#and they’re back to being excruciating | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

outsideratheart · 8 months

Text

By Your Side, Always (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: We’re supercampeones!!! I’m not sure what this is but I hope you like it.

The first 45 minutes of the game you were having fun, the whole team was. Levante knew that Barcelona would make them work but tonight you and the team were putting on a world class performance. They were never a team to give up but with 7 goals scored and them not being able to find the net, they struggled to find hope and accepted their defeat. They were now fighting to keep the score at 7 and it started to get messy.

It was clear that you had been made a target by Levante’s entire back line. You didn’t care though, you could take it. If anything you welcomed the physically because it meant you were allowed to give them a taste of their own medicine every so often.

Alexia wished she could be on the pitch with you but she must admit it was fun being in the stand watching you play the way you were.

“She’s showing off” Mapi said to no one in particular as she watched you dance around their left back even looking back and smirking to her once you sent the ball into the box.

“She’s unstoppable when she’s like this” your girlfriend says.

She regretted her choice of words not even a minute later. There were two defenders between you and the goal. You were determined to make it 8. That is until you get taken out by not one but two players. You felt one set of studs go into the outside of the ankle and another set on the inside. You truly had never felt pain like it.

Alexia heard your outcry of pain and could do nothing but watch as you laid on the floor clutching your ankle.

“I need you to get up. I need to go to her” Alexia stood to her feet, desperate to be by your side.

“You can’t go onto the pitch” Mapi slowly got up, careful not to knock her knee.

Her warning fell on deaf ears and Alexia was already rushing towards the pitch. As expected she was stopped by Jona but she stayed near the sidelines waiting for you.

“Please get up” Alexia whispers to herself. She began to fear the worst when she sees the physio signal for a stretcher.

“We both know she’s too stubborn to use it Alexia. Give her a few minutes and she’ll be up” Jona pats his captain’s shoulder in support.

The coach was right. It took a little longer than Alexia would have like but you are up on your feet. It’s obvious that the injury is bad because you are using the teams physios as crutches so you don’t put any weight on your ankle.

What is the ultimate telling sign is the way you refuse to meet Alexia’s gaze when you get to the sidelines. Nevertheless she follows you into the tunnel and waits by the door of the medical room.

“Come with me, please” you have your back towards Alexia but she can hear the pain in your tone.

“I’m here”

Alexia sits on a chair beside you as the physio begins examining your ankle. At the first touch you wince and move your foot away which only makes it hurt more. He gives you a couple of minutes to compose yourself but asks to try again. Your arms hide your face as the pain becomes excruciating. The only thing stopping you from breaking completely is the soothing way Alexia is stroking her hand over your thigh.

“They’re almost done. Try and breathe for me ok?”

And try you did but you also failed. It was a form of panic and you knew it.

The physios explain that they think it’s major ligament damage and that they will take you for scans once you’re back in Barcelona.

“I’m going to give you some space. Alexia, make sure she ices it and try to get her to stay still. Give it ten minutes then she can put the boot on and use the crutches. No weight on it, understand?”

“They studded my ankle, not my ears. Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here” you sit up quickly. At least now you understood why you needed to keep still.

Alexia got up as the physio left. She places ice on your ankle as gently as she could before she turned out the lights. She knew that when you were overwhelmed the darkness help calm whatever you were feeling inside.

“Whatever it is, i’ve got you. I know how you think and how you’re going to want to do this alone but that won’t happen. I won’t let it”

Alexia moves the chair so that it was closer to your head. She places a gentle kiss on the crown on your head.

“I don’t want to talk about it”

You turn your head away from her. That hurt Alexia but she knew it was your coping mechanism and once you’ve processed what’s happened you will be more open to talk.

Alexia had just opened her mouth when she heard a door slam and a lot of foul language.

“That’s Lucy and if she’s in here for the reason I think then I’m going to kill her”

Your girlfriend rolled her eyes. You weren’t in the mood for this and deep down she knew the reason why the English defender was now in lockeroom even though there is 10 minutes left, maybe less.

“Y/N I’m coming in” technically it wasn’t a question but still she could have waited for a response.

“Get out” you growl.

“Oh did I interrupt something” Lucy gives you both a playful look.

“You’re a fucking idiot Luce. I know for a fact you didn’t get subbed off because that wasn’t part of the plan so that only leaves one reason”

“Y/N calm down” alexia begs.

“I was defending you. They took you out. I wasn’t going to let them get away with it” Lucy met your anger and walked towards you. That was a mistake.

“Get out!” You stand up and your own weight collapses underneath you.

“Lucy, please” Alexia begs your England team mate who raises her hands in defeat and leaves you be.

She then helps you back on the bed. A couple of minutes pass and you hear the final whistle following by the cheers of your team.

“I’m not going back out. Torre can lift the trophy”

“Y/N. You’re their captain and you scored a hattrick. It should be you up there”

“Well I’m not going to be and you can go tell them. Go Alexia”

She saw the look in your eyes. The look, which in the past, told her that your mind was made up and there was nothing she could do to change it.

“Just come out when you’re ready. We don’t let moments pass by without celebrating them. You told me that” before leaving Alexia made sure she turned on the TV so that you could at least watch the trophy ceremony.

You didn’t like what you just did but you did it anyway. Alexia has had a tough few weeks and she need this, she needed it more than you needed her.

As instructed Marta lifts the trophy and you feel fine about it. Barcelona has a group of leaders but it just so happens that only one can wear the armband.

The silence wasn’t comfortable and it started to put you on edge. You saw the boots and crutches by the examination table taunting you.

Don’t let the moment pass by.

Alexia watches Marta lift the trophy and then celebrated with the team like they do after every trophy win. She hoped you might have come out by now.

She is near the centre circle when she hears the crowd errupt. She may have her back to the tunnel but she knows it’s you.

“I thought you said she wasn’t coming out” Jana asks.

“No. I said she wasn’t lifting the trophy” Alexia knew you would come out. Due to your slow pace, no thanks to the crutches, Alexia met you half way.

You let the crutches drop to the floor as you wrap your arms around her neck.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. I just —“

“Needed a minute. I know. You’re here now and that’s all that matters” she lets you rest against her as your hands you the crutches.

“Have you been crying mi amor?” She noticed the tear staines on your cheeks.

You nod slightly and she can see that something is going on in your head because your eyes begin to well up. Alexia cups your cheek and gently wipes away the stray tear that has fallen.

“You don’t have to wait until I’m not there to cry Y/N”

“I know”

Side by side you walk towards your team mates who are all ready to greet you. Bruna is the first one too you, of course she is.

“Here” she hands you the game ball “I got everyone to sign it for you”

“Thanks B. You know I’ve got so many of these I’ve lost count. Why don’t you go give it to a fan?” The young forward takes the ball back happily and runs towards a little girl. She makes her turn around so that you can see the fan is wearing you shirt. You send her a little wave and it makes her day.

“I don’t want to be injured” you stick your bottom lip out causing you girlfriend to chuckle slightly.

“We’re professional football players, we never want to be injured but sometimes it happens. There’s nothing we can do about it” Alexia was full of wisdom.

She definetly didn’t feel this way when she got hurt but you decide not reopen old wounds.

“And these things are stupid” you wave one of your crutches around.

“Are you going to be complaining everyday until you’re back on the pitch?”

“Yes Alexia, I am. If you don’t like it then tough because you’re stuck with me”

“I’m ok with that and I’m ready to return the favour because we both know I wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine when I got injured”

“You can say that again. I almost sent you back home to your mothers” you were teasing her and she knew it. You didn’t like being more that 5 feet away from Alexia when she was hurt.

“We both know if I went back to my mama’s that you would be right behind me”

You could only nod in agreement. Alexia suggests you do what will be half a lap of the pitch so you can thank you fans. It’s a slow amble but she doesn’t seem to mind. The rest of the team had walked ahead so now it was just you, Alexia, Mapi and Ingrid.

“Does this mean we can do our physio together?” Mapi asks you.

“No” Alexia and Ingrid say in unison.

“Why not? We will push each other to get better”

“And that’s the reason why. You’re too competive, you will make it into a game and we” she points to herself and Alexia “know that it’ll end badly”.

When you are back at the hotel you are dragged into the celebrations and for the most part you don’t mind it. After a little while you realise that Alexia isn’t around and that is something you do mind. You feel yourself getting more anxious without having her calming presence beside you.

Then you hear your phone go off.

Come to you room. Your rehab starts now.

When you enter your room, Alexia is standing outside the bathroom.

“I’m going to need you to remove your clothes” Alexia says and your eyes widen.

“Ok” you pull your shirt off in record time, the shorts however were more of a task.

“Let me” once the injured leg was free alexia places your crutches aside “rest on me” she tells you.

She looks up grinning like a devil which makes you shake your head. She always did have half a mind in the gutter when it came to you.

“Maybe later” she pecks your lips and doesn’t expect for you to pull her back in for something more passionate.

“Sure, Putellas”

She pretends to act offended at the use of her surname. Alexia then uses her strength to lift you backwards and onto the bed, something she could have done earlier.

“I’m going to take your boot off. It might hurt” she was so gentle in the way you undid the Velcro straps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry” she says when she hears you wince.

“I’m ok” you reassure her even though you were far from it.

What happens next came as a shock but a good one. Alexia lifts you up and carries you bridal style towards the bathroom where you are met with a bubble filled bath.

“You did this for me?”

“Yes. Although I’m going to be joining you so I guess it’s also for me”

“Are you now?” You tease.

Alexia nods her head in excitement with a huge smile plastered on her face.

Your girlfriend helps you in and then lowers herself behind you. With one hand on your thigh and the other one on your abdomen, you allow yourself to relax. As you tilt your head back to rest against Alexia it gives her full access to your exposed neck and she takes advantage of the opportunity. She knows things can’t get too heated so she settles with peppering kisses on your sensitive spots.

The two of you stay in the bath until the water becomes cold and your hands like like prunes.

“You’re strong Y/N, you’ll be ok” Alexia says as she lays in bed with you. You have a movie on and somehow Alexia has gotten some popcorn.

“I’ll be alright”

It wasn’t how you expected the night to end. You thought you would be celebrating with your team, jumping for joy and taking advantage of the free champagne. Instead you are in bed, with you leg elevated and ice compressing the injured area. The this one commonality in the current and what come have been; you have Alexia by your side.

#alexia putellas x reader #añexia Putellas imagine #alexia putellas one shot #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #barcelona femeni x reader #barcelona femeni one shot #barcelona femeni imagine #espwnt x reader #espwnt one shot #espwnt imagine

847 notes · View notes

stepbrorafe · 6 months

Text

Devil May Care - RC

summary : after getting a small taste of your stepbrother, you crave more. desperate times call for desperate measures.

warnings : stepcest, swearing, jealous!Rafe, rough sex, choking, slapping, spit kink, breeding kink, that’s all i can think of

a/n : Movie Night continuation, sorry 4 the wait 😔💪🏼

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

A very long and excruciating week of teasing has passed; subtle touches, suggestive comments, sexy smirks. You were slowly losing it. Rafe knew exactly what to do to leave you desperate for more. And boy were you desperate.

The way he made you feel last week has been on your mind nonstop. You’ve never been touched the way he touched you, no man ever comparing to him. He made your body burn with an overwhelming pleasure, one that you’ve been craving ever since.

No matter how bad you want it, you can’t bring yourself to act on it. The thought of taking initiative the way he did struck you with vicious anxiety. You know he wants it, and that he’s just getting off on teasing you, but the fear of being rejected is far too strong to make you step out of your comfort zone. Especially with your stepbrother.

To say you’re frustrated would be an understatement. You’ve been craving his hands on you, inside you. You know it’s wrong, but fuck, it feels so right.

You can’t help but be snappy with the people surrounding you, you’re just yearning for something you can’t have and it’s exasperating. Rafe can see the effect he’s had on you and it strokes his ego entirely too much for your liking.

You rack your brain, trying to come up with something that will make him cave and give you what you want. You’ve never been so needy for a man before, and it makes you internally scream at yourself. Rafe’s awoken something in you that won’t seem to go to rest.

After a while of thinking, you find yourself in front of your mirror, admiring the sight. Your body sports a thin white dress that hugs your chest perfectly, showcasing your taut nipples. The bottom flows just under the curve of your ass, in which one wrong move will flash your pretty pink thong.

Your devious and impulsive mind decides to do what you think will work best—make Rafe jealous. As he’s the very jealous type for whatever the case is, you think it’ll work in your favor. So, that’s why you rub your plump lips together, rubbing your shiny lip gloss in. Flashing a satisfied smirk at your reflection, you make your way downstairs where you can hear Rafe and Topper chatting.

It takes you all of thirty seconds to make your way into the living room where the two reside. They’re both sat on different sofas, and you choose to sit right beside Topper, eager to get on with your little plan.

The second Rafe’s eyes take you in, his face hardens. He’s instantly tightening his jaw, already suspicious of you.

“Hey Top, Rafe.” You greet them with an innocent smile.

“Y/N! You look—wow.” Topper marvels, his eyes raking over your entire body.

You grin, leaning even closer to him. “Thank you. You look pretty delicious yourself.”

“What are you doing?” Rafe cuts in, his eyes shooting daggers into you.

You turn your head in his direction, a fake frown pulling to your lips. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head, slightly squinting his eyes as he reiterates, “What are you doing?”

You bite back the smirk that threatens to plaster itself on your face, innocently shrugging, “Just figured I’d come hangout with my brother and his friend.”

“Stepbrother.” He grits, correcting you with a sharp gaze.

Topper tosses an arm around your shoulders, leaning back into the couch. “You’re welcome to chill any time.”

“Don’t touch her.” Rafe bites, unable to help himself.

You and Topper share a look of confusion before landing on Rafe, staring incredulously. Though, you have more of a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“What?” Topper chuckles.

“Get your hand off of her.” Rafe snarls, acknowledging the look of suspicion from his friend and continuing, “You already went through one sister, you don’t get another.”

Topper slowly retracts his arm from you, taking in how serious Rafe suddenly became, and not wanting to endure any of his wrath. He crosses his arms, avoiding eye contact with Rafe.

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes, placing your small hands around his bicep. “We’re just having fun, right Top?”

If possible, Rafe’s glare hardens as he watches you. He knows you’re up to something, and though he doesn’t know exactly what, he’s becoming more and more agitated with your antics.

“You boys want anything to drink?” You question, quickly standing, not bothering to readjust your risen dress.

“Ye-“

Rafe cuts Topper off, “We’re fine. Quit being sick and leave us alone.”

You pout, turning on your heel to face him, swiveling back and forth, “What am I doing?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes, “Shut up, you know what you’re doing. Go on now.” His eyes dart to Topper, “Keep your eyes off her ass, dude.”

You smirk to yourself, knowing your devious little plan is working, and saunter off to the kitchen to grab a water that you don’t even really want. You’re quick with grabbing the bottle from the fridge, eager to head back into the living room.

Rafe’s eyes are instantly on you when you return, almost as if he’s anticipating your next move. You shoot him a little smirk, causing him to narrow his eyes. You ‘accidentally’ drop your water in front of Topper, and slowly bend over to pick it up, showcasing your plump ass.

Rafe’s breathing grows ragged, his body tensing up with lust and anger. He sees right through you now, knowing exactly what you’re doing. Unfortunately for him, it’s working.

Topper has to tear his eyes away from you as you return to your seat next to him. He’s completely oblivious to what’s going on, he’s just painfully aware of how good you look, and it’s almost impossible to avert his eyes.

The two continue their conversation, you paying no mind as you twiddle your fingers. You pull your hair tie off of your wrist and pull it back and forth, occupying yourself as you think of what to do next.

You can see that Rafe is tense and riled up. He’s mad at you. You grin to yourself at knowing it’s working. You want nothing more than for him to fuck your brains out. He gave you a little taste the other night, and now you’re starving for more.

You sit and wonder what all he’s going to do to you, and the endless thoughts get you hot and bothered. You catch yourself clenching your thighs, attempting to soothe the building ache between your legs with even the slightest friction.

Your actions don’t go unnoticed by Rafe. His hands rest on his groin, tugging at his pants and shifting slightly in his seat in an effort to hide his growing bulge. You can do the bare minimum and it still gets him going. He just wants to bend you over the couch and fuck you silly, punish you for acting like a brat.

Biting your inner cheek to keep yourself from smiling, you flick your hair tie at Topper’s knee and it falls between his legs.

“Oops, sorry.” You pout, sliding down to grab it.

You position yourself in front of him, kneeling between his legs as you lean forward to retrieve it. You notice his breath hitch as you’re so close to him and it makes you smile to yourself.

Rafe is furious. He doesn’t want you on your knees for anyone other than him. He’s grown sick of your little act.

Just as you place your hand on Topper’s knee to lift yourself back up, Rafe’s hand is in your hair as he pulls you up himself. His eyes never leave you as he grits his teeth, “Go home, Top.”

His eyes widen as he looks up at you two, confusion washing over his face. “What?”

“Go. Home.” Rafe repeats, finally breaking his stare from you and glaring at his friend.

With a few small swears of bewilderment, Topper’s standing up and heading out the door. Once it’s closed, Rafe’s hold on your hair tightens, straightening you up.

“You think it’s cute? Hm? Touching all up on Top?” He sneers, his opposite hand gripping your jaw as he lifts your face up to look at him. “Make you feel good?”

“I don’t want him.” Is all you can get out before he’s pulling you towards the stairs.

“I’ll give you something to touch.”

You both get to his room within seconds, and he’s eagerly locking the door and turning towards you with dark eyes and a clenched jaw.

“You just can’t keep that pretty little mouth shut, can you?” He tsks, pushing you onto your knees as he undoes his belt. “Open it up then.”

Your insides are burning with desire and excitement, beyond pleased with the outcome of your plan. You can’t stop clenching around nothing, longing to be filled by him. Just the simple thought has your entrance seeping with arousal.

He slowly removes his belt from the loops of his pants and steps closer to you, “Hands.”

Your eyes widen as you slowly give him what he wants, your heart racing as he wraps the belt around your hands, tightly securing them. You let them fall in your lap as he undoes his pants, pulling them and his boxers down, revealing his throbbing erection.

Your mouth waters at the sight. His dick is long and thick, such a pretty pink tip, veins running along the shaft. He looks painfully hard, and knowing it’s because of you makes your stomach flutter with butterflies.

He brings his hand to your jaw, softly running his fingertips over your skin. The pad of his thumb rubs your bottom lip before roughly poking into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. The way your plump lips wrap around his thumb makes his cock throb.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy.” He rasps, “I’m going to ruin you.”

He removes his thumb, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. His hand wraps around his thick member, sighing from the pleasure. The thought of what he’s going to do to you fills him with an excitement he’s never felt before.

Tapping the head on your lips, he smirks, “Open.”

You do as he says, your tongue slightly protruding. He slowly shifts forward, his cock entering your salivating mouth. The second your lips close around him, his breath hitches and he’s fighting the urge to toss his head back. It feels so good, but he can’t take his eyes off of you.

He places his hands on the sides of your face, holding you steady as he begins thrusting in and out of your mouth. His groans fill the air, encouraging you to take him. Wet gargles and gags emit from you as he fucks your mouth deeper and deeper.

Tears brim in your eyes as he glides down your throat, dribbles of drool falling from the sides of your mouth.

“Look at you.” Rafe grunts, removing his hands from your face to pull his shirt off, before grabbing you again. “So desperate for my cock.”

His thrusts grow faster, the wet sounds from your mouth become louder. He’s full on using your throat as a toy to get him off. And you love every bit of it.

He takes his bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth gnawing down on it to prevent his moans from slipping. You look so pretty on your knees, cheeks coated in mascara stained tears, slobber running from your mouth, luscious lips wrapped around his dick. He could cum from the sight of you like this.

His grip on your face tightens as his cock abuses your throat. He shoves himself all the way in and holds it there, your nose pressed against his pelvic bone. He can feel your throat repeatedly opening and closing around him, instantly sending him into a euphoric state.

His abdomen flexes as waves of pleasure flood his body. His thighs twitch and his cock throbs, finally emptying his hot load down your throat with a loud moan. He gives a few more pumps before he removes himself from you, leaving you to swallow his cum.

After doing so, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, showing him that you took it all. He grins, his hand encasing your face as he squeezes your cheeks together, causing your lips to pucker in a slight pout.

“Such a good little slut for me.” He huskily breathes.

You nod as best you can with his grip on your face. He licks his lips and pulls you up to your feet, staring down at you with a look of utter desire.

“Hm.” He hums, brushing a hand through your hair. “Bet you want more, don’t you, Sis?”

You frantically nod as your heart pounds in your chest, your pussy throbbing with a carnal craving for him. “Yes. Please.”

He gives you that infamous smirk, one that should scare you away because you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, but it only drawls you in more.

“As much as I love it.. Take it off.” He declares, nodding towards your little dress.

Your hands instantly grab the hem of the dress, swiftly pulling it over your head, leaving you in nothing but your pink panties. Your nipples harden from the cool air, and you bring your arms to your sides to provide warmth.

His eyes trail over your entire body, his semi hard cock already growing once again. His hands reach the sides of your thighs, warm fingertips trailing over your skin. They glide upwards, tracing over the strap of your thong. Dipping his fingers into the waistband, he pulls it out and lets it snap back against you.

Your breath hitches in anticipation, your core saturating the small fabric between your legs. His hands make their way up your body, touching every bit of skin. He firmly fondles and caresses every curve, memorizing every dip. Prominent goosebumps arise on your skin as his hands roam over it.

Your big doe eyes haven’t left his once, taking in the way he seems to be soaking you in. His palms softly engulf your tits, squeezing them tightly and massaging them in circles. His actions pull a soft moan from you as your head tilts a bit to the right.

“Fuck.” He whispers, stepping closer to you so that your bodies are flushed together. “You’re so perfect.”

Your face heats up at his compliment, burning beneath his touch as he places a hand on your cheek. His lifts your face up, his thumb delicately brushing over your cheek. His touches are so soft as if he’s not about to destroy you.

Leaning down, his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, almost as if testing the waters. He places a few more. Then, like he can’t get enough, his mouth is on yours in a feverish kiss. He kisses you so deeply as one hand holds your face, and his opposite trails around to your ass.

He squeezes it harshly, pulling a moan from your mouth. He takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in between your parted lips, exploring the wet softness of your mouth. Your tongues dance together, moving perfectly in sync.

Rafe can’t believe it’s taken this long for you guys to kiss. He’s tasted you, buried his fingers in you, and his cock in your mouth, yet you’re only now kissing.

He’s never felt this way before. Kissing is usually just something he does to keep his mouth busy when fucking someone. But right now, with you, he doesn’t want to pull away. So, he doesn’t.

His hand moves from your cheek down to your neck, squeezing tightly as the kiss grows sloppier. He walks you backwards to the bed, falling on top of you when the back of your knees hit it.

Reluctantly, he pulls away from your lips and leaves wet kisses down your jaw and to your neck. He licks and bites your sensitive skin, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

He continues lowering himself on you, his lips leaving trails of saliva along your collarbones. His teeth nip your skin, tongue flickering just to taste you. His mouth meets every sliver of skin shown, none of you going untouched.

Your body is hot beneath him, and your insides feel even hotter. Your chest heaves with every deep breath you take, small pants and moans emitting from your mouth as he works on you. Your forehead begins to glisten with sweat, the air now hot around the two of you.

Rafe’s hands grasp your tits, thumbs instantly flicking over your hard nipples. He groans against your chest, inhaling the way you smell. His tongue pokes out, traveling to your boobs, his mouth marking the plump skin. He takes your right nipple in his mouth, sucking it and the skin around it as his hand words your opposite one.

You can’t help but arch into him, loving the feeling he’s giving you. You’ve been wanting this so bad, and now that you’re finally getting it, you’re on cloud nine.

“Rafe.” You whimper as he moves to your left tit.

“Mhm. I know, baby.” He moans into you.

Leaving your boobs wet with his saliva, he keeps going lower and lower, peppering wet open mouthed kisses along your stomach. He reaches the waistband of your panties and places a soft kiss.

You’re practically shuddering beneath him. The fabric between your legs is absolutely drenched with your arousal.

Rafe’s lips trail over the wet cotton, humming in satisfaction, “So fucking wet for me.”

His nose brushes against your clothed clit, causing your body to jerk from the feeling. He smirks against you, and deeply inhales, taking in the scent of you with a hungry moan. His tongue pokes at your covered entrance and trails up your core, flicking over your bundle of nerves.

“So wet I can taste you through your panties.” He smirks, his finger grabbing at the side of the fabric.

He looks up at you, licking his lips at the way your mouth is slightly parted, heavy breaths emitting from it. He pulls the side of your panties over, revealing your glistening folds. With a watering mouth, he dips his tongue into your entrance and drags it up through your lips, right over your clit. You can’t help the lewd moan that’s pulled from your throat.

Not stopping there, Rafe drags his tongue up your stomach and through the valley of your breasts. He breathes you in deeply as his tongue glides up your neck, making his way towards your lips. He smashes his mouth onto yours, moaning into you, knowing he’s about to have so much fun and make you feel so good.

Your lips dance together in a sloppy kiss, tongues fighting, teeth clashing. Your hands meet his broad shoulders, running down his muscular biceps. His hands run from your rib cage down to your waist, grinding his groin on yours. You pull away with a gasp, moaning at the sensation.

He leans back up on his knees between your legs. You watch as he wraps his hand around his shaft, slowly pumping it up and down. You roll your hips, needing some sort of friction as you’re desperate to be filled by him.

He puckers his lips and blows a kiss at you as he places the tip of his cock on your covered pussy. He begins rubbing it over the wet fabric, gliding up and down your slit, pulling soft moans from both of you.

“Feel good, baby?” He coos as you lean your head back.

“Mhm.” You hum in response, unable to form words with the trance he’s put you in.

He pulls your panties to the side once more, sliding his dick through your folds. The second he runs over your clit, your legs quiver. He lets go of your panties, holding them down over his member as he thrusts back and forth.

His head lolls to the side, taking a deep breath through his nose. The feeling of your soaking core and the wet fabric surrounding him is pleasurable enough to bring him close to the edge. Except, he’s not ready to cum again.

He pulls away, leaving you whining at the loss of contact. He grins and lets out a breathy chuckle, before his hands are gripping your hips and flipping you over with ease. You squeal at the sudden rough movement, but quickly get on your knees, arching your back as you lay your cheek on the pillow.

“Fuck.” Rafe groans, gripping your plump ass. “You’ve no idea what you do to me. So close to bending you over the couch and fucking you right in front of Top.”

A moan slips from your mouth as he kneads the fat, spreading your cheeks as he massages you.

“Yeah.. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He snickers, “Love to act all innocent, but you’re really just a desperate little whore, begging to be filled by her stepbrother. Hm?”

You can only whimper at his words.

“You wouldn’t even care if everyone knew, would you? No… You wouldn’t.. You’d walk around a party with my kids dripping down your legs if I told you to.”

“P-please.” You beg, pushing your ass further into him.

“So needy.” He teases, finally pulling your thong down.

He stops at your knees, deciding to rip the thin fabric off, so he can keep you in this delicious position. A pout forms on your lips at the sound of him tearing your panties, but you don’t say anything because you know it’s going to be worth everything he’s about to give you.

He places his member at your slit, rubbing it through your folds to coat it in your fluids. Your breathing is erratic, and your stomach is flooding with excitement. You can’t help but push back into him again. His hand falls down on your ass with a loud smack, leaving a stinging sensation as you yelp.

“Be patient.” He orders.

His hand is instantly rubbing the red handprint, soothing the pain he left behind. Leaning over your ass, he puckers his lips and spits, watching the jewel of saliva trickle down your core. Just as it meets the tip of his cock that’s placed as your entrance, he’s slowly pushing into you until he bottoms out.

“Oh my god.” You gasp, your breath suddenly ripped from your lungs.

You feel so full. Fuller than you’ve ever been in your entire life. There’s a burning sensation, but it doesn’t compare to the pleasure you get just from him being buried inside you. You can’t help but clench around him.

“So fucking tight.” He groans, “Squeezing the hell out of me, sis.”

He slowly pulls back until just his tip is in you, and roughly rams back in, pulling a scream from you. He groans in pleasure as he begins pumping in and out of you with slow, deep thrusts.

“R-Rafe.” You whine out, repeatedly clenching around him.

His cock slides in and out of you with ease, the sound of your arousal squelching around you. His hands grip your ass, pulling you hard against him to meet every thrust.

“God, you feel so good.” He moans, picking up the force in his strokes.

Your ass jiggles in waves with every time he buries himself in you. The sound of your skin slapping is loud. His thrusts become fast and hard, digging into you so deep. Your hands clench the sheets beneath you, and you bite your arm to prevent yourself from screaming. It hurts so good.

The sound of your muffled noises bring Rafe’s attention from where you’re both connected to the back of your head. His hand instantly wraps around your hair and roughly tugs your head back.

“Nuh uh. Wanna hear your pretty little moans.”

As if it’s possible, his cock digs deeper into your spongy walls, pulling a loud pornographic moan from your mouth. Your whole body shakes with every movement of his.

“Yeah.. That’s more like it. Sound so fucking sexy.” He groans, smacking your ass as he pounds you.

At this point, you can’t help the continuous cries and moans that fall from your mouth. Tears stream down your cheeks, and your mouth is stuck slack. Drool falls from your lips, creating a small wet spot on the pillow below you.

Rafe pushes on your back, arching you even more as he leans over you. He’s so deep, it feels like he’s fucking your throat. He kisses your back, licking up your spine until he gets to your neck. His heavy pants and moans fill your ear, his hot breath leaving your hair standing up.

“What if mom and dad saw you like this?” He taunts in your ear. “What do you think they’d say? Hm?”

With every word he says, he digs deeper into your cunt. So deep that you’re almost crawling away. His grip on your hair tightens and he’s yanking your head back, keeping you still so he can fuck you as deep as he wants.

“Don’t run. This is what you wanted, right?”

Incoherent words fall from your lips, being overtaken by your loud moans. Rafe’s reveling in the fact that he’s damn near fucked you stupid already.

“S’too much!” You cry out, finally able to string words together.

He instantly pulls out and flips you over onto your back, before burying himself in you within seconds. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he fills you back up.

“This better for you? Hm?” Rafe grunts as he thrusts into you, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder. “Yeah. Missed your pretty face anyways.”

He watches as your face scrunches up in pleasure. Your brows knit together, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mouth stuck open as continuous lewd noises emit from it. You look so fucking perfect. He wants to have you like this forever.

“Your pussy feels so nice around me.” Rafe moans into your neck. “So good. Whose is it?”

You don’t respond with words, causing him to pull away and roughly grip your jaw. He stares down at you, his hand coming down on your face with a rough smack as he reiterates between hard strokes, “Whose pussy is this?”

“Mm. Y-yours. Rafe’s. F-fuck, it’s yours.” You cry out as the knot in your stomach becomes increasingly tighter.

His lips slam onto yours as his hips rut into you, the two of you molding together so perfectly. He kisses you like you’re the oxygen he needs to survive. It takes your breath away and you love every second of it.

Pulling away from your lips, his fingers replace his tongue and are shoving into your mouth. He pulls a gag from you as his nose brushes against yours. Using his fingers to pull your mouth open, he spits in it, then fiercely kisses you as his hand travels down your body.

Just as he brings his hand down to rub your clit, you hear a door slam downstairs. You immediately tense up, but Rafe doesn’t falter. He continues to relentlessly pound into you, making it so fucking hard to be quiet.

“Uh-oh.” He feigns fear, “Someone’s coming.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t let up on his thrusts or his circles on your clit. His taunting eyes bore into you as he watches your entire body quake.

“Do you want me to stop?” He teases, instantly slowing his strokes.

“No!” You cry out, “No, no! Fuck. Please-please don’t stop.”

He picks the pace back up, causing your insides to twist. “You sure? We might get caught.”

His tantalizing words push you over the edge. Your legs shake and your eyes roll back, your pussy clenching around him so tightly. Euphoria floods your veins, and white stars dance in your eyes. Your juices pour out of you faster and harder than they ever have before.

He loudly groans at the sight of you coming undone beneath him, “Fuck, I knew you were a slut. Getting off at the thought of being caught with your stepbrother. Such a naughty girl.”

You can’t help the moans that leave your mouth as he pumps in and out of you. His strokes grow sloppy, indicating he’s close. His hands meet your tits, gripping them and using them as leverage to keep you still while he fucks you.

You clench around him once more, coming down from your high, and it makes his hips stutter as he fills you up with a loud moan. He keeps fucking into you deep, emptying his load so far into you. You moan from the warm gushy feeling of him painting your walls.

Very slowly, he comes to a halt, but before he can pull out, loud knocks ring through the door and Sarah’s voice is heard from the other side. “Rafe! Who the fuck do you have in there?! You guys are loud as fuck, it’s gross.”

Your eyes widen in fear and Rafe just smirks down at you, calling out to her, “Oh, just my favorite slut.”

Her words of disgust fall on deaf ears as she walks away, leaving the two of you to bask in the pleasure you both received. Your doe eyes staring up at him, his warm eyes gazing down at you, filled with adoration.

“I mean it by the way.” He whispers against your lips. “You are my favorite.”

You roll your eyes as a blush paints your cheeks, “I better be your only.”

He chuckles and plants a sweet kiss on your lips, “Of course you are. That’s why you’re my favorite. Now let’s go shower, I’m not done with you yet.”

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

taglist : @sunkissedrafe @wickedtactics @bunnycvnts @butterflyoceandreams @rafesgiirl @yourenogoodforme @marvelfanfics1recs @cini-mini27 @pinkribboncoco @drewsphswife @laniirackssss @ditzyzombiesblog

542 notes · View notes

syoddeye · 4 months

Text

reminiscent

my entry to @glitterypirateduck's ghost challenge. ~8k.

prompts used: #83 caught in the rain/#54 omegaverse/brother's best friend replaced with #100 you are soap's sister

tags: two POVs, societal bullshit (omegaverse), brief mentions of Catholicism, angst, vomit, hurt/comfort, negative self-talk re: asexuality and medical condition, medical inaccuracies, crass/mean Simon then protective Simon, Simon in glasses, kind of being someone's beard, brief mention of suicidal ideation, sibling loss, grief

one line summary: When your brother Johnny dies, a man named Simon buys your life out from underneath you.

a/n: this jumps around throughout time. i gloss over some a/b/o elements. banner from @/cafekitsune. ✨

A nudge to the toe of his boot, and Simon flexes his fingers over his sidearm. The vest’s buckle dangles, unfastened and limp. There is no grip to pull, no trigger to squeeze, just the painfully blue eyes of his superior, dim and unflinching.

“Ghost,” Price glances at the empty holster. “We’re back. You have ten minutes.”

It takes a second. Simon shoots a look at Soap to silently convey incredulity, but he might as well take a blade to the neck. The seat across from him is empty. Before memory strikes, he’s on his feet, bursting through the van’s doors and parting the reception committee. He doesn’t register faces or sounds, shutting out all distractions to carve an efficient path to his target.

God help anyone bold enough to try and stop him. Ten minutes is a courtesy, not for him, but for whatever unlucky officers tasked with the cleanup.

The walk eats three minutes.

Beneath a percentile of pressure, the rake pushes in place and the lock yields. He catches the door before it slams, and the moment it clicks shut, his nose twitches. The room reeks of damp earth and pine, a hearth in a lonely, snowed-in cabin. It gathers the force of an avalanche, pummeling into him and stealing his breath. It settles an invisible weight on his chest and limbs. Buried to his neck in memory, he forces himself to move. He’s dug himself out of the ground before. He’ll do it again.

There is no time for reverence. The proper personnel will arrive shortly. Price can only distract them for so long. Simon empties the contents of the bedside cabinet onto the neatly made bed and takes what he’s looking for—the spare dog tags, a sketchbook, and any traces of them. A photograph flutters out, dated two years earlier. Johnny and a slightly younger woman with the same grin in front of a Christmas tree. He hears his sergeant’s lilt as he pockets the picture and other goods.

“Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Simon doesn’t think of himself when he slips into his quarters. He thinks about the sister, and his own family.

The days pass, surreal yet sharp and excruciating, as if he’s a surgical patient and the anesthesia didn’t take. Attends the debrief. Doesn’t hear it. Shrugs off the offers and orders for assistance and counseling. They’re given a week to sleep and heal, time Simon spends studying Soap’s sketchbooks and scouring public and private records to learn more about the younger MacTavish. It strikes him on the drive to the cliffs, Johnny’s ashes in his bag, that he’ll never see him again. That the sister will never see him again.

He goes for a drink alone, walking across town to avoid Price and Gaz, and plants himself at the end of the bar. A few beers in, and a vaguely woodsy smell turns his head. The ghost of Johnny at the edge of his vision dissipates, leaving some scruffy man in his sights. He finishes his drink, eyes locked with the stranger. His designation doesn’t matter. He’ll do.

Until he doesn’t.

Simon barely touches the man on the walk to the park. Doesn’t bother committing his name to memory or looking at his face. One thing leads to another, and eventually, the man’s on his back in the grass. He paws at Simon’s chest and whines, baring his neck pathetically. It turns Simon’s stomach, and before anything really happens, he retches into the bushes. The stranger sputters and stumbles into the dark.

He sits beside his mess until dew forms.

The following day, he beats Price to his office. The old man doesn’t insult him by walking on eggshells, he listens. Asks if Simon is sure.

“That isn’t what we heard in his will.”

“No, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Price stares long and hard, then acquiesces. “I suppose you’d know.” He raps his knuckles on the desk with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start the paperwork.”

In hindsight, it is a mistake to believe your teacher when he says the forms are anonymous. How feeling nervous or scared is okay and that the answers will guide discussion in the coming weeks. You faithfully believe him and answer honestly. When he turns up for a home visit, you’re shocked, and your parents are mortified.

The three of them quickly align. They emphasize how normal this is, that they all took the test when they turned sixteen, and that you still have a few years to learn more about it and to come to terms. Pamphlets are shoved into your hands before you’re excused to your room so the adults can speak privately.

Whatever he tells your parents lands you in a stale, uncomfortable counselor’s office. This time, you know better when she tells you the sessions are confidential. It takes three months of careful lying to mollify your parents adequately.

At a family gathering, your aunt proudly announces that an older cousin finally completed presentation, a whole three years after her test. A year later, that same cousin shyly admits she dropped out of university, a hand on her round belly and a baby on her hip. It’s only then you start truly seeing your omega relatives. How they stick to the sidelines, huddle in the kitchen, and fuss over everyone else’s comfort. Docile and pliant.

For years, you pray to God to turn out differently. To be nothing. And if not nothing, please, make you a beta like your father or an alpha like your mother or brother. Amen.

You cry for hours after your results. Your parents do their best to convince you it’s a blessing, but you see the results for what they are—a countdown.

School automatically splits your class into new health electives, fracturing years of relationships in one fell swoop. New social hierarchies form over the course of an afternoon, and you find yourself on the outside of old circles. It gnaws and bites like flies to see former friends turn their noses up at you. Cracks and shifts your insides, uncovering anger as old and boiling as a deep-sea vent. You let your grades slip to the bare minimum because what’s the point? Won’t some alpha take care of you anyway? Barf.

Your parents weather the fallout. They invite that cousin for tea with all four whelps in tow. It’s hard to hear her proclaim the wonders of life as an omega through shrill cries and fussing. That night, your mother’s patience snaps after you declare your life over. The fight goes nuclear, ending with your banishment to your room when she asks if your cousin’s life is over, and you say ‘yes’. While you may be sorry, you don’t regret it.

The next morning, you find Johnny at breakfast. Just like the test, you see his sudden, surprise visit for what it is—an olive branch. You wonder when your parents called and begged him to request a short leave. Parents know their children’s weaknesses. You’re thick as thieves. Before your results, the last time you cried was when he left for basic.

Johnny drags you around town to tackle a list of your favorites, dismantling the defensive wall you're hellbent on building. Anger festers under your skin, begging him to say the wrong thing.

Yet, if anything, your hissing and snapping amuse him. He ruffles your hair and dodges your fists, and you find chances to throw an elbow into his ribs. However, you're both far from the even playing fields of childhood, and punching him is punching stone.

"What's eatin' you? Somethin' happen?" He jeers, goading you on the walk home.

"You know what happened."

"Yeah," he admits with the sharp edge of a laugh. "You turned into a thin-skinned cretin just 'cause of a test."

You see red, and Johnny humors you. Takes a few desperate kicks and slaps before grabbing you by the forehead and stiff-arming. Stocky, but a reach longer than yours. You’re hissing and spitting when tears spring to your eyes, and a frustrated sound heralds a break in your voice.

It all comes out. How it’s like your future is a foregone conclusion. That you don’t want to undergo presentation, bonding, or, most of all, have an alpha dictate the rest of your life.

For perhaps the first time, your loudmouth brother shuts his trap. Doesn’t say a word. No snarky comments or unserious answers. He just lets you wail. In retrospect, it’s clear that he swapped a cudgel for a knife. Dissected your rage with a mind trained to defuse explosives.

That Sunday after mass, he hugs you and makes a promise before he leaves. Years later, half-listening to an officer who asks if there’s anyone they can call for you, you wish you remembered what it was.

In the hours following the officer’s departure, you go through the motions—numb and shell-shocked. The tide’s out, and you stand on shore, waiting for the crushing grief.

Aunt Marion sits on the sofa, going through the address book to inform people, one by one, of Johnny’s passing.

You’re in the kitchen fixing her supper and creating a mental to-do list when you overhear her tell someone, “I’m filing for change in guardianship in the morning. John never did have the time to find that girl a proper mate. You still have that matchmaker’s number, right?”

There’s no time to process the first loss with a second snapping at its heels.

Your brother’s headstone is not standing for more than an afternoon when a suitor shows interest. He circles like a vulture, the disgusting creature. You wish you could say you weren’t expecting it.

The portrait of your best friend bears witness from atop the mantle. In uniform with a buzzed head and a serious expression, it’s him, yet nothing like him. The Johnny you know—knew—would be grinning ear-to-ear, greeting folks, lightening the mood, and scolding your relatives for not footing the bill for a proper venue. He’d be angry they’d put it on your shoulders or invite this many people.

You hadn’t wanted any of this, either. You knew him best, but nobody listens to you. As Johnny followed your parents into death, you’re left alone, subject to the whims and mercies of an aunt who sees only your designation.

The court swiftly transfers power to your aunt. Omegas cannot roam about without anyone to account for them, after all. Johnny was declared your ‘guardian’ following the crash that took your parents. Didn’t matter if you were an adult, a whole twenty years old. The title always amused you with its inherent pompousness.

Guardian. You don’t find the archaic term funny anymore, not when a neighbor cuts through the room, intentions clear. Your nostrils flare at his vinegariness, the feeler he sends to test the waters. It sets your teeth on edge, encouraging the oncoming migraine. Why the foulest-smelling alphas think they can go without scent blockers, you don’t know.

God grant you the audacity.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny was a good man.”

“John,” You swiftly correct. ‘Johnny’ is reserved for family. “John was a good man. Who are you?”

The man smiles, and his pupils unnervingly dilate. “Alan. I live three down.” His gaze briefly flits to your neck.

You bristle. This is why you opted for a turtleneck that morning. The awful gut feeling some boorish idiot would seek you out now that you changed hands. To act so bold at a funeral reception. “Well, Alan, from three down, you can–”

“You can find refreshments through there.” Aunt Marion interjects, the older woman floating into view, reeking of powdery florals. She does not need to posture. A slight tilt of her head and intrusion into your personal bubble banishes the man into the next room, with her eyes fixed on him until he disappears.

"Good riddance," she mutters. “Alan Findlay. The gall. Like I’d let that cur have you or this house.” She sniffs, grimacing. “Go take another blocker. Now. You’re distracting the guests.”

You knew your aunt’s intervention was not for your well-being, but you still wilt. This is how things are and always have been. Johnny simply shielded you from it. Unbonded omegas are bargaining chips. Hares set loose in front of sighthounds. How foolish, thinking you could outrun centuries of tradition and deny nature. Aunt Marion is entitled to the house, your future, and the money that comes with both.

You trudge upstairs, and on the landing, you swallow a hard lump in your throat. Steady now. You start toward the bathroom but freeze at the sight of Johnny's door. There's a sliver of light beneath it.

No one should be in there. No one has been in there since he last deployed. Your heart lurches against your ribcage, anger curling your fingers into fists as you reroute automatically, marching to catch the trespasser. Another greedy relative with sticky fingers, no doubt. You turn the knob and push, and the curse on the tip of your tongue promptly fizzles.

A colossus stands in front of Johnny’s wardrobe, clutching one of his shirts. You do not so much as enter your brother’s room as you run face-first into the wall of the man’s scent. It bludgeons the olfactory with leather polish and tobacco, cedar and amber. Familiar, somehow, and powerful.

“You’re the sister.” His free hand hovers beside a cloth mask tucked beneath his chin. He’s clad in black like a mourner, though you don’t recall him. The deep voice prickles, snagging on something sharp in your chest. Pink and pale scars etch over his chin and mouth. You briefly study them before your eyes dart to the shirt and then his face.

“Yeah,” The hairs on your neck rise at how his scent and facial muscles relax in tandem.

“Were you smelling John’s shirt?”

“Yes.” He says without hesitation or a shred of shame.

And it’s the lack of shame, the nerve to enter a dead man’s room, that does you in. The last straw. You flatten against the open door and gesture into the hallway. “Right, okay. Get the fuck out. Now.”

To his credit, he complies. The shirt remains clenched in a fist.

“Leave it,” You snap, but he closes in. Citrus wrinkles your nose, beckoning you to relax. What have you accomplished by antagonizing a man this size? An alpha? This is not your brother, not someone likely to entertain your irritation. Your neck cranes, head hitting the door with a quiet thunk, and you stare into eyes the color of pitch, ringed by dark circles. Instincts like cicadas, buried to avoid that which would exploit them, dig their way out of the ground. “Stop–”

“Your aunt. She’s in charge of the house and you, yeah?”

Your mouth dries. You don’t answer.

His nostrils flare, and a chill runs down your spine. Apparently, he finds whatever trace of your pheromones agreeable enough to hum. Then he hooks a finger in the mask and drags it into place over his nose and mouth.

“You don’t smell like him at all. Blockers or no.” He tosses the shirt onto Johnny’s desk as he lumbers past.

You’re left adrift, clutching the door for dear life. The earthy smell lingers. How long had the stranger been in here that he’d gone and stunk up the room? Your hands shake hanging up the shirt, and you avoid looking at anything else as you slink out, proverbial tail tucked.

In the bathroom, you knock back a second blocker and a pain reliever, drinking sink water cupped in your hands. You glance at the prescriptions on the shelf. Blockers and suppressants. They look different, equally distressing, and comforting now that you’re alone. You close the medicine cabinet, and something slips into the sink. A frown forms instantly at the sight of the stupid, ugly Kevlar bite guard. Johnny brought it home one leave, swearing up and down it was safer than commercial. An extra layer of protection to be worn during the weeks bookending your seasonal heats. Humiliation accessorized. Downstairs you go.

Aunt Marion waits in the living room, flitting about, excitedly chittering to her husband. The moment she sees you, she brightens further, aglow with a sense of accomplishment. Dread calcifies your stomach.

“What have you done?”

Undeterred, your aunt smiles and pats your hand. “Only what John would’ve wanted.”

Cedar and myrrh, stone and soil—a burst potent enough to cow the eldest member of your family, forcing her to retreat a step. You feel a presence at your back and slowly turn to face a wall of muscle wrapped in black. This close, your nose finds the word it was looking for. Sepulchral.

“This is Mr. Simon Riley. He served with John,” Aunt Marion nervously chirps. “He’s made a generous offer for both the house and your bonding price, pending the validation of his bloodline and such.”

It’s a knife to the gut.

As far as you know, the various blood work and lineage reports come back satisfactory. However, their contents are a mystery, as you’re not allowed to request copies without his permission, and you’re not about to ask. You don’t even know how to reach him. He said a dozen words to you at the house, then vanished after speaking to your aunt.

The following week, you nearly wear a track on the floor with your pacing. No announcement regarding an impending bonding appears in the paper. It isn’t required, but it isn’t out of fashion. You suppose more modern rituals are exclusive to immediate family nowadays, without the need for public acknowledgment. You shudder at the thought. If you’re to be humiliated, you’d rather have as few witnesses as possible.

Another week passes. You receive letters and packages in his name, ‘S. Riley’. Hard proof that despite his absence, this is his home, not yours. Then, a deposit appears in the house account Johnny opened. You don’t touch it. You won’t legitimize a thing if you can help it.

You return to work. Everyone expresses their sympathies, and you call the omega representative in human resources to apprise them of your status. Their smile is tight on the screen when you dodge their questions and ask to simply update the paperwork from ‘J. MacTavish’ to ‘S. Riley’. Every day, you listen for his return and wonder if you’ll find him sitting in Johnny’s chair. It sets your teeth on edge.

A month turns over in limbo. You briefly wonder if you’re the sibling who died, now cursed to languish where you only glimpse your brother in the periphery, with a monster stalking the fenceline.

Christmas is a date that happens. You refuse an obligatory invitation to your aunt’s home and donate the gifts you already purchased. New Year passes the same way; miserable and isolated like any other. And then, thirty-three days after he buys your life from underneath you, Simon reappears on the second day of the year.

“Gonna let me in?” Simon grunts, toting two bags and car keys.

“Not gonna command it?” You sneer, confused over the delay, certain of his tricks. He’s going to try and bond you, sooner or later.

Simon stares. There’s no malice, only exhaustion. Sweat and musk batter your nose, acrid and disgusting, masking his usual spoor. It’s strange. Perhaps you’re noseblind to him already. You step aside.

Simon removes his shoes and jacket, rolling his shoulders with audible albeit muffled pops. He grunts at the packages, turning one over in a single broad hand before evidently deciding to deal with them later. He starts upstairs.

“First on the right”

He pauses halfway.

“My old room. It’s for guests now, but you can have it. Just. Don’t go into John’s room.”

He grunts again, but he listens.

Simon cloisters for two days. His scent returns to normal, slowly rolling over the house like a thick fog. It doesn’t seem to be an early rut, as he’s made no noise or sudden moves. Nothing to suggest a return to a bestial nature. You force yourself to continue your routine.

One morning, you find dishes in the drying rack and the paper on the table. Outside the back door, a half-smoked cigarette. It’s him, obviously, apparently skulking about in the small hours. As if the house needs another ghost.

His presence, no matter how spectral, frays your poor nerves. You forget a quarter of the shopping list one day, cursing through the door with arms full of bags.

“You didn’t use the money.”

You whip around to find Simon with a book tucked under an arm. He moves practically undetected between his light feet and pervasive scent.

The deposit. Right. Simon is joint owner of your accounts now.

You return to the groceries, jaw working at the irritating flatness of his tone. “I don’t need it. I earn my own wages, and I intend to continue working.”

“Didn’t tell you to quit. I said you didn’t use the money.”

“I don’t want it.”

The floor creaks under his foot, but he stops the second you tense. “It’s for you. For bills and expenses.”

“I don’t. Want it.”

“Johnny said you’d be difficult.”

“And he never fuckin’ mentioned you.” Regret immediately rises in your throat, demanding that you apologize, but you choke it down. You do not know this man. Law or not, he is a trespasser.

You do not hear him leave, but he gives you a wide berth. The next day, he’s gone again, but he leaves a note with his number.

Back to work. Use the money. - S

A couple of weeks later, after running out to collect your holds at the library, you return to Simon’s car in the parking space, a pair of mud-caked boots inside the door and a hastily half-unpacked bag on the table. The previously weak musk of Simon’s is refreshed and intense, drifting through the house. Begrudgingly, you put your stack aside and tidy a little. You pluck a knit hat beside the bag and squeak at the smell of rust and iron. The garment plops into the bag, unfolding into a skull-print balaclava, the bulk of which carries a red stain. Dry, thank the Lord.

You heave his bag to the floor with a huff and find another note.

Went out. Back late. - S

‘Late’ is generous. Hours pass. You fix dinner, stow the leftovers, finish your laundry (in case he needs the machines), reorder suppressants, and cozy up to crack the spine of the latest installment of a horror series. The patter of rain against the windows and the mountain of blankets ensconces you into a state of languor.

The key turning the lock startles you from sleep. Bleary-eyed, the back of your hand wipes drool from your lip, and the other leverages you off the sofa. Your vision gradually clears to reveal Simon’s hulking shape, filling the front door. Dripping and soaking wet, a puddle of rainwater pools at his feet. Without a word or acknowledgment of your presence, he peels off the paper mask adhered to his nose and chin and drops it alongside his flooded shoes. His socks and anorak go next, and before he discards any more articles of clothing, you make yourself useful.

You march past, movements automatic, into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

A minute later, he shuffles in, dressed in sweats and a dry shirt. You deduce he swapped clothes with whatever’s in his bag. An aborted ‘welcome home’ sits on your tongue, but your nose catches something metallic. Blood.

Simon leans over the sink and promptly shoves a hand under the running water. From what you can see, his knuckles look bad, but he doesn’t appear injured elsewhere. You grab a bag of frozen peas.

“Pat it dry and give it here,” you grumble, dropping a towel by his arm and wrapping the peas in another.

His hand is a mess—knuckles raw and bloody, skin torn in places where he clearly punched something or someone. It’s ice-cold but not actively bleeding. You hold the makeshift cold compress in place and apply pressure. Another stilted silence passes, and you catch a whiff of citrus.

“Were you drinking? Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than you intend.

“Yeah.”

“So this isn’t from work?”

“No.”

“Is it from–”

“Scrap.”

“Oh.” You squint. “So you got in from a work trip. Went for a pint. Made a new friend.“

Simon’s eyes snap to you. “She’s cracked the case,” his hand creeps toward yours, giving you time to let go before he steals the compress and pulls away. “Needed to blow off steam.”

“That’s idiotic,” You snap, traipsing behind him to the living room.

In response, he chuffs once like a warning shot. You keep your distance as he sinks into Johnny’s chair, groaning, and throws a heel onto the ottoman to drag it closer. Head rolling against the high back, his eyes flutter close as he relaxes into the cushion. He grinds his molars as he appears to forcibly unclench his muscles. You fetch the first aid kit.

The slight curl of his lip makes you almost regret being nice. You set the tea and the kit on the side table, perking at the sound of him mumbling something suspiciously close to ‘thanks’.

Part of you considers retreating to give him space and go to bed. Johnny always spent the first several hours of leave decompressing alone. Yet you return to the blankets and book. This is still your house, even if your name will never appear on the deed.

Simon breaks the not-quite-companionable silence by dropping the wrapped peas on the table and exchanging them for the kit. Over your book, you grimace at how he uses his teeth to tear open an antiseptic wipe, then silently gag at the sharp bite of isopropyl in the air.

“You didn’t use the money. Again.” Simon finally says, smearing antibiotics into his split skin.

“I told you–”

“It’s not my charity, if that’s what’s keepin’ you. It’s the survivor’s grant.”

The tension in your jaw could crack a tooth. Labdanum and firewood billow from the armchair. Scowling, you slap the book shut. “Stop.”

His face is expressionless, voice goading. “What? Not doin’ it for you? That not a nest for me?”

You straighten, shoulders rising to your ears and lip pulling into a sneer. He’s saying it to get under your skin, and it fucking works.

“No, it’s not a fucking nest and no, I don’t find your stench comforting, thanks.”

Simon tosses the ointment and leans forward to drape his thick forearms over his thighs. The purpling bruises on his knuckles glisten in the lamplight. His studying agitates, his pupils like needles on your face. Then he asks the question that makes you hit the ceiling.

“You broken?”

At nineteen, you go to bed on Beltane and wake to a bombardment: sharp, needling botanicals of lemongrass and mint tempered by frankincense and lavender. Eye-watering and suffocating. You slip out to the nearest clinic, and the sickly-sweet smelling nurse beckons you to sit so she may deliver a killing blow.

“Hyperosmia is uncommon during early presentation, but it should mellow.”

Her words run together, drowned out by an internal doomsday clock striking midnight. Milennia’s worth of inherited horror and fear knitted into marrow catch up all at once. She holds your hair while you vomit and updates your chart as you wash up. She tells you to return if it doesn’t resolve in a month or two.

It doesn’t. It never does.

Hours of appointments, dozens of scans and tests, and enough paperwork to rival the holy book. You know the ENT by name, but she never provides a conclusive answer beyond ‘genetic lottery’. Certainly doesn’t feel like a win.

It’s a cruel twist to be repulsed twice over.

“What’s wrong? Are you broken or somethin’?” A greasy-haired man sneers, chest puffed out with a hand planted above your head. Of course, a nitwit corners you the one time you leave the house. All the scent blockers in the world cannot deter the repugnant or unscrupulous. His proximity pushes a pungent, sulfuric acid reminiscent of a leaking battery on you, flaring in offense when you visibly recoil. He repeats himself, teeth bared and foul.

The bastard assumes you’ll fawn. Assumes you’re alone.

It’s difficult to keep a straight face as Johnny scruffs the stranger, bringing him to heel. Your brother compels the miscreant to apologize and then sets him loose, satisfied he’s neutered the man. He scolds you all the way home and curses himself for letting his sister out of sight.

On his next leave, he brings a bite guard. You cringe at the ugly device, but Johnny insists. Spouts some nonsense about not always being around to save your hide, reminding you that you can’t arm yourself. His near-mythic anger leaks into every word. He forgets you’re a mirror.

“I’m not wearing this. This is fucking medieval.”

“Just when, y’know, ‘round those times. ‘Til you find someone–”

“I won’t find someone. I don’t want to find someone. I don’t want anyone.” The admission slips out so quietly you don’t think he hears it.

“–I can try to smuggle some of the blockers they give us, but ‘til then, when it’s, y’know–” “Christ, Johnny, save it, I’m not gonna listen to my brother–”

“Then fuckin’ listen to your guardian, because I’m only gonna say this once.”

It stops you like a slap to the face. He’s never lorded his appointment over you. Never.

“So you don’t want a mate. That’s fine. I’ll support you, like I always fuckin’ have. I’ll sing it out in the streets if you’d like. Hang a sign on the gate. But has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone? That maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

The two of you putter on the corner in silence. He rakes his nails over the stubble on his cheek. He murmurs a c’mon and herds you home, cutting his leave short by absconding the next morning.

“You broken?”

Two words to dredge up the ugliest parts of your life, your twin irregularities. You suppose you could distill it simply as you’ve had to counselors and doctors throughout the years. Yes, actually. My nose makes it difficult to leave the house without a migraine, and nobody’s ever stirred my loins. Aren’t you lucky? A terrible two-for-one special you handsomely overpaid for.

“Coulda just said that.”

Embarrassment shrivels your tongue. Of course, you spoke aloud. The impulse to apologize and flee attempts to puppet you, limbs twitching involuntarily at the idea of running for hills and leaving civilization altogether.

Simon rises before you formulate a response and takes the makeshift compress to the kitchen. On his way back, he fishes something out of his bag. The floor creaks when he stops to loom over you, offering a closed fist.

Your palm opens, and he rewards your compliance with a flash of steel. A single dog tag threaded with a thin ball chain. Your brother’s name reflects the light, and you grind the heel of your hand into an eye socket.

“They told me there was nothing left.”

“There isn’t. Found that lyin’ around.”

Your throat constricts, and a weak ‘thank you’ sputters out. The shadow of a massive hand lifts your head, and you press into the cushions, away from Simon’s reach.

“I just told you I’m not into that.” You hiss, brow furrowing.

He pauses. The smirk on his face doesn’t match the doleful look in his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

“Been thinkin’, Lt, what if after this, we take leave together?”

Simon rolls off the mattress and grabs his shirt off the floor. Should’ve known it’d come up again. Soap’s a glutton for punishment. The drama. The angry, desperate make-up sex. No other reason he’d keep stirring the pot. The man’s piss-poor pillow-talk and refusal to keep things simple detract some, but not enough to make Simon move on. Knows the other alpha too well for that, got him living in his head and bedroom most nights.

“Could go to mine, meet my sister. Told you she’s a bit like you, remember? Surly, introverted, a menace.” Soap sprawls into the forfeited space. “She’s an omega, but—”

Simon pokes through the shirt, face blank and mouth shut. The way ‘omega’ comes out of Soap’s mouth, a letter at a time—the reluctance, the glint in his blue eyes—he’s sharing something special. He’s talked about this sister before, but this is different. Despite all the times he’s had Soap on his back, it’s rare for the mutt to willingly show his underbelly. It’s too intimate, incongruent with his nature. Simon course corrects.

“Yeah? Tryin’ to set me up with your sister? Dirty dog.”

The effect is instant. Soap pushes upright to sit at the edge of his bed, posture shifting to broaden his shoulders, chin tucking a fraction. His lips pull back as he barks something like ‘not a fuckin’ joke’ and that Simon is a ‘disgusting bastard’. Touchy subject, this sister.

He goes to leave, swiping his balaclava from the desk.

Soap staggers after him with one leg in a pair of shorts and grabs him. He’s got tenacity, but Simon’s all mass. In seconds, he removes his sergeant.

Simon listens to Soap’s ragged breathing, studying the flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. Storm clouds over the ocean, barely restrained. He shouldn’t rile Soap like this, not with everything else going on.

He doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna tell me she’s special?”

“No, she’s not—she’s normal. Different, but normal. Sensitive, is all.”

Simon releases him, unimpressed. “If she’s half as sensitive as you, she must be a crybaby.“

“Not like that.” Soap taps his nose. “Chronic pheromonal olfactory acuity. Rare genetic thing. Could pick you out of a crowd.”

“Shame. Laswell could’ve recruited her.” Conditions like that have their uses, but with her designation, it must be hell on earth. He says as much.

“Aye. It is. I’m careful about who I introduce.”

There it is, Soap skirting the issue again. Thinking if he meets the rest of the MacTavishes, it’ll legitimize their screwing. Convince him to throw their careers into the shredder. The brass looks the other way when alphas relieve stress; it prevents incidents, but they care if it becomes something else.

“Think about it?”

He does.

Soap’s chewing on something. Rather, something’s chewing Soap. Could be anything. Mexico. Graves. Hassan. Well and out of danger, his good knee bounces incessantly, the tap of his boot louder than the radio.

“Soap.”

“Lt?”

“Out with it.”

Soap opens. It doesn’t take much these days. The stress of the last couple weeks is still burning off, especially with Shepherd in the wind. Their world’s constricted, pressurized, a few bad days from implosion. People like his sergeant need talking space to alleviate it, among other things.

“I put in for leave,” He starts. “Goin’ home in a week.”

Simon glances at the men playing cards on the other side of the room, then jerks his head to the door. Soap falls into step, tea abandoned, and waits until they’re outside Simon’s quarters to continue.

“Said you’d think about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Inside.”

He’s got him trained. In Soap goes, shirt halfway off before the door’s locked.

“Ghost–”

“Not Ghost right now,” Simon tosses the balaclava across the room and reaches for Johnny. He cuffs him by the nape of his neck and reels him in. Soap shudders into the kiss, holding Simon’s hand in place with his own, almost giving in, but—

“Simon,” He pulls away. “Don’t do that.”

“Not doin’ it for you?”

“No, you’re shutting me out. Goin’ away.”

“‘I’m right here.”

Soap frowns tiredly. “Why don’t you want to come? Meet my sister?”

“Couldn't possibly intrude.”

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m askin’. I want you to meet her. She’s all I got left. Besides you.”

Simon’s nose twitches. Could make this easier on himself and enforce the pecking order like old times. But he doesn’t. What he does is worse. Meaner.

“And what am I?” Simon closes in, crowding him to the wall. He roughly reclaims Soap’s throat, chest rumbling at how perfectly it slots into his grip. He knew Johnny was his the first time he took him apart. Saw how the other alpha leaned into it. Offered his neck. Renounced nature itself in the heat of the most natural act.

“You know what you are.”

Simon tuts. “I know what you want me to be, and I told you my answer before, didn't I?” He adjusts to cup Soap’s face and drags his nose over the other cheek. “Say it. Tell me what I told you.”

“We aren’t–”

“Go on.”

Soap slackens in his hold. “We aren’t mates. Can’t be.”

“Can’t be,” Simon repeats, grazing his teeth over the thrum of his sergeant’s carotid. A pulse like gunfire. “That’s right.”

“I want to be.” It’s not a whine; it’s hardly a complaint. It’s a statement of fact delivered with resignation.

So do I, he admits privately, before pressing his lips to Soap’s neck, then sinking to his knees.

Soap tries again after the dam, persistent as a dog after a bone. Simon lets him crawl into bed, thinking they’ll celebrate Graves and Shepherd eating each other alive, getting one in while they can. Instead, he receives a tired earful.

“It’s fucked, sir.”

He toys with the brown hair flopped over his shoulder and breathes deeply and slowly. Relishing the subtle undertones of the man on his chest, he grunts. “Gonna need to be more specific.”

“Could’ve wasted the bastard years ago. Now we’re stuck chasing him.”

“It’s the job.”

Soap’s stubbly cheek presses to Simon’s pec, eyes closed. “Haven’t been home in months.”

“This about the runt MacTavish?”

“Don’t call ‘er that.” He slaps Simon’s stomach. “She’d bite your head off.”

He snorts. “Sounds like a ray of sunshine.” His gaze slips to the door. They’ll need to dress soon. Laswell works fast. “Miss her?”

“Missed her birthday. Way things are going, I’ll miss Christmas, too.”

Simon shifts beneath Soap’s weight. Here it is, the shit pillow-talk. Another blatant attempt to manipulate the impossible. He huffs dismissively. “Put in for leave anyway. Makarov’ll be down for a dirt nap within the week.”

“You’re confident, Lt.”

“Gloves off, Johnny. Old man won’t stop you this time.”

That seems to do the trick. For a few easy minutes, his sergeant remains silent. Simon admires the droop of Soap’s dark eyelashes on his skin and even breathing. Closest thing to heaven he’ll ever see, he thinks.

Soap’s arm tightens its hold as he slightly flares his scent, a plume of woodfire as inviting as his words. “Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.” His eyes open as he drags his chin to rest it on Simon’s pec. Soap can’t pin him on the sparring mat, but he can with a look. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

To you. Doesn’t have to mean anything to you.

“Think about it?”

A faint waft of tobacco and musk leaks into the room, and Simon nudges Soap off as Price pounds on the door.

“Kate’s got something. Briefing room, three minutes.”

By the time Soap pries himself off the bed, Simon’s half-dressed. He avoids the mirror. Knows what he’ll see. Disappointment.

“You’re not my type.”

It’s maddening, the Escher staircases his admission builds in your head, each step a question that may go nowhere. He’s been anything but forthcoming. Didn’t introduce himself at Johnny’s funeral, didn’t explain a thing.

Before you can interrogate him, he disappears. It’s past midnight when you lumber to your bedroom, and out of habit, you glance at Simon’s door. It’s shut, not a flicker of light beyond, but Johnny’s is open a crack. You hesitate. It’s different this time. Simon is no longer a trespasser. He’s not doing anything illegal. Just wrong.

You tiptoe and peer inside. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but you smell him. Leather and tobacco. Cedar and amber. Myrrh, tilled soil, and poppies. How on the nose for a soldier to smell like death itself. But poking through the thick, funereal brume is juniper and pine. The hours preceding heavy snowfall. It’s an odd combination, grounding and sharp, petrous and serene. A graveyard in the dead of winter.

His breathing is too controlled for him to be asleep. It’s a standoff, and you’re not keen to see it through, so you turn around and go to bed. Between four and five in the morning, realization strikes. You knew Simon long before you met him.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone?”

The wool is hooked from your eyes. For years, your brother marched home reeking of blood, iron, and something else. Someone else. From what little he shared, you knew his task force was small and covert, close quarters a given. You assumed the military dispensed provisions for their alpha-dominant population. It didn’t occur to you that their solution was in-house.

You grimace in revulsion, but the feeling drops away into guilt.

“Maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

A near decade under your brother’s custodianship, and you thought you made it easy by becoming a near-recluse. You weren’t so naive to think it’d last forever. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. Eventually, Johnny would’ve co-signed a lease, and you’d start the quasi-independent life you dreamed of. He’d have the space to start his own family. All planned out. You didn’t want to be a lifelong burden, but with his early death, that’s all you ended up being.

Now you’re somebody else's problem, assumed out of pity.

Your gaze wanders to Simon in the living room. There is no delicate way to ask. He probably wouldn’t appreciate beating about the bush.

“So you and Johnny, you were, uh, an item?”

Simon’s focus breaks from the book in his lap, peering over a pair of wireframe glasses. His cheek bulges, seemingly chewing his response before spitting it out. “Yes and no.”

Insufferable man. Patience isn’t something you’ve historically possessed in spades, and with him, less so. “I’m assuming ‘no’, considering your neck.”

He snorts and slaps the book shut. “Like I’d let that mutt bite me.”

“Jesus wept,” you drop the baking tin onto the counter, head shaking. “You’re incapable of holding a serious conversation.”

You fiddle with the baking paper, face heating in frustration. All you want is honesty. To get to the bottom of your situation, to his situation with Johnny. You stew in exasperation and pour the lemon filling. You don’t notice Simon until he’s at the edge of the kitchen.

“Johnny said you were all he had left.”

The bowl nearly slips from your hands.

“And Johnny was all I had left.”

“So you—”

“So I did what needed doing. You need looking after,” he says, working his scarred lip and continuing, his voice a hair thicker. “And Johnny’s gone. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”

You need looking after. You noisily set the emptied bowl on the counter and disregard the instinct to make nice. Comfort him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon coughs. “Law says you do. I reckon I’m the best suited for the job.”

The confidence startles an incredulous laugh out of you. “I must’ve missed that in his will, the one where it states my aunt ought to be the one ‘looking after me’.”

His eyes narrow. “Want me to return you? You’d prefer her to match you with the nearest alpha with half a brain? Bonded, wed, and bred by Spring?”

You angrily sweep the dirty dishes into the sink, a blistering anger coursing through your veins. “You’re disgusting.”

The mirth bleeds from his eyes. “No, I’m realistic. Something funny in the MacTavish line. Fucking dreamers, the two of you. Wanting things you can’t have.”

The remark causes your invisible, primordial hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean–”

Simon cuts you off with a single step into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ hell, do I need to spell it out?” He closes in, pointing a finger. “You aren’t interested in nobody, and I’m not interested in nobody but Johnny.”

He towers, chest expanding, using every bit of his mass to intimidate and keep you listening. To pacify you. “You can’t do a whit without a guardian’s or alpha’s say so, and I happen to be in the business of not giving a shit.”

You lock into a brief staring contest, and the beep of the oven breaks it. He wordlessly moves so you can slide the lemon bars into the heat. You inhale deeply, drinking in the tart citrus as a palate cleanser, and shut the door.

“So, what, I’m your cover story?” You ask carefully.

“Whatever gets it through that thick skull of yours.”

It’s not enough to stop the alarm bells ringing in your ears, but it quiets them. “And you’re not going to—You don’t want—”

“Already had a mate, not interested in another.”

There it is. “So you and Johnny were mates.”

Simon swallows, his thick neck contracting. He rubs his neck, hand skimming the slight protuberance on his neck. “Need a smoke. C’mon.” He turns, apparently certain you’ll follow.

You do.

A tiny ember lights his crooked features, and bluish-gray smoke curls into the air. He settles against a bare patch of stone some paces away downwind. It tests your self-control to not spout a line of questions. His silence obliges you to settle beside the frame, arms crossed in thinly-veiled agitation.

The paper’s half-charred, a neat cluster of ash in the tray when he finally speaks. He clears his throat, dipping his chin to gaze into the garden. Each word pushed out grudgingly as if evicted from some deep part of himself. “Johnny and me…We didn’t bite or bond. Surefire way to get discharged.”

You do him a mercy and stare into the cloud-heavy sky. “So when you said me and him wanted things we can’t have, that mean he wanted it? To be official?”

“She’s cracked the case.”

It’s stupid, his selective sentimentality. Still. It crowbars a smile out of you. Reminds you of Johnny. “He was always strong-willed.”

“That’s a generous way to put it.”

“How long were you together?”

“Off and on, four years.”

Thick as thieves, your foot. It eats you, your brother’s lack of faith. Your emotions must plume because Simon’s head swivels in your periphery. You need to increase your dosage, regardless of his claims.

“Can’t blame him for not tellin’ you. Probably thought it was for the best. You, however,” Simon stubs the cigarette with a dry cough. “Couldn’t shut up about you. Called you the ‘runt MacTavish’.”

“No he fuckin’ didn’t.” You wheel instantly, and his shoulders shake in a laugh. It looks almost wrong coming from him, yet you snicker. Your nose lifts in the air mid-giggle, and the breeze carries a clean scent. You relish it while you can.

It doesn’t escape Simon’s notice.

“He told me about your condition.”

You frown. “You knew and made me say it anyway? Prick. What else did he tell you? I’d like to set the record straight.”

“Once told me when you were twelve, you stuffed the neighbor’s postbox with garlic because you thought he was a vampire.”

Through time and space, your mother’s bony hand pinches your ear. She had dragged you, sputtering and whimpering, over to Mr. Stewart’s doorstep to apologize all those years ago.

You defend yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Because Johnny said he’d shave my head in the middle of the night if I didn’t!”

Simon chuckles. “I’m sure she had it coming. Don’t need to justify it to me.”

But you do. You explain how, to your childish mind, someone who only ventured out of their house at night and a severe widow’s peak was a bloodsucker. Johnny took the idea and ran with it, convinced you the garlic was a foolproof test. ‘Course he’d tricked you,

The cold evening air moves you indoors. The pair of you settle into your respective places, Simon in the armchair with a glass of bourbon and you nose-deep into a cup of chamomile. The night passes through swapped stories, mainly about Johnny but some about the rest of the MacTavishes and, reluctantly, yourself. With no alcohol in your cup, you can’t blame your unburdening on a drink.

It’s not lost on you how Simon pointedly avoids the openings you leave for him to talk about his family. It leaves your brain to hatch all sorts of theories, yet for the first time since he arrived, you don’t feel inclined to grill him.

On the landing, when you both wander to bed, you stop him. “You can move into Johnny’s, if you’d like. I imagine it’s, ah, comforting.”

He exhales. “You sure?”

“I was gonna sort out his things eventually, but that’s probably best left to his mate.” The words rush out in an embarrassed rush. Humiliatingly mushy. You don’t make it a footstep before a giant mitt ruffles your hair. The animal in you freezes, then jerkily flees. “Yeah, yeah, big oaf.” You mutter as you duck into your room, listening to him chuckle, then do the same.

“She gonna show or what?” Garrick asks, craning in his seat, subtly sniffing. “Came all the way here to pay our respects.”

“She’s just late.”

“Like Soap, then.” Price‘s posture is confident and easy. He’s handling this better than the sergeant.

“Better.”

“And you’re sure she’s alright with us paying a visit?”

“She trusts I’m careful about who I introduce.”

Price hums. “Trust’s good. Been nearly a year. It get easier?”

Easier’s a choice word. Things are smoother, Simon guesses. He and Runt got a good routine going, a decent dynamic. She’s no longer petrified whenever he’s within arms reach, doesn’t stare at him like she’s expecting the worst. She uses the money, cooks for two, and puts him to work on leave, keeping up the house.

The night in the park, he thought about eating lead for breakfast. He trudged back to base with the intention to do it but clapped eyes on that stupid photograph. Heard Johnny’s voice again. I don’t want you to be alone.

Even in death, his sergeant’s a solid bridge. The foundation of a fucked up home.

A familiar blend of heather and rain draws his attention to the entrance. In his chest, something settles.

“It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

#Ghost Challenge #GhostChallenge #mind the tags #punny title #ghost #ghost & reader #ghost & f!reader #simon ghost riley #posting this before i lose my mind #running away byeeeee

358 notes · View notes

python333 · 1 year

Text

bedbound — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're on a mission and oopsie daisy you get trapped under a building!! you end up in the medbay and tf141 visits you one by one, each of them giving you a lil piece of their mind for going and getting yourself trapped under a collapsed building.

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 4.5k

warnings pretty detailed (i think) descriptions of [reader] being in pain [specifically having a bunch of leg injuries], angstier than i usually write, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note this is my first actual fic ive wrotten in MONTHS so i hope its okay! so sorry if it feels like a majority of the focus is on the reader, i had a too much fun writing out the first part where they get crushed :3 i am also once again begging for requests. like on my knees hands together begging for requests. its the best way of getting motivation istg. anyway, this is all mild hurt/comfort and some angst + fluff so enjoy!! :3

You tried running out of the building—you didn’t expect the whole damn thing to come crashing down on you.

You’d just been chasing after an enemy soldier moments ago, dashing into the building, when suddenly the whole building seemed to shake. Then, the whole thing seemed to just collapse. When you think about it now, you realize the shake must’ve come from a nearby explosion, an explosion somehow powerful enough to damage the structural support of the building so terribly that it couldn’t hold itself up anymore and instead fell down onto you.

Now, here you were, just ten steps away from the entrance of the building, stopped by the huge slab of concrete and twisted metal that pinned your legs down to the ground. Your earpiece fell off when you fell down, sliding across the floor, preventing you from calling your team.

Sure, you could try and move your legs, but the excruciating pain that came with each movement wasn’t worth it. You think your legs are broken with the way your nerves scream at you every time you move them, and with how uncomfortably and horrifyingly disconnected they feel.

“I’m making shit up,” You whisper hoarsely to yourself, ignoring the tears that welled up in your eyes from the debris and dust in the air, “They’re not broken. I’m making it worse for myself by thinking that.”

In the back of your mind, you remember that you’re quoting Price on that one, from the last time you got seriously hurt like this. You vaguely remember your panicked words and Price’s soothing voice that came after every worry, telling you that no, you’re not too badly hurt, it’s gonna be okay, you’re just panicking.

But in the forefront of your mind, all you can do is think about how you can’t reach your earpiece to talk to your team, the only thing you can do is listen to their worried voices.

The earpiece is loud enough for you to hear, even though you’re just out of arm’s reach from it, you can still hear your teammates repeating your call sign and asking how you copy. With the stupid Push-To-Talk thing, you can’t even just respond, no, you have to push the button on the side of your earpiece to unmute yourself.

You stretch your arm out just a little bit more to try and reach the earpiece, but when your leg starts to strain and your nerves light up you immediately give up, letting out a small, pained huff. You take a moment to just lie there and listen to your own labored breaths, every other breath hitching or catching in your throat.

You swallow down a sob that threatens to bubble out of your throat and try to reach again and—nope, that still fucking hurts.

You bring your hand back and put it over your mouth to muffle a small sob that climbs up and out of your throat, and try to take a deep breath the best you can with the debris in the air.

You feel a slight discomfort in your chest and cough, horrified when you see small specks of dust in the air you cough out, and God, the sight of it makes you want to rip out your lungs.

You feel the sudden urge to cough everything out, to flush out the dust in your lungs, to get rid of the uncomfortably full feeling you feel in your chest, but you know that every time you cough you can only exhale more of that debris-filled dust back in so now you’re trapped in a loop and—

“[c/n], how copy?” God, you want to yell at them that repeating that question won’t help, but you know there’s nothing else they can do. They’ve already asked where you are, if you’re okay, and how you copy multiple times, all of which got no answer.

They’ve only experienced radio silence on their end, and the thought makes you feel guilty for not being able to suck up the pain in your legs and just reach over to the damn earpiece and tell them you’re trapped.

You take a few deep breaths, trying your best to ignore the way you can literally feel the dust entering your lungs, and reach. You stretch your arm out the farthest you can, and feel the strain in your leg, and you’re almost to the earpiece, just a few more inches— pop.

A bone chilling pop rings through the air the moment you manage to snatch the earpiece, and good thing it was at least after you managed to grasp it firmly in your hand because you recoil back on instinct and gasp.

The gasp only lets in more dust, and you cough, wet tears dripping down onto your cheeks as you go through a seemingly endless loop of coughing out dust and inhaling debris and coughing it out again only for new dust to make its way into your system.

You stifle a pain-filled whimper and try to control your shaky breath, gripping the earpiece firming in your hand, looking down at it, looking at the sheer amount of debris on it. You bring your free hand out and wipe away the debris with shaky hands, making sure it’s clean enough to put in your ear before you carefully insert it.

It takes you a moment with your trembling hands, but you manage to do it, and you listen to Price ask how you copy one more time before you push down on the PTT button.

“Copy—” You hoarsely say, before coughing, everyone on the other line going silent, “Copy, not doing very well over here.”

“What happened?” Price’s voice crackles through on the damaged ear piece, “Are you hurt?”

“I got trapped under— under some concrete, and I…” You take a moment to catch your breath, “My legs are pinned, I can’t move.”

“Okay, okay,” Price’s voice softens, his tone becoming more soothing, “Where are you?”

“In a building— dunno which— which one… it’s by the really tall one,” You breathe out, mentally slapping yourself in the forehead for not being able to remember, “I’m sorry, I just know it’s orange and it has the entrance that Ghost bumped his head on—”

“It’s okay, I know which one you’re talking about,” Price reassures you, “Catch your breath. I’ll be there to get you out of there, okay? Just stay still, don’t move a muscle, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” You mumble, trying to catch your breath, coughing at the amount of dust that infiltrates your lungs. You bring your hand off of the PTT button and sob once, quietly, and sniffle to try and stop yourself from crying, blinking away tears.

The tears that trailed down your face earlier now only make you realize just how much dust and grime is on your face, how the tear trails must’ve been the only clean lines on your face, how there’s a whole layer of pure filth on your face and you can’t even properly wipe it away because your hands are dirty too.

The pain in your legs are throbbing and you know that you’ve torn some of the muscle in your thighs, and you know the popping noise had to have been your hip, from the unnatural way you’d twisted it to reach your earpiece. You don’t even have time to think about how pathetic you look when suddenly Price opens the barely-hanging-onto-the-hinges-door, looking at the floor for a moment before his eyes finally land on you.

He immediately walks over to the slab of concrete pinning your legs down and forcing you to lie on the ground and you can hear him faintly murmur, “Oh, God,” and kneel down to the same level as the concrete.

You turn your neck to look at him and watch as he looks at the concrete for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to lift it, before he simply grabs the edge of the concrete and, with a grunt and after a good thirty seconds, he manages to lift one end up and flip it over onto its other side. The circulation that immediately floods back to your legs and the sudden feeling of weightlessness you get is almost too much, and you can barely find it in yourself to feel shame as you let out a small, relieved sob at the sudden rush of blood to your legs.

Price immediately gasps and you can’t see much from your angle but in the midst of your relief you suddenly feel a pang of pain and oh God, that hurts. You can recognize now the warm blood that accompanies the drying blood on your calf, and with the blood rushing into your legs, more spills out from the wound in your leg. Vaguely, you can remember twisted metal doing something to your leg—stabbing it, maybe? Your brain becomes fog-filled; too hazy to think through but just clear enough to register the throbbing pain in your leg.

“I’m so sorry,” Price murmurs softly, and before you can question him he takes the metal out of your leg and you let out a closed-lip scream, slapping a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the now uncontrollable sobs that break past your lips, the pain you feel making you light-headed.

Price quickly pulls a tourniquet out of one of the many pockets of his tactical best, wrapping the bright red strip around your leg just above the bleeding, blocking the blood from reaching past that point. He tightens it and rolls you over so that you’re laying on your back, making you stifle another pain-filled whimper. Without another word, he slips his arm under your knees and his other below your back and lifts you up bridal style, making you gasp sharply and cry out for a moment in pain, a few drops of blood making it onto the floor from your calf, the whole sight dizzying.

Being lifted up like this gave you vertigo—your head spun as you were lifted up and you could barely process anything with your hazy mind. Price mutters small ‘sorry’s under his breath, carrying you out of the door and quickly running with you in his arms back to where the others are, almost wanting to cry for you, seeing how much pain you were in.

Your eyelids drooped and your eyes shortly became half-lidded, and your ears started to ring, and everything was so overwhelming you just wanted it to be over.

Price notices your eyelids drooping and quickly says, “Hey, hey, don’t pass out on me, you gotta stay awake, kid.” You can only shake your head ‘no’ because talking feels like too much right now and let out another small, pain-filled whimper, just the sound of it making Price’s heart shatter.

You can only find it in yourself to talk a moment later, your words slurring together as you try to speak, “I can’t— can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, what you’re trying to warn Price about, but he seems to know.

“No, no, no—” Price tries to beg you, as if you had enough strength to stay awake. Those are the last words you hear before you completely black out.

—

You wake up to a white ceiling and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. You move your head around a bit, trying to gauge where you are, when you realize— oh, I’m in the medbay. You blink for a moment before sighing and just resting there for a moment, trying to recount the events that happened earlier. You don’t have time to go down memory lane, though, because suddenly the curtains in front of your bed are pulled back to reveal your Captain. “You’re awake,” He states, closing the curtains behind him. “How could you tell?” He snorts and sits down in a chair by your bed. You look at him questioningly, “Where’re the others?” “They’ll be here soon,” Price assures you, looking at your blanket covered legs for a moment before looking back up at your face, “Medics said one at a time.” You hum neutrally in response to that and wait a moment before asking, “How bad is it?” “Your leg?” “Yeah.” “Well…” Price starts to list off on his fingers, recalling the doctor’s words, “The joint that connected your hips and your legs was twisted and it had to be set back to normal, your muscles were torn, your ligaments were torn, your nerves were so compressed someone had to physically massage your legs back to life, and the stab wound in your leg almost got infected.” “… Huh.” You blink at Price, before asking, “When can I get out of here?” “Why is that what you’re thinking about right now?” Price asks, confused, before sighing and answering, “Kid, your leg was basically broken. You can get out of here in maybe a few weeks to a month. Getting back to your assignments is a whole different story. It could take several months for your muscles to fully heal, and even then I don’t want you back out there for a while. Not until it’s guaranteed your leg won’t… give out, or something, out there.” You frown at Price, “So what, I’m just gonna be stuck here?” “What else are you gonna do with an almost-broken leg?” “…” Price sighs and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Look, I know it’s frustrating, having to sit here for a few weeks then be able to get out only to not be able to do anything too physical, but your leg muscles were torn. You were trapped under concrete. You’re not going on any missions any time soon. I feel like that should be kind of obvious.” You can understand it, knowing the condition you’re in now, but you still deflate a little where you lie down and let out a tired, frustrated huff. Price chuckles softly at your clear display of disappointment and rubs your shoulder gently before patting it and getting up. “I guess I have to let the others see you too,” He muses, making your lips twitch up into a smile, the sight making him smile in return, “But I’ll be back tomorrow to talk to you again, alright?” “Alright,” You nod, watching as he walks past the curtains blocking your bed from the rest of the medbay and listen as the door clicks open and closes shut. Not even a few seconds later, the door opens again, this time with someone walking faster to the curtains, pushing them aside eagerly. You quickly recognize Soap as he walks in, quickly closing the curtains behind him before rushing over and leaning down to hug you. This all happens so quickly you have to take a moment to process it, but you eventually hug him back, sighing at the warm embrace. “I want tae call ye stupid sae bad,” Soap mumbles into your neck as he hugs you, “but it wasn’ even yer fault sae I can’.”

“That’s the worst thing that’s happened all day,” You mutter sarcastically, making Soap laugh quietly. He pulls away from you and looks down at you. “It is, actually,” Soap says, and at your confused and mildly offended expression, he adds on, “It’s been over a day since ye got yer leg fucked up.” “… Oh.” You dumbly said, trying to process that. Over a day. “Everyone was really worried about ye, too,” Soap tacks on, refusing to sit on the chair behind him, simply standing by your bed. You stay silent, and Soap takes that as an invitation to keep talking. “I think that's the first time I've actually seen Ghost stressed," Soap muses, making you huff out a small laugh. “Really?” “Yea,” Soap smiles, “I ken. Stone cauld L.t, suddenly worryin’ o’er ye.”

“Isn’t that a surprise,” You mutter, a small smile gracing your lips thinking about Ghost worrying over you, “So you were all really worried?” “Very worried,” Soap nods, “Gaz thocht ye were gonnae die, poor chiel.” “Hm,” You hum neutrally. Soap stays silent for a moment before his voice softens and he quiets himself down a bit. “Try no' tae dae that again, aye? Ye'll gie the captain a heart attack," When you give him a pointed look, he rolls his eyes and adds on, “And me. Possibly. Maybe.” “Uh huh,” You look at him, unimpressed, “Right. I’ll try to predict when a huge piece of concrete is gonna fall on me.” “Ye ken wha’ I meant.”

“Never said I didn’t.” “Ye— y’know wha’? I’ll just leave then,” Soap says, feigning annoyance as he walks away from your bed, making you laugh quietly. He slips out and doesn’t bother to close the curtains behind him, simply walking out the door, not bothering to close that either.

You can hear him letting someone else know you’re ‘free to visit’, and just a few seconds later you watch Ghost walk in. You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, seeing as Soap had told you Ghost was worried over you, but you still find yourself a little shocked when he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him. He sits at the chair beside your bed, and silently stares at you from the chair.

You stare back, not blinking, waiting for him to say the first word. You and Ghost’s silent staring match ends with Ghost sighing and speaking up. “How does your… leg feel?” “How do you think it feels?” You ask, deadpan, watching as Ghost’s eyes narrow. You blink at him for another moment before adding on, “It feels numb, right now.” Ghost hums at the actual answer and sits there awkwardly for another moment before stating, “Gaz thought you died. Or, were gonna die.” “I heard about that,” You respond, raising an eyebrow at Ghost, “Did he not know it was just my leg that got hurt?” “Hurt is a mild word,” Ghost mutters, before clearing his throat and saying, “No, he knew. He was more worried about all the stuff that got into your lungs.” “Oh.” “Yeah.”

You both stay silent for a bit, again, before you speak up, “So… are my lungs okay, or… ?” “No, yeah, they’re fine.” “That’s… good.” “Mhm.” Why is this so awkward? You purse your lips and turn your head back so that you’re staring at the ceiling rather than at Ghost, not knowing what to say. Why’d he even come in here if he was just gonna be awkward about this whole thing? It’s silent again, an uncomfortable sort of quiet that’s silent yet deafening at the same time—and you hate it. It seems Ghost hates it too, because he shifts in his seat, not saying anything verbally but you can tell by his body language it’s awkward for him too.

This goes on for maybe a minute or two, when suddenly Ghost gets up and walks the short one step between him and your bed and leans down to hug you. Like the silence, the hug is awkward, but unlike it, it’s comforting. A comfortable awkward? You tentatively hug him back and you feel his hands snake underneath your back, forcing his arms under you so that he can hug you properly.

“I know Soap told you I was stressed and worried and whatnot,” Ghost mutters, his skull mask pressing into your shoulder, “… And he was right.” “… Did you think I thought he was wrong?” “Shut it and let me try to talk.” “Yes, sir.” Ghost sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing, “He was right. I was growing greys watching you passed out, and I think I almost passed out as well, hearing you were trapped under a huge block of concrete and got stabbed by metal.”

“Did you ever find out what the metal was?” You ask after a moment, making sure he was done talking.

“The Captain said it was a twisted pipe.”

“Huh.” You lay there for a moment, simply enjoying Ghost hugging you, before Ghost speaks up again.

“I know it wasn’t your fault, but please, God, never do that shit to me ever again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in a collapsing building.”

“I’m serious,” Ghost pulls away from the hug and looks down at you, keeping his hands on both of your shoulders, “I had to drive a car with you in the back passed out laying in the trunk with Price, all while not knowing what happened, and having to drive you guys back to base.”

“… Damn, you guys didn’t get a helicopter, or anything?”

“[c/n].”

“Sorry.”

Ghost sighs, “I’m trying to say that I don’t like worrying over you like that. I don’t like knowing that my kid is hurt, and I can’t do anything about it. That was the first time I was seriously worried and— and stressed over you, and it was terrifying, seeing you just passed out with dirt all over you and blood all over your leg, and just seeing you like that— I can’t do that again,” Ghost takes a deep breath, and looks down at you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see what you think of his words, but all you can think is, wait, he called me his kid?

“You called me your kid,” You dumbly voice your thoughts, watching as Ghost’s expression becomes more confused, and he opens his mouth to deny that when suddenly— oh shit, he called you his kid.

“… I did,” He dumbly says back, sounding surprised by his own words, before he fully realizes what he said and simply blinks down at you, not knowing where to go from here. You both blink at each other, not knowing what to say, before he clears his throat.

“I’ll just… head out then,” He awkwardly says, slowly walking away from the bed.

You take the opportunity to say, “Alright, dad.”

He freezes and slowly turns towards you and mutters, “Don’t call me that.”

A grin splits across your face, “Oh I will. Dad.”

He points at you with a single finger, “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“I’ll call you it in front of everyone. I’ll gaslight them into thinking we’re related.”

“God, you better not.”

“I will. In fact, tomorrow, I’ll begin with the Captain. Then I’ll tell Soap, he’s the next most gullible next to Gaz, who I’ll see right after you. Gaz won’t fight with me over it, he’ll just accept it, I know he will, then, and only then, will I tell everyone else. I spread it across the base like the flu. Everyone, and I mean everyone will think that you’re my father, Ghost.”

“That is…” Ghost blinks at you, dumbfounded and mildly horrified, “... terrifying.” “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure I got that from you, dad.” “Oh my God,” Ghost groans, making you laugh at his misery. He walks out without another word, being sure to slam the door behind him, making the poor medic passing by jump at least a foot in the air. You giggle quietly in your bed, waiting for the next person to walk in. By the time you’ve contained your laughter, Gaz walks in, looking strangely sheepish as he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him that Ghost had forgotten to close. He doesn’t say anything until he’s right by your bed and bends over to give you a nice, firm, quick hug before standing up straight again and clearing his throat. “Hi,” He greets you simply. “Hi.” “How’s the uh… how’s your leg?” “You thought I died?” You ask teasingly, ignoring his question. You can’t see any blush on his face, but you’re almost certain his face heats up as he looks away from you. “Listen…” He sighs, looking back at you, “Price ran over to the whole group, with you not moving at all in his arms, and a tourniquet wrapped around your calf. I feel like it was a bit reasonable for me to think you were dead for a second.” “Right, of course,” You nod, definitely not believing that he only thought you were dead for a second, “That’s totally why I’ve had both Soap and Ghost tell me you thought I was dead. They only told me that because you thought I was dead for a second.” “I’m gonna murder them both, I swear to—” He mutters, burying his face in his hands, making you laugh quietly. He glares at you from behind his hands and adds on, “Oh, you think this is funny? You having a laugh down there, knowin’ that I thought you were dead?”

“I think this is hilarious.” “You’re insufferable and I don’t even know why I try to care about you anymore.” “You don’t try, you just do,” You roll your eyes, “Don’t act like you have to actively try and care about me.” “You’re so snarky today, my God,” Gaz scoffs, “Wait ‘til I tell Captain Price about this.” “Alright, Draco Malfoy. You do that.” “I shouldn’t have ever visited you in here,” He mutters, crossing his arms and looking away from you, feigning annoyance. You huff out a laugh at that and that makes Gaz laugh a bit, though he keeps up his dramatics, continuing to look away from you. “You still think I’m dead now, or?” “Shut it, you.” “My bad.” “I wish they amputated your leg.” “No you don’t.” “…” Gaz can’t even argue with it, simply sighing and rolling his eyes before looking back at you, ”No, I don’t.” “I knew it,” You smile at him knowingly, making his lips twitch up into a smile. You think for a moment before tacking on, “Wanna hear what Ghost said to me?” That makes Gaz perk up and immediately reply, “Oh, absolutely.” Cue you both five minutes later, Gaz gaping at you while you laugh every other word, remember the horror on Ghost's face when he realized what he called you. Gaz covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into it, gripping the rail of your bed with his other hand, keeping himself up.

“He— oh my God,” Gaz laughs, trying to keep quiet so Ghost wouldn’t hear him, knowing the latter was right outside the medbay. He takes a deep breath and another before breaking into small giggles once again, making you do the same. After maybe a few more minutes of just pure laughter, Gaz manages to catch his breath and stop laughing, and you do the same. “I should probably head out now,” He says, sounding almost disappointed by the fact, glancing over at the closed curtain a few feet away from your bed. You nod in understanding and don’t say anything in response, making Gaz look back at you and add on, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow though, yeah?” “Yeah,” You confirm, making Gaz offer you a warm smile and lean down to hug you tightly one last time before getting up and walking over to the curtains, sliding them to the side and walking out, sliding them closed behind him. You hear the click open and shut of the door, as well as Gaz’s footsteps walking outside of the medbay and eventually fading into nothing.

1K notes · View notes

revasserium · 8 months

Note

BEGGING u to write switch!xavier x fem!reader friends to lovers smut i am obsessed with this man 🙏

hunter and the hunted

xavier; 1,661 words; nsfw!!!, fem!reader, nickname usage ("bunny", "miss hunter"), piv sex, switch!xavier, pwp

summary: after the photoshoot, you decide to reward xavier for being a good bunny butler. or, in which xav calls you "bunny" during sex.

a/n: im sorry i didn't do the friends to lovers thing anon but i hope this still scratches the switch!xavier itch???? based on the bunny!butler card :)

There’s always been a startling, stirring purpose to the way he does things.

And this — you keen, head tipping back as Xavier leans down to mouth at your exposed collarbones — you think, is no different.

“Hm… that’s a pretty sound… I think I’d like to hear it again, bunny.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath hiccuping in your chest as you feel Xavier pulling back inch by excruciating inch before snapping forward, his head cocking to one side to watch you moan. His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them, his pupils blown wide as the heart of dying stars —

“X-Xa — vi — vier — please —”

You flush at the way his name breaks on your tongue, at the way the tip of his cock kisses your cervix every time he pulls back and thrusts back in, at the way he angles his hips to hit just the right spot. It’s almost cruel, the way he watches you — his light-scattered eyes searching your face for something you don’t have a name for.

“Mm…” he leans down again, trailing warm lips along the line of your shoulder blade, biting down gently when you clench down around him, making his hips stutter. It’s the only tell that he’s just as affected as you are. But the next second, he’s pulling back to tug at your legs, fingers hooking behind your knees to press them up and up and up — till they’re shoved against your sweat-slicked chest.

“Oh bunny… look at you…”

You try to turn your head, try to look anywhere but at the hunger that marrs his face as his eyes flicker down to where he’s fucking into you, straight and steady, to where you can feel your own wetness slicking down the backs of your legs till it collects on the freshly laundered sheets below. Faintly, you wonder if there’s another set of sheets you can use for the night because this set is surely already ruined.

You can feel the thickness of him as he fills you, the weight of him dragging against your inner walls, the incriminating schick of wet skin against skin.

“I — I can’t —”

There’s a recklessness to the way he ruts down into you, a building, wind-wild abandon to the pace his hips keep, snapping quicker and quicker against yours, his thrusts going shallow as he lets out a soft breath, pushing your knees together with a tight groan.

“T-tell me, Miss Hunter…” he says, a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead to the tip of his nose as he rucks down into you, making white-hot stars explode behind your eyelids, the heat in your abdomen twisting tight, and then tighter — “didn’t you promise — you were going to show me something — special?”

You feel his thumb draw down between your bodies, tracing along the lips of your bruised labia before circling your clit once, twice. You gasp as you feel your climax cresting through you with almost no warning, and it’s all you can do to clutch at his arm, nails digging into his skin as you come.

“X-Xavier — c-com-ing —!”

“Nngh — that’s right… that’s… a good bunny…”

His hips stall as he watches you come undone around him, the way your whole body goes rigid, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat, the sweet pink indents of his teeth blossoming along your shoulders as you fall back, gasping for breath. He leans down, breathless, brushing his lips by your cheek.

“Good bunny…” he repeats, shushing you as you whimper, “there you go…”

Your vision tunnels, the heat washing over you now in waves as your body twitches through the aftermath of your release, even as Xavier pulls back and fucks forward with a soft groan, as if to chase his own high. Finally, finally.

Your eyelids flutter shut and you recall the events of just half an hour before, when you’d been the one on top, with him begging beneath you —

“A-ah… a-are you — what are you —” his voice is sharp, but you’re relentless as you tug at the waistband of his black slacks, sliding them off his thin hips, ghosting your lips over the dips there just to hear his breath hitch.

“Don’t worry, this is a reward, bunny!” you glance up at him, grinning at the pair of soft white bunny ears clipped into his hair, now a little lopsided as he blinks down at you, his hands dutifully bound in his lap with his black silk tie.

“Re-reward? I — ah —” he hisses as you ghost your lips over the obvious bulge in his boxers, grinning to yourself as you inch your fingers up his thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there.

“Yep! For being such a good ‘bunny’ today at the photo booth!”

“That was — j-just for —” he swallows, head tipping back as you mouth at the waistband of his boxers, glancing up, feeling heat pulse between your legs at the sight of his flushed cheeks and wet, parted lips.

“Just for…?” you tease, even as you slowly peel off his boxers, your mouth watering at the sight of his cock, the tip straining pink, dripping with precum. You can’t help the way your throat tenses as you wrap your fingers around the base and give it an experimental pump.

The strangled sound Xavier makes ripples over your bare skin like warm water.

“Weren’t you the one that asked me… if I’d like to unwrap my present earlier today? Well…” a quick kiss to the head of his cock is the only warning he gets before you lean down and lick a thick strip up, tracing the pulsing vein along the bottom of his shaft with your tongue, from base to tip and back down again.

“Mm — ah —” you hear the sound of his head thumping back against the headboard just as his hips kick up. You hum, pressing them back down with a firm hand.

“Naughty bunnies won’t get to cum,” you reprimand, to which he lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a grunt, peering open one helpless eye, his fluffy white bunny ears now knocked painfully askew. You flash him a cheeky smile, the sight of him lying there, splayed out beneath you, his clothes tugged haphazardly open, wrists bound and cock straining, sends a rush of adrenalin through you, heady enough to make the room spin.

“N-not even if I say ‘please’?”

And really, there shouldn’t be any reason for him to sound so ruined already, not when you’ve only just started, but you bite your lips and swallow down a moan at his words. Your knees press as you run an idle finger along his twitching cock.

“Maybe… if you ask **really, really nicely…”

You don’t give him a chance to start begging properly before you lower your lips again, running your tongue along the underside of his rim as he gasps.

“O-Oh!”

You moan, loud and deliberate, relishing in the way he shivers at the way your voice thrums through his skin, and when you lower your head and feel him hit the back of your throat, Xavier keens — helpless and high and you think you feel his fingers in your hair as he fights between the urge to press you down and pull you back up. He settles for simply resting his hand there as you hollow out your cheeks and suck him down in earnest. A trail of broken little moans and gasps trickle from him as you work your mouth around him, pressing the flat of your tongue against him just to feel him jerk beneath you.

“If you’re good… I’ll show you something extra special,” you say after a few minutes, pulling off him with a loud pop and making a show of licking your lips.

“You… you really are ruthless…” he sounds breathless, but there’s a teasing note to the underbelly of his voice that sends tingles thrumming through your body. You can’t help the excitement that gathers in your gut at the thought of just what that tease might bring.

You drop a sweet kiss onto his hipbone before pulling yourself up the length of his body, rolling your hips down, groaning at the friction, your breath catching at the way his cock teases against your already-drenched pussy.

“Please…” Xavier’s teeth digs into his bottom lip, and you reach back to guide his aching cock toward your center, sinking down slow, relishing in the sting and the stretch.

It doesn’t take long after that — not with you sitting astride him, riding him with your palms planted on his chest. Not with the way your tits bounce and the way your thighs smack down over his hips with your every move.

It doesn’t take long, but far from being embarrassed, Xavier only hisses, before blinking a few times, almost sleepy as you ride him through his release. Then, he wiggles his wrists free from their constraints and plants his palms on either side of your hips, flipping you over with a single, fluid movement.

“Mm… that really was something…” he hikes your legs up over his shoulders and rolls his hips almost thoughtfully down against yours. You’re helpless to do anything but gasp as he brushes against a spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

“I learned a lot,” he says, grinning as he plucks the bunny ears from his ruffled hair and presses them gently into yours, “so… what do you say, bunny?”

You whimper as he drops a hand to thumb lightly at your clit, “Xavier — wait, what —”

“C’mon Miss Hunter… let me show you… what a good student I can be.”

lads reqs are: open

560 notes · View notes

voulezloux · 8 days

Text

There are many things Harry would rather be doing than this. He’d rather be in a room of all his exes and be told how shit he was to each and every one of them in excruciating detail. He'd rather be forced to listen to Kidz Bop on repeat until he curses the day he ever met Mitch Rowland as he descends into hell while kids sing Late Night Talking in the background. Hell, Harry would even rather get every single of his teeth pulled, without any numbing or anesthesia, to get horrible veneers in their place, the kind that you can tell with one glance that they’re fake. Getting makeup done for a tell-all interview with his ex-bandmate and ex… whatever isn’t something he was gunning to do when he woke up that Wednesday morning.

things could be worse. harry doesn’t know what could be worse than being forced to do a tell-all interview with his ex friends with benefits that he still harbors feelings for, the only person he could ever see a future with, the person who truly hates him so much, he can’t help but hate him right back. but surely, worse things have happened at sea, right?

make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face (24.6k)

written as a part of the the @bottomlouisficfest

150 notes · View notes

leviathans-watching · 1 year

Text

lucifer, mammon, diavolo apologizing after a fight

includes: lucifer, mammon, diavolo x gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: 1.2k | rated t | m.list

a/n: i guess i was in the mood for some mild hurt/comfort and fluff lol. thanks for reading and my inbox is open for reqs, feedback, and just to talk so come talk with me!

please reblog <3

lucifer shuts the door behind him quietly, listening intently. the house is silent, but he knows you’re still awake. trying to shake himself free of his nerves, he checks over the bouquet of flowers, making sure they’re in top shape, then straightens his tie.

making his way through the house, he checks each room for you, each as dark and empty as the last. until he gets to your shared room, where the door is shut. he listens at the door, and can faintly hear music and running water. you’re likely in the bath.

pushing the door open, lucifer sees then ensuite bathroom’s door cracked and can now distinguish faint splashing. you’re definitely in there. calling out your name so he won’t startle you, lucifer waits until you allow him to enter.

“what?” you ask irritably, not meeting his eyes, and his heart skinks. he feels terrible for the earlier argument especially since it’s clear you’re still upset.

“darling, i wanted to apologize for earlier,” he says, dropping to his knees outside of the bath. you pop some bubbles, resolutley ignoring him, so he goes on. “i was being stubborn and knew even in the moment you were correct. there are no excuses for my earlier words and actions and i am truly sorry.” he offers you the flowers. “will you forgive me?”

you finally look up at him, and his gut tightens. how could he have been so cruel to you?

you take the flowers, smelling them for a long, painful moment. then you give them back and he feels like he’s been punched. until you speak.

“thank you for the apology. and for the flowers. of course i forgive you. but,” you warn, “you must never, and i mean never, lucifer, speak to me that way. do you understand?”

“yes, darling, anything,” he promises, overpowering relief crashing through him. you lift a wet hand up and pull him to you by the tie, bringing his face to yours.

“good. and i’m glad you realized i was right.” you give him a peck, lips there and gone before he can act. “now, to fully make it up to me, will you wash my hair?”

“you don’t even have to ask,” lucifer replies, already rolling up his sleeves. as he helps you wash, a finally peaceful silence falling between you, he thinks of how lucky he is to have you, something he’s aware of each and every day.

mammon jumps up when he hears the door open, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants. you’d gone for a walk after the earlier fight and every moment without you was excruciation, especially after he’d finally admitted to himself he was in the wrong.

“hey,” he breathes as you remove your coat. you give him a look, and he knows he’s got to do better. “i’m sorry, mc,” he amends, feeling like he’s speaking too loud for the distance between you. “i seriously fucked up and i’m so, so sorry. i was angry but that was no excuse to treat you like that or speak to you that way. i’m really sorry.”

“thank you,” you finally say, breathing out a sigh. “and i’m sorry too. i overreacted.”

“no!” he says quickly. “you were only reacting to my aggression. it was my fault. and you were right. i understand if you want more space from me.”

“to be honest,” you begin. “that’s the last thing i want right now. come here and give me a hug.”

mammon moves faster than he should, almost tripping over the coffee table, and wraps you in his arms tightly. it’s only now that he realizes he’s practically trembling–man, he must have been really nervous. you hug him back, just as tight, and his eyes are only bringing because he’s got some dust in them, okay? absolutely no other reason.

after a long, long moment, you pull back from him, giving him a watery smile. “i love you,” you say, and he presses his forehead to yours, feeling your warmth.

“i love you too. i’m sorry.”

“you already said that,” you tease, and he smiles sadly.

“’m still sorry. and, to be honest, don’t want to cook. so whaddya say we go out for ramen tonight?”

“only if i get to pick where,” you say. “and if you pay.”

“well i thought that was obvious,” he huffs. your stomach growls then, and he grabs your coat, motioning for you to let him help you put it on. he grabs your hand when it’s all buttoned, wrapping his fingers around your tightly. he made the mistake of letting you go earlier and he’s not going to do anything like that now.

diavolo frets, looking over everything once again. he truly has no idea how to apologize, and though asking barbatos had crossed his mind he knew he couldn’t ask another man to help him with this. not when it concerns you.

as son of the demon kind, diavolo’s never really been wrong before. demons just kind of…listened to him, and in cases where he was really off the path barbatos and lucifer would often guide him without explicitly crossing his orders, something he knows they think he hasn’t noticed. but navigating life with you is nothing like ruling over the devildom, and in many ways, diavolo finds it much, much harder.

but he’s going to admit he was wrong and apologize! if there’s one thing he can remember from when he was very, very young, it was watching his father, the king, apologize to the queen, much as he’s doing now. the only difference is that he hasn’t officially made you ruler alongside him but that can be thought about later.

he checks his ddd for the time, and exhales nervously. he’d asked you to meet him at the spot of your first date and it was nearing the time that he’d written, and you never were one to be late. as if he imagined you, you appear, hesitant and nervous. but you’d come, and that’s enough for him.

“diavolo? what is all of this?” you look over the picnic, from the expensive chocolates to the wrapped gift and then back to him.

“i wanted to say i was sorry,” he says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “when we argued, i wasn’t fair to you, nor did i listen. and then i reacted poorly and in a way that’s never okay. and i truly apologize.”

“you did all this to apologize?” you ask, and he nods.

“was it too much? i don’t really know what i’m doing but i know i want to make it up to you. can you forgive me?”

“of course,” you reply, and he feels like he can finally breathe. “and while this is nice, it is a little much. i really only wanted to hear you say you were sorry.”

“i’m sorry.”

“i know. thank you for saying that. and for doing all of this. and i’m sorry too,” you continue, holding up a hand before he can say you have nothing to apologize for. “i should have talked to you instead of just running away. now, let’s enjoy this wonderful picnic you’ve prepared.”

“i love you,” he says. “so much.”

“i love you,” is your simple reply, but for him, it’s more than enough.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

2K notes · View notes

johannestevans · 1 year

Text

I came out as trans at about fifteen or sixteen, changed my name, and I’ve lived as a man since. As a young man doing my A-Levels, going to university, and working afterwards, I was out as a man, using he/him pronouns, using my actual name —

Two pictures of me, one at age 16, the other at age 19.

To people who had no idea what a trans man looked like, it was pretty easy to give people a funny look and say, “I’m a man,” in a tone that made them suddenly flustered and nervous, because cis people feel extremely guilty about misgendering another cisgender person in a way they don’t when they know you’re trans.

I was thin, had a lower-toned but still not masculine voice, didn’t have much of a chest — I got gendered correctly automatically maybe 30 or 40% of the time, and maybe up to 50% if I employed shame in the right way, implied I was cis with a hormonal imbalance, or if people assumed I was still a teenage boy rather than an adult.

To people who did know what a trans man looked like but weren’t trans themselves, talking to them was fucking excruciating.

I remember once when I was selling house alarms and some hideous cis girl asked, “Are you transgender?” and I immediately told her, “Nope,” as she kept questioning the point. Another time, I was in the back of a taxi when a man asked if I was trans, although thankfully when I told him, “Nope, just low testosterone,” he seemed to immediately believe me and back the fuck off.

It’s one of the reasons I feel conflicted about trans visibility — it’s great for other trans people to see a variety of trans representation, but cis people knowing what trans people are is a double-edged sword, because cis people are entitled, invasive, and often just straight-up weird about gender, most of all when they think they’re being allies.

When I started working at a hotel, my immediate boss was a very abusive woman — she was petty, vindictive, and because she had poor organisational skills and frequently got flustered by her own workload, she would take this out on any staff around her, whether that was her juniors, other management, or sometimes guests.

Her being abusive in the workplace wasn’t that unusual. Now and then the managers would misgender me, and I’d correct them, and they’d brush it off as they apologised, that sort of thing.

Because this manager identified as an ally, she flipped her fucking lid.

She went off on a tirade for some ten minutes about what a great ally she is, and how much she knows about and cares about trans people, and how a lot of people wouldn’t hire a trans person, and she volunteers with local queer groups (she was at the time a mediocre DJ, and frequently DJed at a local gay club), and all this bluster.

Over one (apparently needed) correction.

All she needed to do was not misgender me — a quick “sorry” might have been nice. A ten-minute rant about how she was a saint for hiring me?

Not really necessary.

Cisgender people hate trans people — and I know some cis people reading this are immediately raising their hackles and about to go “well not ALL cis people — “ because they’re allies, and it’s important that I know that they’re a good one, actually, and they’re a real ally.

But the reason that cis people have a knee-jerk negative reaction to trans people, intersex people, and any person that they have decided is gender non-conforming, the reason they respond so punishingly to our existence or to mild misbehaviours on our parts — such as demanding respect or correcting their mistakes — is because our very existence is an interruption to their worldview, the ideologies and biases by which they live.

They should know what a man is just by looking at one, and if they get it wrong, that’s embarrassing for them — because to cisgender people the binary male-female divide is crucial to the way they respect or disrespect others, people that interrupt their thinking on it can trigger a lot of rage and upset. A trans person represents a frightening challenge — what if they accidentally treated a man with the casual disrespect that is rightfully allotted women? What if they sexually objectified a man thinking he was a woman, and it made them gay for a moment?

If they think you’re cisgender and heterosexual enough, any of these things are their fault, and they feel very bad about them.

But if you’re trans?

Well, it’s your fault for existing that way, right? You’re the one doing genders wrong — they’re not the one that made the error!

There’s a particular rage reserved for trans men, lesbians, and any other trans or GNC person that’s perceived as being “biologically female” — because society feels the greatest gender-based entitlement over these people’s bodies, in large part due to institutional misogyny, we’re perceived as gender traitors.

Cis men hate us because we’ve ruined what they perceived as a resource for them — a source of sexual gratification and aesthetic pleasure, a breeding vessel for birthing babies, not to mention a mother with all the domestic labour that comes with; cis women hate us because they perceive us as gaining all the privileges of being male, of gaming the system, and at the same time breaking what they sometimes feel is a sort of sacred trust of femininity.

In order to cope with institutional misogyny, some cis women effectively craft a further gender-based bioessentialism — if you have a uterus and are perceived as a woman by society, you’re not just physically capable of birthing a child. You must also innately have the traits of an ideal mother — you must be nurturing and lovely, you must be caring, you must have the correct emotions, you must be submissive in the right way. But also, a woman like this must be cleverer than a man, and if she effectively parents or cares for the men in her life, she just does that because she is so smart, and men are so stupid.

Again, trans people represent an interruption to that mode of thinking. If trans people are real, and we’re the genders we say we are, all of that ideology is nonsense.

If I, a trans man, can just “choose” to be a man, doesn’t that mean that every woman that experiences misogyny is just “choosing” misogynistic abuse?

The fact that as a trans man, I experience abuses that are linked to misogyny is irrelevant — that I’m at a higher risk of sexual abuse, that medical professionals dismiss my symptoms as soon as some of them realise I’m “really” a woman and cease my treatment or cease treating me with the respect due a man; that people dismiss me and dehumanise me, either because they think I’m transgender, and therefore a lesser being, or an ugly and not sexually available woman, and therefore a lesser being.

If I’m a trans man, I must experience male privilege — why else would I choose to be trans?

And if I don’t experience male privilege in every situation, because people don’t always consider me male or legitimately male, or if male privilege in any given situation I experience is actually complicated by other factors, such as race, disability, sexuality, and so on, then I must be lying.

Passing privilege isn’t the same as male privilege — passing privilege generally refers to the privileges a transgender person experiences because they reliably pass as cisgender.

I don’t think that it’s universal — “passing privilege” assumes that everyone passes in all situations, and while I would say that I pass very reliably in a lot of mine now that I’m several years on T and my second puberty has been very good to me, this doesn’t apply everywhere.

When I’m in the hospital, for example, or otherwise seeing a doctor, I get treated with even more hostility — partially because most cis doctors practice misogyny-based medicine and are more likely to dismiss women’s symptoms or generally give them worse medical care, especially male doctors treating women. In my experience, cis female doctors are more likely to punish me for being transgender than a cis male one is.

I’ve noticed multiple times going to see a doctor, being treated as a man with all my pain or symptoms being treated as a concern, and then abruptly there’s a sudden withdrawal of care and concern when the doctor either realises I’m transgender and/or realises I’m “really” a woman.

But the thing is?

I’m pretty sure that the reason I suddenly receive such aggressive negative response is because I pass so well. When cis people realise that I’m trans, they feel even angrier and more personally betrayed, because I’ve so thoroughly “tricked” them by being a man without their permission.

Me at 24, about a year on testosterone; me at 25, about two years on testosterone. Same blouse, same vest.

But in general, day-to-day life — yeah, I’m perceived as a cis man.

Notably, a cis gay man.

Regularly, other trans guys and some butches tell me that as they began to present in ways perceived as more masculine, they noticed that women in public responded to them differently.

If they were out at night and a woman was walking alone nearby, she might cross the street to be a bit further away from them; she might choose to sit elsewhere rather than be near them on a bench; a woman alone might not want to share a lift with them.

I thought this was interesting the first few times I heard it — I hear it all the time, and it still strikes me as curious, because I don’t experience the same thing at all.

I’ve never had a woman walk away from me, or be careful not to be alone with me. Frequently, women strike up conversation with me in public, they chat to me on buses the way they might with other women — a little while ago I was waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up from the airport, and a young girl of 19 or so actually came up to me to ask if she could hotspot off my phone for a second and to ask me for directions.

It’s not that women alone shouldn’t strike up conversation with men, or shouldn’t be alone with them — but just to avoid any potential discomfort or risk of being harassed, many of them understandably avoid it.

But a lot of women see me in the street or in public places, and when they perform their internal risk assessment, I don’t prompt a red flag.

Part of it is that I’m skinny and white, sure — I’m not very physically intimidating in terms of my size, and I’m not racialised in the way many Black and dark-skinned men and boys are. Sometimes, I’m using a mobility aid like a cane, and that makes a difference, too.

But as a rule, I’m pretty. I wear make-up — I often wear face stickers and have visible “tattoos”. I’m fussy about my hair, and it shows. I dress in bright prints and florals, I wear silks and satins, I wear waistcoats and high-waisted jeans, I wear block heels.

When I walk, I sashay my hips. I hold my hands in a delicate way — I gesticulate freely, and I move my fingers when I do so in an effete way. If they hear me talk, people often guess from my accent that I’m English rather than Welsh, and that I’m more educated than I am, not to mention significantly posher.

The average cishet stranger in the street absolutely sees me as a man — and they exclusively see me as a gay one. No one ever mistakes me for a straight one, and that absolutely affects the way I’m treated.

I couldn’t possibly pose a threat of sexual harassment in many women’s eyes, because I’m obviously gay, and many cis straight women feel very comfortable with — if not entitled to — gay men’s companionship, especially white gays with effete mannerisms.

When talking about gender-based privileges for trans men and mascs, we don’t tend to consider any impact that perceptions of our sexuality can have, but because of the way gay men are sorted into a different subclass of cis masculinity than straight men, there’s a noticeable impact.

Straight people sometimes roll their eyes or look amused when they think I’m being particularly dramatic or gay; occasionally straight men wolf-whistle at me or make comments about how gay I look; people strike up conversations with me about RuPaul’s Drag Race, start chattering to me about drag, because they just assume that’s the sort of thing I would be into. I get looks sometimes on the bus if I’m chatting with friends or on the phone, or sometimes if I’m just there in front of them and I look very gay.

Most of this isn’t incredibly malicious — is it homophobic? Sure, sometimes. A lot of it is just straight people trying to understand what they think is gay culture the best way they know how.

Parents with kids actually make me the most nervous — not because there’s any danger posed by the kids themselves most of the time, but because parents can be the most vicious when it comes to homophobia. They’ll accuse gay men of being paedophiles just for existing in public and seeming a bit fruity, or they’ll get nervous about how gay someone looks in case their kids ask questions about it.

And kids do find how I look interesting — all the time, I’ll be out in public, and a kid will notice that my nails are painted or that I’m wearing high heels or that they see tattoos on my face, and they’ll ask their parents about it.

It’s anxiety-inducing for any parent when their child starts acting about a stranger’s appearance where the stranger can hear them, because they get worried about the potential impoliteness — when that stranger is a faggot, some of them get angry at me, because once again, even without their knowing I’m transgender, I’m interrupting their worldview of what the correct gendered behaviours are, forcing them to think about it, forcing them to explain aberrations to their kids.

A “normal”, “real” man is straight, after all, and does straight men’s things, like dress badly and sexually harass women and get ugly haircuts. It’s confusing, if I’m out on the streets looking fuckable.

The last time I was travelling, I was sitting in a restaurant in the airport, and some boys at the next table were staring at me.

“Dad, why is that man wearing makeup?”

“I don’t know, some men wear it.”

“How come?”

“…”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that wherever a faggot goes, little boys will be asking their mildly homophobic but well-meaning and liberal parents questions about that man’s physical appearance.

A classic response, and one that I overhear often, was this man’s retort: “Why don’t you go and ask him?”

Sometimes teenagers and kids laugh at how I dress, especially if they’re in groups together — and especially, too, if there’s a bunch of us visible queers together.

One thing I’ve noticed about wearing crop-tops is that some people get het-up about how hairy I am and the hair visible on my belly, or under my arms if I’m wearing a vest — because some straight people see a white twink and want to reclassify him as being part of the woman subcategory instead of the man subcategory (based on his assumed sexual availability to men), they then apply women’s rules of physical appearance to him.

After all, if I’m wearing makeup and high heels and high-waisted jeans and a crop-top, that’s like how a woman dresses — and if I’m going to dress like a woman even though I’m obviously a man, I should be held to the standards a woman would be too. I should be hairless and odourless, like a sexy child, because “sexy child” is the ideal for an attractive woman, right?

Some cishet women also hate how I dress and instead of laughing or grumbling about it in the way that cishet men do, they wrinkle their noses and get really quite scornful about it.

Some of those women’s husbands are secretly on Grindr (I know because I have sex with them), and I believe this is the closest they get to facing their suspicions as to their husbands’ bisexuality.

A photo of me from earlier this month, age 26.

I started taking testosterone some months before the pandemic started, but experienced the bulk of my second puberty’s physical effects over the course of the following years.

Subsequently, when I went to a queer event being run after about two years on testosterone, many people there hadn’t seen me out in some time. I got a lot of looks and a lot of interest, especially from other queer men, in a way I never had before — I always got a lot of engagement and looks, but many cis gay men would take a little while to warm up to the idea of me as a man if they knew or suspected I was trans.

Maybe it’s just because I’m hotter, though, right? I’m hardly the only person to go through a glow-up on HRT, and I certainly feel more attractive.

Except that several of the older men looking at me were men I’d known casually for years — and a bunch of them came up and introduced themselves. Said hi, what’s your name, I’m x, it’s nice to meet you, are you new to the city?

Because up ’til then, they really hadn’t much looked at me in much detail. Many of these men had heard me give talks, had talked to me in queer bars, had met me at one event or another, and I just hadn’t stuck in their minds — they certainly hadn’t come up and spoken to me before, let alone with such enthusiasm.

And I do want to say, like —

None of these men would call themselves anti-trans — they’d try to use the right pronouns, they’d say that there should be trans events on, and so on. But there’s still going to be unconscious biases there — whether up ’til now they saw me as a woman (and therefore just looked past me) or saw me as trans (and therefore just looked past me), suddenly I was a fully realised human being. Maybe I was attractive and fuckable to some of them — but crucially, I was also another gay man, and therefore real and worth talking to.

And I will say that this isn’t all older gay men in my community or even like, a massive majority of them — but it was enough older gay men to be noticeable.

Even entering into new gay spaces, queer men tend to be friendlier to me than they used to, more outgoing in conversation, chattier, etc.

That’s obviously not necessarily because I’m trans — like I said, I’m also hotter than I used to be, I’m older, more educated, I dress better and more confidently, etc. There’s other factors at play, and I’m not comparing friendliness to cruelty or coldness — I’m comparing it to polite apathy, which was often mild enough that I wasn’t hugely affected by it pre-T.

Some men do treat me a little coldly, but from what I can tell it’s not usually because they suspect or know I’m trans — a lot of the time it’s actually because I’m so faggy and effeminate, or they just don’t trust that I’m gonna be cool because I’m so young.

Mixed queer spaces can be another story.

Other queer people my age have often found me intimidating — I’m a pretty outspoken person, my politics are more aggressive leftwing than many people’s, and as a autistic, I speak plainly and directly in a way that a lot of people don’t care for, or can find scary and overwhelming.

Now, though?

The response to my perceived aggression is a lot more dramatic and avoidant — because now they assume I’m a cisgender man.

People often interpret me as angry or aggressive when I’m not — I can sometimes be somewhat flat in my affect, I can be a very blunt communicator, I don’t tend to beat around the bush when it comes to my opinions. All of these are pretty standard as an autistic guy, and a lot of other people have experienced the same thing I have — the interpretation of those personality traits as aggressive or argumentative.

But it’s been interesting experiencing the negative response ramp up so much as soon as I’m perceived as “really” male, even by other transmascs, queer people, and trans men.

It can be strange at times navigating broader trans spaces as someone who doesn’t look trans in the way even other trans people expect you to, where they just assume that you’re cisgender, or that as someone who already passes and has therefore “finished” your journey as a trans person, there’s less reason for you to be in community with other trans people.

Especially when it comes to trauma like…

There is an assumption by many young queer people that cis gay people are just fine now, that homophobia doesn’t impact them in the traumatic way it did older generations, or that homophobia is no longer an active impact on people’s lives — I obviously am transgender, but to be brushed off with the assumption I haven’t experienced the same extent of bigotry or negative experience because I appear cisgender always strikes me as fucked up when of course a lot of cis men have had similar life experiences to me, or worse.

I will say that again, the negative responses are from a minority, just big enough to be noticeable, and the more people talk to me, the more they relax a little about the whole thing.

It’s still funny though, like —

I met some trans friends of a partner recently, and I came downstairs without a shirt on because I was hurriedly multitasking, and watched her do a double take at my chest.

I laughed and was like, “Did you not realise I was trans?”

And she went, “No!” and we had a giggle about it.

Most of the time meeting other queer people across the board, I’m extended care and compassion and love — it’s just weird, I think, being so aware of the gendered differences in how people speak with and apparently perceive me, and how things have and do change, especially because people assume transmasculinity means a one-way journey to Male Privilege, and all the benefits it can come with.

As with any and everything else, these matters come with nuance and layers, and nothing is as simple as A to B with no complications.

#musings #transgender #trans rights #trans man #trans mlm

2K notes · View notes