angelchub

[angelchub]

Ghost is filthy, and he won't deny it.

Not when you look so pretty in your sundress, with his favorite features on display. He relishes in the way you fidget when his eyes are on you - even more so when your eyes flit to his and look away just as fast.

His body is on muscle memory when he walks up to you in the bar, the chair beside you creaking and groaning under the weight of him. He sees you better, now. The glimmer in your eyes and the way you gnaw on your bottom lip - already red and raw.

He can't help the way his hands find your thigh, or how his fingers brush up against your nipple. Nor can he help it when he finally gets you in the backseat — pretty mewls and whines filling his ear as his cock punches in and out of you — or how he almost comes from the way your hands slink back to push at his thighs to slow down his heavy thrusts.

He's entitled to pretty things, he thinks. And he just might keep this one, too.

[angelchub]

Don't get me wrong Johnny is definitely a passionate lover but I'm a huge believer that to get him to absolutely fuck you through the mattress is to stroke his ego not his cock

Like Soap seeing his pretty girl writhing on his cock isn't supposed to switch a flip in his brain? Seriously?

Johnny's confident, suave, and has definitely got plenty practice under his belt, he knows he's got both a nice cock and the skills on how to use it to have his hen sobbing face buried in his pillow.

Trust me, he knows he's full of himself— but it's entirely other thing when his sweet girl is proving him right, intentionally or not, moaning deliriously "there, right there... more more please— ah!" when he's sheathed entirely in her warmth and then slurring into his shoulder, drunk on the high he's giving her, "so so good Johnny..."

Music to his fucking ears. He's getting absolutely drunk on the affirmation that he's good in bed.

It's addictive, he's petting over the soft skin of your inner thighs that are spread obscenely wide around his thick waist with gentleness that sharply contrasts with how his hips are hammering into yours desperately with renewed vigour and speed to the point of overstimulation. He's grunting and whining low in the back of his throat as your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, babbling gibberish against the slope of your throat as he loses himself in the feel of you, "so pretty bonnie," biting down a few times just to make sure you know you're his.

Johnny reckons he might be egotistical, or maybe he just has a praise kink. Guess he just needs to experiment with you some more to find out which one— your cunt might be bruised for days after though :/

First smut post? Johnny definitely has a praise kink btw

[angelchub]

went through hell yesterday and now I'm thinking about kyle garrick who takes care of you so tenderly when you're feeling sick – at first, at least. | gn!reader, kyle is like a daddydom(?) but there's no use of daddy in this one

he doesn't even question why that night, he just asks "what are you feeling, my love?" concern taking over every feature of his beautiful face.

to which you answer "headache... feel like throwing up," with a big pout and shaky hands from nausea.

he makes something salty and light for you to try and eat at least something, but as you shake your head and say with trembling voice that you "really can't, kyle", he nods and helps you walk all the way to your bedroom where he sets you down on the bed and gives you a pill to help and soothe the headache.

he watches as you drink it grimacing and he can only say "i know, baby, but you can sleep now. and you'll wake up feeling better tomorrow, eh?"

he let's you hide your trembling, cold hands underneath his shirt. you forehead tucked in chest as he hugs you until you're asleep. and when you wake up, he's still there – by your side, holding you like you're the most precious thing he ever came across.

when he wakes up, the very first thing he does is make sure you're feeling 100% better. once that's out of the way, he asks "now, tell me what happened yesterday, love."

you, as guilty as you could feel, answer him with a mumble. "forgot to eat dinner yesterday..."

you can feel the way the soothing brushes of his fingers in your skin halt for a second, before he's questioning "did you, baby? what was it that you were doing that made you forget to eat?"

he knows you get caught up in your own head sometimes, that you get so entranced in your hobbies that you forget to do the most basic things for your own comfort. you tell him that you were just distracted with a new tool you got that would help you finish your project of the moment, to which he answers with a sigh.

"baby, i know you were having fun and distracted, but what is the rule for when you have a new project you're working on?"

he waits as you take your time to answer. he's always so patient with you, it makes tears well up in your eyes. "i have to set up an alarm and always prioritize things related to my health and comfort..." you answer firmly, you had to repeat that a lot of times for you to not know it by now.

"hm, that's right. so, if you remember that, how come you forgot about it yesterday?" he's not mad, you can tell, but he's worried. worried something else got to you and that you actively neglected it other than just forgetting.

"'s just that i didn't have my phone close, so i couldn't have heard the alarm go off. 'm sorry, it wasn't on purpose..." you rush to answer, voice slowly being enveloped in anxiety, but he just sushes you with a kiss to your cheek.

"c'mon now, baby. you know it's okay. this isn't for me, is for you," he says and pull you closer in his embrace. "go on, say it, baby. you don't have to be sorry."

"it's okay... it's okay, and this is about me, not you," you take a deep breath and that works for calming you down. kyle always knows how to keep you grounded.

"yeah, that's right, love." he plants another kiss in your cheek, and then one to your nose. "but you cannot neglect your meals like that, can you?"

"no, i can't..." the response comes automatically, you feel so safe with him knowing he's taking care of you that you don't mind whatever punishment he'll give you for not following the rules.

he hums in agreement, deep tone of his voice rumbling in his chest. he's already moving out of your arms and finding his place between your thighs, holding them spread to his liking.

"'m gonna use my mouth on you, and you'll feel really good, baby," he points out, matter-of-factly. "but just when you're about to cum, i'll stop," he adds, and you can feel yourself squirming already. kyle is too good with his mouth, and he knows that.

"and you'll take it. my good, precious baby can do it, yeah?"

fuck, this is going to be a long morning.

[angelchub]

how about dry humping with graves? would he do that?

not willingly :P torturing graves until he comes in his pants like a pathetic loser (writing this with one hand btw)

CW: dry humping, grinding, premature ejac, in pants. Nsfw MDNI

It’s a battle for the gods. An unstoppable force in the right corner–a man with a tongue cut out of molasses and eyes glinting like icicles over glowing water. An immovable object in the left–you. 

It’s your cardinal rule. No sex on the first date. Or the second, or the third–

“Oh, no more, no more,” he’d chuckled, when you’d explained, “I got the picture. How long’s it gonna take, doll?”

At which point he’d leaned forward, elbows planted, disrespectful, on the silken ruby tablecloth, and the leather of his shoes had brushed your bare ankle. You let your ankle stay, a silent ode to your aforementioned ‘immobility’.

You’d told him, “you got somewhere to be, Phil?” Tilting your head coyly, a challenge flaring behind your own gaze. He’s trying to wear you down; you’re trying to wreck him to hell and back.

It’s only fair.

He’d smacked his lips, leaned back on his chair. Wiped his hands with the napkin resting on his lap, letting it fall with a whisper louder than any of the chatter around you to the ceramic plate. Tugged up the corner of those lips.

“For you? I’m as patient as they come, miss.”

He’s really not. He knows it. You’re about to know it. It’s impending. 

When you hear a high whistling sound coming from afar, cover your ears.

He’d been good on the drive back. Insisted to drop you home, even though you said you’d be more than fine with a cab. 

“My momma raised me better than that, come on,” he’d drawled, fingertips tilting your chin towards him. Let you look into those big eyes with nothing save for innocent intentions, and rethink your stubbornness. About the cab, of course.

And so you’d let him put his hands on the sides of your waist, hovering and feeling and examining. Primrose chiffon covers raised gooseflesh. Classic.

One hand on the wheel, the other on the joystick. Sometimes mistaking your thigh for it, but you don’t say a word. No, you resort to staring the smug bastard down in his own rearview mirror.

“I know what you’re doing, you know.”

“Mm, what’s that, angel?” He’s an elite operative, from what you know–there’s no need for him to keep his eyes glued to the road.

You cross your legs, and the warmth of his palm stays tethered. Rides up a little higher, even. “It’s not gonna happen, Commander.”

He takes a turn sharper than he should at that. “Keep callin’ me that and I’ll show you what’s gonna happen.”

Your smile falters for a beat, but when you see the mischief playing at his features, you let down.

“Kiddin’,” he adds, to be safe.

He’s not.

His desire is a jute rope. It’s around his neck like a leash, pressing into his jugular. Chafing the tender skin of his throat, the pulse hammering just beneath. He can’t think straight. Every word out of your mouth, every time you don’t move away from his advances–someone tightens the rope.

But it’s fraying. You can only tighten something so much until it thins and breaks. Fragments. He’s hanging on by fucking fragments.

A humiliatingly unconvincing simulacrum of dignity veils his true intentions.

Your apartment is four floors up. Twelve steps per flight, four turns. That’s almost a hundred goddamn steps you’re making him climb. Silent, too—like you don’t know what you're doing.

He doesn't think he's ever been harder in his life. Every fucking lift of his leg grinds his dick harder against the inside of his jeans. Every goddamn step another slap in the face, another sick little reminder he isn’t getting what he wants tonight.

He could get off right here. He could rut against the goddamn staircase like a mutt, and it still wouldn’t be enough. You’ve made sure of that.

The friction's got the head of his cock aching, skin rubbed near raw against the denim. He's leaking, he knows it. Can fucking feel it. Damp spot blooming bigger every time he looks up and sees the sway of your hips right in his face.

And you know it. The way you walk—slow, deliberate, back arched just enough—you might as well be fucking bare.

That dress hugs you like it was poured over your skin. Every curve, every dip, every place he wants to sink his teeth into. Brandish, ruin, renew.

When you finally reach the black front door to apartment 406, you swivel around on your heel. He looks at you different now. Lust so ill-contained it oozes out and swarms you in his essence. 

Pupils blown wide like a beast wounded. Heavy lidded and dull, like he’s got tunnel vision.

He’s getting his reprieve one way or another.

Drag you inside and make you feel every fucking inch of what you’re doing to him.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you smile, lips puckering to the side. “Thank you.”

He brings a hand up to wipe off the beads of sweat on his forehead, and manages a chuckle. 

Nails along gravel. “I had a great time, too. Real fun.”

And then you assume this simpering bullshit. It’s like you’re trying to undo him. You’re playing with the jute rope like it’s a string to a balloon.

Dangerous games, princess.

You have the gall to smile, sweet and syrupy and oblivious. His cock twitches at the mere sight.

Get your fuckin’ head in the game, Graves.

Your eyes drift around, your head tilts, your shoulders jerk softly in that tell tale manner he knows so well by now.

“Need somethin’, pretty girl?” His voice is low, all grit and timbre.

Then you look up, the middle of your brows creasing in the most imperceptible furrow. Eyes widening, lashes fluttering.

In his mind flashes an image where you’re on your knees, his cock tapping heavy on your tongue.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You reach out, your fingers smoothening down the linen of his collar. Absentmindedly humming, and he nearly buckles. Chokes on air. 

His cock reacts, vicious and immediate. Hot, blinding. Throbbing with such vigor he can hear it, for God’s sake.

And when you string your lower lip between your teeth?

He’s only a man. You can only toy with him so much until–

The rope splinters in a clean two.

“Phillip…” Your breathy gasp gets lost in the mesh of tongues, hot and feverish and sloppy. His hands grip the sides of your face like you’re the first person to grace his eyes. Memorising, drawing closer.

“I’m not doin’ anything,” he pants into your mouth, and the outline of his thigh presses into yours. It takes damn near everything in him to not whine at the friction between your bodies.

You’re not exactly pulling away.

He pushes you against the door, and his weight against yours is intoxicating. Heady. For a moment, all rules are forgotten. The cold metal of the doorknob presses into your skin like a knife, jarring compared to the molten lava of wanting that floats between you. 

You kiss him back with fervour, tongues dancing in perfect staccato. A well practised tango.

He lets out the occasional grunt everytime you cant your hips forward, offering him the short-lived relief he’s chasing so hard.

No pun intended.

His fingers dig into your scalp, bite into the dimples of your skin, and you whimper against his mouth.

You press closer against him, your breath ragged as his lips linger over yours. The moment hangs like thick syrup between you both, a silent agreement not to let go.

His hand moves down your spine, warm, heavy, the touch nothing short of depraved. Every inch of him seems to drink in your presence. His lips move down to your neck, lips grazing over your skin in breathless, frantic brushes. Each kiss is a reminder of how he teeters on the knife-edge of respect. The tempest of gentlemen warring beneath all the ridges of muscle you drag your fingers over.

When you shift your hips, he lets out a barely audible growl, the sound so raw it nearly cracks you in half. The tightness in his jeans is unmistakable, pressing against your leg. You can feel it—feel how much he's holding back. You have to fight the urge to grind against him, to give him that little bit of friction he craves. But you're not there yet, are you?

His hands grip your waist, but it’s not to push you away. It’s a steadying force, as if he's trying to fight himself, hold back. His breath hitches in his chest when your thigh brushes against his, the contact brief but enough to make him jerk, as though he’s been shot with electricity.

"You’re not playing fair, princess," he mutters under his breath, head shaking in slight disbelief.

"Never said I would," you respond, voice low, teasing, and god, does it make him want to lose it.

His body moves instinctively, hips rolling ever so slightly against yours, the barest hint of pressure. The fabric of his jeans rubs against you, the roughness of it a sharp contrast to the softness of your dress. 

Another grind, just a little more forceful this time. And then, you can’t help it, you shift again, pressing your hips forward, the movement entirely involuntary. The friction between you both—skin to fabric, fabric to skin—is like a spark in the dark, something that sets everything ablaze.

"Fuuuck," he groans, his hands tightening on your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh as if to anchor himself. But even that’s not enough to keep him still. The pull between you both is too magnetic, too damn strong.

His lips hover over yours, and you don’t wait for permission, kissing him hard, desperate. The movement of his hips tells you everything you need to know. He’s lost it, just as much as you.

“Is this what you want, Commander?” you whisper against his mouth, the words a taunt. “Is this what I’m doing to you?”

His breath hitches as he presses against you once more, his own body betraying him. “Let me inside.” His voice is hoarse, strained. Phillip fucking Graves doesn’t beg. “Please.” Never mind.

But neither of you pull away. Not anymore. The battle of control is over. The rope has snapped. And this—this is the fallout.

“Oh, please?” Your eyebrow quirks, and he’s never stared down the barrel of something crueler. “Okay, since you insist,” you tease further, hands trailing off with a final mock dusting of his shoulders. “Since you’re being so polite, and all.”

You step back, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you take in a steadying breath. The keys jangle in your hands, and he knows that you’re struggling just as much as he does.

The moment lingers like a charged current between you two. You brush past him with the slightest brush of your fingers against his chest, and head towards the kitchen, the rhythm of your hips enough to drive him mad.

“Water?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though the air is thick with the heat of what just passed. You can feel him behind you, that familiar weight of his gaze.

He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, sure,” he mutters, still clearly not used to the storm you’ve brought to his head. It’s vertiginous.

You pour the water slowly, your back to him, trying to compose yourself—though your body hums with anticipation. Every step you take, the swish of your dress brushing against your skin sends a shiver through you. You pass him the glass, fingers brushing for a second longer than necessary.

His eyes never leave you, his hand gripping the glass as if it could somehow ground him. He’s so fucking hard, it’s almost painful to move. His jaw clenches with restraint, but it’s the kind of restraint that’s almost laughable. It won’t last.

He sets the glass down, still watching you closely, and without saying a word, his hands find your waist, turning you toward him. His lips crash into yours immediately, harder this time, with a rawness that says he’s not playing anymore. His tongue invades your mouth, swirling in the kind of kiss that could destroy everything in its path.

You gasp against him, and that’s all he needs to slide his leg between yours, pulling your hips into his. You’re breathless, tangled in the press of his body as he starts to move—slow, controlled at first. Just enough to make you feel the unmistakable outline of his hardness pressing into you.

Every fucking inch. Like he promised.

You’re burning now, and it’s all too much. Too much tension, too much pressure. But you make no move to escape, only to pull him closer. You grind down into him just a little—deliberate, slow—and the moan that escapes his lips is enough to send your heart into overdrive. Slick drips behind your dress and down your thighs, your pussy fluttering and throbbing around anticipation.

His hand tightens on your waist, pushing you against him with more force, but still not enough. Not yet.

His lips trail down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hips begin to move in a slow, agonizing rhythm. You shift your hips to meet him, feeling the thick outline of his cock rubbing against you through the fabric, and fuck—it's maddening. The friction is relentless, building, making you ache for more. But you can’t have more just yet. Not yet.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, the heat there telling you everything. “You’re killin’ me, you know that?” he murmurs, voice low and strained.

You smirk, shaking your head. “You’re not doing so bad yourself, Commander.” Your chest rises and falls with deep breaths.

But you can’t hold back anymore. You begin to move your hips, just a little at first, but it’s enough. The pressure against him builds with every subtle grind of your body. He’s nearly out of his mind at this point, his body rigid with restraint, his breath hitching with each slow thrust of your hips against his.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, his grip on you tightening as he pulls you harder against him. The slow grind escalates, faster now, each movement fueled by desperation.

He shifts his position, bringing his hand down to your ass, pulling you in even tighter. His cock presses against you with each roll of your hips, and the fabric of his pants is growing unbearably tight. Every moment of friction is just a little too much—every movement pushing him closer to the edge.

And then you shift just a little too much—your thigh moving in the exact way that makes him lose it. He’s a man on the brink, his head lolling back as a strangled sound escapes him. His body stiffens, his grip on you tightening so hard it hurts, but you don’t care. You keep moving, keep grinding, the heat between you reaching fever pitch.

His hips jerk once, twice—and then, with a growl that’s more animal than man, he freezes. A breathless groan leaves him as he comes, his body trembling against yours. His cock twitches violently as he ruins his pants, the hot, desperate relief of it seeping through the fabric.

You stay pressed against him, feeling every inch of him as he comes down from the high, both of you breathless, bodies still grinding instinctively.

He can barely speak, but his voice comes out raw, thick with disbelief. “Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

You smile, slow and lazy, and whisper against his ear, “I think you like it.”

[angelchub]

Someone give me more ideas for non-sexual dom john that isn’t just him making you sleep/get out of bed or eat i wanna write more of him 😩

[angelchub]

simon would definitely have a clumsy girlfriend. the type of girlfriend where you'd almost always find a way to have a bruise or cut on you anytime you went out.

"where did ya get this?" "hit against the desk at work."

"love, that's a pretty bad scratch." "i was trying to pet that stray cat near the ravine, i think she has kittens."

"what do you mean you got chased by a swan on the way home?" "it looked like it was injured, i was trying to get a photo for the wildlife people! you're the one telling me that the queen owns every swan!"

simon sometimes felt the need to swaddle you up in bubble wrap just to keep you safe. but as you looked at him with pleading eyes and a frown, he only ruffled your hair and went in for a soft kiss - he could never be mad at you.

you expected that you'd be taking care of his injuries from the armed forces, not him wrapping hello kitty banded bandages across your fingers because somehow you got seven paper cuts in one day!

one time you went to the park and when you went to feed the ducks some of the frozen peas you brought in a cup (never bread!), you leaned a little too forward and almost fell right into the pond. thankfully simon's reflexes were faster and wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back up, "alright, lamb. let's feed the ducks a little further away." and you looked up at him, near tears, and nodded.

it wasn't your fault, some folks were just more clumsy than ever. when he came back from missions, he would spend hours examining every part of you to check for any new cuts, bruises, or scars - then make sure to kiss them all and ask what exactly you did.

he kissed you on the forehead and asked, "now tell me, love, how does a trolley attack you?"

[angelchub]

cw: reader has terrible social anxiety (could also be read as agoraphobia and/or neurodivergence)

gaz is an observer, always has been. the most perceptive man out of every single squad he has been a part of. it’s a skill that played a huge part in getting him to the rank where he stands now in the military, it’s truly only natural that when he’s home and not involved in any potentially deadly mission, the screws in his brain still turn that way. he notices things, every single detail about them, and stashes them in the back for later. you never know when it might come in handy.

so, when he sees you sitting across from him in the tube for more than two days in a row, he does what he does best.

you’re a nervous thing, gaze darting around the subway car like you’ve never seen one before, reading the signs and ads right above his head. your huge bag set in your lap as you hug it in your arms, the strap still hanging from your shoulder, almost like you’re ready to bolt. your movements are repetitive, as you wipe the sweat off your hands on your clothes and check that your necklace is centered on your chest, that the sleeves of your dress aren’t falling down your shoulders, that your mascara hasn’t smudged on your bottom lid. over and over again. he notices how you squeeze your wide thighs together, trying to make yourself as small as possible in detriment of your own comfort, how you get even more twitchy as the men sat on both sides of you not only don’t appreciate your efforts to avoid bothering them, but they double down on their leg-spreading, caging you in in a way that can’t be pleasant for you.

on the first day he ever saw you, he remembers you double-checking your phone a ludicrous amount of times, caught a glimpse of the public transport app on your screen. poor girl, so scared of getting it wrong. he hasn’t seen you do that in a few days, tho, you must have gotten the hang of it. you get on before he does, and leave before he does, on westminster. you look a tiny bit younger than him, maybe fresh off of college, maybe new to such a big city, which could explain the deer-in-headlights expression permanently etched onto your face.

so cute, thinking he doesn’t notice you ogling him back when his head drops down towards the book in his hands. you underestimate his peripheral vision, babes, and it wounds him a little. he loves playing this game with you, this little dance. you stare and then get embarrassed and look away when he catches you. then, he looks at you head on for a few seconds, his eyes on the side of your face and a grin curving the corner of his lip, before he stops and gives you the chance to start the cycle again.

he intimidates you, he can tell. gaz wracks his brain, as he stares at your back when you get up to leave (you were already prepared for it more than three stops ago, slowly making your way to the doors on unsteady legs). thinking of ways to approach you that won’t immediately make you wanna run away from him, although he suspects that’s the default reaction from you.

until he figures it out, maybe he can have some fun with you in the meantime. he will change things up, sit next to you tomorrow instead of across the aisle. maybe search for the book with the most inappropriate scenes that he owns, so if you do manage to catch a glimpse of what he’s reading, you can get a little surprise, a little distraction from the never ending stream that must be your thoughts. god, he can almost see your wide eyes already, the bewildered smile you try hiding.

think of it as you guys’ first inside joke, hm? many more to come.

[angelchub]

a continuation of this

your lipgloss is smeared across your cheek from where he kissed you too hard, and your mascara’s already running a bit from how good he’s fucking you—but your voice is still soft and airy when you blink up at him and ask:

"wait—does it like... count as cardio even if I’m just layin’ here bein’ pretty?"

simon’s hips stutter against yours, his groan rough and low as it slips against your neck.

“christ, pet. you’re gonna kill me.”

he’s smirking, though. the kind of smirk you feel rather than see, all pressed against your skin like he’s trying to melt into you.

you giggle, all pleased with yourself, hands sliding lazily up his chest like you’re not even aware of the way you’re clenching around him.

“well, i do feel a bit sweaty…”

your fingers tug playfully at his dog tag.

“is that, like, a workout? or just ‘cause you’re so mean to me?”

“mean?” he huffs out a laugh, voice thick and slurred with accent and need. “you’re the one layin’ there like a fuckin’ angel, sayin’ the dumbest little things with my cock in you—’course i’m losin’ my head.”

you blink up at him, lips parting around a whine when he grinds into you a little deeper, slower.

“mmh, i was gonna wear my new pink panties today…”

your voice is dreamy, almost distracted, like it just floated up from wherever your brain’s gone.

simon’s mouth curls against your jaw.

“yeah? why didn’t you?”

“you never let me keep ‘em on anyway…”

you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, all wide-eyed and bashful-proud, and he groans again, this time downright pained.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

he dips his head and kisses you, deep and filthy, until you’re pawing at his shoulders and whining against his lips.

“if i say please real nice, will you finish inside?”

that’s what breaks him.

his rhythm falters, rough hands sliding under your thighs to push them higher, deeper, his growl all warm and wrecked against your ear.

“you want that, pet? want me to fill you up like a good girl, yeah?”

you nod so fast your head tips back against the pillows, glossy-eyed and gasping, fingers clawing at him like you need him deeper even when he’s already splitting you in half.

“mhm, yeah—makes my brain all floaty…” you sigh, content and fucked dumb.

and simon? he fuckin’ adores you like this. all sweet and soft and brainless. his pretty, spoiled thing.

[angelchub]

there’s something really compelling about johnny as a devote catholic who has hyper sexual tendencies.

sign of the cross over the man he just shot. reciting the hailmary while defusing a bomb. a thin chain that attaches to a crucifix (first communion gift from his grandfather) around his neck at all times.

and i’d like to think to most, he appears normal. model, even. a good man. straight shooter. level headed. faithful.

but catholic guilt bites ferociously at his desire for sex. capped off with a horrific feeling of contagion. filthy, lust filled thoughts- where he is the only origin. by letting another get close enough to him, he’s damning them.

but then he meets you, and cannot bring himself to care.

fucks you ceaselessly. tries every thought he grieved over and you let him. sex becomes his church, because it’s the only thing that’s seemed to welcome him for what he is. why would he pray to a god when he could fuck them?

you feel the crucifix on your back while he takes you from behind, and when he collapses onto you to rut deeper, it burns. brands the both of you in sin. and johnny, forever changed by the shape of your body, could care less.

he can be sent to hell, but not without knowing heaven, first.

[angelchub]

gaz who learns sign, and never had to use it extensively until he met your daughter. abrupt ending.

kyle’s on his designated leave grocery run, wandering the dairy section with a sparsely filled basket. he’s without earphones, a habit built from military grade anxiety and the ritual of checking his six every 10 seconds.

it’s how he hears the squeaking of her shoes.

he turns. she’s not much older than a toddler, staring at the chocolate milk and grinning from ear to ear. she whips around, but when she finds an empty space behind her, her lips morph into a pout.

the early morning grocery is empty, and kyle can’t help but worry for the small child and the large maze she’s found herself in.

approaches her slowly and asks where her parents are. she stares at him, before tapping her ear gently. his chest swells.

he sets the basket down and signs, where are your parents?

her smile could melt butter. my mom was in the bread aisle.

he nods slowly. that’s not that far away, and she’s most definitely noticed she’s missing her child by now. poor woman.

i see. let’s wait here. what’s your favorite color?

kyle entertains brief and simple conversation, mainly to distract her from her missing mother and the tears that would likely follow. it was a kind of endearing he was entirely unfamiliar with, but experiencing it for the shorter portion of a minute left him disappointed when he saw you approaching from behind an aisle.

it fizzles out, though, when you wrap her in your arms. struck by just how beautiful the two of you were.

you sign with one hand. never do that again. didn’t know where you were. i was so scared.

your daughter points to Kyle, signing, i was safe with him.

he waves sheepishly, before signing, your mom’s right. safer next to her.

you offer him a grateful smile, and speak aloud to him. your voice is as smooth as the milk that your daughter ran for. “thank you for sticking with her. you know sign?”

he shrugs. “a little.”

you nod. “im glad. not many do, must’ve been luck,” your smile softens, “for her to run into you.”

kyle brightens, before picking up his basket. the girl’s eyes brighten, pointing at it and signing wildly. kyle barely catches it, but you smile like it’s easy.

you want chocolate milk? that’s why you went away?

she nods. both of you laugh.

you adjust your daughter in your arms, before reaching through the door and grabbing a carton. the girl takes it and delightedly put it in the basket.

she glances between the two of you, and then turns to her mom and signs,

you’re wearing his favorite color.

[angelchub]

Soap is walking in the grocery store when out pops a small boy who takes one look at the Scot and is screaming. Loud high pitched kid scream. Johnny is panicking. Who? What? Why? And then the kid starts running circles around him. Spouting little kid gibberish and the soldier is frozen in place hands slightly out as if expecting an actual attack. Some kind of small child conjuring magic maybe bc the kid hasn’t stopped running around him. And then amidst his panic you peak your head around the corner to see what has your son all excited. And you laugh. Johnny is terrified and this pretty lady is laughing at him. “Hey bub relax” soft voice calling to the kid who immediately stills. “But. And. He” your son is out of breath from running “hair. Big. Hair hair hair” Johnny is still frozen in place trying to decipher what language the kid is speaking and you pull the cart around the corner and towards them. Reaching out your hand, your son runs to hold it still stammering out something that Johnny is sure are words but he’s not sure what. And the look on the grown man’s face could make you laugh he’s so confused. “Take a breath and tell him what you want to say.” And then a comically large breath comes from your son. “I like your hair mister.” And now Johnny is blushing when you take off your son’s hat to show him the flattened Mohawk that he has. “Ahhhhh.” Johnny had no clue the screams from your son were good ones. “Lil lad s’got good taste I see eh?” And now your son is giggling at his accent. And he’s trying to spike his own hair up with his hands. You lean a little closer to the stranger to explain some kids at school made fun of it. Say no more. Now he’s bending down to be eye level with the small kid and giving him the fuck them speech (he only swore once before correcting himself). And he adds “bet you could even convince your dad to rock one with ya”. And the quick causal “don’t have a dad” comes out from your son and ohhh man Johnny is in heaven bc you do now kid let me talk to your mom real quick.

[angelchub]

Captain Price doesn’t really discuss his private life, but you’ve decided that he must secretly be married. You have no evidence, except look at him, how could he not have some beautiful wife tucked away in an idyllic, rustic cottage in the countryside.

That’s the image you try to keep in mind when it’s late at night and you’re alone with John in his office. Otherwise, you’ll conjure visions of him spreading you out on top of his desk, and you are no homewrecker.

Admittedly, you haven’t been doing a great job of battling against the various temptations he throws your way. Once John starts leaning in close and casually touching you and speaking directly into your ear, all logic leaves your brain and you just indulge. Lately, he’s been dropping a few “sweetheart”’s into his conversations with you, which has got you spinning. The sanctity of marriage means something to you, though. You resolve to set some professional boundaries and stick to them.

It’s a good thing too because a week later, you finally get your first real confirmation of his secret wife. Your whole body seizes up when you overhear John confiding to his men that the missus seems to be upset with him. Pivoting in place, you scuttle back the way you came from before he realizes you’re there. You’re so embarrassed now that it’s truly been established that you’ve been flirting with a married man. After that, you avoid ever being alone with him and can barely look him in the eye, but it's for the best.

The captain seems to have a different opinion on the way you’ve settled this matter, though.

He’s got you cornered in his office, literally, with an arm pressed against the wall above you. John starts to speak of how he wants to be clear about his intentions, and you’ve got to stop him before you kiss his wonderful face that’s creeping closer and closer to yours.

“Captain Price, what about your wife?!” you blurt out, keeping your hands glued to your sides and to yourself.

John pauses, but he looks more amused than guilty. “Is that what all this has been about?” he asks with a chuckle. You get about five words into your practiced speech on how infidelity is unacceptable to you on any level when he drops a bomb on your whole scenario. “I’m not married.”

You’re floored with this new information, eyes wide and mouth agape. “W-what? But I heard you tell the others about your missus and–”

“I was referring to you, sweetheart,” he declares. Your jaw snaps shut at the interruption, and your face heats up as you start processing what this all means. “Glad we're on the same page when it comes to loyalty, though.”

You’re mortified, of course, but at least you’ve hit rock bottom with your dignity already, so it’s not much more of a stretch to next very timidly and quietly request that he place you on top of his desk. John happily obliges. Anything for his little missus.

He’ll make a Mrs. Price out of you yet.

[angelchub]

price is so stern i bet you'd be hesitant and shy, scared to step out of line. he doesn't realize the effect it has on you, sending you skittering around in circles trying to please him. he's spent his whole life surrounded by headstrong officers and bootlicking, unquestioning subordinates; he's unused to smart, sweet things like you who need a bit more, who are devoted but uncompromising in their own needs, and it just about bowls him over when you reach your limit, brow furrowing adorably when he's being just a little too mean one night, leaving you wanting just because he feels like it, and you raise your damn hand to ask if you've been bad. (of course not, you're perfect, let him mak it up to you)

[angelchub]

as above (insane in the head) so below (insane in the pussy)

[angelchub]

KYLE GARRICK X F!READER [9.4k] (18+)

synopsis. It's a long while before you give a name to this feeling, longer than it ought to take for you to realise just what it is. It's embarrassing really, that it should take you as long as it does. You'd brushed it off as admiration, that being in Kyle's orbit had crossed your wires. You never could think clearly around him, bashful, fluttery, easily mortified.

warnings. f!reader, friends to lovers, soft-hearted reader, selfship coded, piv sex minors or ageless blogs do NOT interact, you will be blocked

read on ao3

He's one of your best friends, though you'd hesitate to call yourself his.

It seems odd, at a glance, that the two of you should know each other at all, let alone interact in any capacity beyond casual pleasantries. You suppose he's just one of those guys. The ones who get on with others easily, the ones who slip into conversations without feeling like they've committed some terrible sin by daring to breathe in someone else's company. It looks seamless, the way he manages to find connection with just about anyone.

You envy it sometimes. (Envy him, too, on your more miserable days.) You'd hate him if he weren't so him. It's difficult to hold anything against him. You'd been defenceless then, too. All it had taken was a single glance your way, warm, doe eyes crinkling at the corners and you, odd, little nobody that you were – you were his before he even knew your name.

Kyle Garrick enters your life one morning during your second year at university, striking up a conversation that unspools in the minutes before your lecture starts and continues to thread through the rest of your life, seemingly endless. He's a year older, handsome in a 'stranger you see at the airport and think about for the rest of your life' sort of way and worst of all, nice.

You could handle cool indifference. You've conditioned yourself to expect the unseeing slide of a gaze over you, comfort found in the press of the wallpaper against your back, lingering on the edges of a crowd alone. You're woefully unprepared for nice.

He finds out that you've started university early and you brace yourself for the slant of his mouth in that queer way you've grown accustomed to from your peers – belittling, a mocking smile that precedes a compliment that isn't really a compliment. But you're left stammering over your words when his eyebrows rise and he simply grins at you, tilting his head as if to say, cool.

For some reason, unfathomable, unknown, he takes a liking to you. He cares to spend his time in your company, taking up space on your lumpy little couch, or kicking his socked feet up on your bed when your flatmates are taking up the living space. He comes round with CDs in his hands, coaxes you into whatever plans he's got for the night.

Golden, brilliant, beaming –

Beautiful.

It's disarming to be near him, to have the weight of his attention on you like this. Your university days are something of a blur to you, spent trying to keep yourself steady on a tightrope. You wake up most mornings feeling like a clay creation taken out of the kiln too early, shaped by clumsy hands and half formed, hairline fractures you're sure everyone notices, brittle creation glaring in the company of their perfect porcelain.

If he does, Kyle doesn't say a thing about it. Your oddities are the least of the older boy's concerns. In those days, he'd been more interested in coaxing you out of the house, or swaying you to let him inside.

You give him a few of your firsts – the ones that don't really matter, not compared to the others anyway.

Your first drink is with him, nineteen and screwing up your face at the taste of the too strong mojito he's ordered for you, alcohol sharp and burning as it makes its way down your throat, chest warming with the shots you take a little while after. He laughs at you, hand coming to clap you on the back playfully, where it rests for the remainder of the night.

After your first night out on the town, the both of you stumble to his place and fall asleep on the couch with half finished boxes of takeaway on the coffee table. You wake up in the morning with his shoulder pressed against yours, his long legs kicked up against the glass tabletop, the sight of his mismatched socks making you muffle a laugh despite the soreness in your neck.

These aren't that big, compared to the other firsts, the glaring ones that make it into every movie and book and show. First kisses and first times are only things you dream about sometimes. These, these firsts you have had, you guard zealously, protective. You don't even think Kyle knows – he might’ve discouraged your drinking so much that first night if he had, but you grin drunkenly up at him and think that as far as firsts go, you're glad these are with him.

You fall asleep on that couch a great many times in the years afterward and when he moves into his first proper place, he insists on bringing the ridiculous thing with him.

In the beginning, you'd suspected you were something of a pet project to Kyle. That feeling doesn't ever fully go away. Wretchedly, sometimes you liken yourself to a puppy, lingering by his side and attached to his hip like you haven't quite been house trained yet. You smile bashfully at strangers when he slips an arm comfortingly around your shoulders and introduces you.

There's always affection in his voice, but the roots of self pity are deep and you wonder whether the silent warning reaches everyone as clearly as it does you – that you're a little fragiler than the rest of them, that the words you say never seem to come out right, that you're - in your more awful moments, you think – a freak.

He tells his friends one time at a party, arm around your waist to keep you anchored – don't spend the entire night hiding in the bathroom, mate, I want you to have a good time, these are good people, you're gonna like them, promise – that you're brilliant. You think about it all night as you’re steered from friend to friend, introduced by Kyle, wondering if you're worth the praise.

There's not much about you that's remarkable, not that you can note, but Kyle beams, proud, and brags about you like you are. It muddles your mind and leaves you feeling breathless in a way you don't want to inspect too closely.

It's a long while before you give a name to this feeling, longer than it ought to take for you to realise just what it is.

It's embarrassing really, that it should take you as long as it does. You'd brushed it off as admiration, that being in Kyle's orbit had crossed your wires. You never could think clearly around him, bashful, fluttery, easily mortified.

It had felt like being 11 again, wide-eyed and the dawning understanding that you weren't the same as your peers, that they, along with you, saw the invisible markers that set you apart from them. Kyle, funny, brilliant and beautiful – it was like drawing too close to the sun. This proximity, to have him so close, to be able to reach out and touch him – he'd grinned at you the first time you'd leaned in to greet him with a hug, arms squeezing you tight before releasing you – this was not something you'd ever thought was in the cards for you.

He leaves you warm-faced and woozy, like waking up from a nap beneath the summer sun, head wool-stuffed and tongue dry. Still, you linger.

Strange, silly girl. Shame warms you when you turn your face into your pillow after he leaves your flat, skin burning against the fabric his hands had rested against only a while earlier, your mouth pressed to the cotton. The cologne he uses hangs in the air, dizzying, and disgust wars with devotion, your lips parting in an inhale.

In the dark of your room, you hold your own hand and long for something you cannot name.

Cruel thing that it is, the world does not wait for your cognizance.

Your university days come to a close quicker than they'd arrived and you're adrift once more, moored only by the temp job you somehow manage to get before graduation – it's better than nothing, and you don't have to leave London like you had expected.

And it would be fine, this job of yours, your flat that you spend an exorbitant amount to occupy, the dawning feelings you've been harbouring for close to half a decade, but–

Kyle enlists.

– and it feels like the beginning of the end.

You try not to let him see the tears but by then he knows you too well, has traced the features of your face with sharp eyes too many times to count. Every breath, every expression, every flutter of your eyes, he knows. You're a shit liar to begin with but it's impossible to get by him.

He goes in the end, of course. But he holds you in the back garden of your friends' house and doesn't say a word as you ruin his shirt, before he does.

Listen, I'll be alright, yeah? I've been thinking about this for some time. Don't look so sad, it'll be okay. They'll care of you, the guys in there – don't make that face, I wanted to tell you first, I just…I needed to get things organised, alright? I need to know you'll be alright while I'm gone. A laugh, when you scowl at him. I know you're an adult, love, just…humour me. I'll write you when I can, I promise, and I'll call.

It feels silly, knowing he'd gone to such lengths. More than ever, you feel the brittleness of your bones, the unsteady ground beneath your feet – a sweet gesture turns into a shard of glass, a reflection of your inadequacy. You long for it, this invincibility that the others around you seem to carry, a solidness, a strength you sorely lack.

If you were… more, perhaps he wouldn't have to make such arrangements. Your face is warm when you return inside, and you're conscious of the others' gazes, a gentleness in their arms when they tuck you into their side to continue what you now realise to be Kyle's send off.

Baby bird with an awkwardly formed wing, you're passed from one set of arms to another through the night, love taking the form of kid gloves. They mean well, you know they do. It doesn't leave you feeling any less of a mess.

Kyle's brown eyes dance in your periphery all night. You don't meet them, ashamed, disgusted by the wobbliness of your mouth, the ever teetering emotions that threaten to capsize you.

You realise, horrified, that it's love when someone brings out a cake covered in messily scribbled icing – Good luck Garrick! – and you meet his eyes over the glow of the candles.

Full lips stretch into a devastating grin and he ducks his head when the congregation begin to descend into a drunken rendition of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, your voice joining the fray in a broken warble. Over the flicker of the flames, Kyle Garrick holds your heart in his hands.

It's been his all these years and you hadn't even known.

Love takes hold and continues to bloom. The world does not stop when half your heart leaves for the other side of the world. It does not stop when he comes home, if only briefly, only to slip from your fingers once more. You rue the day John Price set sight on your friend, wish that Kyle would be selfish – come back, you want to say but you have no right to this, no right to plead him to hide with you in this bubble.

The world goes on. The years pass.

In his absences – long stretches of time before he returns home, almost always bloody and never not banged up, you enter the spring of your life. It feels like a betrayal to solidify, to bloom where he cannot see, the suggestion that you were only waiting for this – that you needed the time apart to mould yourself with wet hands once more is treasonous to your lovesick heart.

The edges of you fill out. Less and less do you feel like a ghost, still strange, still peculiar, but you bloom. No longer in stasis, no longer pinned in place by an invisible something, your twenties begin to take their course. The ground beneath your feet feels firmer and Kyle –

He remains out of reach, always a hair's breadth between your fingers and the sleeve of his jacket. Homecomings are fleeting things, short, treasured, moments before he's inevitably called away.

You love him still, how could you not? But little by little, your breaths begin to even out. Life unfolds, takes shape where you thought it never would, forming around the space in your heart where he lays, anyway.

You pass a few more firsts, some inconsequential and others momentous. Sharing shy grins over candlelit tables, presses of lips to yours, a real, proper job that makes your face ache with how widely you smile at the achievement. You make friends – friends of your own. Though you love your university friends dearly, it had been Kyle who'd introduced you to them, and it's Kyle you see in their smiles when you curl up next to them, that same brand of love you miss dearly in their arms, both comforting and stifling. It seems a silly distinction, but it eases something in your chest, a lonely, wounded part that's still unsure, still a little scared this is a fluke, that this isn't yours to have, that you get what you're given, and not an inch more.

It is yours, though. It's yours, this life you've built, the friends you've made. It's yours. It makes you glow to think about it. Precious thing that it is, you don't dare to tamper with it, fearful of it shattering if you get too greedy.

Greed – you long for more, yearn for it. The world finally delivered to you, no longer an outsider looking in, surer of yourself than you've ever been, your fingertips itch to sink into it, hungry. More, more, more.

You think of dark eyes and the only smile you've ever loved like this, and you want.

Fear though, fear stays your hand. It weighs your tongue when Kyle returns to make himself at home in your flat, fixing himself a cup of tea while you choose a movie to watch. It presses you into the opposite end of your small sofa instead of his side, legs trembling when the heat of his leg presses into your thigh.

Precious, treasured, beloved. You don't dare to tamper with this.

The years have passed, the world has changed, the both of you, too, but this remains sacred. Your want remains locked in the deepest recesses of your heart – this is one thing you cannot have.

There's a clarity to the earth you see when you're a child. The grass ever verdant, fruit sweeter on your tongue, summer yawning infinite. Kyle loses that as he grows older as most often do, eyes aging, colours muting. The grey of London seeps into his awareness with startling clarity, stifling, acrid.

The day he meets you, the world flares up around him once more, ultraviolet and vibrant. Something unlatches in him, a notch undone. His ribs expand, a full, clear breath after years of pollution. Aurora lance through the air, solar flares that burn bright against his eyes.

He's preoccupied for a long time, unable to recognise this feeling for what it is. The rush of his twenties are a whirlpool, occluding his heart from him. He knows this, though. You're not much younger than him but there's a naivety to you that he finds sweet. Endearing, even. He reasons his sudden draw to you as a need to look out for you.

(It is not philanthropy that reels him to you every few days, that tugs him to the seat beside yours in the lecture theatre. It is not the responsibility of a good samaritan that desires to hear your voice, that searches for you in every room. He thinks himself a gentleman, but he isn't that kind.)

Still, there is always something that lingers, a lump in his throat that he can't ever fully dispel. It burns when he's away, when he tucks you into a corner of his mind every time he leaves London, drives him forward when he's rappelling out of a helo, free falling through the air with the scent of blood under his nose. This thread tugs him forward, keeps him coming home.

He loathes the change – adjusts poorly to the distance. It's difficult, the inability to see you, the uncertainty of wondering, more times than he'd like, if he ever will again. Homecomings are bittersweet now, every difference magnified. He burns the first time he realises you've changed your perfume – a sweet fragrance that curls inside his lungs, so different to the one you'd reached for through your university days. The intersections of your lives diverge further and further, no longer entwined like they had been before, meeting only briefly, a cache of things to catch each other up on, stories he no longer is part of but gets to hear and deliver.

You bloom tenfold each time he sees you, petals unfurling with every visit home. There are glimpses of the girl you'd been in the days when he'd been around, sweet, shy thing when you offer a bashful grin in response to his teasing. Now, he marvels at the changes, glaring, glowing .

Love makes itself known to him in the early days of his recruitment to the 141 when he wakes up in an infirmary, a little concussed, aching all over, and your name is the first out of his mouth. His captain quirks a brow, hides the twitch of his mouth in the shoe brush moustache above his upper lip.

Didn't know you had a girl back home, Garrick.

Keen blue eyes had watched him as he'd sunk back into the hospital mattress, uncomfortable, a pained scowl twisting his lips.

Not mine, sir. Not like that, anyway.

You planning on keeping it that way?

Sir?

This line of work…you don't get many chances for a do-over.

Price hadn't said much further, but those words had taken root, anchored just below his ribs. They're glaring each time he returns home, a cacophony that only grows with each year that passes. He burns, with every pass of your glances his way, fire roaring each time he reunites with the soft mass of your body, arms winding around your softness.

The changes don't matter so much then – not when the threads of his sanity steadily begin to unravel. The fibers twist and tighten, fraught with tension, fraying one by one.

When all but the last have snapped, when the leaves have turned and fallen, when the sands have trickled down, Kyle takes the last remaining thread –

sitting in the back of a bird inbound for base, the ache of a near decade of war worn deep into his bones

– and severs it himself.

"'Lo."

Your lips part in surprise and you have to bite down the surprised squeal that bubbles up your throat. Eyes widening, you barely think before tilting yourself forward into Kyle's already open arms, a laugh punching out of his chest at the collision. He staggers backwards, nearly taking the two of you down and you clutch his shoulders.

"You ass," you exclaim, stomach dipping suddenly when he pulls you so close you're forced to press up on your toes, arms squeezing you tightly. "You didn't tell me you were coming home!"

"I wanted to surprise you, didn't I?"

He chuckles and his breath tickles the skin of your neck. The smell of soap and musk, the lingering notes of his cologne on his collar reach your nose and you tuck your face against his jaw briefly, a fleeting moment for you to savour before sense washes over you and you realise what you're doing. You draw back, mortified.

Kyle doesn't say anything, only shuffling over the threshold and kicking the door shut with you still in his arms, the two of you clumsily stepping further into your flat. You're carefully let go of after a moment longer, pools of deep ochre sweeping over your features affectionately. A sweet smile plays on his lips, unrepentant in the face of your frown.

"Consider me surprised," you mutter, shaking your head. "Did the others know?"

He shakes his head. "Haven't told them yet, otherwise they'd all be coming round. I wanted to see you first."

You try, and struggle, to mask the flip your stomach does at that. "Oh."

"Yeah," he says, eyes crinkling. "You miss me?"

You'd never been a good liar and the time apart had done little to rectify that. Your face warms immediately under his attention and strained laugh makes its way into the air as you look away.

"Course I missed you, Garrick," you murmur, moving away in the direction of your kitchen. "It's not the same without you."

He follows, kicking his trainers off and trailing after you through the hall where your dinner is cooking on the stove.

"How long are you back?" you ask, drawing up to the pot, poking a fork into the softened pasta shells.

"Little while," he answers vaguely, parking himself against the counter. "Got a bit banged up so I'll be round for a bit. Captain's orders."

You whirl around at that answer, alarmed. "You're hurt?"

No compassion for your heart, he only grins. "I'm fine, love. Promise."

You regard him a little longer, lips twisted in a frown, before you let out a breath and return to your now boiling pasta. Shaking your head, you carry the pot to your sink, watching steam rise through the air as you tip the water in. In a quiet voice, you tell him, "You know I worry."

He softens then, chastised, and you have to shrug him off when he comes up behind you, still unamused. The contrite look on his face makes your heart squeeze in its chest and you look away.

"Will you go set the table?" you mutter. "This is just about done."

He presses his lips together, as though fighting the urge to say something, before nodding. You take a moment in the kitchen to collect yourself. The flat is too small to afford you any real privacy, you can feel Kyle's presence only a few strides away, but you make do, fingers tightening on your spoon as you portion the pasta onto plates, carefully arranging the food in obvious delay until you can no longer reasonably fuss over it. You carry the plates to where he's laid out the glassware and cutlery, your favourite drinks already waiting for you alongside a puppy-eyed man who holds your heart in his hands.

"Don't be upset with me," he murmurs, a hand covering yours when you set his plate down in front of him. You're anchored to his side instead of allowed to slump into your chair at the side of the table adjacent to him, and there's a plea in his wide eyes, entreating you to soften on him.

You've never quite been able to guard yourself against it. You pause, before your palm flips upwards to kiss his. Truce. His shoulders loosen and you offer a small shake of your head.

"I was just worried. I'm happy you're home."

He lets go of your hand after a moment, eyes still on you as you take a seat.

"Yeah," he mutters, softly. "Me too."

Dinner, and the company, thaws you inside out until you're warm all over, face aching with the weight of your joy. You both remain at the table long after you've cleared your plates, unwilling to move and shatter the moment – an unreasonable part of you fears he'll be called back the moment you do. Selfish, longing, you want him here with you, even if you'll have to endure the growing numbness in your bottom for it. Your legs are pulled up, folding between you and the table as you listen to Kyle talk.

He has a way of telling tales, you realise, clinging to every syllable that his lips shape, every pause, every sigh. The sound of his voice is one you'd missed these last few months, and you barely breathe as he talks himself hoarse, not wanting to lose a moment of it.

It's worse, to have his attention on you. He's unrelenting about it, insistent on catching up with every bit of your life he's missed. You pity the others that have been on the end of his interrogation, though perhaps you've gotten off lightly. You can't imagine him reaching out to fiddle with the fabric on their pants, after all, wrapping a stray thread around his finger and letting go, only to do it again. They're likely not being poured more water when their voice gives out, fingers brushing against his when he passes the glass over.

He only interrupts you once, and it's as the hour grows later, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Wait," he says and you pause. "Come on, you've got to be uncomfortable sitting like that – don't you want to move to the sofa?"

He doesn't give you a chance to stammer out a no, no I'm okay. Standing, he pulls you with him and you're tugged forward to sink into the plush cushions of your sofa. He picks your legs up to deposit them in his lap, and your fingers curl into the fabric beneath you at the closeness.

"What about the dishes?" you mutter, face flaming and he reaches forward to brush a hand over your cheek.

"Get them later," he says, voice taking on a softer quality, almost tender, even. "I missed you, I want to hear how you've been."

You affect a casual laugh, averting your gaze when it becomes too much to bear, fixing your eyes instead on the collar of his shirt. Blue, and beautiful against his deep skin. Your favourite shirt on him.

"What else is there to say," you murmur, pressing your temple against the back of the sofa, curling up against its arm. "Not all of us are falling out of helicopters and having gunfights, Garrick."

Something flashes in his eyes at that, a little laugh breathed out into the air. Your attention snags on the gleam of his teeth, the wet press of his tongue against his lips, and you’re conscious of the way your pulse throbs.

"Good," he rumbles, an arm resting over your thighs, thumb skimming back and forth over your covered knee. Heat blooms in its path, your skin warming with every pass of his finger. "You don't need to get caught up in that business. Want you safe, here."

You hum in response and he nods decisively. His shirt sleeve rides up, and you lean forward, reaching out when you catch sight of a new scar, something in your chest pinching at the sight.

"What's this?"

He lets out a breath when your finger brushes over the raised skin and your eyes flick up to his face, meeting dark eyes much closer to you than they'd been last. His breath tickles your skin and you tense at the proximity.

"Got nicked," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't worry about it."

You frown, feeling your lip beginning to tremble, telltale signs of the waterworks to come in the pressure behind your eyes.

It’s been many years since your eyes had been opened to the consequences of a career such as Kyle’s. Imagination only went so far, a thin veil of protection between you and the threat of blood spilled, not quite real and easily banished. Easier to stomach, too. 

There had been scars on him you’d never seen before when Kyle had returned home after his first tour. You’d crowded close to him in the pub that night, tucked under his arm and pressed between his side and your friends, all clamouring to hear the deviltry he’d gotten up to with horrified fascination. 

Stiff with fright, stomach roiling and your drink untouched, you’d sat there and listened to the stories he’d relayed, voice a little rougher when he’d stumbled over the parts you suspected were too awful to give a name. The way his voice had grown a little thinner as the night went on, the too close encounters that he brushed over with forced lightness –

You had managed to keep it together right up until he’d taken you home, where you’d barely made it past the threshold of the bathroom before you’d thrown up. Bile and tears splattering against the porcelain, you’d kneeled over the toilet seat with Kyle’s hands smoothing over your back until your stomach had finally settled. 

Though he’d never named you as the reason, Kyle had stopped talking about his deployments soon after that. The reminder of his mortality grows more and more tender as you age, your tender heart only fraying more with each season where you had hoped it might calcify – if only enough to hide your worry from him. But even now, there is no corner of the world for you to shy away from him.

"You got hurt. How could I not worry?" Your voice pitches, upset.

So quickly the night threatens to take a turn, but he keeps steady, shaking his head, forehead tipping forward to press against your temple. Unshed tears burn your eyes as you press your face into his neck, trying to compose yourself.

"It's nothing, I've had worse," he tries to soothe and it only hollows the pit in your stomach. You make a noise, trying to rear back, but his hand has come to loop around your waist, keeping you close to him. Another settles on the back of your neck, warm, heavy, grounding.

"How is that meant to make me feel any better?" you demand, fingers reaching up to curl into the fabric of his shirt. He pulls back slightly and you loathe the calm on his face, the stillness that only regards you gently.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he tells you, and you scowl at that, trying to pull back. He doesn't let go. "Look at me – love, look. I'm fine. I'm home."

"You're hurt."

"It's always gonna be a risk of the job, you know that," he says quietly. Doesn't offer you platitudes, and you don't know if you wish he would or not. Your heart is too tender to bear the thought of him hurt but any placation would make you bristle. Perhaps because you know they can’t be relied on. There will always be another cut, another scar you only learn about inadvertently, wounds hidden to you but their weight evident when Kyle comes home favouring his side, uncharacteristically careful when he holds you instead of his usual exuberance. "But I'm always gonna come home to you. Haven't let you down yet, have I?"

It feels heavier, somehow, this proclamation. Like there's something you're not reading in his tone, dipping slightly, sober. But you get caught up on the words – the fallibility of such a promise.

"What about –" your voice catches in your throat, fingers fisting the shirt under you. "What about when it's in a box? Am I supposed to be happy then?"

He takes a moment too long to answer and it terrifies you when his eyes turn gentler. It's not something he hasn't already given thought. You're pushing at him before you can think, staggering off the sofa to storm into the kitchen. You can barely stand to look at him a moment longer.

Kyle only gives you a minute before he's after you. You're reaching for the sponge, wet fingers scrubbing at the pan you'd left to soak in the sink. Face twisting to hold back your tears, your hand curls tightly around the metal handle.

Warmth at your back, hands bigger than yours coax the pan back into the sink, guiding your hands under the water to wash away the suds. He doesn't say a word, head pressing into the back of your neck, thumbs swiping down the centre of your palm to wash the bubbles away.

When he speaks, the timbre of his voice breathy, you can feel the brush of his mouth against your skin.

"You'd be taken care of. I wouldn't do that to you, leave you alone like that."

Your fingers curl into fists under his, knuckles bumping against his palm. "That's not – that's not what I want, Kyle. I–"

"Will you look at me?" He turns you around anyway, hands sliding to your hips. The counter is hard against your spine as you press backwards, but he doesn't give you much room to escape him.

You stare at him and it's as though the years pass through you in a blink. Kyle fills out before your very eyes, bigger, more commanding. The boy you met at university ripples, invisible hands carving and moulding. Despite the near decade he's spent away from you, you'd always managed to cling to the image of him as he'd once been – genial, the sun in his eyes, sleeping on your couch and pressing his head against yours under awnings when the rain pushed you off the streets. Water dripping from your eyes, the two of you had laughed despite the chill clinging to your clothes.

You see it now, the man you'd caught glimpses of in the moments in between. The serious, intense set of his mouth, eyes darker than night. A reflection of a quiet emotion in his gaze. It's one you know well. It resides in the dark hollow of your chest, locked tightly away.

Kyle makes no such attempt at inhibition.

"What are you doing?" you whisper when he tilts his head downward.

Panic rears its head, doomsday too close for comfort. Desire is destruction – you're certain of it. And you want to tell him no, don't, Kyle, your worst fears poised to strike with the closing distance between your lips and his, but you long for it all the same, trembling in his arms.

"Relax," he breathes against the corner of your mouth, lips pressing into your skin sweetly. It's still damp where your tears had slipped down, and the wet press of his tongue makes your knees weak, gripping the fabric of his shirtsleeves. "You worry too much."

He dips his head, nose carving a burning trail down the slope of your jaw. Heat blooms where he touches. Your hips, your neck, your face. You're aflame, loose-limbed and weak, so close to him. He keeps you upright, hips pressing yours against the counter.

You can barely mutter a response before he continues. Perhaps he doesn't mean for you to speak at all. His words reach you thickly, a veil over you that he peels back only slightly. Disoriented, you blink at him.

"Such a sweet girl," he says quietly, ghost of a kiss pressed to your throat. "So good to me, fussing over me all the time. Course I wouldn't leave you alone – wouldn't do that to you. 'M going to take care of you – always been mine to take care of…"

"Kyle," you whisper, eyes slipping closed, and he thumbs away another tear that rolls down your cheek, chasing the salt smudge with his lips.

"Haven't always been here, haven't told you, but I'm making good on it now," he professes, pulling back. You open your eyes, meeting blurry ochre pools. "Such a good girl, waiting for me – always known, haven't you? Knew you were mine. My girl."

When he kisses you, the little thought that you'd been capable of slips downstream. You cling to the solidness of him, fingers biting into hardened muscle, jewel toned lenses over your eyes. Twilight shimmers over the small space of your kitchen and your best friend puts his mouth to yours like they should have never been apart.

You've been kissed before. Overeager, wet swipes of mouths, hot breath against your cheek that had carried the hint of wine. But this –

Kyle breathes life into you anew, soft mouth sliding against yours and you shudder. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chin makes you squirm, letting out a little gasp into his mouth. Greedy, he swallows it, tongue brushing against the seam of your lips, coaxing you open.

He mumbles something, a sighed Fuck, that slides around your shoulders and slips down your spine, pooling in the bottom of your stomach. Amber flickers in your periphery, heady, low lit want shrouding you.

How long you stand there, letting him forever change the bounds of your relationship, you don't know. He licks at your mouth like you've syrup behind your teeth, traces of his tongue smeared over your bottom lip. The very air around you shifts with his touch, fingers curling against your spine, spanning up to cradle your jaw, to open you up for him.

You're breathing hard when he pulls away, dizzy, unmoored. Up close, you can make out the thin ring of his irises, a shade lighter, inscrutable to most, known dearly to you.

No words are spoken when he leads you down the hall. On shaky legs, you let him guide you to your bedroom. The glow of your lamp greets you, and Kyle muffles his knowing laugh into the curve of your neck, teeth ghosting over the thin skin.

The shirt and trousers you have on suddenly feel lightweight and you gaze up at him through watery eyes when he turns you around. Gooseflesh ripple over your skin, and his fingertips graze the skin of your stomach, dipping below the hem of your shirt. Slow, so slow, he drags it up with deliberateness until it's lifted off your torso.

A beat passes in which you both stare at the other, silent. Kyle remains clothed and you, with trembling fingers, bring your hands to his chest. The beat of his heart travels through layers of skin and fabric to meet your fingertips, picking up when you take a half-step closer.

"You can–" he cuts himself off, inhaling shakily. He whispers, "You can take it off."

You look up at him. He meets your unsure gaze with a nod, almost solemn if not for the tender creases around his eyes, soft russet irises gazing down at you with a familiarity that settles over the raised flesh on your arms like a blanket.

Warmth pools in your face when you dare, even with his instruction, to take hold of his shirt. Under his watchful gaze you feel rather on display. It brings forth a swell of embarrassment – this is Kyle, but a shade of him previously unknown to you and in your own place stands a rabbit-hearted girl once more, your inexperience seeming to you to be written all over your face.

As if he's able to read your mind, Kyle bends forward to press his head to yours, nosing against your cheek comfortingly. It's reminiscent of the turn your nights out would take, long past midnight and the warmth in your belly from the liquor dwindling into restless laughter. Kyle, leaning his weight into you, a heavy arm slung over your shoulder on the walk home. Where you'd spend the night was dependent on whoever's flat was closest to whatever takeaway place you'd inevitably find yourselves in afterwards, hungry and getting into a drunken scuffle with the older boy when you would attempt to pay.

You'd won once, taking advantage of Kyle's distractedness at spotting your other friends on the way in and slipping inside to place your order, though sometimes you still suspected he'd let you.

The whisper of your name reels you through time back to this moment, now, and you meet the questioning set of your best friend's brows.

"What?" he's smiling, as though you're withholding a joke from him that he longs to be part of. You realise it to be in response to your own smile, unconscious and affectionate.

You shake your head, a breathy laugh expelled from your lips. Love bolsters your resolve and with renewed purpose, you grip the hem of his shirt. Bit by bit, he bares himself as you had until you stand in front of each other shirtless, chests rising and falling in tandem.

Your eyes track along the shadowed marks of injuries past, rippled, raised skin that makes your heart twist until he descends upon you once more, soft mouth claiming your attention to drive it through –

I'm here. I'm still here.

All at once you are brought back, hyperaware of the press of his chest against yours, the edges of him slotting against yours. You move in between breaths. One moment, you are standing and the next he has you settling down against the sheets, the softened linen of your untouched bed cool against your flushed skin.

He hovers over your form, a vision in amber light. You let him drag your trousers down your hips, every patch of skin exposed to the air rippling with gooseflesh, warmed once more when he bows to press his mouth against you. The softness beneath your navel jumps under his touch and he muffles a snicker against your hip, fingers petting the crease of your thigh.

When he begins to unbutton his own pants, you will your sluggish limbs to move, unclasping your worn bra with trembling fingers and dropping it over the side of your bed. Before your courage fails you, you push your underwear off too.

For a moment, Kyle pauses in front of you to stare, jeans halfway down his thighs. Nervous, your hands twitch by your sides, the urge to cover yourself growing stronger until he lets out a heavy breath, returning to undressing himself. There's a touch of urgency to his actions, pushing his clothes off uncaringly. You glow with pleasure when you realise it's so he might return to you faster.

He kneels at the side of the bed once more and greets you with a kiss like he's been parted from you for an age. You suppose he has been. This reunion feels different, charged with all the things you never said, that now lay out in the open, your vulnerabilities splayed for him to see. His own, in turn, are made known to you.

Kyle's hands cradle your face as he kisses you, big palms pressing down against your cheeks, fingers spanning your jaw and nape to draw you closer against him. The first brush of your bare chest against his has your breath hitching, gasping against his smiling mouth.

He lowers himself against you and it's then that you feel the length of him press into your thigh. You tense beneath him in surprise and ever attuned to your mood, your best friend draws back from you. The thought of him retreating has you leaning forward to cling to him, circling your arms around his shoulders.

He nearly loses his balance, planting a hand beside your head to steady himself. The other comes to your back, warmth suffusing through you under his touch. When you tuck your face into his throat, closing your eyes, Kyle curls himself over you more protectively.

"What's up?" he whispers. "You okay? We don't have to –"

You cut him off. "I want to," you insist, lifting your head to gaze at him through widened eyes. His features slacken, shoulders dropping where they'd tensed. He strokes your cheek gently, eyes searching your own.

"Then what is it?"

It feels embarrassing to admit to him when you've always felt like his little shadow, head tipped always in search of him and his exploits. In comparison your own are…not bare… but middling, perhaps. A late bloomer, your life placed on a slow burner.

"I haven't ever…"

His response comes in rapid, stunned blinks. As though he hadn't expected it, as though he finds it difficult to believe – who would I even do it with, you want to ask, surprised by his disbelief.

"Never?" he questions, voice pitching ever so slightly. You roll your bottom lip inwards, teeth worrying the skin of it as you shake your head.

"Oh," Kyle says, soundly oddly strangled. You hesitate, feeling as though your confession has soured things between you – had he been expecting something else? Did this change things?

You're beginning to gather the courage to voice this when he lets out a breath and shifts closer, thumb resuming its path across your cheek where it'd frozen in the wake of your admission.

"You don't know what you do to me, do you," he mutters, exasperatedly, dropping his forehead against yours. The air between you seems to lighten exponentially and you brave a smile, huffing out a nervous laugh.

After a bit, Kyle admits, "It's been a while for me too."

Your turn to be surprised, now. You look up at him and meet unlaughing eyes, almost shy in extending this branch.

"What, you never…" you stumble over your words, unmoored. "In all those cities you visited –?"

At that, Kyle's lips tug down into a displeased frown and he snips, though without heat, "Wasn't there for pleasure, was I?"

His eyes avert to something off to the side momentarily and he mumbles, "Work, y'know…And it's not like I was going to–" Suddenly flustered, he shakes his head, grumbling, "Whatever. Doesn't matter."

You fight back a smile, endeared, reaching up to press your lips to the corner of his own. The tension in his face slips from his as though snagged by a current, lost to the water, and he tilts his head, sighing into your mouth.

You stay like that for a moment and it feels as though you've shifted lenses, switching out the old for newer, sharper ones. The readjustment comes in shades, in soft kisses and the odd, pleased giggles you don't manage to stifle, giddiness stirring in your chest.

"Can I have you?" he asks through swollen lips, voice rough. You've all but melted back into the mattress, head cloudy. Need pools between your legs, desire smearing between your thighs.

You want to tell him he's had you . That you've been his since you were 18 and he smiled at you in the lecture theatre. That in every interaction thereafter, in whatever shape or form, you have always been his.

That the seasons have come, passed by and arrived again, that you've begun to discover new aches in places you had not thought were possible, that the ice is melting and there is a hole in the sky and the world has been turning and through all of it, it comes down to this –

You have always been his.

In the end, though, all that comes out is a simple, "You do . "

A shudder rolls through him at that. Kyle closes his eyes briefly, before surging forward to claim your mouth.

The hand on your jaw holds you to him firmly and Kyle kisses you with a vengeance. It is so distinct from the gentle press of his mouth, the slow, languid brush of his tongue over yours – this is burning. This is the weight of time passed, the culmination of the years away and stewing desire.

He bears down on you, every edge of him pinning you to the mattress as he steals your breath. You are emptied of all thought, reduced to muffled gasps and the noises he plucks from your mouth unthinkingly. It comes to him as easy as breathing, yet another skill he picks up effortlessly.

His fingers trace over your stomach. Down, over your sides and to your navel, repeating the route when your breath hitches and you shudder beneath him, muscles jumping after he brushes over a sensitive spot. His lips curve into a smile against yours and you gasp, but he does not relent. Not until you begin to whine, wrapping your hand around his wrist to push it further down.

He takes pity on you, tweaking the skin of your hip and letting out a little laugh that slips into your mouth, sinking on your tastebuds. It tastes rich, salt and thyme settling on your tongue.

The crease of your thigh is next to receive his ministrations, the sweeping path he carves from your hip stalling just a few breaths shy of where you long for it the most. By now, you've begun to drip steadily, you're sure of it, want bleeding into the sheets beneath you. When you press your thighs close, they glide together and you hear Kyle grumble above you.

It's the only warning you're given before he's pressing your legs open, a hand settling on the inside of your thigh and guiding it outwards and up, until it's slung around his hip and you're bare to him.

He pulls away from you then, eyes hazy and flickering down to where only inches separate the two of you. A breath punches out of his chest and he groans, eyes fluttering closed briefly. It's an expression you've never seen on him before, one you drink in with soft fascination, eager to be let in on another side to the person you love the most. When it comes to Kyle, you find yourself unendingly curious, always conscious of him. You can't help it – you've been attuned to his every breath since you were 18.

This devotion, you learn, is not rebuffed but met with equal vigour. Dark eyes fall on you and you have only a moment to blink up at him before a noise tumbles from your lips at the press of fingers at your entrance. The blunt press against your cunt makes you squirm, mouth falling open at the slight sting that comes with the stretch of your channel. Your vision swims and Kyle, split in two, lets out a breathless laugh.

The hand holding your leg pets your skin gently, but you can only feel the insertion of his digits – bigger than your own, certainly – where, only in your most gone moments, you'd dreamt of them touching. Reality is blunter than daydreams, and Kyle shushes you a little, dropping his head to kiss you again when you begin to whine.

"So noisy," he tuts gently, but there is only amusement in his tone. You turn teary eyes to him – when had you begun to cry? It's mortifying. He doesn't seem to mind, only pressing his lips to your wet cheek. "It's late, baby, you've got to keep quiet."

How can you be quiet when he has you like this? When the man you have loved for nearly a decade is hovering above you, his hands on you – in you – looking down on you as though he's been starved. When the stuff of your most shameful dreams, your most wretched desires, has not only come home to stoop but longed for you, too?

It is so different from those days, young and wandering the late night streets, on your way to let Kyle claim a shade of you. But here, all these years later, once more he takes a first of yours and the length of time thins until only a thin veil separates you from back then. You are so different, yet entirely the same; both the tender hearted girl and the woman steadfast in your new life.

It leaves you vulnerable and panting, tilting your face up to Kyle when he replaces his fingers with something bigger, the blunt stretch of his cock against your insides carving your breath from you with every rock of his hips. You cling to him for purchase, disoriented and dizzy. Eyes streaming, no matter how he shushes you, cradles you as the thrusts come harder, until you're jolting with every drive forward.

His brows knit together, his fingers grip your leg, the other slipping beneath your neck to hold you close. Gone is the boy who'd laughed with you and in his place, bullying your body to another orgasm – the first having arrived embarrassingly quickly after only a few strokes of his fingers – the man who'd cornered you in the kitchen to claim your mouth as his.

The sounds you're making are foreign to your ears, strangled moans, gasps that sound entirely out of place in your bedroom. Mewls too breathy to be your own – the kind you'd always thought to be a practiced form, spilling from you in repeated oh, oh – oh! 's that have Kyle goading you on, greedier with every passing second, control steadily unravelling.

It has you searching for something familiar – something known to tide you through this new, sudden change, brilliant and wonderful and terrifying. You look up through your tears, at your best friend and you beg him.

"Ky–Kyle," you whine and he dips his head forward, cooing, nosing at your cheek.

"Yeah, baby," he murmurs, sweat dripping from his brow and onto the pillow beside you. "Yeah, it's me, it's – fuck – 's me."

Him, making you feel this good. The pride of it all makes him preen, you can see it. Pure, masculine pride that you might've ribbed him for in another instance. Now, your eyes only roll back a little more, his name slipping from your lips again. You're in desperate need of an anchor, overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise in your head – you'd let him do whatever he wanted, but you needed –

"What's it, hm?"

"Need –" your breath hitches, skittering over a hiccup, utterly pitiful. "Can I –"

"What, baby?" his breathing is ragged, but he folds himself over you further, forehead pressing against yours. "Tell me."

"Kiss me," you manage to choke out, lips turning down, pleading and his hips stutter. "Please, I –"

He doesn't make you ask twice, only pulling you by the back of your neck up to him in a clumsy kiss. He kisses you like you need – like he knows you need. The hand on your neck slides up to cradle your cheek, and Kyle kisses you like he loves you, like he's breathing every bit he'd hidden in the years away into you.

And you know this, winding your arms around his neck and holding him close, until the two of you are flush and the only thing he can manage is to grind his hips into yours, reduced to a desperate tilt of his hips and the press of his mouth against yours. You know this –

He loves you, he does.

He always has.

He tells you as much when you ask him, in the quiet after you've come together, his cum sticky on your thighs and your chest pressed against his. Your limbs are loose, your head heavy above his heart. Fingers that had gripped your thigh rub apologetic circles into the sore flesh, and you look up at him.

"Did you mean it?" you ask, and he sits up a little to kiss your shoulder.

"Meant everything I said," he affirms, steady. Then, glancing away briefly, he asks, "Did you…when you said you were mine.."

You offer him a wobbly smile. "Yeah. Since we were 18, I think."

He lets out a breath, and the arm around your waist tightens. "Long time."

"It is." You bite your lip. "Is that okay?"

The smile he gives you is rueful. "Just pissed I kept you waiting so long."

"You're here now," you say, through a yawn. Kyle rucks up the blanket a little closer over your shoulder, kissing your head. You lay back down against his chest and you fiddle with the tags on his necklace. "And I…I don't know, it never felt like that."

He makes a questioning noise and you loop the metal chain around your finger.

"Dunno," you mumble. "You were gone so often, but I never felt like you were gone – from me. Not in that way. Am I making sense?"

Kyle's chest shakes a little with suppressed laughter, and it makes you huff, pressing your face to his chest to hide the smile he draws from you. "Not a bit, baby."

"I just," you pause, thinking over it. "I never felt like I didn't have you, even if it wasn't romantically."

He’s silent for a moment, long enough that the heaviness of your eyelids begins to weigh them down with no conversation to delay it further. When he answers you next, you’re startled a little by the sound.

“Good,” he says, squeezing you. His hand strokes a path over your shoulder, knuckles briefly caressing your cheek. “You did, you know. Have me.”

“I love you,” you whisper, emboldened and his hand stutters, before resuming its path.

“I love you,” he echoes, hushed. And then, just as you’re succumbing to your dreams again, a secret you only just manage to catch, he confesses something to you once more. 

“I always have, I reckon.”

this fic was conjured up when i went camping in the outback in the dead of winter last year. i was mad and cold and hungry and i ended up kind of cutting off a near decade of friendship afterwards, which is funny because reader in this is doing really well with her own decade long friendship.

anyway this took me nearly ten months to write because i find writing smut so difficult and i wanted it to be more purposeful about the emotions or whatever, because the main thing i had to go off when i was daydreaming about this scenario was the idea of letting someone you love do whatever they want to you but needing that reassurance that they still love you - tilting your head up and begging for them to kiss you because you could bear anything (even scary, if years-long desired, change) with that anchor.

so um. i hope it translated from my cold + hangry + coping mind to paper well. this is my first proper proper gaz (and cod!) fic and i'm a little nervous because i want to get him right. i hope it's received well!! he's so beautiful i am forever yearning for more fics about him, and i hope my contribution to that is good!!

the playlist for this:

edge of desire, john mayer | holocene, bon iver | return of the mack, mark morrison | south london forever, florence + the machine | towers, bon iver | wait by the river, lord huron | stop this train, john mayer | wish that you were here, florence + the machine | perth, bon iver | 29 #strafford apts, bon iver | michicant, bon iver | beth/rest, bon iver | carry me away, john mayer | kiss me, sixpence none the richer | like real people do, hozier | nfwmb, hozier | i lied, lord huron + allison ponthier

[angelchub]

Sitting disgruntled in Johnny's kitchen with a shirt you had no choice in wearing because it's either this— a deep navy cotton tee that hangs loose on your frame, his unmistakable scent wrapped around you like an uninvited guest or your own shirt which lay in his bathroom sink, sopping wet and decidedly out of commission.

The locksmith was taking their sweet time, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. You could've stood outside and braved the freezing cold misery standing by your very locked car (with your keys inside) but even you weren't so proud as to decline Johnny's offer of waiting it out at his place.

Although you almost turned right back around when he gave you a grin that showed far too many teeth at the sight of you at his front door, only to smile even wider— the carved out skin on his chin stretching taut— when his sharp gaze lingered a little too long on your chest.

"Oi."

His hands had raised up, cool-hued eyes now molten hot. "I'll be good, promise."

You'd meant to loaf around in his living room, with a scratchy, thin white towel around your shoulders for warmth but he'd have none of it, arguing that you'll catch a cold and while he'll do many things for you— the emphasis on the word many with a stare you could physically feel grazing over your face, the bare curve of your shoulder and the chipped polish on your toes was dizzying— he isn't a very good nurse.

And with Johnny, giving him rope means he'll want a cowboy.

Naturally.

It's mildly disarming, watching him flit around his kitchen, tossing whatever he has in his pan with one hand. Oddly domestic. The whistle of the kettle punctuates the air, and without missing a beat he places a lid over the pan and reaches for the cupboard. And here you'd thought he'd been raised in a barn.

"Ye will 'ave tea 'nd some scran," he says, the words thick with his accent, "And I'll 'ear none o' it."

You bite the inside of your cheek and lie. "The locksmith's going to be here soon, I've only time for tea." But of course, Johnny sniffs your bluff out and he isn't one to let it go unnoticed or unchallenged.

He slides the warm mug across the counter toward you, his roughened knuckles brushing against yours just enough to send frissons up your arm. "Aye," Johnny drawls, dragging the word out in a way that has heat crawling up your spine. "I'm sure."

Then there's a fork in your face, a piece of chicken pierced through the teeth. "If ye willnae eat, then I'll feed ye." A soft curl of steam rises from it, carrying a savory aroma that hits you square in the stomach, twisting it into knots of hunger. "Open."

It hovers too close to be casual, so you encircle his wrist, your fingertips barely encompassing it— your fingertips don't even graze each other— and tilt your head back slightly.

"It disnae bite." But by the looks of him, the blue of his irises electric in its intensity, he just might.

So you take his offering. A bit on the bland side, but completely edible.

"Not so bad, aye?" Johnny's tone is light, words sliding out with an easy lilt, but there's something about the way he says it that sets your teeth on edge. He leans back, a smarmy smile curling his lips, thoroughly enjoying this small victory.

"It needs more salt." He shrugs a bulky shoulder as he turns, picking up another piece and offers it to you.

You eye him warily. "'M watchin' my sodium." Johnny nudges the fork closer, and this time you open your mouth to tell him to piss off, or at least add more goddamn salt, but he takes advantage of the opportunity and sticks it in and it's hot. So bloody hot, it sears your tongue before you can even think to spit it out. The heat spreads, sharp and unforgiving, and you instinctively jerk back, but he grabs your face, fingers feathering along your jaw and your cheeks dip under the pressure.

Then he's blowing into your mouth and it's clumsy, frenzied, and entirely too intimate, his lips hovering just shy of yours, his nose brushing yours as he mutters a quick apology between breaths. You're caught somewhere between mortification and disbelief, your hands frozen mid-air as Johnny blows one more time before pulling away.

"Didnae think it was hot enough t'burn ye," he tosses over his shoulder. Johnny's turned away now, broad back to you, plating the food but you haven't taken your eyes off him. The way he'd quickly closed the space between you two, taken control of the situation— it's as if he knew what he'd been doing even though he pretended otherwise.

Your phone blessedly rings then, a much-needed distraction and you almost choke on the cooled chicken as you scramble to answer. Your voice comes out half-garbled as you manage to blurt, "Hello?"

The locksmith's here, finally, and you're grabbing your sodden shoes, keeping his shirt because it's incredibly soft, and being unwillingly walked to the front door.

"I'll be seein' ye, hen," he says, his gaze unapologetically focused on you. His smile still has too many teeth.

"Right. Thanks." Your tongue feels foreign in your own mouth, numb and uncooperative, and you run it along the edges of your teeth. The rain has softened into a gentle drizzle and you all but run away, shoes splashing against wet pavement, your car coming into view in seconds, the locksmith moments later.

Fucking finally.

(Not if you see him first.)

[angelchub]

whatever you do, do not bend over for anything while Soap is in the house. not for picking up a sock, not for reaching over the counter. not. for. anything. because that fiend has a knack for sensing when you're bent over because a second later, you feel your panties either pulled down or pushed to the side and he's eating that sweet pussy from the back.