can’t even imagine the slick spread down your thighs or the way it probably clung to your underwear when he tore them in two.

“Sorry, I don’t know why—“

He laughs again, and you’re not sure why he’s laughing when he’s got his fingers on your pussy, when he swipes them along the length and it makes a wet sound echo in the walls.

You whine again, burying your face in your arms so you lay flat against the cold counter. Tears well in your lash line from sheer embarrassment, humiliation, something. Your husband hasn’t even gotten you close to this and Simon hasn’t done anything. He’s surely never spoken to you like this either.

“Jus’ my mouth an’ fingers, yeah? Treat ya the way you deserve?”

You’re not sure if you deserve this. You shouldn’t deserve this. Your husband tells you so.

Horrible wife. Whore. Cheater. Immoral.

Still, you nod against your arms.

“Please.”

He lifts you with a hand around your throat, fingers practically touching in the middle. “Need you to say it.”

You keep your eyes closed, as if to shield yourself from the reality of what you’re doing. You can’t turn back now.

“Your mouth and fingers, please, I want them.”

You don’t deserve them. Shouldn’t have them, but you’ve already decided you need them. And you can’t remember the last time you’ve done something for you, without the weight of your husband’s heavy hand and God's watchful gaze.

Your necklace presses to your chin, ring to your palm. You don’t have the strength to take them off. You let them stay while you go against every message they portray.

The feeling in your abdomen, deep in your chest, coiled around your throat, and heavy behind your eyes is a nasty one when he slips a finger in. A storm brews in your mind and spreads to your toes and fingertips, emotions so contradictory that you don’t know what the right answer is.

You’re trapped, stuck in white water rapids that make it impossible to breathe. Struggling to come up for air and fill your lungs with anything but sin. Your jaw aches where your teeth clench. Tears wet on your cheeks from guilt when another joins the first and you finally understand why any woman would consent to this.

The white in your eyes is blurry when he glides his fingers out so fucking slowly you feel every bone in his fingers. Slumping when he slides them shallowly and presses down once.

“Sweet fuckin’ cunt.”

You let yourself drown.

Arching your spine, and pressing your forehead against the counter, sinking into the cold water. The sound you make is gurgled, like you’re choking on water or maybe it’s tears, spreading your legs even wider as he continues.

He likes that. He hums approvingly.

“Atta girl.”

You hate the way it makes your knees buckle. Hate the way he laughs like you’re some clumsy prey in the palm of his hand. Like he thinks it’s cute. The counter edge digs into your hips that’ll surely bruise later, and Simon just places a hand on your tailbone, pushing you harder against it, keeping you firm in his grasp.

That’s when he dips deeper, as if he can finally give you what he wants now that you’ve succumbed. Now that the water is calm.

You feel his cock, fat and heavy, against your thigh. You’re taken aback with how hard he is, throbbing in his pants just from fingering you. As if he wants you as badly, something more than the way your husband uses you to get off.

And it shouldn’t happen this fast, the string weaved in your core shouldn’t already feel like snapping, but the threads are tearing at the seams. Desperately clinging to anything as he starts to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. Harsher, harder, deeper— deeper, deeper.

It takes everything in you not to break when his thumb stamps your clit. And he circles it slow, gently, soaked from your weeping cunt, but it’s still too much. Too much that you can feel his lips mapping out the curve of your ass, that his fingers have your legs shaking and knees knocking together, that you can feel his breath on your thighs.

On your cunt.

And suddenly it’s his tongue, one swipe replacing his thumb on your clit.

You jolt forward, head snapping back when you feel it. Wet and warm, licking through your folds like he has every intention to taste you whole. And you can’t remember if you showered this morning because everything’s a bit hazy, and you stormed over here, and you're sure you sweated on your way.

You attempt to push at his head, “Simon, wait—wait. I’m not clean.”

You feel him scoff against your pussy, sending vibrations against your thighs like he’s offended. “Your husband makes you shower before? Tastes the best part.”

“No,” You pause. “He’s never done this.”

His free hand curls around the back of your thigh tightly and he growls angrily. Angry that your husband’s never had his mouth around your clit or pressed to the inside of your gummy walls. Angry that he has you all to himself and he still wastes it all.

“Fuckin married a prick.”

Yeah.

You would voice your agreement, but then his tongue is flat against your pussy, fingers parting you just enough for his tongue to join and all you can manage is a shriek. Garbled words and breathless pants are all that make their way through your lips when he circles your clit. Sucking the bead between his lips harshly before smoothing figure 8’s over it again and again until your vision goes white.

You don’t last long, like some virgin. Breath caught in your lungs and abdomen tightening as you convulse. It washes over you like nothing before. It’s not the same by yourself or when you pretend with your husband.

This is overwhelming, pulse thrashing, and pussy quivering around his fingers before it finally calms. Pinpricks turn into soft tingles, soft buzzing under skin that makes you melt into the counter, falling into his touch like putty. You feel like warm honey, gooey and malleable, and so content for the first time in months.

You think this is the first time someone’s ever sought after you. The first time someone’s put your pleasure above theirs. The first time you felt more than just the broken cracks.

Did you think he was only going to give you one, bird?

You hear him, but it’s muffled, everything’s still hazy when his fingers slide out and his tongue takes their place. When you feel his tongue pressing against the inside of your walls and he’s fucking licking you clean.

God, it’s nasty.

Nothing could save you now. There’s not enough repentance in the world to make this god forgive you.

And then he’s going at it. Sucking like he’s fucking drinking a fresh coconut. Tongue wide and flat and so fucking obscene as he licks along your pussy. You scramble against the counter, moaning loudly, and rolling to your tippy toes to escape, but it’s too late for that.

He growls like a dog with a bone, hooking your knee onto the edge for a better angle. He laps like a dog, messy and so wrong, on his knees worshiping you like your pussys the altar. Eager. Voracious. Debauched.

You should hate it, blasphemy, but your second orgasm hits you like a truck and without warning, gushing on Simon’s tongue. Shaking and twitching frantically, lungs void of air as you struggle to catch your breath. Muscles tensing in your thighs sporadically, mindlessly rocking your hips back to meet his tongue until you physically can’t take anymore and whimper pathetically into your arms.

He catches you before you completely collapse.

“Easy, bird.”

He helps you turn around, helps you pull your leggings back up before he sits you on the counter. And you whine when he turns to leave your side.

He shushes you, sliding between your legs instead, big palms finding your hips, rubbing small circles into your skin. You blink at him lazily, eyes heavy and half lidded. He’s got a big smirk on his face that you can’t miss, lips glistening proudly with your cum.

You smile slowly, a huff of a laugh slipping from your lips as you look at him.

“Good?” He asks.

You nod with a giggle. “Even better.”

He leans down to kiss you, and you should push him away, be disgusted with tasting yourself on his tongue, but you don’t. Can’t be when he doesn’t care, when it’s an honor for him to have tasted you in the first place. Can’t care when two orgasms makes it impossible to be upset about anything.

You just lick into his mouth, deliriously, and he lets you, like you’re some animal lapping away. He only stops you when your hands trails where they shouldn’t.

“Let’s get you home, love.” You don’t want to go.

He helps you walk to his truck, kisses you goodbye a house down from yours, and sends you home with your underwear tucked into his back pocket and a pussy soaked with your cum and his saliva.

Reality floods your lungs when you see your husband.

──────────────

Grilled chicken. Chicken and rice casserole. Lasagna. Stuffed bell peppers.

It’s enough to tide your husband over. Not enough to make you forget.

It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should.

You debate it. Biting your lips raw and crossing your arms behind your back, pacing in front of your empty fridge. You could go during the day, be greeted by the sweet gentleman you’ve grown to know at the butcher in the mornings. The one who doesn’t have blood on his apron or wear a scowl. The one you should’ve only ever known.

You don’t even visit the bunny in your backyard, afraid that the animal will make your chest twist and give you some sort of confidence again.

The risk of Simon being there is enough to make you walk past the shop entrance entirely. You settle on the local market down the street instead, tucking your purchases to the side when you walk past Simon’s again with a bag full of frozen meat. Hiding it from him as if he’ll see you buying from a different shop. Like you owe any sense of loyalty to him.

You don’t look through the glass when you walk by. Eyes straight, fingers tight. You don’t even go to the flower shop.

You make beef stew that night.

The beef doesn’t taste as good. It’s tough, takes you several bites of grinding your molars to eat a mouthful. You blame it on your cooking. You cooked it for too long or on a setting too high. You didn’t let it simmer enough in your crockpot or didn’t season it right.

Maybe it’s all in your head.

Your husband eats it with a grimace on his face, nose scrunched up as his teeth stab through the meat. His hair’s still well-kempt, gelled down to the side. Tie hanging off the back of the chair along with his blazer. You wonder if he’s finally had enough respect to straighten himself out before he came home to you or if he just didn’t see someone else in his office today.

You don’t go to his office. He doesn’t invite you. You don’t want to be.

You’re not allowed to see that world. He goes to work events all on his own. You watch him peel off from the driveway on those rare occasions, left wondering if any of them even know he has a wife at home. If he’s too embarrassed to even confess he’s married to someone like you.

You try to watch him eat, watch the way his lips form around his fork or the pink color of his tongue, force yourself to feel something other than disgust when the juice collects at the corners of his lips.

“Tastes like shit.” He grunts. You’re not even surprised.

“I got the meat from the market.”

“The hell did ya do that for?” He scoffs, food falling from his mouth.

“I was already there, so it was easier.” You have to look away from him to stop yourself from gagging.

“Well don’t do it again.”

You nod, gulping down the bile at your throat. He doesn’t know he’s pushing you closer to the beast.

That night when your face is buried in the sheets and your husband’s grunting above you; you imagine Simon instead.

When morning comes, you grant your husbands wish, and walk the familiar path to Simon’s. It’s early enough you know he won’t be there, sun barely shining through the clouds. Still, when you arrive, you peer through the window, searching for his shaved head just in case.

You don’t know why you feel disappointed when you see a head full of hair.

You give the beef stew a second try. A devotion to cook Simon’s meat better than the markets.

That night, your husband’s not happy when he comes home, slamming the door, and kicking his shoes off. You stay silent, straightening your back, and prepare yourself, turning around with the same tight lip smile.

“Went to the butcher today. Made the beef stew just the way you like it.”

His eyes slit. “Why the hell would you cook me the same dinner?”

You pause where you stand, holding a warm bowl of stew between your palms.

“Well, I thought I was doing something you would like.”

His hand flings forward, smacking the bowl out of your hands. The hot liquid spills down your hands and splatters across your clothes. The glass bowl breaks, shards shattering on the floor, as you gasp from the burn.

“You don’t know shit.”

He stands up, grunting under his breath that he’s going to find dinner somewhere else.

You don’t let yourself cry, not when you have to run cold water over your hands, not while you’re on your hands and knees picking up the pieces of glass, not when you have to scrub the floor, not when you’re left to eat dinner alone.

Your hands don’t even shake when you wash your clothes, steady and focused. Determined for the first time in days.

Your legs take you to the entrance of the butcher shop before you’ve even had time to think or put your clothes in the dryer. Puffing clouds of air with stinging cheeks and ears. You didn’t even put on a coat.

You see him through the fogged glass, big and brute.

He looks up when you walk in.

“Hi.” You whisper.

The corner of his lips curves.

“Hi. How’s your forehead?”

“It’s okay.”

“No concussion?” He jokes.

You shake your head, “Barely a bruise.”

“Glad to hear. What did you need?”

“Nothing.” You say, digging through your bag. “I brought you something.”

He tilts his head.

“I cooked dinner for my husband, but he didn’t want it and well,” You avoid eye contact, placing the container on the counter. “I thought I would pay you back for dealing with my accident the other day.”

There’s a brief pause of silence; it makes your skin crawl, looking up to ramble some more, hoping it doesn’t sound as horrid as it does.

“You brought me the dinner you made for your husband?”

You look at him shocked, lips parting, “Well, that's not how I meant it. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea—“

You reach for it, but he beats you to it, snatching it from the countertops before you even get a chance.

“I want it.” He doesn’t give you room to disagree.

You just nod, let him lead you to the back again. This time you stand against the steel table. This time there’s no head injury.

“Don’t you get cold in here?”

He chuckles, “Does the princess need a sweater?”

“No,” You ignore the name. “You only ever wear a t-shirt.”

“You don’t have a sweater on either.” He points to your chest.

“Forgot it.”

He raises his brow, but he doesn’t comment on it more.

“Got enough muscle to warm me up.”

You inhale.

“Yeah.”

You look away when his lips curl into a smirk.

“Never had a customer cook me my own meat.” He opens the container, steam rising from the top despite the cold walk over.

“Probably never had a customer smack their head on that glass.”

“Never that.”

You watch him put it to his lips, bare hands and all. You should look away.

You don’t.

It should disgust you, the way he dips his fingers into the broth.

It doesn’t.

You think about your husband, for a split second. You couldn’t even fathom staring at him for more than a few seconds without repulsion curling acidicly in your throat. And yet, you can’t look away from Simon.

He eats like a dog, messy and greedy, groaning around each bite like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. Crooked canines tearing through each piece of meat almost savagely.

A man starved.

It drops down his fingers and chin. Just like it had when you were alone. You swallow around the desire building in your mouth. It’s like you can almost taste him, licking your lips for remnants you might’ve missed.

Your palms are sweaty, despite how cold it is. Flesh practically scorching when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking as he pulls them out with a wet smack.

When he finally looks at you, his eyes are heavy.

You almost forget to breath.

Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed strays?

──────────────

Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest. 

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. 

The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple. 

He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees. 

Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.

It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.

Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.

“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.

“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want. 

“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”

Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.   

You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.

It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.

You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction. 

You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband. 

You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.

“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”

He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too. 

“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.

His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.

You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.

The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.

Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.

There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat. 

“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.

You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag. 

You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket. 

You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.

You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.

──────────────

He hadn’t.

Even now, you sit on the edge of his bed, staring at him with coy eyes from the doorway, and he keeps his hands at his sides. Nothing but the lacy bra and underwear he’s sure you wore just for this. It hugs your breasts perfectly, plump flesh spilling from the material.

Sitting there, waiting, on his bed. All parts divine perched on a silver platter for him to feast on, dig his claws and teeth in.

Still, he’s hesitant, tensing his jaw so his canines don’t scare you as he approaches. He’s not sure how he got here, not sure how you got there—some miracle of sorts.

His hand swallows your neck, thumb tickling your scent gland when he pushes his way between your thighs. He sees your chest constrict with a deep breath, watches the way your eyes become lidded from one swipe. The bite’s still there, not quite faded. His alpha snarls, he still hasn’t grown accustomed to the sight of it, especially when you’re naked and about to be tangled in his sheets, wrapped around his knot.

You’ve already told him it’s been forever, warned him about triggering your heat. It’s at the back of his mind, tucked right next to the trauma of your previous mate. It’s part of why he’s behaved, Clementine aside. Afraid his alpha might act too brazen, decide to devour you whole like your previous mate, like who he used to be.

It’s why he’s given in small doses.

He ignores the fact that it feels as if his claws are sprouting from his fingertips, ignores the way his jaw feels so fucking heavy and the only way it’ll lighten is if he buries his teeth in your neck. Make you bleed red as his.

It’s not your heat, but by god does the room smell like it is. Your jasmine is so thick he’s not sure how he’s managed to keep his alpha on a leash thus far. It’s raw from the source, straight from the tap, unconfined by your omega.

He smells the slick in your panties, heady jasmine, and creamy vanilla. So much more enticing than before. There’s still apprehension, sweet smell burnt around the edges. The aggressive alpha in him likes it that much more, mouth watering just to get one fucking taste.

“Pretty omega.”

He says it without a curl to his words, soft and tender, because he fucking means it. You take a sharp breath, hand coiling around his wrist on your neck.

He presses a peck to your lips, just wants a small taste before his main course, licks his lips when you chase after him with a soft noise. He hovers, thumb tracing against the jut of your jaw, your cheek, knuckles down your neck, like he’s memorizing each curve. Staring at you with something in his eyes you can’t quite pinpoint.

He can hear your heartbeat in your chest, feels it patter under the pad of his thumb.

“You nervous?”

That breaks a small smile across your lips. “You can smell me.”

This time you mean it.

And fuck— do you smell good.

He nudges your head gently with his nose until he finds the source of your sweet scent and inhales deep, smothering himself in your smell, mind hazy with nothing but you. Rubbing his own scent on it, claiming, like he’s hypnotized by the fusing of the two scents, hopes to stain it to the back of his throat, so he’ll never fucking forget it.

“Tell me, Miss. Librarian,” His lips brush your scent gland, laves his tongue against the sensitive skin between words because he can’t resist, “Why are you so nervous?”

“Well— I know you,” You pause, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s from the way he sucks your scent gland between his teeth or the needy sound you make between breaths. “Probably um.”

When he pulls back, you gesture to his pelvis.

He tries his best to hide his smirk, “Have a big dick?”

You nod quickly, struggling to hold his gaze when there’s embarrassment burning your neck and chest, tongue heavy in your mouth because you don’t quite have the strength to speak. You gasp when he lifts you easily by your hips, resting you against the pillows, adjusting himself between your thighs, trapped under his weight, mouth at your ear.

“I do, baby.”

His voice, low and smooth, rolls chills down your spine, settles thick in your core when he grinds against your cunt for emphasis, presses a wet stamp to the back of your ear, greedy hands exploring the expanse of your body, squeezing and kneading any supple flesh he can find purchase on.

“But that’s okay, isn’t it?”

A wet stamp to the curve of your neck, scraping his teeth ever so lightly against your gland, makes you arch, scratching at his back because you fucking want it just as much as he does.

“Just gotta make sure to stretch ya reallll nice f’me.” He drags the end of his words, popping your breasts free from your bra.

A wet stamp on your sternum, sucking each nipple in his mouth so there’s a shiny ring of saliva around them, makes you mewl quietly as the cold air stings them.

“Make it fit.”

His eyes flicker to yours from between your legs, he’s sure he looks like a predator hunched over its prey, eyes dark and hooded. He’s sure it makes your omega turn with delight, begging to roll over and present to your alpha, show him how good a prized prey you could be. It makes his alpha rumble, watching you fidget nervously because of him, because of what he could do to you. Rip you to shreds.

He won’t. Though, the primal urges of his alpha want to make you submit to him, scruff your nape so you bend for his will, mount you and just fucking claim you with his fat knot.

He doesn’t have to do any of that, your instincts handed your acquiescence over to him long ago, bared your neck for him to bite, batted your pretty lashes as you stared up at him, begging him for more.

“It’s just been a long time.” You breathe it out like it’s strained, throat collapsed with nerves.

He peels your underwear off, ignoring the way your slick gobs a thick string when the material is pulled away, so he can focus on your words. Ignores the way your poor pussy looks like it’s weeping for him, hole winking, swollen and drenched, hasn’t ever been properly touched, especially not by your old mate.

He’ll show you. Show you how an omega should be treated. How he treats his omega.

He spreads your glistening pussy open, swipes his thumb through your folds, slowly, before he can even think about responding, collecting your slick and popping it in his mouth, sucking the sweet flavor right off.

You fist the sheets in anticipation, silently watching him with parted lips as he tastes you for the first time like he might not like it. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth, the man growls possessively around his digit, teeth pinching the pad of his thumb like it might draw more of your flavor.

When he finally opens his eyes, he looks like a completely different person, eyes dilated and wild, gone. Alpha in control.

“Don’t worry.” It’s vibrated from his chest, tone unfamiliar. “I take care of what’s mine.”

You have one second to take a breath before his tongue is in your cunt. One full swoop to flood his mouth with your essence, nose snug against your clit as he laps at your entrance. His alpha demands more, a hunger so insatiable that it orders him to feast.

The whine you make causes a scalding heat to spindle through his back, makes him hunch deeper into your pussy like a man starved, meaty paws pushing your knees to your chest, so your pussy is on display for him. He licks between your folds like it’s a delicacy, shifting between enjoying the moment, eyes closed, and letting your taste melt between his teeth and down his throat, groaning beastly from the pleasure of finally tasting you, to ripping his eyes open to watch your pretty face.

His mouth maps shapes against your clit, sucking and working you open with a intense fervor. The aphrodisiac to his pain the slick that gushes out of you, the frantic keens that spill from your lips. It fuels his hunger, deeper so.

He’s not entirely sure how you’ve managed to keep your glasses on thus far but they hang on the edge of your nose, foggy from your pants. He likes it, a little too much, laps against your clit that much more eagerly, smoothing his tongue drenched. The look you wear is precious, like he’s being unfair, cruel even, when he suctions your clit between his lips something fierce.

You weakly push at his shoulders, fingers clawing at his scalp as you squirm, stuttering how it’s too much, but it’s gone straight to his head, a little too greedy to stop now.

Your arousal’s dripping down his chin, smeared on his nose and lips, but he keeps diving in for more. Like it isn’t enough to be covered in your slick, your scent staining his skin, your taste permanent on his tongue. So everyone can smell your cum on his face, know he had his face encased in your thighs, know he had his pretty omega finishing on his tongue.

You kick your legs out when he replaces his mouth with his finger, whining a protest at the sudden stretch. A brawny arm holds you down, biting the inside of your thigh in retaliation, a deep growl spilling from his throat.

He won’t let you get away that easily. His alpha likes the chase.

There are teeth indents on your thigh when he pulls away, something possessive roars in his chest at the sight— his mark on your flesh.

“Be sweet f’me now okay, baby?” A second finger pushes through your walls. “Don’t you want my knot?”

You stare down at him wide-eyed, a high-pitched whine coming from your lips as you frantically nod.

The moment goes by in a bit of a blur, fucking his thick fingers into your pussy expertly, noises so obscene for such a sweet librarian. Especially when he curls them, thumb circling your clit in tandem, and you mewl, rocking your hips back against his palm. Your a mess, but he’s anything but uncoordinated, deliberate and controlled strokes.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pressing it to your chest, so he can crash his lips to yours. It’s sloppy, tongues smearing together, pressed to the roofs of mouths, and lips bitten swollen all while he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, working the fire thumping in your core.

“D’ya taste that?”

When he pulls away theres a wet pop, lips glistening with his saliva. It’s a bit lewd, swapping the remnants of your slick from his mouth.

You bob your head, “Yeah.”

“That’s all you. All my omega.”

Your pussy flutters around his fingers.

He smirks, face hovering so close he takes all your air and makes it his own. “Oh? You like how you taste, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, ashamed, as he watches the embarrassment he’s teased form on your face.

He huffs a laugh, scissors his fingers, spreading your spongy walls, a bit impatient as his cock aches in his boxers. You take it so well until you can’t anymore, overwhelmed by the sensation of everything and not enough at the same time, pushing at the wrist against your mound.

“Want your knot, Simon.” Your voice sends a throb straight to the head of his cock, soft and broken, pleading so sweetly.

He has to grit his teeth, keep from filling you in one go. He was never a patient man to begin with.

When he frees his cock, slapping against your abdomen, tip reddened and angry, your eyes widen. He almost feels bad, it’s not like he didn’t tell you he was big, but he knows the sight of it makes you tense, wondering if you’ll be able to fit it all.

You will, he’ll make you.

He smears it along the ridges of your pussy, rutting his hips ever so slightly between your wet folds to cover himself in your warm slick. It doesn’t take long, you’re drenched, but you whine impatiently the whole time, pleasure jolting through your veins every time he brushes your clit.

When he finally, finally, slides his head in, you tense, mouth gaping, leg clamping at his shoulder.

“Jus’ the tip, sweetheart.”

His fingers are meant to soothe you, trace shapes into your sides, but it’s not his fault you’re a ticklish thing. You look at him like he’s the culprit when you squirm lower on his cock by accident, garbling a shocked moan.

The sound of your pussy popping over the head of his cock, the squelch of the slide almost sends him into overdrive. Stores it as one of his new favorite sounds, right up there next to his name on your lips.

It’s a lot— he knows it is, but you take it so well, mewling quietly into his ear with each new inch. The stretch wears you thin, head curled in the pillow at the agonizing pace he’s filling you at, breaths tight in your chest. You think it might be done, but he keeps pushing more and more in, deeper into your walls and you’re sure there’s no more room for him. He’s there, in your throat, kissing against your soft flesh, when he finally stops.

All his strength shatters into insignificant crumbs once he bottoms out, cock buried to the hilt. His breaths are shallow, holding on to any resemblance of control he had because you’re squeezing him so fucking tight. You look at him a little scared, squirming because he hasn’t even moved and it’s already too much, you already feel your chest collapse, choking on your breaths.

“Fuckin’ doin’ so well f’me, baby.” He surprises himself, didn’t think his voice would sound so steady wrapped around you. “Breathe f’me, sweetheart. Gotta relax”

If he wasn’t a strong man, he would’ve finished in you by now. Fill you with his spend and then fuck it back into you over and over again.

But he is a strong man, so all he does is grit his teeth and rut his hips, humming when he feels your chest fill with air and the warm breath cascade over his shoulders. Slowly grinding into your tight walls until all that’s left are his slurred praises pressed to your skin.

His fingers encase yours, tangling his hold into yours, held skintight at the side of your head, palm pressed to palm. It’s tender, all of it, right up to the fact that it seems as if your walls mold to him, like there was a Simon shaped outline.

Simon doesn’t believe in fate. Maybe in another life you and him would’ve had Clementine together, maybe he had to have Clementine to find you. Maybe in another life he would’ve been your mate, maybe you had to be betrayed to fall in love with him.

You’re his mate, there’s never been anyone else. He sees it in the pages of Fancy Nancy, reads it between the words of Corduroy. All the sweetest words bloom to life for you.

It’s slow, a steady grind that he gradually builds, pulls more of his cock out bit by bit before he fucks it back into you. And you stare at him like he’s got your heart in the palm of his hand, but it’s the complete opposite. You’ve netted your string around his heart weeks ago, pulled the lock of his alpha free.

A love he tried to deny himself. Told himself his heart was only big enough for Clementine. But there you are, peering up at him with your pretty eyes, curled in the shape of his heart. Told himself he was only soft for his mint, but there his hand rests, tangled in yours, squeezing your palm between every roll of his hips.

But there you were. Strung your way into his chest, made a home for yourself there, so it would ache when you weren’t there.

By the time he’s really thrusting into you, fat of his cock head bullying your cervix with precision because he can’t take it anymore, there’s a white ring around the base of his cock. It only gets thicker, you only clamp tighter around him with each new thrust, your thighs trembling either side of his hips, crying out everytime he angles his hips deeper.

“There we—fuck.” His head falls against your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to fight his forming knot.

Each time he opens his mouth with some new praise he wants to mumble, your pussy flutters around him, you moan a plea into his ear, and he stutters over his words like some virgin.

The drag of his hips feels delicious, the clench of your walls, silently begging for more, taking all that he has to offer is hypnotic.

He fucking loves it.

Plunging into your walls like he knows exactly how you like it.

He almost groans in agony because he can’t see the way your toes curl at his shoulder, or the way your brows tinge as the warmth of your impending orgasm turns fire hot, scorching a pain that burns so well you can’t take it anymore. His teeth at your scent gland sends you over the edge, biting hard enough it’ll leave a mark, but shallow enough it won’t form a bond. Reminiscent of what’s to come, not now, but soon.

Alpha.

You call him alpha in your daze, all soft and needy, eyes foggy and desperate.

It’s as if he sees red, bites his knuckle so hard it bleeds, so he won’t bury his canines in your neck. His knot pushes through your spongy walls as you arch your back, crying alpha like it’s the only word you know.

The coil in his core ruptures, vision practically blurring as he pumps his knot as deep as it’ll go before he growls around the copper blood of his knuckle, releasing his spend. His hips involuntarily jut forward with each spurt, finally filling you as his girl.

It’s a beat before he pulls his head from your neck, walls pulsing around his knot, daggers of pleasure clawing against his skin in the afterglow. You look a proper mess, hair disheveled, sweat down your cheeks, chest rising with deep breaths, looking all parts his omega.

He presses a peck to your temple, an action that has your chest coming alive, vibrating a deep contented purr. He smiles against your temple, nose brushing along your face as he purrs back, his sweet omega happy.

In the morning, when the both of you go to Uncle Johnny’s to pick up Clementine from her sleepover, she runs into your arms first, a painting in her hands.

She holds it up to the both of you, eagerly pulling both of your attention to the white paper.

“This one’s daddy.” She says, and it’s the same as her other painting, stick figure and all, black tattoos on his arms.

“This one’s Mint.” Her dress is purple this time, with a flower in her hair.

“And this one’s mommy!” She points to a third stick figure.

His chest tightens, saliva thickens in his mouth. There are tears in your eyes, a smile so wide he’s surprised they haven’t spilled over your cheeks. Johnny just sends the both of you a knowing smile.

He tacks it up over the old painting of just him and Mint. Complete.

note- Hi everyone! I just wanted to leave a little note to thank everyone for being so patient and understanding with the delay of this chapter. I fear most of you have lost interest in it, but I still wanted to complete it. Thank you for all support mwuahhhh!!! 🍊🤍

@succulambb @casualhel @weeping-treee @lumilily @tessakate @shitaaba @lucienofthelakes @nocturnal-nyx @aphinthestars @muraaaaaa @night-shadowblood-writes2 @whos-fran @thetastewassweeter @eremika104 @animegamerfox @oaksgrove @dawnnightshade666 @chaieanne @trulovekay @appalachianecho @grossitsluca @noonespecial2347 @spidersuneee @ihe4rtme @lunamoonbby @iaozuyiling @aggiesramble @novthewolf @irondreamerface @chaos-on-stand-bi @callsignpxnguin @flowerluvr @whatdoyxumean @sleepybunnygirly @cd-mr @cod-bin @crackheadwithtoes @diasnohibng @bookies16 @amberbalcom14 @vajjaa @srtakibutsuji @blueeyedbrat0716 @dumplings4life0520 @littlelovebug98 @smut02 @btsgangleader

Fancy Nancy.

Fancy Nancy is the book that distracted her, with her ribbons and glitter, obnoxious curls and neon pinks, but she had asked so sweetly with doe eyes and precious chubby cheeks— please Daddy, can we get the Fancy Nancy book?

How could he say no? He succumbed, walked to the shelf in front of them, and grabbed the stupid pink book. And now she’s gone, wasn’t standing where she was when he turned back around.

His instincts kicked in, analyzing the room as fast as he could with pinpointed measurements, clearing the area like he was on a mission. An automatic routine when his biggest concerns were enemies, how many bullets were left in his mag, and if the knife buried in his leg was down to the bone. Now, he’s clearing a bloody library because his biggest concern is his daughter and which book they’re going to read before bed time tonight— Fancy Nancy.

He can’t smell her, there are too many scents, too many other little pups smothering her citrus smell. His mind is jumping to every scenario, someone took her, she’s too smart to run away from him, he’s taught her better than that. Someone from his past must’ve tracked him down and took the only important thing in his life away. Came to get revenge, retribution for the irredeemable things he’s done.

He’s stomping through the aisles with an unconfined sense of urgency, terrifying the small children with his looming presence and menacing soured scent, but he doesn’t fucking care. Can’t care when they’re not his Clementine.

Until he hears her, an infectious giggle that only belongs to his girl. When he sees her, dirty blonde curls, ruddy red cheeks, and beady eyes perched on your desk in one piece with an adorable smile smeared across her face it’s like he can finally breathe again, like the stucco melted from his lungs and washed away to utter relief.

Even when he can tell she’s been crying, lashes clumped together as fat tears cascade down her shaking chin and pool in the pink Hello Kitty t-shirt uncle Johnny got her, he knows she’s okay. He can tell by the way you’re cooing at her, wiping her cheeks gently, protruding your omega scent to soothe her anxiety.

He can smell it the closer he gets: white jasmine, musky sweetness, warm, gentle, vanilla seeping through the rich scent. Swirls with his Clementine’s citrus.

It rumbles something in him, spinning and tugging at his alpha. Pulling at the strings he folded away in a neat box for Clementine’s sake, or maybe it was his. He doesn’t have time for things such as that anymore, never really did.

Clementine jumps off the table, small feet pattering against the tiled floor when she sees him.

“Daddy!”

Simon captures her in his arms, pressing her into the crook of his neck with a palm on the back of her fragile head. He’s still shaking even though she’s in his arms, hugging her a little too tight to his chest, scenting the side of her neck and forehead probably a little too much.

“Minty, baby,” He breathes the words as a sigh of relief, pressing a kiss against her temple, “Where did you go? I turned and you weren’t there anymore.”

“I couldn’t find you, Daddy!” She explains, pointing a nubby finger towards you, “I came to the desk like you taught me. The pretty lady helped me.”

He follows her point, finding your gaze. You give him a soft smile, crossing your arms behind your back endearingly. He feels it in his chest when you do, an itch flaring in the back of his throat from the whites of your teeth like the cement was bubbling back up. Except, this time it’s not as heavy, only makes his breath stick in his lungs.

It’s a catastrophe that you are pretty, his Clementine doesn’t lie.

“She did.” You nod in agreement, “She was a very brave girl.”

Even more so because you’re complimenting his girl.

Clementine beams at that, tugging on the collar of his shirt to bring his attention back to her, “See, Daddy! I did good!”

He smiles, tenderly, eyes softening at the bundle in his arms, “Yeah, pup, you did. Thought I lost you.”

She shakes her head proudly, curls bouncing around her face, “Nope, you found me.”

“Always will.” He promises, smoothing his thumb against her hair affectionately, and he means it, he’d go to the ends of the earth until his flesh scraped away to bones to find her.

He turns towards you again, “Thank you, for taking care of her.”

“Of course,” You reassure, “It comes with the job. Happens all the time. I’m glad she’s okay.”

He places the book that got them in this situation in the first place on the counter, “Fancy Nancy.”

You laugh, “Our best seller.”

The noise smooths over him, the tension coiled between his shoulder blades loosening slightly because he’s got Clementine safe in his arms and a pretty librarian to thank for. You’re nice to listen to, sweet to the smell, even better to look at. Hair pulled back into a messy tie, cat-eyed glasses on the bridge of your nose, adorned in a sweater vest, and a skirt to your ankles. It’s familiar, homely.

“Really? Despise tha’ book.” He grumbles, a mixture of the book's contents and the culprit that almost made him lose his daughter the cause.

It’s a catastrophe that you are pretty when Simon spots a mating bite on the base of your neck. It’s ugly, taints your delicate flesh with fading teeth marks, like the asshole who left it on you didn’t really mean it. He wouldn’t do that to you.

Though, he doesn’t have much room to speak when he’s got a daughter without a mating bond of his own, when his Clementine doesn’t have a mother of her own.

Your eyes crinkle, a sight he decides he likes, “She’s a bit obnoxious, isn’t she?”

Clementine makes a noise of disapproval, frowning dramatically, “I like her!”

“I know, Mint. You make me read it to you every night.” He deadpans.

She smiles brightly at that, kicking her feet out around his torso as she giggles in acknowledgment.

You slide the book over to them with a shrug, “She’s teaching children to be themselves, self-expression even if they are a little obnoxious.”

“I like her,” Clementine whispers to him, thinks she’s being real quiet about it, but you hear her loud and clear.

You hide your laugh behind your hand, “I like you too, sweetheart. I hope you enjoy your book.”

“Thank you!”

Clementine squeezes herself tight around his neck from excitement as they walk through the library doors, “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah, pup. She is.”

He doesn’t let go of Clementine the entire walk home.

thank you to @lumilily for the name Clementine! & nicknames tiny & mint 🤍

He has to stop himself every time he starts to rut into your clothed cunt like some dog, lapping at your neck desperately. Every time you begin to whimper in his ear, baring your neck for him so prettily, the plea for him to sink his teeth into your skin dying on your tongue.

It’s a routine, until it isn’t.

100-degree fever is the culprit.

He woke up to his sweet Mint sniffling with tears in the corners of her eyes, skin pale as ever.

“Papa, I don’t feel good.” She had barely managed to croak quietly to him.

“Oh, baby girl.” He cooed, placing the back of his hand on her already sweaty forehead, “Think you got a fever.”

He scoops her into his arms, her little mermaid pajamas damp where his palm and forearm press, “What hurts, baby? Your head?”

She snuggles into the crook of his neck, tiny nose pressed to his scent gland for comfort with a small nod.

“Yeah? Poor girl,” He murmurs, rubbing circles into her back soothingly, “Daddy’s gonna give you some medicine, okay?”

She shakes her head in protest, whining weakly against his skin.

“I know, pup, but it’s the cherry one. You like that one, remember?”

It takes a few sips, several dramatic grimaces, multiple gulps of water, and an abundance of negotiation on Simon’s part to get her to finish the medicine, but she eventually does. His brave girl.

He gives her a bath after, washing away the sweat clinging to her skin. She holds on to him the entire time, eyes fluttering and falling heavy with each passing second. By the time he lifts her out of the bath and changes her into a new set of pajamas she’s snuggling into his hold, pale skin turned rosy from the warm water.

He lays her across his chest after, lying out on the couch before putting on her favorite cartoon. It’s her favorite spot; it’s his favorite spot. His pup curled up on his chest, tucked into his arms— safe.

Except, now his Clementine is in pain, tiny brows furrowed, prominent pout on her lips, and small paws fisting his shirt. There's already a streak of sweat forming on her forehead again, but her little body is shivering like she’s freezing.

He rubs her back, runs his fingers through her blonde curls, and presses kisses into her scalp as he projects his scent, trying his best to soothe her with his alpha pheromones. She presses deeper into him when he does, searching for the comfort only he can provide.

He sees the moment the medicine kicks in, the moment her eyes finally shut and she falls asleep in her safe space.

The first time his pup got sick she was just a baby, smaller than his forearm, and he thought his world was crashing around him. He was useless at the time, didn’t know what his baby girl needed to feel better. He had trembled at the sight of her pouting and afraid.

Now, he’s a better father, replaced the calluses on his palm with smoother skin. Learned how to soothe her, nurse her back to health instead of slaughtering those who faced the barrel of his gun.

Clementine wakes up just as he’s finishing making her soup. He doubts her stomach will hold it down, but she hasn’t had anything to eat since the night before.

She patters into the kitchen, fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks, “Daddy!”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, brows furrowing with worry.

She balls her fists at her side, her tears collecting at the collar of her shirt, “Story time! Daddy, we missed story time!”

“Mint, you’re sick.” He exhales a chuckle of relief. “We couldn’t have gone.”

Clementine isn’t pleased with this answer because she starts to sob harder, choking on her breaths in seconds. He pulls her into his arms at that, shushing her softly as he carries her to the couch and sets her in his lap.

“Hey, pup, look at daddy.” He cups her face, wiping the tears away with his thumb, voice dipped lower, comforting. She’s trying her best to speak, blubbering through her tears. “I know, baby. I know you’re sad. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He holds her tiny hand to his chest, taking deep breaths with her until she’s able to breathe without hiccuping.

“There we go, pup. Good job.” He praises, alpha rumbling in his chest, “We can go next week when you feel better. But you want to know how we can do that?”

Clementine nods, bottom lip wobbling. His sweet girl.

“You gotta eat your soup, take your medicine, and get lots of sleep. You think you can do that?” He asks, tapping on her chest with each reason.

She nods again, climbing off his lap to her bowl of soup.

By the time she’s finished her soup and he’s managed to feed her some more medicine she’s ready for bed. He lets her sleep in his bed for the night instead of squishing both of them onto her much smaller bed.

He doesn’t nest, it’s not in his instincts, but he lays her favorite stuffies and blankets around the bed the best he can manage. Corduroy hugged tightly to her chest, her head snug to his arm and shoulder.

He’s so concerned with Clementine’s health, that he almost misses the message that pings his phone.

‘Didn’t see you and Clementine at story time today. Hope everything is well!’ —and there’s that damn heart you always use at the end of your message.

Clementine barely moves when the doorbell rings the following day, but when she sees you, books in arms, she jumps up from the couch.

“Miss Librarian! What are you doing?”

You smile at him in greeting before bending down to her height. “Well, I heard that you were sick and weren’t able to come to story time this week.”

Clementine nods. “But I took medicine like daddy said.”

“I'm glad you are. Gotta get healthy to come to story time again, right?” You agree, “But, in the meantime, I’ve brought the book we read yesterday. Do you want to read it with me?”

Simon practically sees stars in Clementine’s eyes, gasping as she nods her head eagerly.

“Yes! Yes!” She’s already dragging you to her bedroom before you finish your sentence.

You examine her room, eyes stopping on her makeshift library, “Wow, you’ve got your own mini library, don’t you?”

“Yep, but it’s not as big as yours.” She pats the empty spot next to her on her bed.

You chuckle at that, “Well, maybe one day you can have your very own library even bigger than mine.”

A Bad Case Of The Stripes.

It’s a bit fitting considering Mint’s health.

She sits in your lap as you read to her, tiny feet wiggling as she focuses on the pictures on each page, gasping at each new design on the little girl as Simon stands in the entryway.

He’s a little scared to walk in, sit on the bed with the two of you that definitely doesn’t have enough space for the three of you, so he admires from the door. He watches Mint read with you every week, but now it’s in her room, curled in your lap.

You underestimate his Mint, just a bit— ‘Do you want to try reading with me or are you not feeling up to it?’

Mint makes you read it with her four more times until she’s tuckered out, rubbing her eyes with a small yawn, and turning around in your lap to snuggle into your hold.

“Miss. Librarian?”

“Yes?”

“Are you my new mom?”

Simon watches your mouth part, eyes flickering over her face to find the right words, voice soft as you answer.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, sweetheart.”

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