rasberrybabez

[rasberrybabez]

third hour of the night

Baby Trap + Gaz x Fem!Reader | 24k

The latest brush with death opens a wound, a chasm on the underside of his ribs that hungers for something he can't discern. He eats and it’s still empty. Gorges himself tirelessly but the maw still growls for more.

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness. And his home has always been you.)

OR: Icarus tries a different approach to capture Apollo once and for all.

18+ | SMUT: dubcon. baby trapping, contraceptive tampering. emotional manipulation. brief violence, near death experiences. obsessive/possessive Gaz. jealousy. unsafe sex. breeding. implied stalking. trauma and the consequences of almost dying several times. reckless behaviour.

MASTERLIST | A03

The thing about dying is that it tends to put everything into perspective. 

Things like the fleeting, ephemeral blink of life itself. The fragility of human existence. How vulnerable this glasslike body of his really could be. 

In a matter of seconds, he would have been erased. A soot stain on the pavement where the metal frame of a small charter plane impacted the ground, bursting into flames almost instantly. Incinerating him. Melted skin, charred bone. Suffused with plastic and steel. Entombed in a crumpled husk of iron and pipedreams. 

The real cruelty, he finds, is how empty this brush with death leaves him. Gaping. A chasm. He sticks his fingers into the hole and feels nothing—

Nothing but hunger.

It happens in a blink. 

Eyes open, and he feels like Icarus. Wings of metal, feathers, and beeswax. He soars above the treeline in a seamless incline, gaining altitude over the ochreous dunes in the distance. The great pyramids that once took dominion in his field of vision were soon to be specks in his periphery. 

There's something about flying that makes him feel both endlessly invincible and damnably fragile at the same time. 

Man's hubris—

Eyes half-mast, squinting against the smoulders of the sun, he feels the heat on his skin as they grow nearer to its coruscating flames. The window is hot. He places his palm against it. Feels the tremble of the machine as it works against gravity to free itself from those stifling confines. 

Kyle’s eyes slip closed—

—and he's suddenly reminded of why hubris is defined as a defiance of the gods. 

(Nemesis rakes her nails down the metal flesh of the bird, unyielding its wiry skeleton underneath; where are your wings?—

—man, willful creatures with their desire to be within the stars; cosmogyral. and oh, she laughs—)

Like Icarus, the plane meets the sun in a hard, hateful kiss, sputtering out in a series of agonising whimpers. The cockpit screams. Howls, shrieks, warning them all of an impending doom—

(—apollo, apollo, apollo—)

And then he's falling. Weightless. Wingless. 

(too low, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull up—)

“Fuck!” The curse is garbled in his headset, nearly swallowed by the agonal hiccups of the plane nose-diving to the ground. “I don't know—I don't—” (—pull up, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull—); “we're stalling, we lost the engines, we're—”

In his periphery, he can still see the blurry blots of the pyramids smeared under the plunging freefall to the ground that Pharaohs have kissed with the soles of their feet. They flicker in and out of his line of sight, a taunting reminder that his kin don't belong in the skies. That they build from the ground up. 

Amid the chaos, Price shouts something—a warbled hiss, words stuck in the back of his throat, limping out of his pale lips in a wheeze; gravity wraps a mocking hand around his neck, giving a tight squeeze. Kyle can see the whites of his knuckles against the armrest, skin prickling with goosebumps as they're dragged back to the dirt. 

by the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return

He folds suddenly, torso flopping down over his thighs, hands screwing themselves angrily against the nape of his neck. Protective embrace. Through the angular cut of Price’s bent arm, a blue eye gleams in the flickering dark—electricity cut; the only light source inside the cabin a devastating flash of sun each time the plane rolls—and the anger there, he knows, is pasted evenly across his face. 

Fuckin’ helicopters. We'll take a bird instead. 

Hubris, he thinks, just as Price barks out, get down, Sergeant!

Survival training ensures his movements are fluid. Unconscious. He tightens his body into a ball, hiding all his fleshly organs from spilling out across the aisleway. Scarred palms cupped over his head, his stem. 

Couched into the claustrophobic space between his knees and the hard plastic of the seat in front of him, he finds he can't breathe like this. That training hadn't prepared him for the way gravity feels when it's trying to crush something into dust���but he heaves through the hypoxia, blinking furiously against the phosphenes spooling like ink blots over his eyes. 

There's a whistle in his ear, a swooping nausea in the pit of his stomach. He tastes blood in his throat. Feels the fluttering winds of his trapped heart beating against his larynx with every swallow. 

His thoughts are tangled. Knotted. The edges fray, unravel. It slips through his fingers, translucid. Weaving through the gossamer fogging through his mind. A thick, impenetrable cloud of mutinous emotions. All frothing over the other, intangible. They're drowning each other in a desperate bid to stay afloat, and Kyle can't bring himself to reach for one over the other, opting instead to save none at all. 

There's a roar. Brontide. It echoes in his head as the pyramids once again fill the entirety of his vision. Close to the earth. Close to death—

Kyle doesn't pray. Doesn't beg for forgiveness, for salvation. 

His mum might. He thinks he ought to, but where he should find repentance, sorrow, fear, he instead feels anger. Uncovers it like a forgotten relic. A childhood toy. Holds it like a knife to his throat. 

It's vicious, this fury. This rage. Consumes him from the inside out, blisters through his veins. Chokes him—

In between the apoplectic bitterness, memories flicker by. Broken, fractured remnants of a youth wasted in his grim, spiteful anger. Ironic, now, since he tastes fury, bellicostic and wrathful, in the back of his throat, bubbling up, florentis. 

Bathed in the endless red fury of his mindseye, he thinks of his mum. Standing up in church, her fingers knotted tight against a rosary as she murmured along with the passages, his father sat beside her. His brothers, and sisters. The life he led up to this point, and then—

—you. 

Life in stages. Snippets. Him, you. It rushes by in a maelstrom of want, need, and anger. 

It's short. The distance between knowing you and now charted in a paltry decade; an infinitesimal amount of time that leaves him feeling bitter, and regretful. He barely had you, and now—

Reincarnated as Icarus. Cobbled together from clay and feathers, subsumed with the ghost of a wilful man. Haunted by fate. Tortured with the endless agony of a looping, meandering death to kiss the sun and fall from grace, wingless. Scorched. 

His life is a mere echo. Smoke from a snuffed flame. 

And you— You. You, you, you:

Kyle finds you when he's running after a man through the tangled, indifferent streets of London. 

Weaving, bobbing around the crowd gathered around—clusters of tourists standing still on the sidewalk, forcing the herd to mould around them; idle passersby meandering through the throng of a Saturday afternoon rush—the man he's chasing uses them all as an obstacle. A place to hide. 

It nearly works, too. And if anyone else had been pursuing him, Kyle knows he'd have been long gone already. Seamlessly swallowed up by the rabble. 

But Kyle's different. 

For the entirety of his career, Kyle has been told he's more instinct than man. Reactive. The sort of person that was undoubtedly reincarnated from a wolf, one who used to prowl the boreal forests for musk ox and caribou. 

When people run, he just—

Chases. 

It's innate. in his blood. Instinctual. 

And everyone knows better than to run from a predator. To trigger their prey (hunt, kill, consume) response. 

So, when the man slips from his partner’s grasp and flees down the crowded streets of London, Kyle doesn't think. Not for a second. He locks his eyes on the man's back and follows. 

He cuts a jagged path down the crowded streets, using the meandering passersby to his advantage. Thrown down to the pavement as obstacles in his pursuers' way, ones meant to trip Kyle up. To gain ground, put distance between them. 

It's a futile effort in the end. He loses momentum and speed with each person he shoves, and Kyle soon closes in on him, less than an arm's length away. So close Kyle can taste the pungent burn of his cologne in the back of his throat, fingers reaching, nails grazing over the polyester fabric of his jacket, and—

You're there. Suddenly. All at once. 

Thrown, roughly, into his chest. The only thing keeping you from breaking your nose on his kevlar being your fists touching his sternum before the rest of you followed. 

Eyes wide, wild with fear, shock, you gaped up at him, blinking fast. Your pretty mouth opening, closing. The broken words swallowed down, crushed under the weight of your confusion, your fear. 

With your chin tilted up, he could see the curve of your vulnerable neck, eyes drawn to the shadows under your jaw where your heart pulsed against your skin. Vein throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. 

Reflectively, his hands jerked up. Arms locking around you, palms bracing you—one falling to the small of your back, the other cupped protectively against the nape of your neck. It brings you closer to him, pushes the endless softness of your body into his hard, unyielding armour. 

And—

Well. 

It's not often—if at all—that he loses sight of a mission. Let's himself become distracted, pulled away. And even now, he's not. Not really. He can still see man in his periphery, nothing more than a bobbing head of blond hair, and he knows that his partners are waiting for him by the entrance of an alley. Crested above the crown of your head, he sees one of them—Marcus, he thinks—jump out, tackling the man to the ground. Domhnall follows suit, gun cocked, and aimed at the struggling man's head, finger never having left the trigger once since he set off in pursuit. 

Kyle never had to give chase, anyway. But the man ran first, and—

A bad idea, really. 

The men he works with now often joke that he's more instinct than man. Chasing after moving targets like a wolf trying to run aground an elk. Under the perceived stupidity of the action lingers a honed strategy. One passed down for aeons. 

Chase, keep pace, until something gives. Something breaks. 

And it's never him. 

Until now. 

You just fit. Like you were made to be in his arms. 

Kyle knows, muted and distant; the thought all tangled up in the back of his head, that he should let go of you now. Gently nudge you on your way. Out of sight, out of mind. Go back to where the man is being wrangled into cuffs amid an agitated crowd murmuring to themselves, all trying to peek over the shoulders of the other officers, ones now congealing into an imperfect circle after spilling out of the blacked-out Tahoe parked near the curb. They'll need help to keep the crowd from fringing on their arrest. Kyle knows this. Knows, too, that he ought to join. 

But he doesn't. 

Can't. 

In the gloom of a midday drizzle, you burn. 

Bright. Ferocious. The coruscating gleam of your gaze is enough to render him to cinders at your feet. Burnt sage, sweetgrass. Bushels of charred barley. Ceremonial in this poignant unmaking; this chiseling down of his being into ash at your altar. He's swept up in it. The thick smog that congeals around you in a dense plumage of smouldering earth. Hallowed lands. 

It razes him. 

You: apollo—this devastating creature of pure light. 

He wants to bask in it. Burn his flesh on your ethereal glow. Leans in to feel the white-hot lick of flames dancing, cosmogyral, across his flesh. 

(Godlike, but you fit in his arms with an ease that belies your otherworldly splendour, that defies the partitioning between man and god—)

“Hi,” he says instead, the word chipped down to the marrow. Bare. Fractured. “You okay—?”

It's here, in this pardoning breath, where he finds the extent of your facile mortality. Beneath his hands, you're supple. Soft. Through the knitted cashmere of your sweater, he can feel the heat of your skin bleeding into his palms. His fingers clench, and he meets pillowed bone. 

You're fragile. Vulnerable. 

(a man threw you into him with an ease that prickles along his nape; chase hunt consume:

protect. shield. provide—)

Instinct, he thinks. More urge than man. Primal. Animalistic. 

Kyle can't remember the last time he felt like this way about anyone. This heavy, poignant drive to burrow his face into your neck, to breathe in the loamy scent of you, and bite down, claim. 

His teeth ache. He flexes his jaw to stem to throb under his canines. Wet, pulsing—like an infection (a heartbeat). 

As saliva floods his mouth, yours opens shallowly in a huff. 

“I'm fine,” you're saying. Dazed, windswept. “I'm—”

He clings to you harder. Knows that his grip is undoubtedly popping blood vessels under your skin like bubbles, but he needs this. Needs time. Needs you. 

A minute longer. Just a minute more—

If it hurts, you don't make any show of it. Impassive in your shock, you gaze at him. Flay him alive under the burning charcoal of your heavy stare. 

He thinks—

this is it. my apollo. 

—but someone is calling his name. Fingers pry apart his hold on you, shoving him back into the iron embrace of his peers. 

“I’ll take over, sir,” he hears through the clamour of noise. “I’ll take them to the paramedics to get checked over. You can let go now—”

“C’mon, Garrick, let go—”

The commotion heightens. Through the hands, the shoulders, the push and tug, your eyes never waver from its perch along his thundering jaw. The anxious, angry pulse of his ire blooming viciously in his veins. 

(how dare they—? how dare they touch you—)

Your mouth opens again. Soundless, but he hears it like a gunshot. 

“Go.” And then: “I'll be fine.” 

It breaks. His partner wrenches him back, stumbling under the sudden momentum as Kyle lets his fingers ease up, releasing you. You're dragged away, swallowed soon by the crowd, but like a hunting dog, he doesn't look away. Can scent you even when you're gone; a thick, earthy scent collars around your neck, and leads him back to you. 

He moves to follow it—

A hand lashes out, slams against his sternum. “Kyle! Come on, man, we got a fuckin’ criminal to detain—”

He blinks, wrenched from this reverie, this stupor. “Fuck,” he spits, tasting ash between his teeth. “Fuck—!”

“You never think,” is what his higher-ups often tell him after he sprints, full throttle, at a target within seconds of them making off. “Your performance is incredible, Garrick, but you just never think before you act—”

This isn't true. Kyle thinks a lot. All the time, really. Kyle's mind has the propensity to spin itself into exhaustion; to never cease. A constant loop. Endless spirals. 

He thinks about everything. Nothing. All of it shaded in both abstract ideas and concrete plans. 

Because the thing is: 

Kyle sees the world—or rather, situations—as a chessboard. Pieces, pawns, meant to be moved in a preordained sequence. 

But telling people who believe that the definition of subordination is waiting for the green light to trickle down from several floors above despite those men only having fragments of a puzzle is a lost cause. A battle he's never, ever won before. 

So, he relents. “Yes, sir.” 

Relents so much that his palms carry jagged crescent moons across his life and heart lines. Swallows down the fury, the rage, even though it blisters through his veins. A permanent, simmering agony burning him up from the inside out. 

Flashes a grim salute to hide the hissing vitriol as it claws up his throat, tearing tissue as it climbs, until all he tastes is blood flooding his mouth. 

“Good,” they simper. “Keep that up, and maybe one day, you'll be where I'm sitting.” 

His ambitions are worn on his skin. He feels something hot, sticky, congeal between his fingers, and knows that he'll soon be wearing a pastiche of ananke’s brode on his flesh. 

Ambition, he finds, feels like choking himself until his vision goes blurry around the edges. Until hypoxia bleeds in, dripping down his periphery in tarry black splatters. 

It feels like swallowing his tongue. Burying himself alive on his—

draw the line wherever you need to, Sergeant. 

—righteous fury. 

His palms itch,

like an infection. untreated. left to rot. gangrenous. septic. his blood is polluted. he feels the fever run, red-hot, through his veins, charring bone. 

marrow burns to ash. he finds a peculiar comfort in the fire. 

moth to a flame. maybe it's only natural, then, that he goes to find you.

The scent trail fades, erased under the stale tang of a restless crowd; admixing into the nauseating smells of London after dark. 

But where it began, he finds a flickering ember. Discovers your chevelure, and winds it around his aching palm until it hides his brode under starlight. 

Everything is murky grey, but he finds you in pure white. The cashmere sweater is a beacon, luring him in, and he hides his intentions under the guise of militaristic concern. Altruism. Crossing t’s and dotting i’s. Tells the paramedics hanging loosely around you that he has a few questions for you. Purely professional. 

They don't question him. Eagerly offer up your name, your date of birth, your address, your status. He doesn't even have to pull rank to get it. When he bites into the thought, it tastes of bittermelon. 

How easy could it have been for anyone to discover, then. To pick pieces of you between their fingers, plucking ripe cherry tomatoes off the stem. 

Kyle bites back a snarl, and offers then a wide, gleaming smile instead. Baring teeth. Says, “thanks, mate,” and weaves around them before they can see his fists shaking by his side. 

He finds you standing by the curb, curled fingers tucked tight against your temple as you survey the throng of lingering onlookers with an impassive, flat stare. Limned in hazy red and blue, you look almost like a picture. A painting. Something archaic. Special. He wants to hide you away from the prying eyes of the reporters congregating down the street, all rallying for the biggest headline on a new story. 

At the same time, though, he wants to stay aside. To watch. To let the rest of the world see you behind a thick sheet of plexiglass. Visible to their voyeuristic gazes but untouchable to all,

(bar him)

His heart thunders when you turn. Chin tipping, tucking against your pearled collar to peek over your shoulder. Even in the matte grey gloom of London, you burn. He blinks. Blinks again. 

You're turning now, brows drawing together as you struggle to piece together why he's lurking behind you like a shadow, but—

You brighten at the sight of him. Recognition chewing through megrim. Still curled into a loose fist, you lift your hand and give him a small, perfunctory wave. You must expect him to stop here, a modest, safe distance away. 

Your brows knot once more when he doesn't. When he steps, boldly, outside of the lines of societal propriety, and into your orbit. You wear this flummoxed uncertainty like a mask. Kyle finds it more endearing than he ought to. Finds, too, that he wants nothing more than to see you bare. 

“Hi,” he greets again, just shy of an arm's length away. Even with proximity, it feels too far. “You alright?” 

Breathless, you murmur: “yes,” and then, hurriedly, like you've just remembered yourself. “Thank you. For, um, catching me, I guess?” 

Catching you. The wording needles under his skin, an ugly, vicious itch he can't scratch. But he supposes that's what it looked like from the outside in. Stopping a fall. Protecting a civilian. 

You were pushed, shoved into him, and he caught you. Held you aloft as his partner took Kyle's place in the pursuit. 

So, he takes it. Smiles again, softer this time. All that rugged, boyish charm that his friends used to tease him over. 

Deadly that is, mate. Dunno how any bird can resist a smarmy fuckin’ grin like that. 

Model, ain't he? Pretty boy. Maybe you should change careers, eh? Bet Givenchy is frothing at the mouth for a looker like you. 

And it works. Of course, it does.

Hook, line—

“Had me worried there that he might have hurt your pretty face. Was proper ticked off, so I thought I'd come and check on you—”

At pretty, you duck your head shyly in response, lips warbling around a nervous smile. Eyes bright, gleaming, under the hazy smear of red and blue light. 

He makes a show of checking his phone, brows tightening at the time played in neon white. 

“Gettin’ late. You live close by? I, uh, I'd feel terrible sending you home by yourself at this hour,” there's an immediate protest on your lips. He nips it with his teeth. Gives a bashful grin. “And, ah, I like talking to you. Wouldn't mind continuing the conversation if you're interested?” 

You're burning. Grinning under a plume of demurred appeasement. Sweetened by his bold words, and the wide, boyish smile he wears. 

And—

—sinker. 

Dazedly, you offer him your hand, stammering as his thumb brushes delicately over your knuckles. Lips wet, glossy. He wants to lean down, lick across them, and taste you on his tongue. But Kyle refrains. Rocks back on his heel, reluctantly dragging himself away.

It's endearing, endlessly sweet when you unconsciously follow. Leaning forward, eyes wide and full of wonder. 

In the next beat, you give him your number. 

He takes that, too, and holds it. 

At the foot of your door, you thank him once again for catching you. The joke rolls off your loose tongue in a playful quip that he snatches up from the air, holds in the palm of his hand. 

“Anytime,” he says, softened under the pale moonlight. 

caught. catching you. 

he sees it much differently. 

to Kyle, you were a gift thrust into his unexpected hands. a pretty little box for him to unwrap, unravel. 

(his, and his alone—)

As he hits the ground, he thinks of you. 

As flames fold over his body, ripping through broken metal, he hears something crack. Hears it shatter. 

And he still thinks of you.

Kyle crawls from the burning wreckage with the bloodied, broken tips of his jagged nails digging into the scorched pavement. Emerges a phoenix. Rising from the smouldering husk of a plane mangled on the pavement with fawnlike legs and an ache in his jaw. 

Intact, he finds, but there's an echo in his head. The sound of breaking glass. Bones snapping like twigs. Something shatters. Something breaks. 

He holds his hand to his chest and knows, then, that it's not so much a fracturing of bone or tissue, but a cage. A prison. Something housing the things he'd rather not think about.

It's fine. It'll be fine. 

He crawls through the smoke to get to Price and doesn't think about the oil spill he left behind on the pavement.

Price says, “that was close,” in a tone so unbothered, so unconcerned, that Kyle has to take a moment to reacclimate himself to his trauma after being knocked so far off-kilter. Jerking back into flight or fight after that blase dismissal when the smouldering ash begins to clog the air, spewing noxious poison from the chemicals, the metals, now completely aflame.

He might think Price is numb to this, to falling from the sky like every parable of Icarus he's ever heard (if the ambitious god had metal blades instead of feathers for wings), but adrenaline makes his senses keener. Sharper. 

As the idea of his captain being an unrepentant sociopath (the jury, though, is still very much out on that one) starts to congeal from its incorporeal shadows, he catches the shake of his hands as he pats his beast pocket down for the stash of cigars he keeps on his person. 

Trembling, white-knuckled. Each pat feels much too heavy than it ought to be. Too forceful. 

He gets it, suddenly. Thinks he might understand Price in a way he didn't before. 

So, he says, “yeah.” And when it comes out far shakier than he intended, he clears the soot, the iron tang of adrenaline from the back of his throat, and adds: “a bit too close, mate.” 

In the end, they take him away on a gurney to a medical ward in a nearby city. 

Kyle isn't hurt—barring the contusions, the bone-deep bruises, the cuts, the lacerations—but they pay little attention to his protests when they poke him, prodding at his insides to find a phantom crack in the tender network of his body. 

Physically, he's fine. Nothing amiss at all. Everything is in good, working order—if a little scraped around the edges. 

They decide to keep him overnight for observation, though. The doctor's worrying about head trauma, concussions. Price, too, is forced to stay—not so much kicking and screaming, but certainly with a lot of complaining that echoes down the hall (bloody fuckin’ muppets—can’t you see I'm fine?)—and he takes a marginal amount of comfort in knowing that he's not the only one on mandatory best-rest. 

It all could be worse. 

He thinks, then, of Soap. Of the gaping wound in his head—blood spilling everywhere. Ghost leaning over him, sounding less like a human with each harrowing Johnny! that was ripped from his throat. 

The endless trawl of uncertainty as they carried him away, his hand falling from the gurney. Hanging there, pale and limp. Jostled with the movements of the medical team as they tried, desperately, to stabilise him. 

And then—

The aftermath, he supposes. 

Soap sitting up in a hospital bed, head wrapped up in stark white bandages. He smiled, laughed. Said he had too much to do to leave them now, but there was something wrong. Something—

Missing, almost. 

Gone. 

They don't speak about it, but he knows Price and Ghost feel it all the same. Must, of course, because Price is firm, unyielding, when he tells Soap to piss off somewhere for a while. Takes each excuse to the chin, stalwart in the face of Soap's pleading negotiations. 

It could be like that. Medical leave. Mandatory. Something was absent in Johnny's eyes. A hollow vacancy where hazel once burned bright in the gloom. 

Kyle places his bandaged hand on his chest, feels every brag of his heart through aching skin, and knows, somehow, that it's not the same. Not quite, but—

He thinks he might be missing something, too. He's just not sure what it is, and that—

That scares him. 

Because if he didn't feel the jagged glass digging into his flesh, he might not have known something broke free. Escaped. Fell, perhaps, to its death when the helicopter started to whine like an injured animal, barely able to limp through the sky. 

Standard procedure would dictate that he calls someone. Schedule a session with a licensed therapist the moment he gets back home, and let them determine if he's field-ready. 

But he doesn't. He thinks about Soap, and the anger in his eyes when Price told him that he was on leave, dismissing him with a simple flick of his wrist. 

“How long, cap’n?” He ground out between clenched teeth. “How long are ye sendin’ me away fer?”

And Price just levelled him with a flat look. “As long as it takes, Sergeant.” 

That was that. That was—

He's not what compels him to call you, but he does. Drags out his phone from his pocket, unlocks the (cracked, of course) screen with a shaking finger, and pulls you from his contact list. His nickname for you isn't anything special—can’t be, really, in this line of work—and it's boiled down to something so inconsequential, so mundane, that he feels a little bit untethered seeing it now. If he really did die, if he was seriously injured—

How would they know to call you when your name in his phone is simply: doves. A lingering remnant of your second meeting. 

Doves. A pretty pair perched on the curb when you met again after texting for a week, pecking idly at the scraps left behind. You surprised him, then, when you materialised out of the air, murmuring to yourself about the sorry state of them. 

Too pretty for crumbs, you lamented and reached into your pocket for a rolled-up bag of sunflower seeds. You barely paid him much mind at all, too busy scattering seeds for the birds, and watching as they scurried toward it.

It was the ease with which you moved through the world—seamless, untethered—that drew him in. The peaceful serenity that leaked from your pores, clouding around you, seemed to scour the anger that hung tight to his shoulders, hitching itself across his nape. Weighing him down. You picked the anchor up, letting him breathe for a moment through lungs that didn't feel as if they were being crushed under unfathomable pressure. All his rage accumulating right by his heart now cupped in the palms of your hands. 

You turned back to him, then, a defiant tilt to your chin as if begging him to say something about feeding pigeons on the street. Readying yourself for a fight despite the loose set to your shoulders, the flat, open palms dusted with powder from the seeds. 

Gone was the sheepish woman who tripped into his arms. In her demurring place stood a thunderclap. A lioness. 

He knew, without any sense of uncertainty, that he wanted to know more about you. Everything, if you'd let him. 

(And you had. Without any sense of hesitation or uncertainty, you—)

He stares down at your name for a moment, thoughts in tatters much too thin for him to pick out. But he feels. Too much, not enough. Arguably the worst in its abundance, in its raw, fractured ache somewhere deep in his chest. 

It's a want. A need. Desperation drapes itself over his shoulders in a way he's never felt before; all soot-stained, and foul. Rank. It smells like an infection: gangrenous and putrid, rotting tissue leaking puss. Skin sloughing off in blackened, festering clumps. The stench of it sits in his nose, clogged in the back of his throat. He can almost taste it. 

Despite its nauseating miasma, the horrid tang pooling between his teeth, there's an odd sort of comfort in it. A familiarity he can't place. 

He wonders if Soap felt this way after he woke up in the hospital with a hole gouged in his head from a bullet. Left wondering what piece of himself was torn out along with a bloodied, mangled mess of tissue, bone, brain, and grey matter that once filled the space. A vacuum the width of a thumb. A permanent pockmark on his forehead.

The thought shakes him, and drags his tender leg up to his chest, rests his forearms on his knee, ignoring the tremble in his hands, and he calls you. 

His face appears on the screen, stuffed into a box. He stares at it as the call connects, taking stock of the way he looks. 

In the gloam of an Egyptian sunset—swaths of ochre coruscating across dunes of gold; glinting off the desert sand as if the sun was trying to inch closer to this haven, the place it called home—the cuts on his face are limned, turning the colour of ripened pomegranates; crushed cherries. Highlighted under the mournful torpor of the sun, he looks worse for wear. Bruises under his eyes, framing them heavy kohl. Splotches of yellow—the same shade as a fresh bushel of wheat—halo around the worst of them, painting a striking picture of injury on the high arches of his cheekbones. 

He should angle the phone away. Sit back into the deep blue shadows and let the absence of light hide the worst of it all from your eyes. It's what he normally does. What he should do. 

But there's a hollowness on the underside of his ribs. A gaping maw that hungers for something he can't discern; rapacious. Unknowable. It wants. Yearns. 

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness. 

And his home has always been you.)

So, he calls. Waits for it to connect. And somewhere in the back of his head, he knows something isn't quite right.

But he doesn't fight it. 

Can't, really, even if he wanted to because your face appears on his screen, filled out in a perfect box. The smile is already there, blooming daffodils against dark indigo. The greeting on the tip of your tongue has a flash of pink and gleaming white splitting the tomato red of your lips apart, happiness draping itself heavily over you. 

But it falls, instantly, when he moves. Winces. You catch it, then, the unmistakable ugliness splattered across his face. Bruises framed in hazy, blood orange. Cuts illustrated by the last vestiges of a stubborn sun refusing to yield. 

Kyle dips his chin. The stitches on his forehead pull against the inflamed skin. It's the worst of it, he knows. It catches in the fading embers of an ethereal twilight, and the hitch in your breath echoes in the room. 

“What—?” The words are ashy whisper in your throat, falling over him. A rainfall of soot. 

The frown on your face is a dagger. It twists, turns. Scraps muscle from bone. Leaves a gaping hole between the milky bracket of his ribs. 

“Oh, Kyle—”

There are a multitude of things he ought to say. I'm fine, first and foremost. And it's the truth. He is. The cuts, the scraps, the bruises, all hurt less than the ache in his head, the throb in his muscles. The fallout from the adrenaline rush following the crash hurts more than anything else. 

He should calm your worry. Laugh about it in that paper-thin way he's wont to—like it doesn't bother him, doesn't hurt despite both of you knowing he'll be up all night long for the next several weeks, running along his own desire path carved between the living room and kitchen. Not thinking at all, and—

And thinking too much. 

The juxtaposition, a blatant oxymoron, will curdle in his chest, growing moss, leaking spores. He's good at pulling them out before they mushroom inside of him, burrowing deep and leaving gaping pockets behind. Scrapes them from flesh. Douses them with gasoline. Purification with fire. 

With your touch. You'll wake the next morning and find him dozing on the couch. Will rain kisses across his face, gentle and soft, before wandering away to make something for him to eat. Later, you'll drag him to the tub. Wash his body as he leans against your chest, the hollow spaces inside of him slowly filling with warm, lavender-scented water. 

He'll come back in pieces. Inchmeal. And then hold you as close as he can in bed as though he's trying to fuse your skin together. Crawl inside of you and stay in the brackets of your ribs. 

It's all—

Routine, maybe. Carved out from years of this. This slow crawl to the inevitable end, hand-in-hand. 

And yet. 

(and yet: he can't.)

Can't bring himself to reassure you when his heart is racing in his chest. A naughty child sneaking cookies off the counter when his mum isn't looking. 

“Almost died,” he offers, fractured and raw. “I—uh, shit. Sorry. I don't know. Just—needed to see you, is all.”

And it's the truth.

You feel it. You must. The urgency, the desperation. This time is not like the others. 

“No, no, Kyle. Don't—don’t apologise. Don't ever apologise, I—fuck. I'm glad you're okay, I'm—”

Pearlescent tears puddle in your lashes. You've never cried before. Not in front of him. Never. Preferring instead to bite your knuckles, to press your face into the pillow. Unwilling to let yourself ask for more than what you think you deserve.

(And it's never enough. Not to him. 

your plate is empty, you're starving. but you refuse to eat.)

And when they spill down your cheeks, he leans back with a huff. Satisfaction is whitehot in his veins and he doesn't know why. Doesn't understand how the sight of you crying over him like this almost makes him want to preen. To purr. 

Blames it on the fall. On the taste of burning metal still clogging the back of his throat. 

“I'll be fine,” is offered, scratched out of his throat with jagged nails. Birthed into the world on a whisper-soft scream. “You don't have to worry about me.” 

Your face falls. “Of course I’m going to worry about you.” 

“I promise I'm—” he chokes a bit. Tries to cover it up with a cough. The frown on your face grows, eclipsing all the prior happiness that once glowed when you first answered the phone. “I'm good. Just need some rest.”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

The tension is thick. He feels it thrum against his jugular; this living, breathing thing. This heady, undeniable agitation. 

Your worry manifests itself in the deep canyon between your brows, heavy and all-encompassing despite your attempts to hide it from him. The weight makes your lip tremble, and Kyle wants to devour your sorrow, your grief, from the source. Taste your sadness. Feel it on his tongue. 

He leans against the knotted fingers pressed tight to his windpipe until phosphenes prickle across his vision. Midnight black against burning blood orange. 

Breathlessly, he quips: “and maybe to stay away from helicopters, too.” 

The laugh you let out sounds like it's underwater. Garbled, choking for air. It's drenched in hysteria, in misery. 

He wants to crush it between his teeth, but settles, instead, hanging his head low, shoulders shaking. From the angle, he knows you'd never be able to tell if he was laughing or crying. 

(It helps, he supposes, that he doesn't know, either—

Is just slowly being consumed by this vacuum of want, one that keeps tugging at his insides, flaying pieces of himself off and dropping it into the maw. 

He wonders, then, what'll happen after he eats himself whole. Will he disappear or will the masticated scraps of himself reassemble into a Frankensteinian lump of who he once was—)

You stay like that for a moment. Both of you pretend you're not falling into pieces for all the wrong reasons.

As he's saying goodbye, you add, nonchalant, unconcerned: 

“Oh, David's calling me. I was supposed to help him pick out an outfit for a wedding.”

“David?” His tone is flat. His fingers tighten around the phone. “Who's that?”

“My friend from work. You met him, I think. He was at that party we went to. In Kent.” 

“Huh. No, I, uh, don't remember.” 

“Oh. Well, I won't be long. And I'll have my phone on me, so if you need to talk, just call, okay?” 

You're unbothered. He can understand why. Neither of you have ever really had much reason for jealousy—Kyle trusts you. Implicitly. Both of you have friends of the opposite sex, and there's never been any sense of distrust in that friendship. 

But—

David. Something about it burns through his chest, twisting and ugly. And the awful thing is, he trusts you, he does. 

You have everything except a ring, and—

Well. 

Synergy is a knife sliding across bone. Understanding skirting on the edges of his periphery, within his grasp. Obtainable. He reaches for it, clawing with eager fingers—

It breaks against his knuckles in blooming anguish, dissolving into the same gaping unknown, unknowables, that sets his teeth on edge. 

In retaliation, he sinks his fist into the wall, and tries to remember the last time he felt so out of control—

Your conversations take on a strange tone. Jovial, blase, but the topics are endlessly lour. 

Things like perhaps the lease ought to just be in your name. And maybe he should update his emergency contact—just in case. 

Just in case. 

It hangs over you like a stormcloud. Just in case. He can see it in the tremble of your lip, your fingers, ones you desperately try to hide behind sips from your chamomile tea. Faux indifference to the garishness of it all. To the fact that this is a real, pragmatic conversation that's happening, that ought to happen. Because you never know. 

But you avoid these conversations by telling him about your day. And soon, your time is divided between pretending as if seeing him hurt like this doesn't make you cry yourself to sleep at night, feigning strength despite the darkening lines under your fatigued eyes in an effort to not become a simpering burden to him when this is just another hazard of his occupation, his chosen career; and helping David search for a suit. 

And then a tie. And then shoes. The perfect wedding gift—

Kyle, too, pretends. Acts indifferent. Unbothered. As if it it doesn't irritate him. It shouldn't. He knows it shouldn't. He trusts you. Gives you free reign to every part of himself you'd ever asked to see.

Your palms are the perfect plinth to his aching head. His shoulders broad enough to carry your burdens sat right along with his own. He knows you. Jokes, sometimes, that he could pick out your soul with his eyes closed. And you volley back that no matter where life leads you, you'd always find your way to him. 

“Every lifetime,” is whispered between kisses, folded in the brackets of his ribs. “All of them. It's always you—”

So why—

Why does he feel sick to his stomach when you talk about David, as if he'd gorged himself on too much of his rage? 

(why, why, why—)

This chasm inside of him grows. Gets bigger. Hungrier. 

Where he could normally shove inside a box, ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist, he instead finds fractured glass, fragmented and broken to a jagged point. He cuts his finger on a shard, and watches, hollow, as the blood puddles up, dripping down to his split knuckles. 

He gets it, then. 

The want, the greed, the hunger will consume him from the inside out. 

But what, exactly, it wants is still a mystery. 

(But he knows himself. Knows what he shoved into that awful, putrid chasm, and is sure that whatever it is, it can't be good—)

Egypt is a distant memory soon after. An aged polaroid of sunlight spilling over sand, watery and thick; an ocean of ochre, of burnt umber. He thinks, fondly, of the locals and their chatter as it fills the sun-dried streets, with the heat, an oppressive blanket of warmth, tucking against him. 

Winter nights are static with the buzz of life. Of distant echoes of temple prayers in harmonic songs; haggling patrons and hissing vendors just outside his window. 

Kyle thinks he'll miss this place for it could have been, not what it is. 

Because what it is ends up being a cockpit in distress. Wind shrieking in his ear. The crunch of metal slamming with all its might against the cobbled pavement. The hiss of gas. 

He didn't know fire could roar like a lion until then. Until it blooms, white-hot and wild, mere inches from his face. The snarling, drooling maws of a starving pride. 

Clawing from ash, soot. Metal raining down around him, liquified under the intense blaze of the fuselage on fire. His leg twisted up in the seatbelt. Unable to get free. To get out. 

Smoke in the air. In his eyes, his nose, filling his lungs. 

He'll die, he thought. Is dying. His fingers scrape over concrete, flesh gnashing against grainy sand. Unable to get a grip on the slick blood that puddles out, staining the pavement and his hands. 

He doesn't think of you, but he feels you there on the edge of his periphery. Lingering like a phantom, reaching for him. Get out, get out, get out—

In the bloom of gunmetal smoke that plumes around him like a sweltering cloud of heat and ash, a hand appears. Covered in grit, in grime. Blood. 

“—out! We've gotta get out, Kyle. Grab my—”

Pawing in the dark, nebulous cloud, he finds Price's rough hand and latches on, hauling himself to safety. But what emerges from the soot, the smoke, is a version of himself that feels raw, fractured. 

He's agitated. Leg bouncing, restless. 

Price notices it on the plane ride home, eyes slanting over to stare, pointedly, at the continuous bob of his knee. Up, down, up, down. Kyle should hide it. Bite the inside of his cheek until it bleeds instead, but he doesn't. 

It won't be enough to stem this urge to run, to flee. 

“Almost home,” Price huffs, shifting in his seat. He, too, seems to feel that same prickling sense of unease. Kyle lets it wash over him. Not quite a comfort, but something. “Get some rest, Sergeant.”

At that, he scoffs. “Feels like I've been doing nothing but resting, cap.”

“Mm, you're young. Take advantage of it while you can.” 

As Kyle rolls his eyes at that, Price makes an aborted move, hand jerking to his breast pocket as the plane rocks over a patch of clouds, turbulence shaking the frame. Searching for his cigars. Then angrily throws his hand down, fingers tight around the armrest, white-knuckled, when he remembers he can't smoke here. 

“Might be a good time to quit,” he quips, chin jutting toward his hand, fingertips turning pink with the grip he has on the plastic. 

Price follows his gaze, staring at his hand for a beat. And then he snorts, and pries his fingers loose. 

“Nah, ‘m too old for that nonsense—” Kyle’s brows buoy, but he swallows down the harsh retort on his tongue (aren't you only thirty-eight, mate?), letting Price continue, uninterrupted. “‘sides, will probably need it once we land.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

He grunts, and settles into the seat. The look he fixes Kyle with feels like having a cold, metal blade pressed to his jugular. 

“Gonna have to make a report, Sergeant. Falling from a bird twice now? And what's this? Third time for you? They'll want a review. Full. Will probably make us talk to a doctor or somethin’.” He cocks his head to the side, presses his pink knuckles to his temple. “Make sure we're all right up here.” 

Kyle flinches. Tries to hide it with a cough when Price’s eyes tighten. 

He's not sure he wants to do any of that. Have someone crack his head open and rummage around looking for defects to toss in his face later on as an excuse to kick him out. Medical discharge. Honourable, they'll say. An early retirement. 

“And—” he swallows down the bitterness on his tongue. “And if we just didn't—”

“Can't do that, Sergeant.”

He struck for a moment. Anger quivers in his veins, rearing up like a viper ready to strike. He has to wonder if it was Ghost or Soap, would Price—

“Believe me,” he continues, eyes fixed on the open cockpit. Intense. “If it was just us, if it was one of our own, I'd have said piss on it. As long as none of you were seriously injured, why bother wasting time? But we have to be held accountable now.” 

If it was one of our own—

“Right,” he rasps, hollow. Anger scorches his insides. “Okay.” 

“Believe me, Sergeant. I want nothing more than to go home, and drink this whole bloody mess away, but—”

“I get it, cap.” 

And he does. He's just not sure he can really talk about it in a way that won't show the world the gaping hole in his chest, the hairline fractures that crisscross along him, all screaming the same thing—

Terrain, terrain, pull up. Pull up. Terrain, terrain—

“Gotta let it go, Kyle.” 

All he sees is fog. Fire crackling from within. 

“And if I can't, captain?”

“Then it's been a pleasure working with you.” Kyle swallows again, blinking furiously against the dense cloud of smoke in front of him. “I know the commander at Scotland Yard. Could put in a good word for you. Might be for the best.” 

Anger is a poison, he finds, but fear—

Fear is quicker. A knife to his heart. Left bleeding on the pavement before he knew what hit him. 

“Or…” Price drawls. “Hide it away. Nothing bad happened, did it? You're still alive.” 

Another hand appears from the midst of the fog. 

He reaches for it. 

“How?” 

“Lots of ways. Best one I find is to just give in to whatever it is you're feeling. Let it consume you. Then just bury it.”

“Right,” he whispers, paper-thin. But he gets it now. “Thanks, cap.”

“Anytime, Kyle.” 

He does as Price asks. Buries it deep inside of himself, and greets you when you come to pick him up at the airport with a wide grin, and a tight hug. Pulling you flush into his body, breathing in the scent of you until it stains his lungs. Sickeningly sweet. 

“I missed you,” you whisper into his neck, words humid against his skin. “So, so fucking much Kyle—”

“Yeah,” he rumbles, caught on the feeling your chest makes when it heaves against his. Little, breathless hiccups of relief, worry. Elation. Fear. It tastes good in the back of his throat when he steals another lungful of your scent. “I missed you, too. Fuck, dovie. Don't know how much I fuckin’ missed you.”

He clings just a little bit tighter to you, holds on a few moments longer than he normally would. Leeches the comfort your presence brings like he's starved for it. Kyle breathes in the scent of you—lemongrass and fennel; sweet and earthy—and feels that gaping wound inside of him close, just a little bit, when you fold him into a tight embrace, letting the vice of your grip speak the words he knows you'll never utter. 

Things like, please, don't ever do this to me again; and, don't go, Kyle. Please don't—

There's a multitude of things he wants to say to you. An endless bastion of sorrow and happiness and grief and elation all coalescing into this heavy anchor that hangs off his rib, pulling him down, down, down—

But he can't speak through the pulsing want in his throat. The urge to bite, to sink his teeth into you and never let go. 

So, he doesn't.

He holds you back instead, presses your soft cheek to where it aches the most, and buries his nose into your crown. 

Tries to satiate himself on the potency of your scent, the way it fills his lungs to bursting, and pretends the gnawing feeling in the pit of his chest is a purr and not a growl. 

The ravenous roar of a starving beast, hungering for something Kyle can't name. 

(He wonders if Soap felt this vacuum inside of himself, too.)

The comedown of the mission is spent with you tendering his wounds, and pressing trembling fingers to his pulse just to remind yourself that he's alive, that he's here with you. Present as warm flesh instead of a cold box full of ashes. 

In these soft, aching moments, he's forced to contend with the fact that he almost died. Again—

—(the word echoing in the recess of his mind, over and over; an accumulation of all those incredible near-misses)—

Almost left you alone in this world with nothing but broken, fragmented memories that would eventually fade. Fingerprints on a rusted handrail. Tangled in a gossamer of time, nearly forgotten as you grew older. Changed. He'd be the ex-boyfriend lost tragically. The one who died too soon. 

Someone else, he knows, would take his place when the grief took shape, becoming a corporeal feeling you could tuck away inside your pocket instead of a molten shadow burning you up from the inside out. Ever present. 

And that's the thought he gets stuck on. The one that cuts through him the most. 

You—his girl—belonging to someone else. Going on dates, kissing each other, laughing together. Falling in love. 

It's selfish to want you to stay single for the rest of your life should anything happen to him. Impractical, too. But it needles under his skin. An itch he can't scratch. A want he can't satiate. 

It won't even matter much when he's gone. He knows this. But it bothers him relentlessly. Souring his mood for days. Making him retreat, inward, to dismantle this unfathomable feeling taking root inside his chest. This bitterness, this anger. 

The thing about dying is that it tends to put things into perspective. 

Most common of all, he's told, is the fragility of the human existence, of life itself. Such a shallow thing, in retrospect. Barely a droplet in the unfathomable vastitude of time, and yet—

Something he never really thought about until it was unceremoniously thrown in his face. 

It's this, the sudden realisation that he's not as invincible as he's often tricked into thinking, that seems to shake the foundations of his life in ways that would be unthinkable to the him that lived weeks before his brush with death. But that man, that version of him, is swallowed whole by the unrelenting fear that pulses through him each time it passes through his mind. 

A fear of one thing:

Permanence. 

Or, rather, the lack thereof.

Memories will be all you have left of him, and, well—

That simply won't do. 

But the problem is this:

He doesn't know how to fix it. Doesn't know, really, how to stem this nauseating desire, this urge to own, possess, consume that roils through his chest each time he catches a glimpse of you unawares, tending to some mundane task. 

The idea of you floating through life without him is not a poison, but a fear. A whitehot agony that trickles down his spine. They're all thoughts that gut him, that make him agitated. Restless. He paces again, roaming from the foyer to the living room, feeling too much like a trapped animal. A snarling tiger in a zoo. He needs an out. An escape—

So he runs. 

And sometimes, you join him in the mornings before you have to go to work, setting out for a jog around the block in tandem. There's a quiet ambience to these outings, a comfort that makes him sigh—relieved, in parts, that the ache in his jaw, an unfamiliar urge to bite, abates in your presence. Your proximity is the balm to a hurt he didn't know he had. 

Most times, though, he's alone. Left with his thoughts and the taste of iron in his throat as he paces the streets of Birmingham with a lour twist to his lips and a tightness in his shoulders he tries to shake out by running his body to the ground. Replacing the ache in his stomach with one in his thighs, his hamstrings. His lungs. Breathes in the humid air of a midsummer morning until they feel like they might burst. 

It works. Marginally. Helps in the same way he's sure chamomile tea before bed does for an insomniac. But it's something. Something to suckle on until the quiver in his guts, the gnawing chasm in his belly, abates. Surrendering—albeit, mutinously—as the heavy taste of iron floods the back of his throat, and lactic acid leaves him groaning in the morning when he swings his sore, overworked muscles over the ledge of the bed. 

Kyle's in perfect health. Peak physical condition. The burn in his thighs, the tremble in his knees, is a sign of pushing himself too hard. Of edging to the very brink. 

But he can't stop. 

Not when his body hums like a livewire. Vitriol coursing through his veins, seeping into his tissue. Infecting him from within until he's irascible. Always on the edge. Always tense. Agitated. 

Everything feels like it's plunged underwater. As if he's staring down into the pool of an emerald lake, watching from above on dry land as the world goes on. 

(A place, now, where he doesn't belong.)

He knows all too well that this is just a duct tape solution to a bigger, more devastating problem, but opening the floodgates without a sluice will drown him under the crushing weight of what rushes out. 

It just makes sense, then, to bury it. 

The problem is: 

The tinderbox where these awful thoughts, this anger, went to moulder has been crushed, broken to pieces when he fell back to earth. 

He has nowhere to put them anymore. 

So he keeps them between his teeth, but being so close to you makes him want to bite—

(Bad dog. 

Let it go, drop it. Let it—)

Something has to give.

He calls Price. 

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help. 

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar. 

He calls Price. 

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help. 

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone was balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar. 

“Better be important, Garrick. It's the weekend.”

“Crime doesn't work nine to five, captain. Thought you knew that better than anyone. Must be getting soft.”

“Soft,” he repeats with a derisive snort. In the background, he hears peals of laughter, the distant echo of, only thing soft about you is your midsection, honey. A grunt. A thwap. A squeal. 

This must be his wife, Kyle realises. The one he never speaks about directly, but can't stop bringing up in his own way. Home, he calls her. I’m going home. I'll be home for the weekend, don't bother me. Home is missing me, I reckon. Better pack it in, then, boys. 

They learned this only a few short weeks into knowing Price. Home, to him, is a person. Her. His wife. The echo, the silhouette; the one who lives in the brim of his hat, the end of his cigar. The scabs on his knuckles. 

The one he left at the door when had to beat a man, a father, for information. Picked up with bruised, shaking hands as soon as he was finished. Kept tight in his breast pocket. 

This little glimpse into his captain's life, heard through the tinny phone, makes Kyle swallow down his jealousy. The nausea. It's all so—

Sweet. Domestic. 

“Get outta here, this is a business call—” comes the brusque rasp, pulled away from the phone, and Kyle heaves out a breath. The voice comes back, gruffer than before. All tenderness shelved back in that box labelled only for her. “This better not be a business call, Garrick.”

“Been thinking about what you said,” he murmurs, and lets his head fall against the wood frame with a thud that rattles through his teeth. “About—lines, you know. And where to draw them.”

“Ah,” Price grouses, huffing. “So this is a work call, then.”

“Dunno, honestly, cap. Just—I don't know. I don't—”

“You bothered me on a Sunday, Garrick. Better know quickly—”

“How do you do it? Going out each time when you—with your—”

“Mm,” he steamrolls over Kyle's floundering question, humming deep in his chest. “I was wondering when this might come up.”

“Were you? Was that before or after the second helicopter crash?”

“Before, smartass—”

“Right. And? Any sage wisdom to impart on me, sir?”

He sucks in a breath. “What's botherin’ you, Gaz?”

Kyle blinks, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. In retrospect, he supposes he should have expected it. Price is nothing if not brusque. 

“My girl,” he murmurs, quiet. Soft. As if it was meant to be a secret. “I just. I don't want to leave—leave her alone,” he thinks of David and has to fight back the dizzying anger that burns through his veins. “I know what this job entails, and I can do it, but—”

“So don't.” 

“Don't what? Don't die? That's a little unhelpful considering what we do, cap—”

“No. Don't leave her alone, Gaz. That's really all you can do.”

The thing is, he's sure Price means something sentimental, something metaphorical, like memories. Pictures, videos. Time spent together. 

But Kyle has never been much for abstracts in the past. Prefers, instead, the concretes. The tangible. The corporeal. Things he can touch. Feel. 

“My wife is expectin’. Has me running around the goddamn city for banh mi so unless there's anything else to add, sergeant—”

Expecting. He knew, of course. Despite Price saying very little at all about his wife, the silence has always been loud. Black and white ultrasound photos, phone calls. Dates scribbled down on the Staples calendar he has spread out on his desk in the office. He misses almost all of them—too busy running drills with new recruits, or on the field (or yelling—you did what, you fuckin’ Muppet?!—at Soap through the phone following his recovery leave somewhere that's need to know, according to Ghost)—but every time, Kyle catches him sneaking away, phone trapped in the crook of his shoulder and ear, muttering low, gravelly, into the receiver. 

Yeah, how'd it go? Everything good? Good. That's—

The silence, Kyle finds, is telling. 

His own, too, because this revelation seems to have knocked the air from his lungs. He can't—

Can't speak. Not yet. Not now. 

Expecting. It's—

A thought. Not particularly something he'd ever really considered much himself. He comes from a large, overbearing family. Functions, dinners. Holidays. All spent crammed into his grandma’s house in Pelham. The unequivocal centrefold. The matriarch of the family. 

Caught in the indivisible lines of oldest (between just his parents) and middle child (when including his two half-brothers on his father's side, and a half-sister on his mother's), he's no stranger to a big family. Something he's always wanted for himself, too. A little inkling in the back of his head that rears, purring in contentment whenever they all get together for Sunday dinners at Grandma's house and he's full of good food, lazing on the couch as his family bickers amongst each other over a game of monopoly (his older brother is always the banker, and always, always, cheats with his two younger sisters—twins, go figure). 

And his older sister, too, is expecting. Had poked your stomach three weeks ago, teasing, and when can we expect one from Gazzy?

He didn't think about it much—snapped at her for using his military callsign, kissed your temple as you sputtered at her cackling laughter, and then ducked into the kitchen to help his dad cut into the pie the twins, Lolly and Lucy, had made. 

(Made, though, as in popping into Tesco and making the decision to buy it.)

And now—

“No, uh…” He swallows. Swallows again. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. Realises, when his hands start to shake and his heart slams into the brackets of his ribs, that it's adrenaline. Excitement. 

“Sure,” he rasps out, words slick, tacky with his blood. “I'll, uh, give her just that, cap. And—enjoy your sandwiches.” 

“Oh,” he breathes out suddenly, sharp. Deep. “I will. Goodnight, Kyle.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Night, sir.”

He says, with all the casualness he can muster, “remember Price? John Price? Yeah, his, uh, his wife is expecting.” 

“Oh,” it rings like a gunshot. Your chopstick clangs against the tin of spicy mapo tofu. “That's—wow. A baby, huh? A whole—”

You swallow. Kids are not something either of you gave much thought to. Couldn't with his odd hours, gaping absences, and your school schedule. Nothing ever fit together back then; jagged edges of a puzzle. Lock and key forced to fit. 

But now. 

Now—

He folds a smile into the crease of his napkin. “Yeah. Price as a dad, huh? Reckon he'd be good at it.”

It makes you snort. “You think so?” 

“He's, uh, complicated. But—a good man.” Somewhat. Maybe. “Kids, though.” He lets the wistfulness in his tone carry the burden for him, content to simply exist in this moment with you. Let it saturate the air, perfumed in his longing. 

You breathe it in. This heavy, noxious miasma. 

“Must be great,” he adds, reaching for another piece of siumai. “Bein’ a dad an’ all. Lucky man.” 

Over a steaming plate of mapo tofu, he watches as your expression falls inward. Contemplative. 

You know him enough to understand that he's talking about it because it means something to him. That there's a hidden want tucked neatly inside the words he says, whispered echoes of the ones he doesn't. Won't. 

And he knows you well enough to know that you'll be ruminating on this tenfold. Replaying the conversation in your head like an old rerun. Over and over again. Needling away at the cadence, the words, until you find something worth digging into further.

(The conclusion, of course, has been laid out from the beginning. 

He just wishes he had the wherewithal to see it much earlier through the smoke.)

He licks his finger, and hums around the meaty oil smeared over his tongue. 

All pawns on a chessboard. In the gap, he inches his bishop forward. 

Slow. Steady. 

But you cut him off with your knight. 

“Kids are a big commitment,” you're mumbling in between bites of bittermelon drizzled with honey. “And considering the nature of your job—” the slipup forfeits your pawn. You pretend not to notice. “h–his. Uh, his job. I just—”

There's a piece of pale green rind between your teeth. It slips down your tooth when you speak, dropping down to your lip like a flake of fallen snow. 

You swallow. Lick your lips. The slide of your tongue drags away the fruit. Like it wasn't even there to begin with. 

When you speak, it's softer. Barely a whisper. He wishes you'd yell instead. Scream. It doesn't tremble past a few, gentle decibels. 

“—is that really for the best?”

(is it feasible for us?)

Kyle sucks in a breath between his teeth. He knows he has to tread carefully here. The ground beneath his feet was as fragile as eggshells. One misstep—

“Does it matter?” He volleys, paper-thin. “If it's something we—” he comes to a stop, a sudden halt. 

Manufacturing a Freudian slip is easier said than done but somehow he does it with ease. Bashful, then. Sheepish. Like he accidentally flashed you his hand. Revealed his secrets. He ducks his head—the vision of embarrassment, now—but it's multifaceted. The move serves to leave the impression of fractured vulnerability. Bares his soul, and all his broken, naked wants with it. But it also gives you a horrific glimpse at the ugly, marbled bruise still popcorned along his cheekbones, his jaw. The tear in his ear, scarred over into a black valley bracketed by red canyons. 

Raw, splintered, he adds: “if it's something they want, why does the rest matter?”

The silence that follows is long. Oppressive. It comes about with a swiftness he doesn't anticipate, and spends a considerable amount of time debating whether or not leaving it is the right choice. It's unlike him to be so uncertain. So hesitant. 

But this, he reasons, is different than getting a pretty girls number under dubious circumstances, or finessing your landlord into not renewing your lease. This is bigger than the games he played in the past. More is at stake here. 

So, he holds. 

Watches, quietly, as you fold under the pressure. “It's just—it's a big commitment, right?” 

He latches onto your uncertainty with his teeth. 

“If you're serious about it—like they are about each other—then what's the problem? I think they'll be fine,” he shrugs, blase. Indifferent. Winces when it pricks against the scab on his collarbone. “‘sides, it ain't like Price is gettin’ any younger. Man's been itchin’ for a family of his own for a long time. Might be the best time, too, considering the man's luck with—uh—”

He coughs into the top of his curled fist when you flinch at his callous implication. 

“—just… he's reckless, is all. Might mellow him out. Keep his head on straight if he knows what he has to come home to, and what he'd be leaving behind if he didn't.” Another shrug. “Could be a good thing for him in the long run.”

You take flight as soon as it steals away his piece. Fleeting. Retreating. 

You should know better than that. 

Kyle always chases the things that run—

It leads him to a pub downtown. 

David—fucking David—sits on the stool beside you, sipping on a flat draft, and laughing at something you're saying. 

It's innocuous, really. Nothing untoward. No immediate reason for his hackles to raise, hair standing on end like he's under threat. 

But he feels it in his bones. Gnarled fingers grazed over his flesh. A warning. Sirens wail in the back of his head, and his stomach drops like he's back in the airplane, the helicopter, all over again. Plummeting to earth. G-force flattening him against whining metal—

He's too close, is the problem. 

Curled over you like he's trying to keep you a secret from the rest of the world. Something Kyle knows well—intimately—because he does it, too. Tucks you into his side, barely letting anyone get a glimpse of you. To see you. They can imagine, sure. And sometimes he likes to pull back a little just to let a peak of you be seen only to swallow you back up under his bulk. A taunt, a tease. Waggishly waving his finger at the naughty person who dared look at his sun, his Apollo, without permission. 

To see it like this, from the outside looking in—a mere spectator when he's been teaching his hand up toward you for what feels like his entire life—is infuriating. It's voyeuristic, he finds, catching a glimpse of you from the triangular window of the man's arm—elbow on the table, cheek perched on his knuckles. All Kyle can do is squint into this little opening, catching the aftertaste of your smile. 

And the problem is, he's entirely too aware of every overprotective boyfriend clichè that exists. Knows, very well, when it stops being cute and becomes an issue. Borderline abusive. Gross. Restraining order worthy. 

You're allowed to smile at men who aren't him. To drink with them in fancy restaurants wearing a dress that he picked out. It's fine. He doesn't care. You do it often, honestly. There's something about you that draws people in. Like looking up at the warm sun after a long, dark winter. It's unavoidable. Expected, even. 

But—

Fucking David seems to be the exception to his patience. To his goodwill. 

Maybe it's the way he pushes your glass toward you, muttering drink up under his breath. Or the way he leans in when you move back. Following you despite the obvious signs not to. Pursuing you—

Even though he knows, very well, that you have a boyfriend. 

It's the arrogance, he thinks. 

(Or one predator sniffing out the stench of another; lions prowling around the same lioness—)

He doesn't realise he's sneering until you catch his gaze from between David's arm. Feels it then, when he has to let his muscles lax into a smile. Easy, effortless. Just like the one you give him in turn. 

Soft, tender around the edges. Melting into happiness within seconds. A rare treat you give no one but him—

A fact that makes David jerk in his seat slightly. Maybe elated by this new look, the simmering heat in your eyes is warm enough to make someone sweat.

Whatever happiness he feels is dashed, though, when he realises your eyes are focused over his shoulder, away from him. Quietly, David turns in his seat, craning his neck over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what caught your attention so much, and—

It's real sweet, he finds, the way the haughty look on David's face falls, breaking on impact, the moment he locks eyes with Kyle. Shifting into shock, into unease. Flinching almost instinctively, driven to run out of fear. 

Like he knows. 

And Kyle grins. Gives that boyish smile you tell him, repeatedly, that you fell in love with—soft edges, dimples; lips stretched wide over his fangled canines—and watches the satisfaction drip down David's brow as you extricate yourself from his shadow, and are pulled, magnetic, to Kyle’s side. 

Where you belong. 

But more than that, where you choose to be. 

The weather outside is notably warmer this time of year than it should be, and it sticks, syrupy and warm, to his skin as he sips from his third bottle of San Miguel and picks at the leftovers of your shrimp scampi. 

Across from him, David nurses on a ginger and rye, and murmurs to you about something—a show, he thinks—that he isn't privy to. 

It's been like this for the last two hours they've sat out on the patio. Not quite an exclusion, not really. You do your best to keep him within this little cosm David is trying so hard to build, interrupting him quietly when he goes on long-winded tangents about something that Kyle isn't aware of, and filling in the blanks. 

(it's a reality TV show. we watched something similar, you remember? just like First Dates—)

But he's an outlier here. Gone too much to invest in a show with you like David is, a new addition to your usual friend group. It's never been something he's cared about before. Why stop you from enjoying a show when he's carted away to Mexico or Chicago on another mission, the end date undetermined. Until it's fuckin’ finished, Price used to gripe when he asked. Until we end it. 

It can't be helped. But his hands tighten around the bottle, warmed under his palm. Condescension bleeding in rivulets down the neck, drenching his skin. He's angry. Suddenly, viciously. Filled with a sense of irritation that drums up from deep within his chest as David plucks little inside jokes out of nothing, making you laugh, and laugh, and then turn to whisper in his ear about what they mean. 

It isn't your fault. It's a catalyst to dating a man halfway out the door on most days, but it itches. Prickles under his skin. Selfishly wanting you all to himself, to fawn over him, and laugh at these little jokes he makes, leaving David on the fringes instead. 

Childish. Or—

He'd think so if David didn't shift his gaze toward him each time it happened, lips quirking in a small, satisfied grin. Cats, he thinks. Little yellow canaries. Tries to pull some sense of normalcy from the frothing geysers that roil in his belly, anger sloshing over the basin, drenching everything in a molten ire. Anger. Blisteringly hot. 

It scalds him. Scorches his insides as David laughs, again, at a movie Kyle was too busy in Macedonia to see. 

When you explain that to David, he cuts a sudden grin at him. “Gone a lot, aren't you?” 

And a tension thickens in the air. Drapes around his shoulders, his brow. 

“Work, yeah,” it comes out as two, rough grunts. A warning. Stay back. 

But David curls his fingers over the rusting wrought iron, peering inside. “Work, hmm? Heard you were military—” his eyes flicker to you briefly, like this is something that might get you in trouble for divulging to a stranger, but they're back on Kyle before he can say anything about it. Something like, don't fucking look at her—

“David,” is what you say, low and soft, and tinged with exasperation like this is an old conversation that keeps popping up, an uninvited guest you can't seem to shake. 

The warning is ignored again. Coming from him, he almost understands. Could respect his contumaciousness, even, but you? It makes his hackles raise. A flare of anger pooling in the grizzle, the filament, that holds his knuckles together. 

He keeps himself composed. Somehow. Tempers down that urge to bite, to break things, even as David leans back, shrugging. 

“Military,” he says again, but this time his lip curls. “Can't imagine you're very well-liked anymore. Considering the state of the world and all.”

His fingers tighten against the bottle. “Yeah,” he bites, grins. Knows it's feral. Ugly. Lip curling over a single canine. “Can't really say I'm in it too much for how well-liked I am.” 

“Oh no? Not in it for the glory. The prestige. What do Americans like to say? Thank you for your service—”

“—David!” Your voice comes out sharp. A reprimand. Brows knotting tight together. “That's not—”

“What I do won't end up on the news,” he interjects, and brings his other hand down over your thigh. The sight makes David sniff, glancing away. Anger writ on his brow. Jealousy mouldering in his eyes. Kyle tries not to laugh. “And if it does, it's usually after the bad guy is in the ground, and you find out about it sitting at a desk, twiddling your thumbs all day.” 

The table falls silent. 

He brings the beer to his lips, taking a generous gulp. Something dark curls in his guts even as David's satisfied smile dwindles. 

He sends you home first, watching David move towards the washroom from the corner of his eye. 

“You'll be back tonight?” 

“Mmhm. Just gonna go for a quick run. Gotta stop and pick up some razors, too.” His hand comes up, fingers scratching at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Gettin’ a shadow.” 

“A run, huh?” You don't believe him, but he knows you. Knows you won't fight him too much on it—especially when you think David already left. “And I dunno. A beard might look good on you.”

“Might,” he scoffs before leaning down, pressing a quick kiss to your cupid's bow. “Might not, too.” 

“Think you'd look good in anything. Moustache. Beard. Bald. I'm not picky.”

“No, ‘course no,” he teases and holds the door open as you climb inside. “My unpicky girl.” 

“That's not a word.” 

“Sure it is. Word of the week for Oxford, wasn't it?” 

Your words are swallowed up when the taxi driver asks if you're ready to go. You give him a nod, and Kyle a smile. He watches, lingering by the curb until you're out of sight. 

And then his smile drops. His hands curl into fists. He cranes his head over his shoulder, eyes riveted to the washroom door. 

There's a choice here, he thinks. Get the shaving cream, the razor. Be the man you think he is. The one who runs after a heaping serving of tiramisu and the leftovers of your shrimp you couldn't finish. Maybe watch that show on Netflix that David was so keen on one-upping him on. Your head in his lap. Soft smiles, taunts. Continue this playful banter you started through until his face is buried in your cunt—victor’s choice, naturally; and you always win—and you end the night whimpering his name, not David's. 

That, in itself, is a victory. A win. 

But—

He grabs the ball cap from the rack near the door. It's cream-coloured. Team merchandise for ManU. A little red devil stands in the middle holding a pitchfork. Black, western lettering says WE'RE NEVER GONNA STOP. He snorts at it. Macabre. Fitting. And slips it over his head, letting it hang low on his brow. 

And then he follows after David. 

David stands with his back to the door, hands curled around the porcelain sink as he stares in the mirror, chin titled under the harsh flood of the dull, fluorescent light. 

His eyes flicker up when the door opens, widening slightly when Kyle emerges, liquid, in the reflection. But through the surprise, there's a touch of smug recognition that sets Kyle's teeth on edge when it drills into him. A sense of arrogance that makes his fingers itch. Trigger ready. 

“Oh, don't worry, mate,” he's saying, a smile curling up the corner of his mouth like smoke. “We've just gotten—” he pretends to think, gaze darting up to the bulbs hanging over his head, smarmy and oil-slick. He must think himself leonine. Victorious.

Kyle wants to wear his bloodied teeth around his neck. 

“Close,” he offers, and anger coils inside his guts like tar. “You know, since you've been away, and all. Nothin’ to worry about, though. We're just friends, mate. Promise.”

At that word, his smile turns sharp. Mocking. 

“Oh, yeah,” he hears himself saying, words fine powder on his tongue. “Close, huh?” 

“Well, she's been a bit lonely, you know. Big change, moving to a new city, an’ all alone. Needed, ah, some company.”

It burns. Blisters. The way this man speaks about you rips through him, bubbling away at his self-control like acid. Alone. As if he doesn't know. Lonely. Like he wasn't minutely aware of how much your dynamic has shifted since college, since he was some beat cop patrolling the streets with too much rage in his veins and no outlet for it, to now—when he's calling you from a medical ward (confidential, no you can't come see him) to let you know he was in (yet another) helicopter crash. Had another brush with death that pitches his mortality in the forefront of his mind like an omen. An obstacle. One that cracked open this sense of want, of urgency, hunger from the abyssal depths of his soul. 

But this—

It reminds him of when he'd get into fights in high school. Needling the kids he knew would take him up on his offer, who would meet him in sketchy alleys near council housing where the police were less likely to patrol and the neighbours more willing to ignore it. When he'd mock them, twisting his words, his anger, into a brutal knife until they took a swing at him. 

His hand curls into a fist. Muscle memory. It quivers through his joints—this insatiable urge to tear into something he knows will bleed. Will make him bleed. He needs it like a confessional. Therapeutic. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle likes the fights. Like the way his knuckles burn, and his muscles ache. The bruises. The scraps. The contusions. The pain feels good. Cathartic. Rapturous.

And really—

He needs to get this awful, terrible demon out of him before the saliva that floods its maw at the sight of you, held back only by sheer willpower and reruns of golden girls on the couch you found by the side of the road, spills over between jagged teeth. Before the leash snaps. 

David looks terrified. Scared. He turns around quickly, unwilling to let Kyle have at his vulnerable spine a moment longer. His skin catches on the porcelain rim of the sink as he swings around, the rubbery squeal loud in the sudden hush that falls between them. David winces. Pulls his hand off. 

“Look, man—”

Kyle takes a step forward. Another. It's not fun when they shrink, when they shake, trembling as he nears. He likes the idiots who linger outside of crowded pubs on Friday night harassing patrons. They are drunken slobs calling out to the women they see. They fight back when Kyle corners them. Fists swinging, legs jerking out in a poorly timed kick. Slurred words full of vitriol. 

At first, anyway. 

And then the whine of their polyester tracksuits rubbing across ashlar cut through the alley, and the haze of alcohol saturated their senses. It's around then when they realise just how badly they fucked up. 

But David is different.

Posh—even though the notion of the word itself rankles down his back, trickling like slick, hot oil. Pooling in the brackets of his spine. 

“You did this,” he says, watching the paper shell of the man crumble. “Shouldn't have fucked with my girl.” 

“I didn't mean anything—”

“You did.” He pushes his knuckles into his palm, listening to the satisfying crack of his joints. “But that's what you do, isn't it? Messin’ with things that don't belong to you.” 

“She—”

“C’mon,” he grunts, keyed up. Aching for something to hit. “Gonna throw a proper punch at me or am I just gonna have to kick your head in?” 

“Maybe she wanted it.” It prickles over his name. “Wants me. Begged me for it. Gonna hit me even though your girl is the one messing with me?”

The sour vindication on his face sets Kyle's teeth on edge. No way in hell. He knows this is what David's type does—losing in brawn, but trying to skew the game by getting in his head, making him lose his composure. Getting under his skin. Because that, in itself, is a victory, isn't it?

Bruises will heal, but this, these accusations, the idea that you want David in some way, went after him to slake something Kyle couldn't is gutting. 

And he gets it. Understands why David is saying this, but it doesn't make it any easier to stomach. To listen to. 

David sees his fist shake. Pales slightly. “What?” He asks, all false bravado. Broken confidence. Kyle can sniff the blood in the water. The fear in the air. “You gonna hit me, or somethin’, mate?”

And Kyle—

Kyle jerks his head to the side, letting the knot in his neck pop. The sound, ominous and poignant, fills the bathroom, eclipsing the static buzz of the dying bulbs over their heads. 

“Nah, mate,” his tone flatlines. “I’m gonna let you swing first. And then I’m gonna bash your face in. S’only proper, yeah?”

He staggers backwards from the crumpled heap of the man—still breathing, he notes with a huff, files it away for later; one less mess Price will have to clean up—and works his jaw. It aches. He tastes blood. Spits a glob of foamy pink onto the floor by his feet. No missing teeth, but his lip is split. 

Ah, well. 

Kyle feels fine. Drunk, though. Sluggish. Keyed up. Dazed off that post-adrenaline high of sinking his mangled fists into someone; into flesh, sinew, and bones. But—

Intact. Whole. 

He likes the sting in his knuckles. The tackiness of blood congealing around his fingers, staining his skin. 

Outside of the tangible, physical sensation—

Kyle isn't sure what he feels. 

A part of him was hopeful that this would abate the anger in his veins, and stave off some of the agony of an unrelenting, insatiable hunger. But all he feels is numb. Indifferent. 

Hitting David doesn't bring him the catharsis he desperately seeks even though it should. If anything, it's made him more anxious. Restless. 

He leaves. Needs to—to walk, to run, to escape the crime scene before they find an unconscious civilian in the washroom stall. Flexes his fists, his jaw, as he goes, pacing through the bar, the crowd of people he cares so little for. The cloying scent of alcohol, perfume, stale sweat, cigarettes is a thick, putrid miasma in his nose. He heaves through it, and cuts one of Ananke’s young to ground himself until he hits the door with the brunt of his weight, nearly tripping over himself to get out. 

The air outside is humid this time of year. Damp with the rain that's been drizzling down since mid-morning. He breathes in the balminess of it. Wishes, for a moment, that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not here. Not with that man's blood on his hands. Not with his words hissing ugliness and vitriol in Kyle's head—

He trusts you, is the thing. Knows, without any uncertainty or doubt, that you'd never cheat on him. But—

The thought is there. Not of your infidelity, your betrayal, but of you. You with another man. Someone who is not him. A stranger. 

Lonely. Kyle wants to scoff. Wants to scream. He wishes he killed him. Sunk his teeth into his jugular, gorged himself on his blood. Lonely. 

As if he didn't fucking know that already. 

There's smoke in his lungs. Ash in his throat. 

He digs into his pocket, wraps his aching, stiff fingers around his phone, and tugs it out. The blood on his hands leaves sticky smears across his screen. The touchpad barely registers the tremulous prompts he keys in. 

Still. Still. 

Kyle manages. Finds the contact he's looking for and hits CALL. 

He's not even sure if the number is in service, and doesn't put too much hope on it. It really doesn't matter if it connects or not. He's just—

He needs something. Someone. 

A clear path. A straight head. 

“—this is Johnny. Leave a message aft’r th’ tone, ‘nd ‘ah’ll—”

“Johnny. Fuck, man. I—shit—” Johnny's supposed to be dead. Laswell made them all swear on it. Wear a spiffy suit to his funeral, and dance the choreographed routine in front of everyone of a team in grief. “I don't know why I'm callin’. Just—my girl, my—” doves. apollo. “I don't know. Kinda feels like lately my heads all a mess. I'm hangin’ thread here, and I just—”

need to be told what he's doing is wrong. terrible. 

“—could use a friend, I suppose. Ah, shit. I don't know why I bothered—”

He hangs up. Drops his head. 

He feels fragile. Like something is going to break. 

Feet balancing on a spindle, the vertiginous drop below an instantaneous death, and Kyle—

He catches the moonrise on his way home. Thinks he can see Jupiter lingering in a flickering white light behind it. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes once. Thrice. 

can' call right now. shite reception. in some park in canada. nahanni, ye ever heard of it? found a little doe injured in the wood. am takin’ good care’a it. plannin on bringin her home soon. once price sends a plane to pick me up. will introduce her to ya. pretty thing. 

anyway. got yer message. see, if it were me. if that were mah doe. id never leave em alone. ahd make em stay. 

think ye know what ta do, Gaz. 

see ye soon.

—Kyle steps off the spindle. 

You usher him in with a wounded noise in the back of your throat when you catch sight of the bruise under his chin, equal parts worried and questioning. He makes a show of shrugging, indifferent, when you take off his jacket, hanging it on the rack for him, and follows you inside when you move back. 

“It doesn't look like nothing,” you whisper, so sweet he feels the sugary grain of your words rubbing against his teeth. 

“It's just—” he's not sure where it comes from. In for a penny, he supposes, and lets the words flood between you, twisting and sour. “Your…friend, he, uh, caught me when I was about to leave, and—”

The worry splashed across your brow is wiped clean, replaced with disbelief, with shock, and then—

“Oh, that prick!” Anger. The tang of it is electric against his skin. 

“Who the hell does he think he is?” Your indignation is blistering. He basks in it. 

“It's fine,” he murmurs, soft and low. Quietly reassuring. “I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Well, I do, anyway.” You volley back, words tight in your throat. 

You're so pretty like this. Illuminated softly in the cool, hazy glow of the television. It's a picture he wants to fold up, put it in his breast pocket for safekeeping, where it will stay warmed by the steady thud of his still-beating heart. 

Want pulses thickly in his sternum. The urge, the need, is there, simmering quietly in his periphery. Slowly taking up more and more space as it grows, too big for him to hold back. 

And so, he says, “I thought about this, you know. When I—” he stops, adds a small huff. A shallow shake of his head. “Nevermind.” 

If this were a movie, it would be a tender, heartbreaking beat. A moment filled with tension and a palpable, heady fear. 

You might say to him, please don't ever do that again, or even, please don't go; but he knows you just as much as he knows himself, and so it doesn't surprise him much at all when instead you swallow all of it down, letting it slowly metastasise inside of you, offering a small smile in response instead. 

A quiet, “yeah,” following along behind the brunt of your shielded misery. Buried for his benefit, because as much as these near misses might keep you up at night, you'll never tell him not to go. 

He adds, “been thinking a lot about what I'd miss out on, too, but—”

Kyle doesn't finish. Doesn't think he needs to. Not when he sees the gears turning in the back of your pretty, tear-filled eyes. 

Against the armrest of the couch you'd bought at an old antique store, his hand closes into a fist. 

Close, he thinks. But not close enough. 

It'd be easier to just flush your pills down the toilet. Poke holes in the condoms you keep in the drawer—just in case. Sabotage you through sugar pills; perfect replicas of the ones you clumsily take each morning, only ever half aware of what you were doing as you lean sleepily against the sink and listen to some podcast you've recently gotten into. 

So easy that he buys them without a second thought from some sketchy guy in the back alley of a Tesco Express. Pockets the package, and brings it home to you. Slips them inside the half-empty bottle where they fall to the bottom with a sharp clank. Clank, clank, clank—

The orange-tinted bottle sits on the countertop. Innocuous. Mocking. Everything he wants—you, you, you: forever, permanently—right there in front of him. Within reach. The smooth plastic surface is still warm to the touch from his aching hand—Ananke’s mangled brode on his palm has been itching furiously lately; he thinks he has an infection running jagged down his lifeline, the sink pickled and oozing pale yellow—and he holds it tight. Tighter still. Until the tumid scab on his hand cracks, pops open. Leaks blood and foul rot onto the container. Smears it soft pink with infection. 

Kyle knows right from wrong. 

His mum is a pillar of the community. A stalwart wall of firm, unyielding faith: the kind that brokers no arguments—do unto others as you would like done unto yourself, Kyle—and offers no retribution. Forgiveness stacks as high as karma. As goodness. As fairness. She wakes up every Sunday morning and goes to church. Spends all afternoon cooking meals for the homeless, the sick, and drags his father along with her as she drops them off at shelters, each with a handwritten passage about love and humility. 

He's not particularly religious, but she's never held it against him. Never forces belief when there is none. Content to let him grow into the man he wants to be. 

Though—while he shirked her belief, he stole away with her vicious sense of morality. Of justice. Right and wrong. 

Simply put: he knows better. Was raised better. 

And yet—

Somewhere down the line, his idea of good and bad evolved. Shifted. Cracked. He feels the remnants of it thrum in his veins; this foreign thing—this abrasive entity. It surges. Spumes; seeps in his bones. His marrow. Rewrites his foundation, his sense of self, until it's marbled with streaks of murk. Gangrenous. 

Good and bad. 

(the and an entire island of its own.)

He wonders if it started with Price��draw the line wherever you see fit—or if it was waiting, a hibernating beast, for someone like him to come along. A pantomime of a paradigm. Mockery of justice. Absolution in shades of self-interest. 

Either way, it doesn't matter much. Not anymore. Not when the cage, the iron shackles, housing that monstrous thing split open on the pavement outside of Giza, freeing this starving, angry animal. 

And really—

—he’d rather it quenched itself on you than anyone else.

Kyle places the bottle neatly back in the drawer. Slides it shut. It looks the same way it did when he arrived—pristine, innocuous, untouched. No one would know that he tampered with the seal, spilt the pills into the porcelain basin of the sink, ran hot water over them until they dissolved into sugary-white clumps, and washed them down the drain. Gone. Dissipated into a barely noticeable residue he scoops up with the tip of his index finger, bringing the specks closer to his face. It gleams in hazy sunlight dancing through the open curtain. 

Kyle brings it to his mouth. Licks it off. 

It tastes sweet. 

Ananke screams in agony when he grips a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down the length of his hardened cock, all the way down, down—

You sputter around the thick of him, eyes watering. Dripping rivers down to your hollowed cheeks. It pools there. A deep basin. A lagoon. He wants to drink it up—salt water cures everything, after all. 

The noises you make—quiet gags, wet chokes—have liquid pleasure trickling down his spine. An endless cacophony fills the bedroom. A soundscape he could get lost in forever—

“Yeah,” he rasps when your fingers dig moons into his thighs. “Such a good girl for me, aren't you?” 

The whimper that tumbles out vibrates through his cock, and he grunts with it, a deep groan that you answer by squeezing your thighs together, lashes fluttering. You like the noises he makes. The moans, the guttural grunts. The choked snarls. 

His good girl. 

“Takin’ me so well,” he's slurring his words, hips pushing with more insistence now. Desperate to spill down your throat. To watch you swallow him. “You always do, though. Don't you? Take whatever I give you, yeah? Gonna take it all now? All of it, yeah, pretty girl?”

He rambling. Words spilling out, breaking against his teeth. Ananke howls when he twists your hair, tugging you closer, closer, until the tip of your nose touches the thick bed of wry curls at the base, swallowed whole. You're crying now—choking. He grunts. It's liquid. Whitehot.

Your mouth is molten around him. He chases it, cock head nudging the back of your throat, bruising it. Ruining it. He wants to paint you in his cum; drench you in it. Mark, mar, your skin until all of the nobodies, the David’s, can smell him on you. Know, without any uncertainty, that you belong to Kyle—

His hips stutter—

“oh, fuck, oh fuck, fuck—”

—and he knows he's being too rough with you. Too demanding. Forceful. Taking his pleasure from your pliant flesh, cleaving pounds of you into his palm for him to keep. Scar tissue in the shape of his name—

His other hand drops, wraps around your throat, and—

Fuck. 

He can feel his cock through your skin. The bulge unmistakable through your neck, fattened with the thickness of him. 

This—and the hazy sight of you, angelic with your drenched face covered in spittle, pre-cum, and briny tears; eyes blown wide and preyish, full of desperate submission; and clumsy, needy way you hump against your fingers stuffed between your slick thighs, quivering under the unrepentant way he breaks you apart, takes you—pushes him over the edge. 

Equilibrium comes on a snarling grunt, wrenched out from the depths of his throat. So rasping, so gritty, guttural, that it hurts. Scrapes against his flesh until it's raw. Bruised. 

He feels the flex of your muscles as you swallow. The rasp of your tongue soothing the heavy pulse of the thick vein on the underside of his cock, greedy for every drop he has to give. 

It's perfect, he thinks. You're perfect. 

(and his. his, his his—)

He leaves later that evening. “Mission,” he offers, a wan grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Be back soon. Don't wait up.”

Worry chisels a ravine through your brow. “Is that—” you swallow. He hears the click in your throat. Tastes the anxiety rolling off of you; a sweet deluge. “I mean, you just got back. Are you—are you even cleared yet?”

“Ah, well. About that,” he scratches the back of his neck. Ananke shivers. “I have to do some recon. Nothing serious, but with—with, you know—”

Contrition tights his jaw. He sometimes forgets that officially Johnny MacTavish is dead. 

“Oh,” you try to murmur, but it comes out like a whimper. “Okay, well—”

You won't tell him not to go. It's not in you to weaponise your worry against his ambitions, his dreams. 

(It doesn't stop him from using this kindness against you.)

He times it well. 

Gone for thirty days in a wet, balmy jungle, snacking on nothing but bamboo shoots and moss. Ghost comes with him, shoulders set in a terse line—as usual—but there's a strange ease to his gait, a sudden liquidity to his hardened obsidian that catches Kyle's attention immediately. 

“Alright?” He asks, picking his teeth with a needle from a bush. “Seem in a good mood, Lieutenant. Not very typical for you, is it.” 

He lifts one massive shoulder in a lazy shrug. “S’nice weather.” 

It's humid. Hot. Steam billows up from the boiling first floor and congeals into a thick, dense cloud of heat. Kyle would hardly consider that to be nice weather. 

“Oh, yeah. The, uh, one hundred percent humidity is really good for the skin.”

Ghost, for his part, just shrugs again. Rumbles something about misbehaving pets, and obedience training, and seems content to let the conversation lapse into a comfortable silence. Kyle follows suit. 

It stays like that for most of the mission—save for the odd quips from Ghost, his humour a peculiar ester that sours, perchlorates, in the back of his throat. Team building, Price would probably say if he was here instead of back in Liverpool, looking at empty lots with his missus. 

(wants to build a fuckin' house so we have somethin’ to pass down to the kids—

He sounded angry about it, but Kyle found floor plans laid out across his desk, markings scratched into the margins as he argued with himself—and his wife—about sizing and layouts; the quips between thick, bolded letters (all uppercase) and boxy cursive filling him with a sense of envy so visceral, it made his stomach churn—)

It's almost boring compared to some of the things they'd done. Incident-free—something he knows Laswell and Price will enjoy; less paperwork. Or—

Almost, anyway. 

Kyle gets shot in the shoulder the last week of the mission—a surface wound, of course; but it leaves a mangled mess of scabs and torn, jagged tissue on his flesh. 

Ghost sees it. Eyes liquid black through the thick foliage, cutting a searing line to where Kyle sits, arm wrapped in gauze, casual despite the burning agony in his shoulder. 

“Coulda dodged,” he muses, head tilting to the side in what Kyle can describe as dogish. 

Kyle swallows. “Could’ve,” he agrees, and offers nothing else. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one training a new dog.” Ghost hums to himself, quietly amused by the puckered skin on Kyle's shoulder. “‘bout time you got a scar to match the big boys, Garrick.” 

“Big boys.” He snorts. “And where's Price’s?”

The man's eyes are liquid in the nightfall. Vantablack. He wonders what sort of dog a man like him has at home. What kind would stick around. 

Or if it's even a choice. 

“‘ave you seen his back? Old dog wrangled himself a little tiger.” 

An unknown number texts him later that evening. When he opens it, it's just a blurry picture of a figure bundled up in a tweed quilt, nothing but their shoulders and head visible, as they stare out the window. The room is lit in burnt umber. He catches the corner of what must be a wood stove—the only light source, perhaps. It baths them in a heavy swath of tenebrous on the opposite side of the stove. The other is highlighted in an ethereal, aged orange. 

When his eyes slowly adjust to the hazy sfumato, he makes out the distinct shape of a woman. Fingers tangled in the throw. Spilled oil, midnight gloam, against dark blue. What a picture they make. 

But why was it sent to him—?

His answer comes a moment later. 

think it's time ta come home. know anything about gettin’ a little doe thru customs? 

might know a thing or two about that, yeah. probs best to talk with Price. 

shite. he'll ‘ave mah ‘ead fer this one. 

In the quiet cabin of his airplane, Kyle places his phone on the empty seat, and grins. 

Your fingers thread through his, palm kissing Ananke with a gentleness that belies the fire in your eyes. The burning fever as you draw him in, drag him closer. 

There's an urgency in the way you reach for him. Touch him. Starved, almost. And he supposes it's only natural when the last time you've been intimate was a month ago—when he spread you out over the sheets and kept his face buried between your thighs for hours; uttering soft hymns, orisons, at the very apex of your altar—and so sparingly between. Too afraid to hurt him. Your worry is now a weapon used against you.

(“you crashed in an airplane, Kyle! there's no way nothing is wrong with you after that. something had to have broken, right?”

right. right. just the fragile walls holding himself together—)

His wince presses the blade taut to your neck. “Sorry, dovie. Hurts a bit—”

Digs it in. Draws blood. 

Your eyes drop to his shoulder, wide and wild. Feverish with your worry, your desperation. The wound is bandaged up in gauze—thick enough that it leaves a distinct shape under his shirt. Pokes out from beneath his collar. 

There's worry, of course. A bone-weary sort of sorrow that thickens around your eyes, pinches tight on the curve of your jaw. 

He wonders if you'll pull away again. Cushion the wound between you like a wall, and keep your distance until the unfounded belief that he's somehow too delicate to touch. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, and it's blistering. “I just—Kyle, I—”

You don't pull away. 

“I know, yeah? It's fine. I'm okay. Back in one piece this time.”

This time sours in the air. Putrid. Rotten. Your lip wobbles. Lashes puddle with pearling tears. 

He thinks you might cry. 

(hopes that you do.)

“I know,” is whispered, gritty and raw. “And how long until—until you have to leave again?”

Kyle huffs. “In the morning. ‘m’sorry, dovie,” he leans down, rests his forehead in the crook of your neck. “I tried to wiggle out of it, but we're short a man.”

“Is this even ethical? I mean—” your shoulders shake. He bites back a grin. Your worry so thick, so sweet, in his ear. “You just got shot, and they're sending you back out?”

“Technically, it's just recon—”

“This was just recon, too, and look what happened—”

“Love.” He silences your protests with a soft bark. The way you immediately quieten at his tone liquifies in the base of his spine. “I gotta. I have to go. This is what I signed up for, you know?”

“I know. I just—” your hand lifts to his head, gentle. Fingers stroking over the shaved hair on the nape of his neck. “I can't lose you. And lately, it's like everytime you leave, you get hurt. I can't help thinking, is this the last time I'll ever see him again? whenever you walk out the door. I hate it. I know that's your job, I know that. But, fuck, Kyle—”

“I know, love. I know.” He kisses the warm skin at the base of your neck. You shiver against him, nails biting slightly into his nape. “There's so much I still want to do. So much in life I want, especially with you, but—”

You don't let him finish. Your arms wrap around him, holding him gingerly to your quivering body. 

The way you cling to him feels like a victory in itself. 

Check—

There's an animalistic desperation in the way you drag him into the bedroom, eyes sparking in the dark. Smouldering embers. Clothes strewn somewhere in the hallway, forgotten. 

He worries his jaw to fight back a grin when you knock the condoms from his hand when he fishes them out of the drawer. 

“‘s’fine,” you slur, mouthing along his neck. Suckling intently at his skin. “‘m’on the pill. I'm—”

God. You're so sweet, aren't you? 

He buries his grin in your neck, biting down on soft skin until his canines catch. Split flesh. Blood wells, trapped under enamel. He tastes the iron as it pools up, thin and watery, and so distinctly you it makes him dizzy. Rust. Ore. A moan is dredged up from the back of his throat as he laves his tongue over the indents, the puncture wounds, he left behind. 

You shiver at the sounds he makes, small whimpers tumble past your lips—breathless; shallow and quick, matching tempo with your heartbeat. Tinged with the sting of his bite, the way he sucks around them, irritated flesh; sinks the tip of his tongue into each little split until he can't taste blood anymore. Just salt. Skin. You. 

This thing that lives inside of him is hungry. Starved. It growls low in his belly, a tightening heat that blooms with the blood he swallows down. Feeding it. Just a taste. A tease. Barely enough to sate the burn he feels flickering just behind his larynx, soldering through tissue, and tendon. Blackening bone. 

You say his name, low and sweet. Peppered out between soft lips. 

It's—

A lot. Not enough. 

Kyle pulls back, rocking on the balls of his feet just to reorient himself, and then leans down, catching your mouth in a frantic kiss that makes you shiver against him, gasping into it. His tongue delves in, and chases the sweetness of his name still lingering between your teeth. 

His hands glue to your skin, featherlight, as he slides his palm over your body. Feeling you. The heat. The goosebumps that break out at his touch. His other hand slips up your spine, curling over your nape. 

He doesn't say much else. With the taste of you tucked between his teeth, he finds he doesn't need much else. Just this. Just you. 

But you're tugging on him, pulling. Whining into the kiss. Peeling away with a gasp when he pushes you down onto the bed by your hips. 

You go down quietly in the dark, eyes wide in the pale blue moonlight; fixed on him as he follows after you—hunt, chase, consume—until he's balanced above you with his palms pressed into the mattress. Beneath him like this, you're a vision. A dream. His heart breaks free, soars. He feels the flutter of wings battering into the cradle of his ribs as he looks down at you.

He almost calls you Apollo. Sinks his teeth into his bottom lip instead. Can't trust himself like this. Not right now. 

So, he tries to grin, but it feels worn. Threadbare. “Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.” 

“I have a pretty good idea,” you whisper, gaze dropping down to his hips where his cock juts out, hard. Weeping. Feebly tries to curve up to his stomach but the weight forces it down. 

Your legs spread, parting for him instantly. Hands reach, grabbing at his skin, pulling him closer. He goes with a groan, biting his lip when his cock brushes the soft skin of your slick, sticky inner thigh. Soaked, he finds. 

“All this for me?” He rumbles, fingers slipping on your skin when he drags his hand down, pushing your legs open further. Wide enough for him to fit. “Gonna give a guy a complex.”

“As if you need another one,” you volley, but it's breathless. Caught on the tail end of a whimper when his hips slot into yours, cock heavy and hard on your soft skin. 

“Sayin’ it's too big for you, then?” he teases on the jagged edge of a wide, sharp grin. 

The need that blooms in your eyes, the slight part of your kiss-bitten lips, pupils melting over the edges, a total eclipse, makes him want to sink inside of you. Carve a spot just for him over and over again. Make you take him, break apart on the thick split of his cock inside of you. And he only just manages to reign the urge to pry your folds apart, nudge his head into you. Barely holding himself together, fighting for every ounce of restraint he has because as he knows you'll let him—let him slide inside, fuck you into the mattress until you're sobbing—he can't. 

Too big, he thinks. Reaffirms. And it comes out as almost a pout. 

“Don't worry,” he huffs, bending down to nip along your jaw, fingers sliding over the slick, sticky skin of your inner thighs. “I’ll take care of you, yeah? Get you good and ready for my cock.” 

(and more, of course; a lifetime—

but the bite of Ananke’s young keeps him spilling these secrets onto the sheets.)

Kyle likes to think he has a keen sense of smell, and as he buries his face between your thighs, nose pressed tight against your clit, he imagines he can scent the chemical changes in your body. The natural musk of you, more potent now than ever, without the artificial blocks in the way. 

Taste, too—

He presses a kiss against your slit before letting his mouth part on a deep inhale, tongue rolling out, pressing between your folds. Parting them. The first touch makes your hips jerk, breath catching in your throat. 

You taste good. Earthy. 

It's been too long since he tasted your cunt. Feasted. He slips the flat arch of his tongue over you again in broad, heavy strokes from rim to the soft crease between your clit and mound. Drinking you in as the soft moans, the hiccupping gasps, cudgel his resolve. 

You babble his name as he presses your thighs flat to the mattress, head buried between them with a single-minded goal of making you fall to pieces with his tongue on you, lapping at your pussy. Tasting for himself the natural tang of you, his machinations seen through to the end. 

And you—obvious to it all—whine, eager for more of his touch, as he presses his nose into the soft skin of your navel, and breathes in again. 

He pulls you down on top of him after making you clench around him—tight, tied like a vice—three times with his mouth, tongue, his fingers kneading that soft spot just inside your cunt until your legs quivered around him. Until you gushed with your release, cumming on a choked scream. 

It made you all pliant and soft, putty in his hands that he can tug as much as he wants, however he wants. Shaping you over the tapered spread of his waist, cock nesting between your hot, sticky folds. Your hands on his chest, breath shallow. Please is whispered out of your bruised lips, sweet and lachrymal. He shivers and licks his lips. 

You have no idea what you're begging for. No idea what he plans on doing to you. And he thinks, maybe, he ought to feel some sense of shame for making you take what he gives you like this, making you ride him as he fucks you full. Traps you. 

There's a fire burning inside of him. Molten. He reaches down, grabbing his cock. You blink at him, tears clinging to your lashes, before you slowly, clumsily, lift yourself up for him with a soft, heated breath. Like you want it. These awful thoughts sutured between you like a fine, silk thread. He nearly unravels at the seams just thinking about it. 

Even playing pretend in his mind threatens to shatter his resolve,

—a golden fantasy filming over his gaze, dusted in starlight; the ethereal glow of ananke coruscating off of Jupiter's elves: you begging for him, pleading with him to sink as deep inside of you as he can get until no dog will be able to differentiate between your scent and his

break it into pieces. 

“Want it, don't you?” It comes out sun-scorched. Blistered. Raw. 

You whimper when the fat head of his cock catches on your sopping rim, stretching you open for him. He can't decide what he wants to look at more—the sight of himself disappearing into you, or the look on his face when he does—and his gaze swings wildly, a pendulum oscillating between both, greedy for all of it. Sears it into memory. Burns it behind his eyelids. 

Kyle reaches up, hands sliding across your body. Feeling the quiver in your flesh, your lungs pressing against your ribs, pushing it out. He wants to touch everything. All of you. Settles, instead, for sliding his palm up to your shaking breast, letting it fall into the cup of his hand. Pinching your hardened nipple between his middle and ring finger. Just. A tease. Barely any pressure. Rolling it between his second knuckles until you're arching into him, desperate for more. More friction, more pressure. 

He teases around your flesh until goosebumps prickle over the sensitive skin, bearing his teeth in a crooked grin when you whine, clumsily pawing at his chest and pushing your breasts into his hand. 

“Want somethin'?” 

Your response is a sharp huff. A half bitten whisper of his name. 

“No?” He taunts, shifting his hips under you. Feeling the way your cunt pulses, fluttering over his thick length. “Fine. Guess I'll—”

He goes to pull his hand away from your breast, lips curling into a taunting smirk, but a whine tumbles out. Your hips rock, pressing flat along his cock. The pressure, the pleasure, knocks the air from his lungs, and for a moment, he thinks they popped. Burst. He struggles to fill them when you shift above him, drenching his lower belly, groin, and inner thighs with the wetness that drips, molten, over him. It's good. Too good—

“Kyle,” you whisper, clit pressing taut to the weeping head of his cock. Trapped between your cunt and his stomach, the blunt pressure rockets through him, bringing him close to the edge. Dangerously close. “C’mon—”

He snorts derisively—the impromptu amalgamation of a choked laugh drenched in disbelief and sutured together with the delirium of pleasure rippling through his stomach scrapes over the soft tissue of his throat. Abrasive. Rough. 

The air that comes out of his nose, hacked up from the tatter of his lungs, hurts when he spits it out. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, rolling his hips into you. Desperate. Eager. It's airy. Loose. He clenches his jaw, grunts a rasping, ugly fuck from between the tight seam of his teeth. “Gonna make me cum, dove.”

It spurns you on. You babble above him—no, Kyle, no, don't cum, don't—but do nothing to stop the quick cants of your hips, fingers knotted into the matted hair on his chest. It's paper thin, barely a whisper when you breathe heavily through your nose and whimper, I want you to cum inside me—

And it's—

It's a thought. A dream. Nothing new to your voracious sex life, really; but the sweet-sour taste still lingers in the back of his teeth. The heady scent of you in his nose. 

A single pill placed in each slot—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—

His eyes roll. Hips stutter. 

There's a fever in his veins. An urgency. He groans his assent, hands falling to the expanse of your hips, holding tight as he stops the slow rolls you keep trying to make. He needs to be inside of you. Says as much when you pout at the loss of friction, watching understanding dawn over you. An eagerness that seems to keep pace with his own following quickly behind. 

“Yeah,” you say, and the word is obscene. Breathed out on a moan that makes his cock twitch. Then, yeah, yeah, Kyle, please—

He pulls you up, up, groaning when you slide your hand down his chest, pawing at his cock until it's gripped in your palm. The touch burning through him. Skin on skin. Fingers barely meeting around the thick of it. 

“Come on,” he rasps, swallowing down the words he can't say yet. Things like take me, all of me, every last drop—

He helps you lift higher. Keeps you steady as you line him up, the head pushing against your slick rim, catching when you sink down, thighs flexing. 

It's a slow drop as you adjust to the burn of taking him. Down, down—gasps, mewls, whines leaving your lips with each inch, devastating little ah, ah’s that spin around his head until he's dizzy. 

His name is a plea when you can't take anymore, when the thickness of him becomes too much. Eyes misting with unshed tears, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The look you give him is so pitiful, he nearly whines—

“You can do it, baby.” 

It's a shuddered gasp, thin and reedy. He wants you to cry, to weep. To rain your fists down across his chest when the burn of him splitting you open becomes too much, nearly choking on how viciously you spit out his name. 

“C’mon,” he slurs, lifting his hips in shallow, lazy cants. Feeding you another half an inch. Another—

“Kyle, Kyle—” you gasp, and he knows. Should take pity on you for the sting, the burden of taking him so deeply, pretty pussy stretched tight around him. 

Should—

“Barely much left, dove—” he means to grunt, but it comes out on a growl. His knuckles ache. “You can do it for me, can't you? Take all of me. Been so long, dovie. Been so fuckin’ long—”

It's between missed this pretty pussy on my cock and need you, baby, need you so bad that you break. Trembling above him as another inch is forced into you. Keening when his hands tighten around your waist, fingers biting into your flesh, and he pulls, pulls, at the same time he thrusts up, cunt giving way, opening up for him so perfectly—

“That's it, dovie—”

The folds of your pussy swell around the fat base of his cock, pressed tight to the skin of his groin, and Kyle can't stop the rough moan that spills out, hips jerking at the raw sensation of having you wrapped around him. Silken walls. A slick, feverish heat. You pulse, flesh fluttering over the length of him, and it's somehow both euphoric and uttering damning—the pleasure so intense, it churns his stomach. Makes him nauseous with how badly he wants to stay inside of you like this forever until it's sacrosanct. 

You feel liquid around him. All heat and pulsing, flexing muscle. He ruts into it. Cants his hips up, up, little nudges that push the air from your lungs in short, choking gasps. 

He lets you take what you need from him first, hands steady on your hip. Palm moulding over your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers. Leaning up to lave his tongue over the hardened peak you squirm on his lap, bouncing shallowly on his cock. Giving you everything, all of him, as you slowly bring yourself closer to the edge. Face pinched in bliss, eyes squeezing shut, rolling slightly as you work yourself over his cock, hips twitching. Flexing. Your pretty mouth drops open when you lean forward, hands bracing over the swell of his chest, finding the perfect angle for his cock to hit. 

His name is a whimper, a plea. A litany of sounds that blister through his chest. A white-hot knife buried in his groin because fucking you is always a sweet sort of agony, he finds; pleasure and pain effortlessly balancing on a razor blade. He breathes around the ache, feeling the threads of his control pull taut over the blade, snapping one by one—

It's a mindless drive for more of that electric pleasure, that blissful pain, when he plants the soles of his feet on the soft sheets, and bucks. His cock bludgeons through wet, hot heat, feeling the silken flutter of you clenching tight around him, and he can't stop the groan from jittering out between clenched teeth. 

He knows he won't last. Can feel it well up in his groin, hovering on the edge of a precipice. It's headier, more potent, than anything he'd ever felt. The elation, the urgency—it fills him up from the inside out, twisting in his veins, blotting along his hindbrain. Needing to cum, to fill you up—

Your nails dig into the smattering of hair on his chest, clinging to him as he squares his feet on the mattress, pistoning into you. Making you howl for him—deep, breathless moans rolling off your tongue, bitten out between his name, said like grace as it drips down your chin. 

There's nothing better than this, he thinks, arching his neck on the pillow, head thrown back as he thrusts up, meeting you in the middle. Working in tandem. Pleasure is hewn together, tethered until you can't hold yourself up anymore. Until the stretch him filling you up, sitting thick, fat, inside your abused, aching cunt is too much for you to take. 

The way you look above him—chin bowed, mouth open as a litany of moans spill out; brow furrowed, eyes listing shut in bliss—knocks the air from his lungs in a painful, agonising punch. You look ethereal, superlunary, as you babble above him, spine bowed in a pretty bow. Taking everything he has to give you—

His palms ache. Itch. Ananke grows restless as his thrusts become sloppy. Desperate. 

“Come for me,” he barks. Demands. Pleas. 

His hand squeezes tight before letting go, dropping down to your belly, over your mound. You’re slick, wet. His thumb softens over your clit, gentle strokes to bring you to the same summit he stands on, ready to jump. Hips jerking, thrusting into you from below. Fucking into you with steady, deep cants of his hips. Making you take him, all of him. 

Your cunt flutters around him, clenching tight. Pulsing little throbs that mirror the heavy brag of his heart slamming into his chest. Made for him, he thinks, eyes widening in feverish delirium as he tries to commit the way you look arched above him to memory. Burning it behind his eyelids. 

The pleasure on your face, the desperation, make him break. 

He lets go of your hips, slides his hand up your spine, feeling your warm, damp skin under his rough palm as he drags it to your nape. His fingers curl over the back of your neck, a gentle squeeze; a comforting weight—just enough to make melt in his arms, relax, before he pulls you down until you're chest to chest. He snakes his arm out from between your bellies, throwing it over your waist to anchor you down as he bucks up into you. Taking. Taking. 

The sounds made when he fucks into your like this, the squelch of your pussy, the slap of his balls on your ass, have his eyes rolling back into his head. Unbridled pleasure bloomed over his spine, spooling in his groin. 

He's right there. Right there—

“Oh, fuck, baby—” he gasps out, choking. “I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—”

He feels his name purr from within your chest before you push back, squirming on his chest as you fuck yourself back onto his cock. Taking him deeper inside of you until he nudges your cervix and makes you whine—

He grasps to find that same thread of control he keeps wound tight around his wrist, an anchor line for him to cling to, but when he paws at the dark, he finds nothing there. Nothing but thick, syrupy pleasure. Bliss. He feels your slick run down the length of his cock, pooling in the tangled hair dusting over his sack. Drenching the sheets. 

His hand slides down your back, fingers stretching, reaching, grabbing a fistful of your asscheek in his hand. Squeezing it tight as he pulls you down over him again and again. It forces him deeper, until he's certain that there's no place inside of you that he hasn't touched. 

And it's this thought that unravels the knot. Becomes his undoing. His violent end. But it's you bending down, sweat-slick cheek pressing to his chest, murmuring:

Please. Please—

And then:

“Come on,” you moan, the words shuttered out of your chest with the force of his thrusts, head shaking. Rattling. “Cum inside me, Kyle—” 

It’s catching sunlight in the palm of his hands, feeling the skin burn, and blister. Apollo in his hands. 

“Fuck, gonna cum, love—” he grinds out on a moan, grinding his hips into you in choppy, desperate thrusts until the force it punches through his stomach, leaves him winded. 

You drop down on his lap, taking the full, thick length of his cock inside of you as he cums, vision blurring around the edges as he struggles to keep his eyes open, glued to the sight of you taking it all. Every drop—

Through the haze, he commits every blurred movement to memory: your quivering belly; your heaving breast, nipples pebbled and swollen from his mouth. The spread of your thighs over his hips, the way the coarse, thick hair on his groin flattens against your mound. Slick, wet from you. Milky, now, with the steady trickle of his cum leaking out even though he keeps you nice and plugged up. It makes him jerk beneath you, breath coming out in a heavy gust. 

his apollo—

His hands flatten along your collar bones, curling upward to shape around your neck. He feels each desperate breath, each swallow, against his searing palms. 

He wraps his hands around your neck, and it would be so easy to imagine a collar. 

And you lean into it. Your head drops back, eyes slipping closed as you bare more of your throat to him. He folds the tips of his fingers over each other, linking them on the nape of your neck, shivering when the sweet, peach-soft peal of his name slips past your lips—

Yeah, he thinks, fingers tightening on your skin once before he lets go. Drops them down to your belly. Curves over your waist. Holding tight. Tighter.

But not a collar wouldn't look nearly as pretty, wouldn't it? 

It's five in the morning when the text comes in. 

Sitting between an update from Price (this doctor's a fuckin' muppet—), one from Ghost (how's the shoulder), and something from his mother—a TikTok video he thumbs loosely at, sending a chain of laughing face emojis in response—is a foreign number. According to a quick Google search, the area code—867—is from Canada. The Northwest Territories, Yukon, and Nunavut, specifically. 

He opens it, glancing at the string of numbers on his phone, brows furrowing as he tries to make sense of it—

And then it clicks. 

Coordinates. Google says they're in Scotland. Remote. Knoydart. 

The grin splits across his lips, pulls tight at his cheeks. 

Welcome home, he writes. Any trouble with that doe of yours? Customs must've had a fit. 

A second later, a message appears. Adjustin nicely to the highlands. Nik did all the heavy liftin. Y’should come visit. See fer yerself. 

The bed shifts when you move, pulling yourself closer to him in the quiet dark of mid-dawn. Drawn to him even in the deep of sleep. He thinks of moths, flames, and curls his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. Presses a kiss to your crown, breathes you in. 

With the phone held in one hand, he swipes his thumb across the screen, typing out a quick reply. Taps SEND. Watches the notification flick from delivered to read before he drops it onto his lap, and lets his head fall back, the grin still tugging on his lips. 

Icarus couldn't get to Apollo with flimsy wings of borrowed feathers, and beeswax. The distance between Earth and the sun is too great to fly to. An uncrossable chasm. 

So, he brought Apollo to Earth instead. 

Just might. 

In the quiet bloom of a mid-morning dawn, you find him on the patio, gazing out at the streets below. Brows furrowed in a soft contemplation. It's not something you're used to seeing on his face—this sombre, solemn grey shading his features in a way that makes you feel almost as far away from him as Jupiter.

“What's wrong?” 

Kyle tilts his chin up toward you, mouth flattening as he shakes his head. Shrugs. 

“Nothin’.”

“Mmhm,” you tease, fingers threading over the hair behind his ears. His skin is warm. Sunkissed. You press your nails to his scalp, dragging them through the thick coils of his hair until you meet the soft dip at his temple. He leans into your touch, forehead resting on the soft bump of your belly. 

When he doesn't speak after a moment, you huff. Soft, coy. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” 

His nose rubs over the soft cashmere of your sweater. “Been thinkin’ is all.”

“About what?” 

He hums, breath warm on your skin. “Want to come to Scotland with me? Get away for the weekend?” 

“You think your mum and sisters are letting me go anywhere right now? Pretty sure I heard them plotting about wrapping me up in a mattress so I can't hurt myself or the baby—”

A snort bubbles up. “Mum likes you. Loves you. She's just overprotective. M’sure I can convince her.”

“You think so?” 

Kyle is quiet for a moment. A beat. Just long enough to mull over the probability of stealing you away from under his family's nose. Unlikely, of course. When the twins have your weekend booked up already—a movie marathon with nothing but pizza, snacks, and John Hughes. 

And NO Gazzy allowed!!!

“Nah, suppose not,” he huffs, placing his hands on your thighs. “If they're being too much, you can tell them to piss off—”

“They're fine,” you shrug. Overprotective, but—

It seems to run in the family. 

“I really don't mind.” 

He gives in with a shallow nod. “You gonna be okay if I go?”

“I think I'll manage on my own. It's—”

“Yeah.” 

Need to know, you remember the big, scary one saying when you met Kyle at the tarmac. His voice low over the whir of the engines in the distance, but robust. Brassy. The inflection is standoffish. Cold. But you saw how he turned back around when Kyle led you away, eerie gaze drilling into his injured shoulder for a moment before calling out to him that Bravo Seven-One was inbound. 

The difference between Kyle and the company he keeps always seems to jar you slightly. He's so normal in comparison. So human. Grounded in reality in a way that makes everyone else around him feel preternatural. 

“I’ll be fine,” you say at length, hand falling to the soft, barely noticeable bump he rests his head on. A happy accident. You wonder if it overwhelms him a little. Babies. Kids. None of it ever felt feasible before all of this. “Go have fun in the mountains.” 

It pulls another snort of him, and he turns his head, peppers a soft kiss to your navel, eyes flicking upward to stare at you. Dancing with mirth. A mordant sort of humour you can't begin to understand. 

Need to know, maybe. 

“Fun, huh?” It's muffled by your skin. “Think I'm bein’ led to my untimely death, actually.” 

“That so?” You hum, a smile curving over your lips. “At least make it look like an accident, yeah? We won't get the insurance payout otherwise.”

“No shit? Murder in the highlands isn't covered? What the hell am I paying nearly three hundred pounds for, then?” 

“Peace of mind.”

It makes him snort before he buries his face in your belly, scratching his nose on your cashmere in a small nuzzle. 

“Ain't much of a peace of mind, is it?”

“Better now,” you offer, fanning your fingers over the arch of his ear, soothing the tiny pout you can feel forming against your skin. 

“Yeah, well—”

His words taper off, lost to a kiss placed just above your belly button. It might be an apology. Sorry for almost dying—

Again. 

And as much as you hate that he has to, that he peppers kisses in place of it'll never happen again, or don't worry, I'm here now, you know what this is. You've known it from the beginning. Accepted it as is because with you or without you, Kyle was going to do what he does regardless. Begging him not to, to reconsider, is not a line of selfishness you're willing to cross—

Or, weren't, rather. 

Until this. Until now. 

This soft, barely noticeable curve seemed to overwrite the desire to let him fly as high as he wanted. To rearrange the stars until he fit amongst them; more dust than man. Selfish, maybe. Definitely. 

But the condition was less of an ultimatum and more of a plea. I don't want to be a single mum, Kyle. Perspective, you suppose, does that to people. Changes them. Shapes them into something different. 

You think maybe he felt the same way when he bowed his head over the table, staring down at the pregnancy test you laid down for him, and nodded. 

(“Yeah, yes. Uh, I'll—yeah. I'll—” he swallowed around the brine in his throat. Salt congealed over his airways until his voice was a rough scrape between his teeth, desiccated. “I'll talk to Price. No more helicopters—”)

There was more, of course. A hashing of everything. All of it spilt out over the table. He gave up as much as he could without sacrificing that insatiable desire to soar as high as he can, untethered to the earth. And you promised to anchor him down when need be. When he tries to fly too close to the sun.

A compromise. 

And—

“Bring some flowers for me,” you murmur at length, fingers grazing the shell of his ear. 

—an apology. 

He keeps his head bowed. “Supposed to be need to know.” 

“Call it a hunch, then.”

A snort. His shoulders shake. “Sure. Price’ll love that one. Intuition will sound good on the report.”

“Oh, no. Big, scary military men afraid of a little paperwork.”

“Oi—” His fingers dig into your sides. A playful pinch. You choke out a shallow laugh, raking your nails over his scalp in retaliation, but it just makes him shiver. Groan. 

Keep doin’ that and I'll give our neighbours a show—

“How long will you be gone for?”

His lips tug downward. “Just the weekend.”

“Don't have too much fun without me.” 

He slides his face over your belly until he's balanced on the tip of his chin. That sombre look is back again. Pensive. Quiet. He'll tell you the truth when he's ready, you're sure, and you brush your fingers over the divot in his brow, smoothing the wrinkle out. 

“We'll be fine.” You say, and he nods because he knows. You're safe here. But still—

He presses a kiss to your belly, staring up at you through the golden curve of his ashes. Sombre expression melting into something languid. Lax. Catlike, you think, huffing when his hands curl around the backs of your thighs, pads of fingers dipping into soft skin. 

Kyle catches it. Grins. Heat soaks into your flesh where his palms rest, nestled just below the curve of your ass. His intentions are clear, obvious, and you go willingly when he pulls you into his lap, thighs thrown over his. 

Your throne, he’d once joked in the early days of dating, when you were still discovering pieces of yourselves in each other’s naked flesh. A truism now because whenever he can manage it, Kyle seems to prefer you sitting on his lap, head tucked under his chin. Within reach. 

Always. 

His personal stress ball, perhaps. A weighted blanket. As you nuzzle close, his shoulders dip. The tension in his muscles bleeding out by the weight of you on him, the brush of your skin. You press in, leaching comfort from his sun-warmed flesh. Fingers trailing down the angled slope of his face until his jaw is held in the plinth of your palms. 

The ghost of a pout still lingers in the jut of his lower lip. You sweep your thumb over it, nail curving along the valley of his cupid’s bow to map the path you know better than your own sloping plains. A kiss to the ridge of his jaw chases away the saturnine shadows still falling across lush beds of gold; sun dusted colluvium. 

You taste salt on your tongue when you pepper a kiss just above the arched curve of his cheekbone, his lashes fluttering down, tickling your mouth when he blinks. 

It doesn’t get rid of all the Ttenebrae tucked tight inside the canyons of burnt umber, coruscating amber, but flecks of aurate gleam through the shade of eventide. A glimmering gem in a sea of moon white. 

The flickering embers of his unease melts with his huff. His thumb strokes along the curve of your ass, settling over your waist. Holding you close. You catch the way his eyes drop briefly down to your belly. The bloom of heat in his eyes. Liquid gold. Darkening as he stares, marbled with possessiveness. With the unfettered threads of satisfaction streaking through. 

The eyes of a big cat as he licks the blood from his jowls, his kill still cooling on his paws. 

“Better be.” 

“Overprotective already and they’re not even here yet,” you tease when he lifts his gaze. Honeyed with want; syrupy with desire. 

“Not just for them,” Kyle rasps, his hand sliding up your spine, cupping your nape in his palm. Dragging you closer to breathe his need over your lips. “You're both mine.”

“Kyle—”

“Say it.” 

“We’re yours,” you whisper, catching the stutter in his pulse when your hands slide down his jaw, cupping his neck. “Just yours—”

The rest of your words are devoured by his scorching mouth, eaten right from between your teeth. Kyle’s kisses have always edged into consumption, you think. Like he trying to eat you whole—nothing saved for later. No scrap spared. Wasted. 

It’s dizzying. Edges into too much, too intense. You can’t keep up with him no matter how hard you try. He’s always several paces ahead, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Letting the sharp edge of his canines graze your flesh, scraping the soft tissue. All you can do is cling to him. Hold on as he glues his mouth to yours and eats—

When he pulls away, giving you a moment to catch your breath, you think you hear him growl, never lettin’ either of you go—

But he drags you back into him a second later, mouth slipping over yours with an untempered hunger. The purr he lets out trembling over your tongue, shaking the thought right out of your head. 

Never, you’d say if he let you. If he gave you a moment to think. Peeled his tongue from between the seam of your teeth long enough to let you gasp the words out. 

He doesn’t. He won’t. 

He drags wet, sticky lips across your cheek, over your jaw, down your throat, before sinking his canines into the throb of your pulse beating under your skin instead. Steals the thoughts from your head as you gasp his name out, followed quickly by please and Kyle, more—

Kyle lifts his hand from your spine, fingers stretching out. Reaching. The sun glows between the spread of his fingers; scintillating like fine, golden mist over his fingers. Beautiful, he thinks when your breath hitches in a shallow gasp; held tight his arm, and—

(with it cradled in middle of his hand, he closes his fingers around the sun until it's swallowed up in his palm.)

—all his. 

[rasberrybabez]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 | john price

price meets you on base after mission gone south—a strict little thing, the medic barking out orders at disgruntled men. you tell him you don’t date soldiers. price has no doubt he can change that.

contents: fem! reader, smut (mdni), piv, oral (m! receiving), cunnilingus, age gap, price has fantasies of knocking you up and making you his pretty little wife, breeding kink, size kink, virginity loss (reader), pet names (sweetheart, dove, love), price is a little questionable but he means well. wordcount: 6k

Price meets you after a mission gone south. 

You're a medic at the base they’ve been assigned to, a pretty little thing who swarms around and barks out orders. He intends to just drop off Gaz and then head back to the barracks he was temporarily appointed to; however, your eyes seem to zero in on him, and your brows narrow.

"You’re dripping on my floor."

He glances down at the dark stain on his sleeve, raising a brow. He thinks he hears Johnny snicker, though he’s more interested in you now, watching the way you frown at him. 

“Just a scratch,” he states, sending you a smile. “Nothing serious.” 

Still, he sits down where you point for him to go, letting you fuss over him. His grin widens when you scoff, murmuring under your breath. 

“You call this a scratch?”

There’s a dirtied cloth tied around his arm, already turning dark. Price isn’t proud of it. He was focused somewhere else for mere seconds when a soldier came from behind, managing to slice him before he got the situation under control. The bandage was a temporary solution given he didn’t have time to inspect it further. 

"You're going to die from an infection if you don't do something about this."

You're scolding him while you help him take his jacket off, barely fazed by the size of his bicep as you clean the cut on his arm. 

“Been doing pretty well so far,” he murmurs, eyes soft as he watches you fuss. You haven’t offered him any painkillers, and you’re not gentle when you dab the alcohol on the wound before grabbing your gauze and beginning to roll it around his arm. He wouldn’t have accepted any painkillers anyway. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’ve had worse.” 

“Lucky you,” you murmur, not even glancing at his face, and a smile curls onto Price’s lips. He sees the flush on your cheeks at the proximity. 

Price knows he’s older and experienced. Rough from the effects of war and constant strategy. He’s not oblivious to the effect he has on the younger soldiers on base. You hesitate for a second, eyes darting over his dog tag, and Price catches it immediately. 

“Call me John, dove,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“Price. If you don't take care of yourself, then you're going to—” He lets you continue to fuss over him in silence, mapping out every curve of your body, never once taking his eyes off you. Afterwards, he listens to your instructions on how to keep it clean, as though he hasn’t dealt with wounds like this countless times, but before he can ask you for your name, he’s being ushered off the bed so the next guy can get treated, practically pushed away. 

“So bossy,” he hums, and you glare before motioning the next soldier over. 

“If you don’t mind, Captain,” 

“John”,

“Captain”, you grit your teeth in annoyance. “Then I’d like to do my job uninterrupted.”

Price stops for a second. He eyes you up and down, noticing the way you quietly shift on your feet. 

“Course, love,” he states, grin turning sharp. “I’ll leave you alone for now.” 

“Never seen the captain so cooperative before.” It’s half light-hearted, half not, as Gaz watches Price, amusement present in his tone. Johnny snorts, eyes flickering between the two of you before his attention is back on Gaz. 

“Yeah, it’s because he’s getting dizzy with how fast his blood is rushing from one place to another.” 

✰ ✰ ✰

It doesn’t take him more than a day to show up at the infirmary again. This time you’re calmer, the infirmary empty apart from one sorry lad sleeping in a bed by the door.

Your office is at the very back end—a cute little place, scattered with paperwork and Band-Aids and pastilles. You hear his heavy boots on the floor before he announces himself, and you’re turning around to eye him with a faint suspicion as he sits on the bed closest to you.

“How’s your arm, captain?” 

He smiles and shrugs off his jacket, revealing his poorly wrapped bicep, and you sigh before digging out some gauze from between a stack of papers.

“You know, sir—“ 

“It’s John, dove.” 

You sigh as you come closer, calmly unwrapping his bandage. He spreads his legs and pulls you in between without a word, ignoring your squeak of surprise.

“It’s easier this way,” he murmurs, and big warm hands find the back of your thighs as he looks up at you, soft blue eyes grinning at you with mischief.

You’re more skittish when you’re not wrapped up in an infirmary filled with injured soldiers, much less strict. John likes you like this. You’re more malleable, giving a resigned sigh as you begin to unwrap his arm.

“I’ve asked around about you,” you murmur, voice low as if you’re doing something you’re not supposed to. Price hums, hands moving up the back of your thighs, but then you squeeze the gauze around his bicep in warning, and he stops, though he doesn’t move them back down.

“Is that so?” Price asks, and you nod. He’s staring at you, his eyes not once straying from your face.

“Yeah,” you say and your cheeks are warm when you finally meet his eyes. John smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling while you pretend to be distracted by the bandage. “They say you’ve been in service for decades.” 

Price shrugs, but he doesn’t confirm or deny anything. He doesn’t really count the years anymore, most of it having muddled into a mess of memories and chaos. His retirement is nearing, though—can’t blame a man for wanting a pretty thing to settle down with.

“To be frank, Captain,” he’s about to correct you again, but there’s that fire in your eyes that you had yesterday too, and he closes his mouth. There’ll be enough time to teach you his name later down the line anyway. “I’m having a hard time believing a man who’s been on the field for as long as you doesn’t know how to do something as simple as wrapping a wound.”

Caught red-handed. 

John’s smile turns wolfish, and he squeezes your thigh for just a second before completely letting go. You try not to think about how your skin feels scorching where his hands were just seconds ago, and you shift slightly, tightening the gauze around his arm.

You take his silence for quiet admittance, and you sigh, finishing up your work. “You’re wasting my time. I have other patients.”

John looks around, perking an eyebrow up before he gazes back at you again. 

“Don’t look much like it, sweetheart,” he states, and you sigh. 

“I don't date soldiers.” 

“Date? Who said anything about dating?” Price is smiling, and your cheeks flush as you shake your head. 

“Well, alright. Then you shouldn’t mind quitting all your nonsense flirting and nicknames and–”

John laughs, head thrown back, eyes closing. Something inside you stutters, and you look away, feeling out of bounds in his presence. 

“Well, love, I thought we had a moment yesterday. Got to first-name basis and everything too,” he states, and you shake your head, glaring, heat in your belly instantly dissipating. 

“You’re way too old for me anyway,” you state, though Price isn’t sure if you’re saying it to him or yourself. He already knows he doesn’t care though. 

You’ll beg to be his pretty little wife in no time. 

You’re sent home a week later. You haven’t seen Price since he showed up at the infirmary for the second time, but you push that thought to the back of your head as you pack your things and drag yourself all the way back to your tiny old empty flat in London. 

You tell yourself you like being home. No whiny soldiers, no blood and bandages, no sleepless nights. The truth is you prefer being stationed rather being holed up in your home, with no routine, no purpose. 

You’re nearly three weeks into your self made pity party when a knock on your door brings you out of your sleepy state on the couch. Normally you wouldn’t open the door unless you were expecting someone or had ordered food but for some reason you feel compelled as you walk barefoot towards your door. 

Your heart nearly beats out of your chest when you find John Price on your doorstep. 

Civilian jacket stretched over his ridiculously broad shoulders, beard trimmed neater, a cap hiding his hair. You blink, unsure if it’s really him. You’re wearing your pajamas, ready for bed. 

You’re sputtering, talking about inappropriate fraternising. It goes in one ear and out the other for Price, who’s already walking inside your apartment, taking in the quaint decorations and interior, all calm and collected like he’s been here a thousand times before. 

“Calm down, love,” he states, casually picking up a small picture on your drawer of you and some of your family. “It’s not fraternising if we’re not in the same unit, now, is it?”

Your brows furrow, and you’re stuttering out more excuses, but Price is already inside your kitchen, turning on the kettle and finding cups on the table. Eventually, you resign to your fate, sitting down at your dining table. Price is sliding a cup towards you, and you take it, sinking down into your chair.

“What are you doing here?” you sigh, shifting in your seat. 

“Wanted to see you,” he shrugs, calmly taking a sip of his tea. “Missed you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you push your tea away.  

“You don’t even know me,” you state, and Price hums, head tilting to the side. You can tell he’s taking you in, reading your body language and your red cheeks. Your tank top is thin—he can make out the outline of your tits. They’re probably soft, perfect for him to grope and bite. 

“Of course I do, sweets,” he smiles, and for a second it feels like you’re being hunted.

“Know where you live, know your local gym centre and your favourite pub.” he states, shrugging. “Though you haven’t been out in a while.”

You shrug, looking away, trying not to overheat underneath his attentive gaze. 

“So we’ll start with having a cuppa, yeah? And then I’ll take you out on a date and show you how a real man should treat a pretty bird. Might fuck you in the backseat of my car afterwards.”

You flush at this, mouth falling open. The mental image of Price towering over you, pounding you into the cushions of his car, haunts you as you try to think of something else. 

It’s morbid the way he says it like it’s factual. But then he cracks, and he’s laughing, shaking his head. 

“I’m just messin’ with you, love,” he states, and you giggle nervously, feeling smaller and smaller in your seat by the second. 

Price likes to ask questions. He asks why you joined the military, why you’re a medic. He asks about your family and your hobbies. He pokes into your (private) records, mentioning how you’ve seemingly never stepped out of line. 

How good you are at following rules. 

He likes this about you—the naivety. You’re green in ways he hasn’t been in years, all docile and sweet.

And eager to please.

He waits a week before he fucks you.

Takes you out twice, first to dinner at the one restaurant in town he likes, then to the movies. 

He hasn’t done something like that in years, but he’s willing to for you. Figures you should get a taste of the dating life before he puts a ring on your finger and a baby in your tummy.

Just the thought of it—you, in a dress, a baby on your hip—it makes his cock twitch to life.

He’d figured you’d be harder to crack. That he’d need at least a month if not two, maybe even a deployment together before you’d cave in. But you’re much needier, much lonelier than he thought. 

And, god, if you aren’t a pretty thing.

Sat in his lap, your brows are furrowed, there’s a pout on your lips, and you look at him with not a single ounce of the strict little lady you were when he met you in that infirmary a month ago.

“John,”

John, John, John. He wishes you would say it again and again; he knows he’ll never get tired of the way it rolls off your tongue like it belongs there. However, your tone is accusing.

Tired of waiting.

“Please?”

It’s a little raw, already worn with wear, and you wriggle around, trying to pull him closer, get him to do something. Anything.

Price chuckles, and you sigh, placing your head on his shoulder. Big hands are on your waist, burning into your skin, and your legs are spread wide to accommodate the sheer size of his thighs.

“Will you do something, please?” Your tone is whiny. It makes John throb. He noses at your hair, taking in the scent of your shampoo. He chuckles when you begin squirming around again, hands grabbing at his bicep, almost whimpering at the way he vibrates beneath you.

“Well since you’re asking so nicely, sweetheart,”

There’s something demeaning about the way he says it, an edge that makes your brows furrow. He grabs the back of your head and pulls you back, pressing his forehead against yours so he can look at you right.

You’re frowning. Surely, you’re getting cold too, sitting there, all naked while he’s clothed.

“Why don’t you touch yourself?”

The command makes your breath hitch, and you’re about to complain, but then he grabs your hand and guides you to your dripping centre, pressing your fingers through your folds. It makes you whimper, legs already feeling weak as he pushes your fingers to your entrance while his palm digs into your clit, sending dull stimulation through you.

His hands are big. Big enough to cup your pussy perfectly, enveloping your hand in the process. He pushes one of your fingers inside you despite your helpless whimpers, following along with two of his own, till you’re stuffed and stretched.

It’s tight and warm and pulsing. He feels the way you’re all wound up, refusing to let him go any further, clamping up around him.

“Oh, baby,” he says, and you whimper again, barely able to keep any sounds contained. It’s like he’s opening you up, desperate to see what’s hiding inside. And you can’t help but feel that you willingly laid down on the operating table, handing him the knife.

“You need to loosen up, yeah?”

You shake your head profusely, tears beading in your eyes, and John can’t wait to lick them off your cheeks. He nods, slowly, and gives you a short peck before slowly beginning to thrust in and out of you.

You gasp, head falling onto his shoulder again, eyes squeezing shut.

“You made me wait a week,” you complain, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life.

“A week? You always give yourself this easily?” 

“No. You’re the first person I've been with.” 

Your voice is timid, your face feeling hot as you chase the burning coil in your stomach. You feel the way he tenses underneath you, taking a sharp inhale of breath, his movements momentarily stopping.

“Sweetheart,” it’s a coo, and he retracts his fingers from your cunt, shushing you when you whine, leaning in to kiss your cheek, lips moving up your temple. “Sweet, sweet girl,”

You feel drowned in his sudden tenderness, bewildered at the pet names rolling off his tongue. Price looks at you with such adoration that it makes you dizzy and confused. 

“You've never been with anyone? At all?” 

You shake your head, feeling shy. 

“Haven’t had time,” you murmur, trying to avoid his burning gaze. “I don’t date soldiers, you know.” 

Price is chuckling, deep and fond, a thumb rubbing at your clit, big gentle circles that make your breath hitch, hips chasing more friction.

“Not even in uni? No one?” 

You shake your head.

His awe is almost sickening, and immediately you’re on your back, with Price looming over you. He takes a second to admire you before he shrugs off his shirt, pants coming with them till he’s just in his boxers, his dog tag dangling over you. 

Then he’s pulling your legs apart, lying down in front of you, admiring your soaked pussy. 

“And here I’ve been so mean to my girl.” 

You have a feeling he’s not talking to you per se, but you still huff, instinctively trying to get away from his piercing gaze. His hands around your thighs turn bruising, and you get a warning look from him. 

“None of that now.” He smacks his lips and runs a finger through your folds. “Look at her. And you kept her untouched just for me.” 

You purse your mouth at the way he speaks so lewdly, ready to snap back that it has nothing to do with him, but then he leans down, getting on his stomach in front of you, blowing air on your clit. 

Your legs twitch and you gasp, thighs threatening to snap closed, but Price still has that bruising grip on you, keeping you wide open for him. 

“But you’re ready for me, aren’t you?” He’s still cooing, still talking to your cunt more than you, and you squirm, a hand coming down to grip at his hair, the other digging into the sheets underneath you. “Fuck, you’re practically dripping with it.”

He doesn’t hesitate to dig in, attaching his lips to your pussy like it’s second nature. You gasp, back arching off the bed at the sudden stimulation. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt, wet and warm against your centre, pleasure coiling in your stomach. 

You can barely control the sounds leaving you, strangled gasps and whines of pleasure filling your bedroom as your heels dig into his back and your thighs clamp around his head. 

Price seems to enjoy it even more than you, kissing and sucking and licking you with zero shame, pushing you towards your orgasm in record time. You’re gasping and squirming, and your thighs are already turning raw from scratching against his beard, the pain somehow only adding to your pleasure. 

You shake your head, your hand in his hair trying to pull him away, especially when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, sparks shooting up your spine. 

“John, oh, I’m going to come if you, ah, if you keep that up,” you whimper, and Price moans, sucking even harder. 

“Come on my face then,” he says, kissing your clit and licking up your juices till they’re dripping down his chin. “Make a mess, sweetheart,”

You come hard, vision going white and a strangled moan leaving you. You grind your hips against his face uselessly, gasping little thank you’s as he continues to eat you out through your intense high, his own hips humping the bed beneath him. 

By the time he’s done, you’re limp, sunken into the mattress beneath you. Your muscles ache, bones feeling heavy, as he hovers above you, not bothering to wipe his chin before kissing you again. 

“You sound so pretty like that.” The praise makes you flush, but most of all, the way he says it so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hide your face between your hands, letting out a laugh of disbelief, but then you feel something poke at your entrance, and your hands shoot down to his pelvis. 

“Wait, are you–? Oh,”

He's huge. 

You gape, wondering how it’s going to fit.

Price croons, grabbing your face so you’re looking at him and not the thing between his legs, pressing his lips to yours. 

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes in, pain and pressure gathering at your core. You whimper, and he nods, rubbing tight circles into your clit with his thumb while he pushes further. 

“It’s only going to hurt for a bit, sweetheart, I promise,” 

You claw at his shoulders, legs spreading wider and wider to accommodate him as he pushes further in, pressing his hips to yours. You don’t even realise tears are rolling down your cheeks till he’s wiping them, murmuring praises to you, telling you how well you’re doing. 

Soon he’s fucking into you slowly, still swallowing each of your gasps, his hand now grabbing onto your hip, holding you in place. His thrusts grow rougher, and pain and pleasure begin to mix as you grow used to the foreign feeling of him rearranging your guts. 

“Feels good?” he asks, piercing blue eyes trained on your expressions as your mouth falls open. 

“I – oh,” 

Your back arches when he hits somewhere good, ice hot pleasure coursing through you. He laughs, big hand slipping under you to keep you arched as he continues to hit your g spot dead-on, punching out the prettiest little moans from you. 

“Sounds like music,” he chuckles, gazing down at where your hips meet, watching the way your pussy swallows him up perfectly. “Looks like she loves it too, creaming all over me,”

His cock is coated in your slick, and it’s dripping down into the sheets beneath you. You can’t reply, all coherency went out the window the moment he started fucking you. 

You don’t think he wants a reply, though, not really. The way your eyes are threatening to roll back is enough reply on its own. 

“Perfect fucking pussy, the best I’ve ever had,”

You clench around him, and he groans, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. With a hand still on your back, his other sneaks up to grab your tit, squishing it tight while he fucks you into the mattress beneath you.

Your orgasm is over you before you even realise it, your mouth falling open in a silent moan, your body tightening up, pussy nearly choking Price’s cock. He groans, pulling you close, balls drawing tight when he empties himself inside you, painting your walls white. 

He fucks you both through it till you’re out of breath and sweaty. 

You’re barely present, eyelids nearly falling shut as Price catches his breath and lies down beside you, pulling you onto his chest. His hand strokes your back while he pulls your hair behind your ear. 

“Still with me, baby?”

“Uh huh,” You shift, feeling his cum drip out of you, coating your inner thighs. Your pussy feels sorer than ever.  “Felt good,”

After that, you’re insatiable. 

It’s like he’s struck a chord, awoken something in you. Gone is the strict little missus he found at the infirmary; now there’s just a horny pup, ready to jump his bones at all times. He finds himself fucking you in the shower, eating you out on the kitchen counter, and fingering you on the sofa. You moan and gasp and coo and grind your hips into his touch, begging him for more, more, more. 

You’re on the couch, legs spread wide to accommodate John’s big body between your thighs. He’s got you all splayed out, completely naked against the scratchy fabric, a hand on the back of each of your thighs keeping you right where he wants you.

It’s not exactly comfortable. You’re being pushed deeper into the couch with each thrust, made to take every inch of his thick cock inside you. Your neck is bent at a deep angle, your chin almost colliding with your collarbone, and every time he bottoms out, the air is pushed out of your lungs.

It feels good—he’s able to get deep with this angle, and there’s really nowhere for you to go except further into the cushions.

The moans feel like they’re being punched out of you—tiny little ragged things, sounding between a sob and a whine. You’re starting to think John likes you like this, all ruined and sloppy for him.

He’s naked too, his sweats and shirt somewhere on the floor, a light sheen covering his chest. You push at his pelvis, though you’re unsure what you’re trying to gain from it as your fingers curl into the coarse hair.

John chuckles. Blue eyes are locked on your every move, and he removes a hand from your thigh so he can take your hand and intertwine your fingers, pushing them into the couch. He leans over you further, caging you in as he pushes his forehead against your own.

You whimper as you’re curled further into yourself by the action; meanwhile, something delicious is building in your core. You know he’s feeling the way you flutter around him; you can see the predatory look in his eyes as his gaze flickers down to where you’re connected.

“John, I—ah!” 

You cry out when he thrusts particularly hard, your free hand now pushing at his chest as you squeeze your eyes shut. His chuckle is deep and fond, and it rings in your head as you flush, digging your nails into his chest.

“Use your words, love,” he teases, moving a hand down to push down on your stomach, and he hits your sweet spot with his next thrust, making you jolt in his grasp. “What do you want?” 

You’re glossy-eyed, pouting up at him. It's mean of him to ask this; he already knows exactly what you want. He’s sure you’d prefer it if he just told you to take it and told you what you wanted, so you didn’t have to think about it.

Part of him likes this—the naive trust, the trembling “I want whatever you want”. Another part of him wants to mould you into something needier, something loud and demanding.

He’s not sure what part of him is winning.

You shake your head, gasping moans and breaths, leaving you as you pull him closer. 

“Please,”

There’s a furrow between your brows, and the moans that leave you each time he grazes your g spot make him groan. The hand on your stomach inches down so he can thumb at your clit just the way you showed him you like it. (How he showed you that you like it.)

The graze of his cock against your walls, combined with the big gentle circles on your clit, brings you over the edge, your eyes rolling back into your head when you come. You get so tight that he’s pushed out, something wet splashing against his pelvis.

Price grins. Wicked and gross, as he grabs your thighs so hard that he knows it’ll bruise and pushes into you again, fucking you deep and rough. You go limp in his grasp, taking everything he gives you as praise tumbles from his lips.

“Pretty baby, huh?” His voice is breathy. “Feels like you’re trying to, fuck, strangle my cock.” 

He pushes deep when he comes, barely sparing it a second thought that he’s filling you up for the nth time this week. Hope it takes, he thinks, the thought crossing as quickly as it leaves again, while he stays deep, keeping you full. It’s dripping out around where he’s stretching you thin, droplets of cum dripping down onto the couch beneath you.

You’re hardly there anymore, nothing but putty in his hands. He grunts when he slips out of you, his cock immediately feeling cold.

“You broken, sweetheart?”

You’re mumbling something incoherent. He thinks you’re blaming him for how sore you’re going to be in the morning. His eyes fall to your pussy, and there’s a low thrum of excitement in the shape of him dripping out of you.

“The couch is ruined,” you grumble, and he pulls you up, helping you stand and patting your ass. He eyes the darkening stain.

“I’ve dealt with worse stains than that.” 

For some reason, it makes you giggle. It makes his dick twitch back to life, slowly growing between his legs. You haven’t noticed yet, still humming as you stretch out, pretty tits and cunt on full display as you wince.

It’s not long before he’s back on the couch, back against the cushions, as he motions for you to sit on it. You’re still giggling, but you’re crawling onto the couch, positioning yourself right over his cock. There’s still cum glistening on your thighs, and you’re already sinking down on him, laughter morphing into moans as you place your hands on his chest for stability.

Price reaches out, one firm hand groping your tit while the other grabs your hip. He lets you take him at your own pace till your bodies meet again.

“Yeah, that’s it.” His hand is rubbing soothing circles into your hip, while his other is squeezing your tit as though it’s a stress ball. Eyes trained on where you connect, he groans. 

“Fuck, taking me so deep, yeah?” 

He lets go of your tit, giving it one last fond squeeze before he’s stroking your tummy. You gasp when he digs in right under your navel, trying to feel himself in there.

“Must be right around here,” he states, and you whimper, but then the hand on your hip is guiding you in circles, and your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. “So tight, and yet you’re taking me like it’s nothin’.”

You cry out, clawing at his arms, riding him with more desperation as the tip of his cock hits your g spot. 

“So good,” you gasp, leaning down so you can kiss him, moaning into his mouth. “Love your cock”,

This makes him laugh, and then he’s placing his feet on the couch so he can fuck up into you, causing you to collapse onto his chest. 

You let out a surprised curse, eyes rolling back again, and Price cups your face, making you open your mouth so he can stick his thumb in. You instantly wrap your lips around the digit, moaning around it, and Price grins, nodding. 

It’s not long before your brows are furrowing and your thighs are shaking, and your pussy is clenching around him while you come all over his cock again, pure bliss overtaking your features. 

Price moans, feeling the way you throb and slick cum drips down his balls. It’s not long before he’s giving you the last couple of erratic thrusts and then he finishes inside you, creamy cum spilling out around where he’s filling you up. 

You hum, satisfied, resting your head on his chest. 

“Let’s stay like this,” you murmur after letting go of his thumb, your pussy still throbbing around him. “Like it when I’m full of you,” 

Price thinks you might be a succubus. 

✰ ✰ ✰

You’re deployed a month later. It runs cold down your back when you realise you’re deployed to the same base as Price, expected to take care of his team. Price chuckles, soothingly stroking your back when you read the email beside him in bed. 

“Relax, sweetheart. No one’s going to care.” 

You’re not entirely sure about that, but it seems easy enough to keep quiet about. As long as no one questions why Captain Price is going to the infirmary more than ever. 

“John, you don’t need a checkup.” You’re slightly annoyed, glaring at him. The infirmary smells like antiseptic and stale coffee, and Price hums, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Can’t even come to see my favourite medic anymore, huh?”

His tone is serious, but you’ve been around him enough to know that there’s a teasing edge. You shake your head, sighing. 

“Not if you’re not sick or hurt.”

Price whistles, adjusting his seat in the bed closest to you. 

“I am hurt,” he states, palming the bulge in his military pants. Your eyes flicker down at the motion, and your mouth instantly feels empty. “I think it’s best you take look at it.” 

You shift your weight, glancing at the door behind him. It’s late, and no one is scheduled to return from any missions today, so it’s going to be a quiet night anyway.  

Hesitantly you walk over, about to sit beside him, but then he shakes his head. 

“I think it’s better if you get on your knees,” 

He’s still palming himself, letting out an occasional sigh. “That way you can get a real good look,” 

All fight is gone in you as you follow his orders, sitting on your knees in front of him. You place your hands on his broad thighs, blinking up at him through your lashes. 

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, and he groans when you move your hands up his thighs, towards his cock. “Right here, perhaps?” 

He lets his hand fall away, and you coo, before your hands are unbuttoning his pants, pulling out his heavy cock. It’s already hard, drooling precum, and you lick your lips before moving closer. 

“Looks like you have a serious problem here, captain,” His cock twitches in your hand at the title, and you smile. “It’s good you came here right away.” 

He grabs your hair, and you don’t hesitate to follow when he pulls you forward, tapping his cock against your lips. 

“Open up then,” he hums. “Let me fuck that pretty mouth.” 

Your eyes are glossing again, just the way he likes it. You lick along his shaft before wrapping your lips around him entirely, bobbing your head up and down. John leans back and lets you do what you want. He groans when you pull off again, just to lick the underside of his cockhead, tasting salty precum on your lips.

“You look gorgeous like this, baby.” 

An affectionate hand finds your head, and he pets you, almost making you purr when he strokes your cheek, pulling you away from his cock so he can really take in the way your lips are all glossy with spit and pre and how your eyes are looking at him with such unbridled (undeserved) trust.

Your hand is still stroking him, and at this rate, he thinks he might finish early in your hand like a fucking teenager. You rest your cheek on his thigh, humming.

“I love you,”

The words leave you before you can even process them, ripped from your mouth. You pull back, feeling mortified, but Price puts his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you close. His expression is unreadable, eyes locked on your face. 

“I didn’t mean to— oh my god, I—“ you fumble over your words, but then you’re being pulled up from your knees, nearly stumbling when he does. 

“Say it again,”

You shake your head, tongue stuck in your throat, cheeks growing hot. Price nods slowly, and the hand on the back of your neck moves down to rest right over your collarbone. 

“Can we please forget this? I didn’t mean to—“

“Come on, sweets,” he mutters, and you frown, still hesitant. It feels weird and silly and childish. 

“I love you,” you murmur, words clumsy on your tongue, and Price groans, kissing you roughly in response, pulling you into his lap. He pulls your panties aside, making you sit on his hard cock, groaning when you take him to the hilt with no problem. 

“God, sweetheart,” he whispers against your lips, swallowing up your moans and whimpers. He rocks your hips back and forth while his other hand is possessively around your throat. “Gonna make you my pretty little wife if you keep that up,”

The words make you clench around him, and Price hums. 

“Your pussy is telling me you would like that, huh?” 

You whimper again, head going cloudy when his tip nudges your g spot and his hands are all over you. He moves back to watch your expression, grabbing your chin lightly so he can nod your head up and down. 

“Yeah, good girl.” He states, chuckling when you nuzzle into his hand. “Gonna knock you up and put a ring on your finger in no time.” 

thank you for reading! beta-read by cutiepie @houndofllove <333

masterlist. dividers by my lovely letta.

[rasberrybabez]

Happy pride from 141

You cant tell me gaz isn’t the most bisexual guy ever

[rasberrybabez]

are you good at character analysis? I wanna know what your analysis would be for Gaz, I’m trying to figure out his story since he’s my favorite out of TF 141

KYLE GAZ GARRICK

BASIC OVERVIEW — BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick is a British Black man who enlisted into the British Army around 2008 or 2014 (unfortunately, the developers have inconsistencies). His operator biography states 2008 while the official activision website in a blog post about MW2019 states 2014, however it does make sense for him to enlist in 2008. He would have been at least sixteen years old which is the minimum age requirement to enlist. I would like to quickly throw in that Gaz is indeed older than Soap, as this is a misconception that I surprisingly see a lot! Gaz’s blood type is B- and he currently ranks as sergeant (which according to the official British Army website, it typically takes at least twelve years in the service, however it implies it also depends on the person’s abilities).

Gaz spent four years in the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment. During these four years going through a multitude of tests and challenges before passing selection for Special Air Service (SAS). The activision blog says during MW2019, it’s his sixth year serving as a sergeant. However, as Gaz had been selected for TF141, I believe their ranks have paused in time. Gaz has mostly spent his time in anti-terrorism in his military career. He’s an expert in demolitions, VIP escorting, weapons tactics, covert surveillance, and target elimination. He’s been awarded multiple medals, and earned his Parachute Wings whilst spending time at Camp Lejeune in the U.S. whilst collaborating with Navy SEALs. Kyle is a master of evasion and deception, being the only candidate in his entire class to escape capture from the facility and evade detection during resistance training. 

When Gaz first meets Cpt. Price, Gaz is currently assigned to an SAS specific counter-terrorism program in the UK who collaborate with the police, which is another misconception that Gaz was a police sergeant at one point (he was not! I believe some people think this because at E3, Gaz was wearing a police baseball cap).

CHARACTER OVERVIEW

Like true to the original Gaz, he is Price’s protege, being his student. Gaz is overall a serious and hardworking man, loyal and unbreaking. He knows when to joke and he knows when to reload. However, Gaz is not perfect and he does lose his cool (we see subtle development with this later down the road). While being loyal, Gaz does not hesitate to question Price’s choices and actions. We see this multiple times during the series, the most prime example being in MW2019 when Price and Gaz are interrogating The Butcher with Yegor. The Butcher taunts Gaz, causing Gaz to lunge and Price to send him off to fetch.. “The package”. The package being, The Butcher’s family. The reboot games, you have choices, so I’ll give the very basic run down. 

You have the option to opt into the interrogation or to opt out of it. If you opt out, Price bursts out of the room with the information (if you go near the door, you hear The Butcher’s family sobbing). If you opt in, you have so many options. At the end of the day, Gaz is mostly silent and follows orders from Price. In the police cruiser scene, Gaz questions Price in the car—he did not expect to be using women and children as bargaining chips and he makes that clear, and this is a big teaching moment between Gaz and Price. We have to remember that Gaz is young and considering everything, inexperienced to an extent. Price makes up for that inexperience, teaching him along the way. During the interrogation scene, Price makes a remark: “We’ve taken the gloves off.” This is because Gaz lashed out. Later in the car, Price says “When you take the gloves off, you get blood on your hands, Kyle. That’s how it works.” after Gaz questions him.

CONCLUSION

Overall, Gaz is a very complex character and I enjoyed watching his development during these games. I’ve seen people claim Gaz is boring or plain, but I genuinely do not believe that to be the case. Gaz, in my opinion, is also the most relatable character. He’s young, ambitious, and determined. He’s charismatic and efficient. I don’t believe a character has to be extremely traumatized, or look very very unique to be a well-crafted character and Gaz is a great example for this. 

Gaz is just a man who enlisted; someone who is smart and well-rounded (as much as an SAS member can be), he’s quick on his feet and he molds into group work fantastically. He’s extremely versatile and is a quick learner—and wants to learn. He has his flaws that make him human. Gaz develops great self control, is level-minded and is able to think for himself. A great student questions their mentor in everything and you see this with Gaz. 

You see Gaz struggle with morality in the series in a sea of characters who kill and do things without a second thought. We see him question things, we see his emotions and his extreme reluctance. We definitely see some development down the road as Gaz becomes more ruthless, but he never quite forgets his humanity in a way, compared to Price where he can easily disconnect humanity (ex. Calling The Butcher’s wife and son “the package/leverage”). 

Along with this, we see him struggle with the rules in place. I also think this is why Gaz and Price’s dynamic is great. There are rules for a reason, and both Price and Gaz know when to break them—but Gaz learns that breaking some rules doesn’t always happen for the most heroic of actions (again, Price’s quote about bloodying your hands after taking the gloves off). Gaz wants to save people and keep the peace, we see this in Piccadilly during the terrorist attacks and the aftermath scene with Price where Gaz lets the Captain know that he and his unit had actionable intel on the terrorist cell who committed the act. Of course, we see later down the road that taking the gloves off removes all limits, not just some of them. We also see a glimpse of Gaz’s conflicting feelings when 141, Farah & Alex, as well as Laswell learn about Hadir and his plans, as well as when Farah’s forces are deemed a terrorist organization.

I think I rambled on a lot about him, hopefully this is understandable! 

Sources: price & gaz activision blog intros (2019), inconsistency in enlistment date, cod fandom wiki, gaz scenes mwi & mwii, official british army website.

[rasberrybabez]

Vampire!gaz and posessive!reader. You find out gaz had to drink from soap on a particularly long op and youre about hunt the Scotsman down. Gaz gently reminds you that said scot is probably face down in ghosts bed with the vampire already punishing him, so you relent.

Instead, you decide to remind gaz exactly who he belongs to. You shove him onto the bed and ride him until hes whimpering. Only then do you grip the back of his neck and guide his mouth to ur pulse "drink." Its an order.

He dutifully bites down, laps at the blood that pools from ur wound. "I own you, got it?" You hiss, grinding down just to feel him jolt "its my blood that keeps you alive, its me. Say it,"

He whines, blood drunk and overwhelmed with pleasure "its you, baby. Fuck- I live for you, you own me- please- im yours-"

Anyways you still punch soap in the jaw the next time u spar lol.

[rasberrybabez]

I always find it funny comparing the COD boys in canon to fanon, and whilst I am NOT complaining in the slightest and loads of changes to their original characters are genius, here are my observations on the differences in how TF141 are portrayed in the game versus in fan works.

Simon is often portrayed very closed off and silent, and whilst that may be true during ops, when he’s just around the boys I feel lots of people forget how dark his humour gets and how often it gets used.

Kyle is a literal war criminal and honestly I just find it so funny how he’s seen as the golden boy in so many depictions. Pretty privilege at its finest (and I am most certainly guilty).

Johnny is really not as unhinged as some people make him out to be — sure, he’s a demolitions expert, but he’s also a damn good soldier. So I find it unrealistic for him to be blowing up buildings in his free time (but, again, it’s so iconic that I am still guilty).

Then finally m, I always forget that Price really isn’t that old compared to the rest of them. I always imagine him in his mid-fifties, but he’s only 39 and only a few years ahead of the rest of them. Still DILF material, though.

[rasberrybabez]

Hallo!! i was curious if you’d do maybe like a teen au with simon x reader? not like under 18 tho:< maybe like Bully/popular!simon x Loner/nerd!reader? :3

Ahhh!!!!! Ofc my sweet anon!! 🥰 I’ve seen other reqs like this to some other creators and I LOVE it being my first one! So of course and I hope you enjoyyyy ❤️

this will be told using the American school system Bcs that’s all I know well 😣

~tags: heavy smut, bullying, cnc if you squint, squirting, semi-public, unsafe sex, humiliation, degradation, spanking, spitting, descriptions of parental neglect/abuse, MDNI

𓍢ִ໋☕️✧˚ ༘ ⋆📓⊹ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Two weeks until you got out of this hellhole, and two weeks until you would never see him again.

As your senior year starts to come to a close, the holy grail of freedom from crowded halls, ugly looks and… him.

Simon Riley.

You may be a loner, yes… but not everybody hates you. You couldn’t say the same about Simon, though.

Tall, brooding, held back a year because of the amount of absences he had. A senior, just like you, but a 19 compared to your 18. Always wearing a mask, always hiding somewhere off to the side, never stepping into the light, except for you.

Because it was clear that Simon hated pretty much everybody, but he hated you especially.

you weren’t sure why, because you had never talked to him before the bullying started. Sure, you had caught him looking at you, but after the messy breakup you and your friend group had? A lot of people looked at you, and not in the good way.

Then the bullying started. Simon, always appearing on your way to class, bumping books from your hands and making sure his elbow drove deep into your stomach. He was the cause of your tears, more often than not, but he didn’t give a shit.

And then he stopped hiding it.

Came right up to you, just to shove you into the lockers, spinning you around and shoving your face against the metal cabinets. You would squeal and cry and plead, but it was useless. Simon was relentless.

“Oh, cry all you want baby… no one’s gonna help ya’, eh? No… they don’t care… they don’t care like I do…”

His twisted words made you hiccup over your tears, just as he chuckled behind you. The skirt you were wearing as suddenly a lot shorter than how you remembered it, and shame flushes your cheeks as you realize that Simon’s practically displaying your lacy pink panties to the entire hall.

The whispers grow louder as you squirm against him. Simon just chuckles, letting the crowd find their way to class… class! You’re going to be late, the teacher is going to kill you-

Simons hand flies down to your ass before you can react, making you cry out in pain. He shoved your short little skirt up and tugged the back of your panties high, only to tighten his grip and tug. Again and again, until he had wedged the fabric between your asscheeks.

Thank god the hall was clear now.

You sob and squirm as he forces a wedgie right up into you, your clit burning through the lacy fabric as he spanks you again. Why was he doing this?

“s-stop! Stop, stop Simon please-”

His hand comes to your throat, not tight enough to choke you, but to force your gaze up to his grin. He grips your cheeks, pressing into your soft flesh to open your mouth, before spitting into it.

You whine and sob harder.

“That’s it whore, swallow.”

You try not to, but you can’t close your mouth. You start to drool, tongue lolling out as tears stain your cheeks, your previously neat bun now messy and disgraced. Simon just tsks at your behavior, sighing before shoving two thick fingers to the back of your throat, making you gag.

Now you have no choice but to swallow, and he doesn’t release you until you do.

“Fuckin’ bitch… can’t just follow orders, now can ya’…”

You fall to the ground, heaving in raspy breaths as your skirt flutters back down around your thighs. Your throat is sore and your hair is a mess, and tears track mascara all the way down your cheeks.

Simons taste lingers on your tongue, like pine and cigarettes, mixed with stale beer. It should taste disgusting… but it doesn’t.

Simons scoffs and spits one more time at your face, shoving you against the lockers for good measure. And you hate the part of you that liked it, despite struggling to stand and collect yourself after. Some hidden daddy issues sort of kink, it had to be.

You couldn’t be turned on by him.

That was the first time Simon Riley bullied you like that, and he hadn’t stopped since. It carried on during lunch and during class, and sure it got him a few detentions… but it was public school. What were they going to do, care? Definitely not.

But now, here you are, two weeks away from graduation. Your finals are all done and taken, and you’re so sick of sitting alone, from begging for mercy from some sick bully that plagues you. Sick of school, but really, truly down with it.

So it doesn’t help that in your mind spiraling tangent, you push into the men’s bathroom.

You don’t notice, of course, it’s empty. And the bathrooms look practically identical of your not looking for the urinals.

Most of the other seniors are off for the next two weeks, they’re optional days of school. But you’d rather take the time to study at home, instead of risking your paperwork for college and your wrist for writing to your dad’s drunken rage.

You just need a break, a splash of water on your face. So you tug off your jacket and fix your pants, having bothered to never wear a skirt again, not since the… incident.

You splash water on your face with a low groan, slumping over the sink as the bathroom door opens. You don’t look up, you don’t care enough to. It’s probably just some teacher or underclass man that you don’t care about.

But the rumbling chuckle that you hear behind you makes you look up with fear, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Simon’s hand grip your hips faster than you can bolt, bending you over the sink and forcing you to throw your hands up against the mirror with a cry. You struggle in Simon’s grip, but it’s no use, especially when he pins your hands with one of his.

“Must be ma’ lucky day, hm baby… little fawn like you, stumbling into my bathroom? On the day everyone else has off?”

You cry out, struggling more fervently.

“Let me go! Let me go, Simon you’re sick, you’re so fucking sick-”

“Ah-ah-ah…”

He says, chuckling and rolling his hips against you, making you cry out. He had you pressed against the sink, legs around yours and pinning you down, your pants staring against the force and stretch of your body.

“Tha’s a lot of attitude baby… you wanna be punished?”

You sob against the mirror and sink, face still wet from the water. Two more weeks, two more weeks to survive Simon. You had to survive, you had to make it through.

“Stop! Stop you freak, w-why are you even doing this!”

You cry out, trembling beneath him. That makes Simon pause, looking down at you with a frown. You really couldn’t be that daft… could you?

Unless he was the emotionally constipated one that thought that this was flirting.

Simon didn’t have the best examples of love, growing up… his father being the dick that he was and his mother slowly losing herself to depression. So obviously Simon wasn’t going to know exactly what to do… right?

It was no secret that he was attractive. He was an asshole, yeah, and most people hated him. It didn’t change the fact that he was objectively handsome, a few scars here and there, and scrappy golden blonde hair that women wished matched his personality.

And Simon had like you for a long time, no doubt. He swore that at the beginning of the year, you had smiled at him. You were in the tutoring program that he had enrolled in, and fuck you just seemed so different… didn’t glare at him like the rest of them.

Not yet at least.

So he did what he only knew how to do, and led by violence. Knocked down your books ma then knocked down you, and it got to the point where he did have you up against the lockers, flashing your panties to the school. But when he tugged the pink lace up between your ass and you squealed like that? He could see the way that perfect pussy had jumped, leaking onto the fabric like a fountain.

So you had liked it.

And that only motivated him more.

But the thing is, that you just kept running from him. See, Simon was already here for an extra year, and he wasn’t going to waste it. He’d have you by graduation, or he’d track you down until you were his.

He chose the former.

So when he walked into the surely empty bathroom and saw you? It was a chance to claim you in a way he hoped no one had before, and make you his. Finally

“…you really don’t know, baby?” He said gruffly, still grinding up against your pert ass. You could feel it through your leggings, and suddenly you knew a lot more than you wanted to. “Because I need you… a’ haven’t tracked ya’ down all year just to let you go, no baby… gotta take ya nice and hard.”

He shoves you hard as you cry out, but it sounds suspiciously similar to a moan. You can feel him reaching down to you with the elastic of your pants, tugging it slowly.

You whimper, shaking your head.

“d-don’t, Simon don’t-”

Simon clucks his tongue, just tugging them harder until he reveal the soft white lace of your thong. It was the only thing you had to wear, everything else in the wash as you cry out.

“Ye’ say that… yet yer cunt’s soaked baby…”

He’s right. You’re so wet right now that your underwear clings to the outline of your puffy, needy pussy, drenching the fabric. Simon chuckles, reaching a thumb down to toy at your clit, pulling a needy moan from you.

“Tha’s it ye’ slut… there’s almost no one here. Moan for me.”

You don’t want to listen to him, but you can help it. The way his fingers are working, the way he’s teasing you. The way he pulls your thing out of the way to slip a thick finger inside, then two. The way he makes you clench and moan, back bowing against the sink.

“Simon!”

you cry out with pleasure, panting and squirming beneath him. He chuckles and groans, leaving one hand inside of you, pumping steadily, as the other one reaches down to undo his belt. You can see your reflection in the mirror, eyes red and puffy from crying, lips red from biting them, trying to keep back moans. Cheeks flushed with pleasure as the smell of sex coats the air.

Simon makes quick work of his belt and the buttons of his jeans, tugging them down to reveal a pair of black Calvin Klein and a very big, obvious bulge.

You whimper, and his thrusts speed up.

Simon moves his thumb to rub your clit as the coil in your lower belly starts to tighten, and you moan out with whimpery need. You need to come, but you don’t want to. Not on Simon’s hands.

But you can’t really control it, not when he grins and speeds up like the knows what you’re thinking, because he does. Gets you to the edge before slowly pulling his cock out

The sight of it makes you gasp with pleasure, body tightening as your orgasm rolls over you. You don’t moan or squirm or scream, just tense and arch back into Simon with a soft gasp. You come hard around his fingers and he chuckles, letting you slump back against the sink.

And when he takes out his fingers, the head of his fat cock replaces them soon enough.

Your eyes go wide, even as you pant and try to protest, but Simon just cuts you off. Forces his cum slicked fingers into your mouth and down your throat, choking as he forces his heavy, fat tip up into your tight pussy.

You cry out around his fingers, drooling down them and your chin, sobbing harder as you look at yourself in the mirror. You hate that it’s hot, you hate how turned on you get knowing the man that you hate is fucking you in the school bathrooms, your cum coating his fingers.

Simon loves it too.

“Yeah baby? Ya’ see how fuckin’ pretty you look, boutta’ be all dumbed out on ma’ cock? Yeah?”

You can’t stop yourself from nodding, sucking harder at his fingers as he starts to force more of his thick cock into your right channel. The stretch is like nothing you’ve had before, and you’re definitely not a virgin. But no other guy matters, now that you’ve felt this.

Simon groans as he shoves himself all the way in, balls smacking against your clit and already dripping with your slick. He can smell it, your sweet and seedy sex, and he can feel the way you tighten around him.

So he keeps his fingers in your mouth as he pulls back, and starts to fuck your pussy like you’re nothing but a flashlight for him to use.

Your hiccupy moans are all muffled by Simon’s fingers, broken up with each slap of skin against yours and each deep thrust that forces Simon’s thick and ruddy tip up into your cervix. Your tears don’t stop, only increasing with the painful pleasure that digs itself deep into your bones.

It roots itself there like a parasite, feeding off of the depraved pleasure you get from Simon. From your bully fucking you in the bathroom in the middle of the day.

Simon’s thrusts increase in speed, and your moans get higher and louder.

Two weeks till graduation, and Simon’s already completed his goal, already got you right where he wants you, fucking into your tight little pussy as he forces you to watch your cock drunk expression in the mirror. You’re drooling over his fingers, already sucked all of your cum off of them. I guess he’ll just have to add more.

It’s not long before Simon starts to climb to his peak, but he knows he has to get you there first. So he keeps a hand on your hip, moving the sloppy one from your mouth, down to your puffy little clit.

“Yeah baby? Gon’ come again, let me fill up this pretty lil cunt? Yeah?”

You nod weakly, eyes glazed over as he groans and grunts, pace starting to stutter. He speeds up his circles on your clit, body doubling over as he shoves ball deep, coming with a loud groan.

You come too, gasping and panting and whining like a bitch in heat, your overstimulated pussy not only coming, but squirting all over him. Simon’s abs are drenched, along with his jeans around his thighs and your leggings pulled down only to your knees. Not to mention his cock and balls now, too.

Simon groaned and chuckled, panting as he looks down to the mess that you made. He looks up at you through the mirror, your fucked out face starting to return to normal, eyes no longer glazed over as you blink away tears.

Simon leans down, forcing a kiss agaisnt your temple.

“Tha’s it baby… my good slut. We’ll do it again before graduation, a’ promise.”

𐙚‧₊˚📜✩ ₊˚⊹♡𐙚‧₊˚📜✩ ₊˚⊹♡𐙚‧₊˚📜✩ ₊˚⊹♡𐙚‧₊˚

A/N-hoped you liked it! It took a bit of a deranged turn… but it’s fine! My first rec and I think I did good myself, even though I’m sick and already pumped out another fic today!

So I hope you enjoyed!

Luv from Razz ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍓 ⋅ ☆

[rasberrybabez]

let’s get some love for Kyle mf Garrick ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚.

⛧°. ⋆༺as always mdni~18+༻⋆. °⛧

like realistically, in my head, if you met any of the 141 irl, Kyle (in my humble opinion) is OBJECTIVELY the greenest flag of the bunch.

now I love all of the men, but I am also a writer who knows how unhinged they can be. And I’m saying that Kyle/Gaz could too, probably is too actually but not in the way you would automatically know. So I raise you:

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Bf!Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You and Kyle met on a dating app, cliche I know.

But it wasn’t intentional. Your profile was more of a gag one, set up on a drunken night with too many mimosas and too many friends telling you that maybe, you just need a man.

Your bio was short, sweet, with a little bit too many spelling errors for most guys to swipe right on. The picture? You on a beach, this one had won the most votes from your friend. Cute little hearts here and there, just your age and name. Nothing special.

What you didn’t expect, however, is for the absolute 10/10 that is Kyle Garrick to message you on some random Friday night.

Hey, saw your profile sweetheart… drinks tomorrow at 8:00? I can pick you up. ;)

And from then on, you were Kyle’s. Whether you knew it or not at the time, you were his. From the second he ended up at your doorstep and you stepped out in that little red dress? All dolled up for him?

That was it.

Drinks went smoothly, and you talked about a lot, especially for a first date. One date of overhearing turned into two, two dates into three and a kiss, four into the most mind blowing sex you’ve ever had.

Sure, he could have just left it at that, moved along at whatever pace felt right at the moment. But no, Kyle Garrick is a gentlemen. Showed up to your house to whisk you away to the beach, roses in the sand with the sunset overhanging it all.

Will you be my girlfriend, sweetheart? I promise I’ll make you so happy…

And that was that.

You moved into his flat after a couple of months, Kyle arguing that he needed to know that you were safe during his deployments. What was once a bachelor’s pad was now furnished with flowers and a feminine touch, new paintings of poppy fields and beach waves crowding the hall.

You’d lost count of how many dates you two had been on, the memories overwhelming and pure. Lego in the living room, baking on the kitchen, out at a restaurant or on the beach, always together.

You had your fair share of fights, of course. All couples do… but Kyle made sure he was always the first to apologize.

Because at the end of the day, he’d rather lay down his pride for the love of his life than return the shiny ring tucked away in the back of his drawers.

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Unhinged!Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Kyle Garrick is a force to be reckoned with, on duty and off of it.

You never meant to fall in love, and you definitely shouldn’t have, either. Because a man who confidently starts to show up everywhere you go is never there for a good reason.

Kyle had been tracking you ever since a mission hit a little bit too close to home. A staged robbery gone wrong, originally set up by a much larger crew to cover up the fact that they were looking for government files. You, the soft spoken bank teller, were one of the lucky ones.

Your boyfriend wasn’t.

But then again, Kyle never thought he was good enough anyways. And what would have happened if he had survived, and Kyle walked onto the scene and hadn’t seen you sitting on the curb, puffy eyed and crying?

Sweet, sweet thing you were… he doubted you’d ever remember him, just the man in a cap and glasses, staring a little bit too close.

Since then, he couldn’t get you out of his mind. Ended up looking back on the case files to find your IDs, and may have down a little bit of digging. What was government issued software used for if not dedication and devotion to a woman Kyle was sure could be his?

Day by day for months, he tracked you. Watched you, memorized your schedule. Showed up at the coffee shop Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays because those were the days that you frequented.

He dropped off roses every other Sunday and Saturday, at different times so that you wouldn’t catch him. The man could pick a lock too, and if he used that skill to creep inside your house and find out what groceries you needed… no harm no foul, right?

And when he finally worked up the courage to ask you out, you don’t know why you said yes. It had only been a few months since your boyfriend’s death, but Kyle just seemed so… kind. So familiar. It was easy with him, he seemed to know you inside and out already, knew everything you’d ever need.

You shouldn’t have been surprised that when he took you to bed, he knew everything there too. Like he had been waiting for this moment.

Because a part of you knew he had. You had seen him, caught glimpses of the tall, brooding man that was everywhere you were, like he didn’t exist if not in your presence. The way that any man that threatened you had wound up tossed up somewhere, Prison or an early grave… cases usually covered by the British SAS.

Maybe you just had bad luck, criminals and scum making their way into your life. The darker parts of society creeping in.

Or maybe, you already had your own dark angel that refused to share.

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Jealous!Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Kyle Garrick does not share his pretty things.

And definitely not you.

Because at the end of the day, it’s your hand that holds his as you walk down the street, fingers linked and swinging as you laugh, and all he can do is watch. Sure, your lips are moving and yeah, he probably should be paying more attention to what you’re saying, and not just the way your cheeks flush in the evening chill.

But who can blame a man for doting on his spoiled little dove? You wanted salmon tonight, with thyme and lemon and crispy skin, specifically. Now Kyle may love you, but he sure as hell isn’t any special chef.

So your favorite restaurant will have to do.

It’s bustling and crowded on a Friday night, wide ceilings and white brick walls that glow with the soft whiskey colored lights hanging low over tables. Men and women on dates, a group of young lads by the bar.

Even the sight of another man who has the privilege of seeing you sets his heckles arise.

Nonetheless, you convince him to sit down, frowning as you recognize the telltale sign of his notorious jealousy. It’s better on other days, where you’re not dressed up in some skimpy little skirt for all the world to see in a crowded place with men already eying you up.

You huff, brows pinching at his tensed shoulders. He relaxes, reluctantly.

The night goes relatively well, and you squeaky with soft happiness at the sight of your salmon. All Kyle can do is watch you with a wide smile, hands constantly on you. Thighs, hands, arms, shoulders, neck, whatever. He just needs to feel your skin.

It’s a nice date night, up until you’re about three-quarters of the way done with your meal. Kyle reminders, because that’s always when you offer him a bite.

It’s just when he reaches for the fork, as the voices approaching the two of you start to get louder, louder than most of the busy restaurant, in fact, which had filled out completely with your time there.

Kyle looks up to see a group of drunk men, presumably the ones from the bar earlier, moving towards your table. They have to be drunk, he thinks, because no sober person would walk up to a table with a couple clearly in a date, with a man who clearly looks like he wants to kill them.

And the words that come out of their mouth only spurs him on.

“A’ lass who ain’t afraid ‘da get a lil messy, eh? Wanna put it to ‘ta test wit me an ma mates, eh?”

The man’s words re slurred as he leans over the table, a few of his friends chuckling and patting his back. They lean uncomfortably close into your space, leaving you wide eyed and red cheeked, scooting closer into Kyle with a squeak. Kyle’s jaw ticks as the grip on his steak knife tightens, and he squeezes your thigh whilst tugging you to his side.

His response is immediate.

“She’s already got somethin’ to test it on, and it’s my dick, so no thanks. Oh, and if you want to lose yours, feel free to keep talking.”

The man’s face falls a little, and he grunts to turn to him. His mates, previously jeering and supportive, now go quiet. Some looks round nervously, one proceeds to back away.

The man grunts, looking Kyle up and down. Broad chest and tall form, even when sitting, hugging you close and protectively to his side. He leans back against the booth of the table in a way that feigns nonchalance, but the tick of his jaw and his grip on his steak knife say otherwise.

“…tha’ right, tough guy? Or do ya’ dove just need a real man ta’-”

Kyle is out of his seat before the man can even finish, the tables surrounding the two of you wide eyed and shocked. A woman even brings her phone out.

Kyle slams the man into the wall next to the booth, his powerful form much taller and larger up close. The man’s eyes go wide, bloodshot, threatening to pop out of his head.

Kyle just chuckles.

“I assure you, my dove is just fine. In fact, she’d be better if you can go and wanker off somewhere else, or preferably rid the world of the waste of oxygen that your mother put in it.”

He leans in closer, a few of the staff members calling out, running over to see what the fuss is.

“Yeah? Because I’d hate for something bad to happen to a guy like you. But if it would make my dove feel better…”

The man cries out as Kyle is pulled off of him, just for him to land a left hook to his face. He goes down with a wail, blood spurting from his nose and bruising appearing around his eyes.

You sit, slack jawed and wide eyes in the booth, a little bit shaken up from what just happened. You should be used to it by now, Kyle’s done much more to a guy for much less.

But he pulls away from the waiters, jaw still ticking with jealousy as the manager demands the men leave. But all it takes are a few whispers and a couple of bills, and Kyle is back beside you in the booth. The man he attacked is dragged out, drunken ass still blubbering on and on, not that Kyle cares.

Because at the end of the day, it’s the smile that you try to hide Heaney your scolding look, and the kiss he can plant to your head despite some bloody knuckles.

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Fussy!Reader x Fussy!Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

They were all out of your favorite sushi.

It was annoying, because you and Kyle both knew that you only like one type. The salmon platter, but nothing spicy. You could never handle it as well as Kyle could.

Today was definitely not your day.

You started off every morning with the same, solid and strict routine, because that’s how you liked it. Alarm set for 7:30, so that you were up in time to take out your heartless curls. Skincare with Kyle, always, sometimes even doing eachothers. Only because Kyle was the only person who knew exactly how to do it right. It’s what he did every morning to.

But today, your alarm has gone off late. In the hurry through your bathroom cabinets, you had dropped your bottle of serum on the ground and it shattered. Kyle had to pull you back from tears, especially when you had stepped on the glass and cut your toe.

Breakfast couldn’t happen like normal either.

Your toast had burnt, your eggs were expired, and your milk had also curdled away in the fridge. A busy week was to blame with your lack of ingredients, which is how you had dragged Kyle to the store for food and groceries, only for him to find you with tears in your eyes, standing over the sushi counter.

You whine softly as he sighs and walks over, pulling you close to rub your back.

“oh lovey…”

he whispers, because he knows how important your schedule is. You can’t function without a few specific things, because you only liked a few specific things, and Kyle knows that best of all.

He presses a firm kiss to your temple, sighing softly and tubbing your back.

“Wait here, I’ll be back.”

And Kyle Garrick is not the type of man to let the woman he loves have a bad day just because things go wrong. So he picks up his basket filled about halfway full of groceries, and walks over to the meats counter. Grabs the attention of the butcher, asks if there’s anything in the back he can look at, the sushi

It takes a few wads of cash, but Kyle walks back with his head held high, salmon sushi platter in his hand, putting it in your barren basket.

“See lovey? Nothin’ to worry about… got it just the way ya’ like.”

Because Kyle knew best of all how you liked your day to go, because that’s how he liked his to. Fussy or not, he’d do anything to keep those pretty tears away.

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Sick!Reader x Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You never liked being sick, and you hated admitting it even more.

But Kyle could always tell.

Your coughs and sneezes had gotten worse throughout the day, and you seemed more disgruntled than usual. Snappy and whiny, and tired. So, so tired.

All it took was the back of his hand on your forehead for him to know, your feverish skin practically burning him. He clicks his tongue and pulls you close, rubbing your back.

“Sweetheart…”

He whispers, ushering you off to bed against your will. Strips you down and controls himself at the sight of your soft body, tucks you into bed and forces a glass of water to your lips. You argue with him, of course, but take the medicine he passes you anyways.

Because it’s hard to keep up your independence when your no duh can’t even keep itself working. You’re constantly burning up, and your head has been pounding all day.

But you have a report due by Monday, and you really need to finish it. Your cold doesn’t care.

Kyle keeps you tucked into bed, fussing over you like some mother duck. Suddenly he has no mind about his gaming or the fact that he was supposed to visit Price’s later on today, and in a few quick calls he’s cleared both of your schedules for the next five days.

You try to protest, but he silences you with soup and tissues and water, leaving your side for five minutes max. Gets you in a cold shower when your fever spikes, holds you up and washes your body, massage a your sore muscles.

Let’s you lay right back down and use him as your own huge, muscular, lumpy hot water bottle. He doesn’t mind, though.

And when you as him why he’s doing it, being so thorough when he could have just gave you some meds and left? He just smiles.

“Practicing for when you’re pregnant, love… first trimester will be a bitch.”

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★Hybrid!Reader x Kyle:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

All you’d ever known before Kyle Garrick entered your life was steel bar and carbon fiber cages.

Testing until your fluffy white dog ears were marred with blood, and your tail was no better. The testing lab that you had grown up on was no different to hundreds of hybrid labs around the country, all mutating and messing with human and animal genes to create a new species.

Hybrids.

Some were more horrific than others, messed up in a way that you didn’t want to look at. You got it good compared to others, just an extra pair of fluffy white ears and a matching bushy tail. But you were scared out of your mind half the time, for a good reason.

Until Kyle.

He came along with the rest of the team, stormed the illegal lab you were being tested under. And from the minute you tumbled out of your cage and into his arms, he was the human you had imprinted on.

It started off small. Following him around base, never leaving his side like the skitter little shadow you were. Took your lunch right by his side, lived in the spare room of his quarters.

The non that you two had was natural, easy, instinctual. The way you two drifted towards eachother, the way Kyle welcomed you with open arms and a constant reassurance.

You’re safe, sweetheart.

You started wearing his clothes, since you had none of your own. During thunderstorms, he would keep you company on the couch, didn’t want to overwhelm you and force you into bed. But he never opposed it when you chose to.

Kyle couldn’t deny what he felt for you. The skittish, malnourished, jumpy little thing that deserved just as much love and affection as anyone else. It made swell with hope at the way you trusted him so easily, bared yourself open to him with wide, trusting eyes. He could never hurt you, not when you look at him like that. Like he hung the fucking stars in the sky.

So when you let him in like you have no other man? Let him lay you down on his bed and turn sex into a worship at your altar?

He’s never been happier. He wants to make it up to you, all the abuse that you’ve faced, whispering praises as he rocks into you, never hard. Not unless you want it. He treats you like a porcelain doll that he knows is strong, but shouldn’t need to handle her cracks by herself.

That’s what he’s here for, sweetheart.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Also-thanks to Expired-Goth-Juice for some tips and ideas! Looking forward to some more help in the future lol ‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

[rasberrybabez]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[rasberrybabez]

if you support tr**p unfollow me. "oh i am not interested in politics" is ignorant because everything we do revolves around the political state of the world. "it's not that deep" brother, people are dying. they're being stripped off their rights. they're being threatened and silenced in the name of democracy, promise for a better world and peace. peace is not waving your flag on the ground that is soaked in the blood of innocents that you killed. peace is not suppressing minorities. peace is definitely not bombing countries to portray power. your political views and awareness does impact the future of this world. you might not choose to interact with "politics" but politics is always impacting you. wake up and speak up before it's too late.

[rasberrybabez]

you can love a character and still admit when they’re wrong…. i love Captain Price but can acknowledge his flaws (he has none) and can hold his accountable for his wrongdoings (he’s never done anything wrong in his life) and call him out for his actions (which are always correct)

[rasberrybabez]

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ Chapter 6

ao3 | main masterlist

[rasberrybabez]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls, a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood pulled up. Could only see the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky. Padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unluckily for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brow as you all but tilted your head in nervous confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to well. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your rheumy eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter. Your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the ring that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister — apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked at your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. He had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely aware, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous wife itching to castigate her reckless husband for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, electing to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth. “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agape as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your hind foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

[rasberrybabez]

★⚽₊⊹ ᰔ °⋆

Footballer!Simon who has a habit of acting out on and off the pitch, despite being the team’s star striker. Millions of fans crowd the stadium to watch him play, but really to watch the way a man like that can throw a punch.

Footballer!Simon who is too good of an asset for the team to loose, but the coach is so fed up with his attitude that he needs some rehab. Sends him to a training camp for little kids, to volunteer coach put in the country and hopefully get his act together.

Footballer!Simon that wasn’t nothing to do with little brats and a summer camp, until he meets her. The camp counselor that treats him like just a man, no fan of fortune attached. Counselor!Reader that knows why Simon is here, and treats him like a little boy who needs an attitude adjustment.

Footballer!Simon that finds out he’s extremely, extremely attracted to finally being the one getting yelled at, but only by her.

Counselor!Reader who loves her job, and will not let some rich snob with attitude issues get in the way of it. He will make crafts at seven, he will serve dinner in the mess hall at eight, and he will read spooky stories at ten campfire until curfew at twelve.

Footballer!Simon that slowly wins her over. Does as she says, yes ma’am and all. Teases her about being uptight, pokes fun at her around the kids. Makes her laugh. Teaches them how to play a good match, turns into the football dad coaching from the sidelines.

Footballer!Simon that realizes the way to her heart is the kids. Takes them on as his little ducklings, doesn’t do autographs because that’s for fans, and these are his children now. Apparently, he tells them he lost the birth certificate but they’re definitely his

Counselor!Reader that slowly begins to warm up to him. Scooting closer during dinners, walking back to the cabin with him after the bonfire and talking about everything under the sun. ‘Oh, my brother used to play’… ‘met a guy once at a bar, now I support Tottenham’… ‘I think I’ll take you to one of my games, lass… gimme’ a pretty prize to win for’

Footballer!Simon who knows that he’s here as a punishment, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. He knows he shouldn’t break anymore rules than normal, this is supposed to help, not hurt. But that zero fraternization policy? Maybe he just missed it going over the rules.

Counselor!Reader who knows she shouldn’t be hooking up in her cabin with the broody rich asshat sent here for a spanking, but maybe she just missed that in the rules. They didn’t specify the volunteer that they were taking on was this annoyingly endearing.

⋆｡𖦹°⚽︎⋆｡𖦹°

[rasberrybabez]

cotton candy clouds | 7

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Despite the already late time on what should be just a lazy Sunday evening, Simon did find Price in his office—working on reports and preparing for the upcoming week, as expected. 

A non-existent private life is a common occurrence shared among the squadron, after all. 

Another grey plume of cigar smoke curls upwards from the captain’s lips only to dissolve and add to the already thick, hazy air around the office.  

“I assume you haven’t read her file, then, like I’d told ya to?”   

Simon tightens his fingers around the heavy, black folder on his lap, giving a slow shake of his head. “Didn’t deem it necessary,” he answers curtly. “Didn’t plan to keep ‘er around anyway.”  

Price rolls his eyes, crow’s feet appearing in the corners with an amused, tight-lipped smile, and Simon clenches his jaw under the cloth of his mask, biting back a curse while the handlership contract he’d signed just the day before yesterday, rests in front of him on his superior’s desk—practically glowing, though not like a beacon of hope but a great mistake with a spotlight thrown on, here to mock and taunt him for his stupidity in the heat of the moment.  

“But she’s yours now, Simon. You’re her handler for the next six months.” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows furrowing in thought as he does notice how his Lieutenant’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “You didn’t read the contract either, did’ya?”  

Simon huffs sharply, shifts uncomfortably on the chair in front of the large desk that Price is sitting behind. He shouldn’t have signed it in hindsight—and he curses himself and Johnny for letting the Scotsman agitate him badly enough to sign the bloody contract.  

“Six months.” Simon repeats evenly, like an already dead man learning about his death sentence.  

“Aye, six months of probation period. There will be an evaluation of you both after that before it’s decided if the… handlership can continue in that constellation.”  

There is a moment of silence where Simon is reeling internally—onyx pupils flickering in thought behind a façade of indifference that his Captain can easily see through, despite the balaclava secured in place.  

“What about missions?” Christ, Simon bloody hopes he’ll get deployed on an op—a long one at that. “M’ not gonna take ‘er with us. No fuckin’ way.” You’re not made for warzones, not supposed to witness that kind of hardship after what you have already obviously been through. Too bloody soft, too delicate, too bloody precious.  

Price shrugs as he sorts through his report papers; his next answer so blatant, it makes Simon’s blood simmer. “She’ll stay in custody of another K9 hybrid handler here on base.”  

And that makes him bristle. “Whot?” He raises an eyebrow behind his mask. The thought of one of the K9 unit handlers taking care of you in his absence leaves a strangely tight feeling in his chest. His right leg begins to bounce with queasiness, the urge to pace becomes too real. Negative, he wants to say. Declined.  

“Make her stay at the bloody dog compound, tha’it?”  

The captain raises a bushy brow, picks up his cigar from the ashtray, and pick up on the sudden restlessness emanating from the man in front of him, too.  

“Aye, so? Wouldn’t be wrong for her to be around other dog hybrids, innit?”  

Simon snorts humourlessly. Now Price is just taunting him―again. They both know the K9 hybrids; have seen them in action, during training, how they interact with each other. All males, all… bloody starving for action, for something to sink their canines into and rip apart.  

Fuck, no! Over my cold, dead body!—is what he wants to say, though “Yes, sir.” is what he replies instead.  

“Does she...” Price clears his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the papers and Simon fixes him with a glare, already aware of where the sentence is going. “Negative,” he chimes in curtly, straightening his shoulders as if to brace himself for an argument. “She doesn’t know.”  

Price hums, meeting the familiar glare with his own stoic blues. “And you’re not planning to share it with her, I assume? Could be helpful.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, adding: “Eye-opening.”  

Simon narrows his eyes at the older male who likes to slip into some father-figure role every chance he gets. “Yeah, right.” He averts his gaze, looks at his hands instead, still clutching your file. “Dunno why I should tell her–”  

“Kinship,” Price blurts out, earning a rare, rumbling growl from the man sitting in front of his desk. “Jus’ saying.” The captain shrugs, picks up his cigar from the ashtray; the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

After having the talk with Price, Simon doesn’t steer towards home right away but instead roams the base in the eerie early hours of the night, going through his pack of smokes like a bag of cheap candy until his throat hurts and his coughing breaths fog up the chilly, moist air around him.  

And Simon tries to ignore the strange ball of anxiety that has lodged itself hotly into the pit of his stomach when he makes his way back to the private apartment complex eventually—the picture of your sad and fearful face when he’d left you so abruptly is still fresh in his mind, only adding to the immense guilt he’s already feeling.  

He finds himself standing stock-still in front of his apartment door for minutes on end like a bloody coward; hands clenching and unclenching at his sides—too empty, too fidgety for a highly-trained and experienced sniper like him and yet he can’t help how nervous he’s feeling. The weight of your file tucked into the inside of his jacket only adds to the tightness inside his chest.  

Come on, Simon, you bloody fucking coward. She only knows you had a bloody wank, not that you were thinking of her! It’s natural. It’s nothing. It’s—It’s fucking disgusting! Pathetic! You’re pathetic, mate! Are you fucking daft? What the fuck were you thinking?!  

Simon squeezes his eyes shut hard enough until he sees white dots dancing and fluttering in front of his closed eyelids. Holding his breath, he finally shoves the key into the lock and twists it on autopilot before pushing the door open at once.  

He’s met with that familiar darkness and quiet he always finds whenever he returns home, though this time it makes him feel anxious rather than welcomed. It shouldn’t be like this, not anymore at least.  

Slowly exhaling the breath he’s been holding, Simon closes the door with a quiet click before locking it and toeing his boots off as a precaution to prevent himself from making another quick escape if things get messy again. Coward, he keeps thinking like a mantra, coward coward coward coward—  

Consumed by his own dark cloud of thoughts, it takes Simon a moment as he walks further into his apartment before he becomes aware of the soft steady whimpering and sniffles coming from his bedroom, and while his first instinct is to flee, he pushes through his initial reaction, he keeps his balaclava in place and shifts into his perfectly crafted Ghost mindset ―always facing his fears head on. 

He’d hoped you would’ve simply gone to bed by now. 

The sight that greets him makes his heart drop into a pit in his stomach, makes his breath stutter harshly and his quivering hands clench into tight fists to keep himself grounded. 

You’re a wreck. Beautiful, illuminated by the soft yellowy glow of his bedside lamp, but still a mess. Hair as tousled as the fur on your dog ears, pulled flat against your skull in submission, eyes puffy, nose snotty. But you’re not simply sad, no. You’re obviously terrified, and it breaks his heart.  

You weep harder when you notice his presence looming in the doorframe, desperately trying to muffle your sounds how he used to do as a child so his father wouldn’t hear him cry, and Simon’s chest heaves with another sharp inhale when you suddenly scramble onto your knees on his bed, dress rucking up to your waist, body trembling as you get into position, presenting your rear to him with your tail tucked between your thighs and your face pressed into the mattress in a way that would most certainly make him blush furiously in any other scenario than this one―until he realizes that you’re awaiting a punishment. 

And suddenly, every uncomfortable emotion Simon is currently experiencing turns into something he knows well, something he can handle and function under―blazing wrath. 

Not towards you, though. Never directed at you. 

He’d gladly kill, no, tear anyone apart whoever caused you such harm and anguish. 

With a sudden wave of confidence and a swift motion, Simon pulls off his mask and speaks your name so softly, it borders on a term of endearment that surprises even himself. You flinch as if he’d just smacked you, which makes him flinch in return, so he repeats your name even quieter, like a gentle caress, desperate to coax you out of your fearful state, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief, when your sweet ears do finally twitch and perk up some. 

“Whot’re you doin’, lass?” he asks, not knowing what else to say before he takes a cautious step towards his bed. The fact that he must say his next words out loud make him feel like he gurgled acid in his mouth: “Christ, I’m–I’m not gonna hurt ya.”  

That makes your tail relax the slightest bit, ears perking up more with a mix of confusion and curiosity.  

“I’d never hurt you.” 

His hand trembles even harder as he reaches out to you tentatively and unsure, fingers hovering over the small of your back while his neck begins to flush and sweat and his heart nearly bursts out of his chest with anxious thuds. It’d be so much easier if you were in danger; perhaps drowning and he could simply pull you above surface―literally―instead of whatever it is he’s trying to achieve now. 

He’s saved people before; dragged fellow comrades out of lines of fire and into safety by the scruff of their fatigues, barked words of encouragement at them to snap them out of their shock, or used his sheer size to intimidate some drunk blokes at a pub into submission before they could start any trouble, but this? 

This is new. It’s raw and delicate. And utterly terrifying. 

When his hand finally connects with your bare skin in what is supposed to be a gesture of comfort and reassurance, you gasp in unison with him, and he swiftly pulls his hand back as if burned. 

It’s enough to make you peek at him, though, and Simon marks it down as a success. 

“N-No?” You squeak, blinking up at him with those teary doe-eyes of yours. He gives a curt nod, a determined one. “Never.” 

Your eyes narrow briefly and there is something in your look that makes Simon aware of a deeper cleverness and suspicion hidden behind your own perfectly crafted mask of bimbofication. You know as well as he does that there are more ways than physical to hurt someone, and he knows that you both know that he’s lying.  

“Never intentionally.” He adds, and that he means with all his cold, dead heart. 

There’s a tense pause before you finally release a long, shuddering breath and your body seems to melt into the mattress, limbs giving out underneath you while he takes a step backwards to give you both space. 

“Sit.” Simon orders eventually, his voice yet firm and carrying a slight tone of reluctance that shows just how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation with you, though he knows it’s necessary at this point forward. “We need to talk,” he makes a vague gesture in the air, “about all o’this.” 

Of course, you do as he says, hastily wiping at your puffy eyes and wet cheeks while he waits until you get settled on the bed. Simon remains standing, needing the right stance and high ground to feel in control of himself in this moment, nipping the urge to cradle you up in his arms and never letting go until you’re fine right in the bud. 

“I read some of yer file an’… had a talk with Cap’n Price,” he begins, clearing his scratchy throat, “and now I have a couple of things we need to talk about, sweet’art. Think ya can work with me ‘ere?”  

“O-Of course, Simon.” Your ears perk up fully as you nod obediently, eyes sparkling with renewed interest as if he just hung the moon for you, and it makes his chest feel all warm and tight in a way he doesn’t mind so much anymore. 

[rasberrybabez]

Baby Bump

Simon has made plenty of mistakes in his life, one of them being leaving you for another hookup. But when he shows up again, baby in hand and a duffel bag in the other, what can you do?

Because even if that baby isn’t your, it certainly feels like it is. Only when Simon’s there.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Tags: technically baby trapping, parenting, single parents/co parents, reference to parental neglect, details relating to breastfeeding, pregnancy symptoms, smut (eventually), reference to previous injuries during intercourse (not between characters), tension that doesn’t quite count as angst but is tense enough to raise some eyebrows, second chance romance 🩵

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

XoXo-Razz.writes

The next week was a blur.

Simon and you were tense at first, of course. Living with your ex and his son that isn’t yours, what else did you expect? But slowly, through those fateful seven days, you grow.

And seven turns into more.

You and Simon had sat down on the couch at the end of those seven days, the sun setting outside your window and casting a soft yellow hue over everything. A glass of wine in your hands, a mug of tea in Simon’s.

Soft silence fills the room, Simon sipping his tea. Watching you as you watch the sun sink lower and lower over the horizon.

And then he speaks.

“…I’m sorry, Sunshine.”

You look up, hair slipping from your messy bun and falling over your face, lashes fluttering in surprise. Simon is still staring at you, studying you. And you swear you can see his hands tighten on his mug, tension coiled in his body.

You clear your throat. “…thank you, Simon. I-It doesn’t fix things… the way you left it. But I appreciate it.”

Curse you and how easily you have in. Simon left you for another woman’s kid, and fuck does that hurt. It burns your soul up like some sick little pyre of his love. The love that’s long rotted and decayed, some discarded scarps of meat not good enough for a sacrifice.

Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s just you and the way you cling to him in the last few weeks of what used to be. The way you wanted more because you swear he did too.

You take a sip of while, trying to swallow the harsh reality that’s been crippling you for a week now.

Simon sips his tea again too, and you’re both back to silence.

“…I loved you when I left, Sunshine. Fuck…” Simon takes in a shaky breath, hands trembling and mind screaming with the words he can’t say. I still do. “But I din’ want to let Kai down… before ‘e was even born. My dad had eighteen fucking years to make himself better for me and Tommy, and ‘e went and fucked it all up.”

You pause as soon as the word love leaves his mouth, hands stilling on your wine glass. Simon meets your eyes, soft hazel and rimmed with the same deep brown as his morning coffee.

He loved you.

“…kind of shitty to tell me now, Si.”

he clears his throat and nod. “I-I know… just thought you should know. That I didn’t want to leave you… that you were never really just a hookup. Not at the end.”

You nod again, taking another sip of wine, and another. Until your glass is empty.

Simon Riley tends to up your alcohol consumption.

“…you’re not like him, you know that Si.”

You say after a few minutes of more tense silence. Over the years, Simon has told you more and more about his father. Opened up in the soft nights that you had together, wrapped your hair around his fingers as he whispered in your ears.

Told you that not all the scars he had were physical, not all of them from the military. That deep down, a little boy had gotten hurt first. A little boy that was scared that every time he drank, he would hurt you. Stayed away from alcohol unless things were bad, never smoked around women.

And you had listened.

“…I think I am.”

Simons voice is so hoarse it surprises you. His hands have a deathly grip on his mug, and he looks so damn stressed it makes your heart clench. He looks desperate.

“…Kai don’ have a mom, sunshine. I’m livin’ in the spare bedroom of the woman whose life I fucked up, and my kid has one failed fucking parent.”

“Simon-”

“No. You know it’s true.” Simon stands from his seat, brushing off his pants and walking swiftly to the kitchen. You hear the sound of the sink turning on, and his mug being set onto a dirty plate. “You know I’m a fuck up. Kai doesn’t have a stable place to live, I’m strugglin’ to find a job, I can’t *work* with a babe that small, I just-”

“Stay.”

You say, one sharp word with a shaky breath. Wine glass clenched so hard in your hand that you’re scared it will break. Curse your stupid heart and curse that part of your mind that still loves Simon Riley, and is slowly starting to love his baby like the gift he is.

Kai sleeps quietly, in a cot next to Simon’s bed, down the hall from yours. He sits on the rug and coos as he shows you his toys, his favorite one a soft, plushie dinosaur. He can’t walk or crawl, but he can babble.

He nestles into your breasts when he’s hungry, paws at them like he knows he wants food from there, like he knows that some mother has to take care of him. Simon watches as you feed him, a sense of awe in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

So you shouldn’t be surprised when you let your thoughts slip out your mouth, but you’re too far gone now.

“…you know I can’t. We agreed a week, this is your damn house-”

“Stay, Si.”

“No, sunshine. We can’t-”

“Simon.” You say sternly, standing from the couch and turning around, locking eyes with him and where he stand in the kitchen. “Stay. You said it yourself, you can’t raise a kid out on the streets with no job. So stay, don’t go bouncing around from couch to couch, you have everything you need here. Get a job, rent a place. Then you can go.”

“Sunshine.”

“I’m not arguing. And I’m going to feed Kai.”

Within the next two months, you and Simon work out the kinks in your relationship. Not fast, just day by day. Learning to work with eachother, instead of around.

And when Kai starts crawling? You crash into eachothers arms like it’s normal again. Simon presses a kiss to your forehead, laughing with you as Kai food from the ground. Claps his hands happily, giggles like he knows what’s going on.

Simon starts taking you out for dinner, Kai strapped into the little buggy that he can push around. You three sit at the table like a proper family, and somehow, you start to feel like one.

Whilst you look over the menu, Simon passes Kai one of his stuffed toys. A little bluebird that you picked out, one that Simon noted looked like the color of your soft blue door.

You have to admit he’s right.

You scan the menu, sighing and biting your lip as you look over the options. Simon is watching you, like he always does, a cautious eye studying the way you move. The way your nails tap against the side of the table, thinking.

Fuck, you’re as beautiful as the day he left.

He regrets it more than he should, leaving you. He loves Kai… and he’s trying to be there for him, he is. But who was there for you… was there anyone?

He clears his throat, and you look up.

“You never told me… never told me what you did. When I was gone.”

“When you left.” You correct him, looking back down at the menu. You could go for some fish and chips right now, for sure. “And what do you mean?”

Simon clears his throat again, rubbing the back of his neck. Kai starts to chew on his plush.

“Yeah… yeah, I know… I mean like, did you have a boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?”

You freeze, narrowing your eyes as they dart up to Simon. He looks out of place and awkward, more so than you’ve ever seen him before. It’s almost… laughable.

“If I had a boyfriend, you would have noticed by now.”

“Right… um-”

“And I got with one guy, the night after you left. Got drunk, fucked a stranger like it would save me from having to think about you, and didn’t go for it again.”

Simon nods, picking up the menu after you, and looking over the options. Fish and chips… nice. “…why not?”

“I got hurt. Tore something… my lining, I think? I’m not sure, but I-”

“He hurt you?”

You look up, your nonchalant attitude starkly different from the way Simon has frozen in place. Stopped, muscles locked and jaw ticking with the force of his teeth. Your brows furrow, because you can read Simon like a book.

He’s furious.

Some fucker touched you, and that could be excused given Simon’s behavior. Was he happy about it! No.

But the fucker hurt you? Hurt you in a space only Simon wanted to be in?

“It was just an accident-”

“He could have killed you.”

You scoff, the crease between your brows deepening as you frown. Your arms cross, and the waitress notices your table. You’ll have to talk quick.

“it’s sex, not deadly-”

“But it could have been-”

“Hey! What can I get you two eat and drink?”

You both pause, simmering at each other in a slow burning sort of anger that sinks in a haze across the booth. You brush off your old injuries in a way that Simon hates, and he digs them back up with an intensity that you despise.

The waitress is oblivious to your obvious tension, all happy and smiling. Simon clears his throat, rubbing his temples and glancing back at the menu.

“Fish and chips.”

“Fish and chips.”

Your voices overlap with the same words, making your focuses shift to eachother. Simon’s harsh gaze softens slightly as the waitress nods, and Simon orders a cup of fruit for Kai, in case he wants to try some.

When she leaves, you’re left in a tense silence, Simons gaze taking up and down your body. You’re not wearing something overly dressy, just a pair of jeans and an oversized shirt. It might be his, having ended up in the wash in a recent load.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“…I’m sorry. I overstepped, that’s not…” his hands clench, and his jaw ticks. The eyes previously tracing your figure drop down to the table. “That’s not my place anymore.”

You nod, sipping on one of the glasses of water in front of you, unsure if it’s yours or Simon’s.

“…thank you.” You sit there in another beat of silence, Kai cooing softly and patting his hands against his high chair tray. An unusually quiet baby, you think suspiciously. And this time, it’s you who breaks that quiet, your voice soft.

“…this all feels… weird. It’s new, but at the same time it’s just like… before.”

Before.

What a small word for how heavy it feels in your chest, settling down like a dead weight. The way you used to know Simon, talking and laughing in the kitchen still in your sleep clothes, early mornings and late nights pressed up against the counter.

Now you both laugh as you try to feed Kai, popping your new vitamins into your mouth and making that face Simon loves at their taste. The soft bumps and touches against exposed skin in the haze of the morning, Simon running off to job interviews and you running around late for a work call.

The little gifts Simon litters around now. Flowers, no longer the roses you used to know but baby’s breath and lilies, sweet and soft scents that match the coziness of your flat. Tidying the kitchen before your home, keeping a pad full of everything you’ve ever ordered from takeout places, so that he knows the best meal for the two of you.

“I don’t know what this is, Simon. C-Co-parenting a kid that isn’t mine with my ex, letting him-you-live in my spare bedroom. And I love Kai-” like your own son, you realize. The little boy has imprinted on you in more ways than one, but you don’t say that. “-and he’s a sweet boy, but don’t you understand how it is-”

“Sunshine.” Simon says, and suddenly his tough hands are on yours. You don’t realize how panicked you’ve gotten, all worked up into a tizzy with a messy mind and trembling hands. Simon meets your eyes, and slowly your body starts to relax. “It’s not normal. I know… we’ve never been normal. You were never a normal hookup to me and I coped with it by hookin’ up with the first pretty lass I could find.”

He swallows hard, glancing at Kai as his hand tightens on yours. He’s never bared himself open to someone like he has to you, never let someone love him or his son like he’s let you.

“I don’t regret Kai… how could I? Look at the lil’ man, he’s a looker.”

That forces a shocked giggle out of you, your lips suddenly quirking into a slight, reflexive grin. Simon meets your eyes again, his own smile soft and… somber.

“…I regret you thinking he’s not as much yours as he is mine.”

Simons words bounce around in your head like a marble, rolling and clicking against the sides of your skull as you try to wrap your mind around it. The words he said so casually that mean so much, that make your heart race as you look at the little boy at the table.

Kai goggles up at you, reaching out for you. The woman who now, is helping to raise him. The one he won’t have to remember as some co-parent stranger.

To Simon, you’re already his mum.

“…I don’t deserve you, Sunshine. I never will. But I’m willing to try and be the man I want to be for you, because I won’t let one fuck up define us. I still love you.

You can’t breathe. Someone had to shut of the oxygen supply to your body because there’s no other reason why your lungs shouldn’t be able to expand, just from a few words.

Four words, that shouldn’t exist. It’s too much, it’s sending your mind into a detrimental spiral of spinning and overwhelming and convulsing. You can’t process it, no normal person should be able to.

You need to breathe.

You’re out of the booth before you can register, hands grabbing your bag. Hurriedly, as Simon’s eyes go wide and the realization slowly sets in, his shoulders slump. He can’t do anything but watch you, he can’t overstep. He can’t say anything because at the end of the day, he’s the one that fucked up.

You grab a twenty from your bag, throwing it on the table. A ten too, for good measure as you back away with shaky steps.

“F-for the food, I’m sorry-I need air-I-Sorry-”

you can’t force anything else out as your vision blurs, and you push onto the street. The brisk evening air hitting your face, flushing your skin with the contrast of your heated body and frigid sky.

And you sprint, as fast as you can, to the train station.

˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･-Taglist:

archy25, despairinglakepasta, coolvoidfire, daydreamsarerealineed, magicwriterinspo

[rasberrybabez]

Baby Bump

Simon has made plenty of mistakes in his life, one of them being leaving you for another hookup. But when he shows up again, baby in hand and a duffel bag in the other, what can you do?

Because even if that baby isn’t your, it certainly feels like it is. Only when Simon’s there.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Tags: technically baby trapping, parenting, single parents/co parents, reference to parental neglect, details relating to breastfeeding, pregnancy symptoms, smut (eventually), reference to previous injuries during intercourse (not between characters), tension that doesn’t quite count as angst but is tense enough to raise some eyebrows, second chance romance 🩵

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

XoXo-Razz.writes

The guest bedroom wasn’t huge, but it certainly wasn’t small.

Simon could make do. No, he could treasure it as the gift it was. Soft blue covers with fluffy white pillows, a cream colored blanket draped over the edge of the bed.

It was perfect.

You clear your throat, still holding the door for Simon as his mind seems to clear, blinking a few times before hiking his duffel bag higher up on his shoulder. He readjusts his grip on Kai’s carrier, sighing softly and pushing into the room.

He lets the duffel bag fall into the corner, placing the carrier on the bed too. It’s always tricky to get Kai’s buckles undone, but when he’s tired, stressed and practically shaking with the shock of you actually letting him stay, it’s a new type of struggle.

Kai looks up at his dad, those same soft blonde locks falling in small wisps over his head. He blinks up at Simon. Coos softly.

Simon sighs.

“I know buddy… this shit’s tricky. Give me a sec…”

You sigh, watching Simon in his struggles. The weight of the world on his shoulders, the tiny hand wrapped around his finger, looking up at the man you used to know with expectations. A tiny little life… that he has to care for all on his own.

You slip from the door, swallowing hard. It feels odd to want to help… heart pounding with the fear of overstepping. But Simon just looks so damn tired… probably busy traveling and trying to find a place to stay. Trying to find a way to raise a small baby by himself.

And as much as you’re scared, you can feel for him. Because that’s still the man you used to know, the one that used to whisper into your ear after sex. Hold you close and press kisses to your neck. A kiss for a secret… and he told you all of them.

Your hands reach out, brushing past Simon’s as you work the carrier straps. The click of each clip, slowly maneuvering the black strips out from under Kai’s arms. The little baby’s eyes go wide, cooing softly as he looks up at you.

Those same hazel eyes as Simon’s. Fuck it hurts, seeing a tiny version of him… a tiny version that has nothing to do to you. No ties to you or your life with him.

He’s not yours.

You clear your throat and take a step back, looking up at Simon and blinking a few times to clear the weird fog taking over your vision. A few heartbeats pass as he stares back at you, shoulders relaxing and war hardened eyes tracing over your face.

Your hair is shorter, cropped right above your breasts. Are they bigger? Is it just the shirt you’re wearing? Simon can’t tell. But your eyes are just as fucking gorgeous as the day he left, lashes just as long and wispy despite the pain he watches you hide. Every glance at Kai that makes your heart swell and deflate in a matter of milliseconds.

“…thank you. Means a lot to me, sunshine…”

You nod, glancing down at the small baby that he picks up. Kai is dwarfed in his father’s arms, tiny and wide eyed, curious about the world.

“Yeah… of course.” You look over to the duffel bag on the floor, sighing softly. Simon’s entire life, along with his sons, packed up into a single bag. “Do you have formula? I can heat up some water if you want…”

Simon nods, hoisting Kai to his hip and moving to his duffel bag. He grunts softly as he picks it up, placing it on the bed and rustling through it. A few minutes later, and he holds out the package to you with a small smile.

“I’ll come and heat it up if you show me where your microwave is-”

“I got it.” You say suddenly, almost surprising yourself with the sincerity and determination in your voice. For a moment, you panic… maybe you overstepped. “Y-You just look really tired… you can take a nap, I can feed him and put on Tv, it’s fine if not-”

“Thank you.”

Simon says softly, cutting you off. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are tired, but for the first time since he stepped onto your porch, he looks like… Simon. Hardened, yes… a soldier through and through. But almost… calm. Peaceful just to be in your preach as. Happy.

He hands you Kai carefully, smiling and grabbing his bottle too. You cradle Kai with both arms, hanging onto the box of formula and his bottle with a free hand. One last look at Simon as you walk to the door.

And the first smile he’s seen from you in a while.

The door closes with a soft click as you exhale slowly, looking down at the baby in your arms, now that you’re alone. Kai looks up at you carefully, tilting his head and cooing.

And then he giggles.

Your eyes widen in surprise as the baby giggles up at you, tiny hands fisting your shirt. He’s definitely curious, and eyeing your breasts like his next meal. You snort, because he probably thinks they are.

“Sorry baby… no milk for you there. Come on.”

You pat his back, walking downstairs and back into the kitchen. Placing the formula and bottle down, you pause and think. You said Simon could stay a week… maybe you shouldn’t buy a baby bottle heater.

It doesn’t stop you from wanting to.

Kai coos up at you again as you sigh and nod, daring to press a soft kiss to his head. It’s irresistible, the soft forehead with the same fluffy hair as Simon.

It takes a few minutes for the water to heat, and you scoop powdered formula into Kai’s bottle while you wait. He rests at your hip, starting to get more and more demanding, pawing small hands at your breast and even tugging down your shirt to reveal your bra.

You just shoot the baby a look.

“Just like your father… you like my tits a little too much.”

When the water finally heats, you’re able to pour it into his bottle and shake it up. The previously peaceful baby boy is now on the verge of tears, soft little coos turned to hungry cries as you try and shush him. Rock him and bounce him at your hip, finally passing the bottle to his lips.

The relief on his face is immediate, and so is the relief on yours. Sighing, you hike him up higher against your chest, moving to the living room with a once again peaceful baby. He suckles his bottle noisily, looking up at you with wide eyes all too similar to Simon’s.

But the pain they leave behind is slowly ebbing.

You find a nice seat tucked into the corner of the sofa, grabbing a spare towel from the laundry basket on the floor first. You’re sure Simon has a burping cloth, but it’s not like you’re going to go and wake him. That man needs a nap more than his son right now.

Kai suckles against your chest as you scroll through the Tv, finding an episode of some reality show you were busy watching. Nothing life changing, surely not… but a background noise as your attention is trained on Kai.

With him so close to your chest, it almost feels like you’re the one feeding him. Like that pulse and beat of your heart matches his… and the want to care for the small baby like a mother he doesn’t have. You shouldn’t get attached, you took Simon and Kai in because he had nowhere else to go.

Because deep down, you still love him.

You know you shouldn’t. He hurt you in a way no one else ever has. Because of some mistake along the way to what you hoped would someday be permanent. But you understand why he had to… he had a son. Has one… the small boy cradled close in your arms, head pressed against your chest and tiny hands wrapped around yours. Feeding him a bottle.

A bottle you know you’ll heat up again and again and again. Maybe a baby bottle heater is a good investment… scratch that, it has to be. It cost £60 anyways, so it might as well work.

This next week is going to be hard. And exciting, and wonderful. Painful, to be so close to Simon again.

Maybe it’s the closure you’ve always needed.

Maybe it’s the doorway to something new.