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sprout-fics · 24 days

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And On the Wind, It Howls

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Seven of Snowblind

Rating: Explicit MDNI 18+ Wordcount: 7.3k Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, There's Only One Bed, Awkward Sexual Situations, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Female Masturbation, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Fluff Warnings: N/A

It’s a soft, overcast Wednesday when you and Ghost set out to Scotland.

You watch the sprawling landscape from the window of the passenger seat, captivated with a small bit of childlike wonder as the car navigates the aging, cracked roads of the Scottish countryside. A dove gray sky- brumous but not yet threatening rain, arches over the tall, rugged peaks of the hills that flank you on either side. Even in the damp cold of early spring the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish highlands breathes magic bleeding into your veins.

There’s a rawness, a brutality to the Cairngorms that aches heavy in your heart. You feel it in the way water trickles down from the hilltops in small springs, carving its way through dark stone and allowing infant growth to spring forth in green fronds that unfurl like a wistful sigh. Despite the jutting rocks atop the hills, the intimidating slope of the mountains that give rise to the highlands above, the landscape around you breathes with the barest whispers of fresh life. Beautiful, unrestrained, beckoning you to hike higher into the hills.

You take it all in, daring to lift your face to the crack of the window that allows a sliver of wind to slip through. It fills the emptiness inside you, allows you to fill your lungs with air that seems scarce inside the silence of the car.

Beside you, Ghost does not speak as he drives.

You cast a sidelong glance at him. It’s unclear if he ignores your stare or simply doesn’t see it, eyes trained on the road that curves higher into the hills. There’s a murmur of tension in his shoulders under his jacket, the hood drawn up despite the balaclava that covers all but his eyes. Without the smear of paint and the hard plastic skull you can see the pale skin underneath, the awkward curve of his nose that speaks of a bone broken one too many times. If you look closely enough you can see the silvery pink of a jagged scar that runs from the bridge of his nose to his right eyebrow, the traces of burn scars, and the smattering of soft freckles under his eyes.

Even in the daytime, the vision of his moonlit face haunts your dreams.

It’s not entirely a coincidence the two of you are together, but it certainly is unexpected. When Price had brought up the topic of leave following the team’s most recent deployment, you’d felt the men around you silently take a breath of relief. It felt like ever since you’d gotten back to the team you’d barely had more than eight hours of rest before being sent out again. You’d barely gotten six hours of sleep after getting back from your disastrous helicopter mission before Price had the five of you boarding a chopper to go hunt down an arms supplier south of Georgia.

The next week and a half was spent existing on MREs and substandard rations while you camped out in spider infested safehouses, counted your limited ammo supply and spared precious radio hours to inquire about supply drops. You’d found your target, eventually, and thankfully he’d croaked not too long into the makeshift interrogation. It had only taken Ghost two of the man’s separated fingers before he’d finally given you the lead on your target.

Eighteen hours later you’d returned to base with the same AQ captain that had slipped through your fingers on the night your helicopter had crashed. Even then, the weeks that followed were spent skimming actionable intel for something worth the fruit of your labors. Back to back missions meant you were catching what little sleep you could in transit, often nodding off on one of your comrade’s shoulders despite yourself.

When Price had announced leave for all of you (without failing to firmly state “None of you are allowed off base until I get your after-action reports, you complete your physical exams and read the dossier of our next objective. Phones on at all times when off base. Be prepared to be back sooner than you think.”) You’d been looking forward to a strong cup of tea and a book as you curled up in the corner of whatever airbnb you’d managed to secure for a few days off base.

Gaz and Soap had different ideas.

As soon as you had mentioned staying in the UK for your break, the two sergeants jumped at the chance to drag you along on a complete tour of London and Glasgow respectively- taking turns hosting you and ensuring you had seen the true side of each city (minus the tourist traps). The idea charmed you, admittedly, but when you’d asked Price and Ghost if they’d be interested in tagging along, Price had levied the three of you a tired, bemused sort of smile and declared he had alternative arrangements.

Ghost, on the other hand…

“I’ll be up north, hunting.” He declared flatly despite the slight tilt of his head, the small glimmer of interest in his eyes. “If you get sick of these two tossers, come find me.”

You were certain he was joking of course. In the days that had followed the reveal of his face to you, the breathless, almost tender exchange that had occurred at the safehouse, you’d managed to go back to convincing yourself Ghost was nothing more than a teammate, perhaps a friend.

It didn’t stop you, however, from eyeing him from afar. It’s hard not to notice Ghost despite his moniker. The sheer breadth of him is hard to miss. He towers in door frames as you sweep houses, takes up space in the back of the confiscated truck rolling through the countryside, exists purely as a sweeping obsidian shadow just in your periphery- there and gone again in pursuit of the target.

Off the field he’s imposing, an undeniable presence in any room. You’ve gotten used to sensing him through footsteps alone, by the way his massive weight shifts behind you. You’ve caught sight of him at the gym more than once- sleeves pushed up to reveal the swirl of dark ink tracing up his left forearm as his biceps bulge under the weights. You feel his eyes linger on you in turn- burning coal dark into your spine. Watching. Waiting.

They haunt you at night, in the darkness of your room. You try not to, but sometimes you find yourself imagining what it would feel like to have those eyes bore down into you from above, the warm exhale of his breath fanning through the mask and onto your face. You think about his scarred hands, the knuckles uneven from the number of times he’s broken them. In your mind the calloused palm of him slips down over the meat of your thigh, hauls your leg open and his voice murmurs darkly into your ear:

“Fix.”

In the morning, you awake sweaty, heart racing, the whisper of a dream clinging wet between your thighs.

So, despite yourself, despite the knowledge it was a poor decision, you’d gone to him.

Now, six hours into your drive, the silence in the car sits as a low pit of regret in your stomach. Whatever meager conversation the two of you had managed died off long ago, and now instead you turned your face to the open countryside where the barest slivers of sunlight slice through the clouds above.

Four days, Ghost had said. Four days tucked up in a hunting cabin at the edge of some Jacobian estate atop rolling hills and rocky crags where red elk and roe deer roam at the tail end of spring. Four days alone, away from civilization with nothing but the howling wind and the superior that you long to touch to keep you company against the vast wilderness between you.

In hindsight, you’re beginning to think maybe that grand tour wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

Ghost guides the car off the A9 just as a passing rain shower splatters against the windshield. It feels as if you’re driving to the ends of the earth, not a car in any direction as you slowly pick your way up the road and higher into the hills. You eye Ghost from the corner of your eye, watching him fixed on the road ahead and gently avoiding potholes along the way. He catches your glance at him, and you feel warmth rise to your face as you quickly look away, even as the silence lingers.

“Soap is going to be pissed we didn’t invite hi up here.” You offer mildly, and Ghost grunts.

“Too loud. He’d scare the deer off with all that barking.”

You snort.

“What, you’ve never hunted with hounds before, Ghost?”

“Mm.”

That seems to be all the response you’ll get, and you turn again back to the window, watching a soft sheet of rain pass you by.

“I used to go out hunting with dogs.” You say softly, not even entirely sure if he’s listening. “In the summer as a kid. We...my parents had a caretaker who had two bluetick coon hounds. The kind that you use to tree raccoons and black bears.”

Ghost is quiet, but when you glance at him the fission of tension in his shoulders seems to have loosened. It’s an odd gesture, miniscule except to your studious eyes that track every flinch, every movement, the tiniest indication of displeasure or contentment.

“If I ever went out into the woods, those two dogs would always come with me. Especially on hunting trips.” You go on, smiling. “If you think Johnny is loud, you should have heard those two howl.”

Ghost taps his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment. You try not to think about how much larger they are than yours. “Didn’t realize you could hunt that close to Washington.”

“West Virginia.” You correct him, averting your eyes once more. “At least in the summers. Up in the Appalachians.” You look out the window, to the rolling, ancient hills where mist hangs like a reverent sigh. “Same mountain range, you know. Just millions of years and thousands of miles apart.”

“Going t’tell me you’re Scottish?” Ghost intones dryly, keeping his gaze ahead, and you grin.

“Haud yer wheesht.”

“English.” Ghost replies, but there’s no real bite to the warning, and it only makes you giggle. Except it’s muffled by the sudden sound of a low, concerning rumble from the engine followed by an irritated clicking. Your eyes shoot to Ghost, who curses low in his chest and carefully manages to navigate the stuttering car off to the barely-there shoulder just as the engine begins to sputter.

“How much did you pay for this rental?” You ask innocently, and Ghost slams the steering wheel with his hand with a growl.

“Too much.” He seethes before putting the car in park and swinging outside in one fluid motion. You follow him just as he pops the hood and peers irritably at the engine inside. You manage to lean in and gaze down next to him, looking over the components just as Ghost towers beside you, annoyance radiating clear off his form.

“There’s a toolkit in the trunk.” He states, making no motion to retrieve it. You recognize an order for what it is, and despite the fact that you’re no longer on the field the familiar weight of Ghost’s leadership feels almost second nature. You reappear with the toolkit in hand a moment later, and rather than hand it to Ghost, you begin to unpack it yourself- ignoring the sideways glance Ghost casts at you.

“By the sound of it, it’s the starter.” You tell him, and when you gently nudge him aside for more space he makes way, stepping back to watch you bend over the engine with tools in hand. “Would you mind trying to turn over the engine for me?”

Ghost doesn’t respond, and when you glance behind you his eyes suddenly dart up to your face after looking elsewhere. “Ghost.”

He holds your stare for a moment before nodding and making towards the driver's seat. A moment later the engine attempts to turn over, the car shuddering and coughing before silencing once more. You poke your head a little further into the hood, trying to locate the source of the noise. Ghost reappears at your side a moment later, just as you fiddle inside the toolkit for a wrench.

Ghost is quiet, observant as you slowly work at the engine, peering over your shoulder close enough you can almost feel the warmth of him spill into your back. It takes everything in you to suppress a shiver at the fact he’s so close. Yet he offers no commentary as you work, no snide comments or dry humor. It would be unnerving if it weren’t for the fact you’re well used to it by now.

“Got it.” You declare a few minutes later, straightening up quickly- colliding with Ghost’s hand that shoots out to cushion your head from impacting the metal hood. “Oh- thanks.”

You hold up the retrieved spark plug victoriously, corroded and rusty from age. “Probably caused a misfire.” You declare. “It needs to be replaced, but we’d have to drive into town for a repair shop...” You trail off, face falling with realization before digging in your pocket for your phone.

No signal.

You look at Ghost, who stares back at you. Nonplussed, done.

and then, without another word, he turns around and starts walking.

It takes about three seconds of you gawking at his back before you’re running to catch up.

“W-where are you going?”

“Town.”

“That’s...15 kilometers away?”

“We’ve hiked farther with our gear.” Uphill. In the snow. You mentally hear him add.

“Shouldn’t one of us stay with the car?”

“No one is going to steal a car broken down on a country road.”

“What about our stuff?”

“Did you lock the car?”

“Well...yes. But-”

Ghost’s pace doesn’t falter, purposefully long strides as he hikes further up the winding incline. You follow him, casting a forlorn little look at the little green car parked on the side of the road. You’re loath to leave it, but between the choice of staying alone on the side of the road or going with Ghost, you know you’ll always choose Ghost.

The hike is quiet, just as it was in the car, and you find yourself focusing on the broad expanse of Ghost’s shoulders rather than the stunning scenery around you. You’re so used to Ghost bringing up the rear on long distance missions with the team, watching his own six, and by doing so watching everyone else’s, including your own. You’ve always trusted him to watch you, knowing that any possible threat from behind would have to go through him first. Now, you stare at the wide expanse of his back cloaked under his dark jacket and wonder if maybe he feels the same.

and you try not to imagine the bare expanse of his rippling muscles underneath.

“Kinda reminds me of Nepal.” You murmur after clearing your throat and quickly pushing away the image, and wonder if Ghost can hear you over the wind.

Ghost raises his head a little, but doesn’t turn. “Going hypothermic again, are ya?”

You huff, breathing warmth into your fingers chilled by the slicing wind. “A little.”

You nearly run into his back when Ghost suddenly stops, turning towards you. Before you can object, you watch as he shrugs off his thick leather jacket and uses a hand to drape it over your head.

Then he promptly turns and resumes walking.

Heat blossoms across your face, hot enough to warm you down to your toes. The smell of Ghost, of gun oil and charcoal and sweat permeates your very being. You try not to dizzy yourself with a lungful of it, try not to be obvious about scenting the blissfully warm and rain resistant jacket that you quickly wrap yourself in with zero complaints. Your heartbeat flutters against your ribs breathlessly, and you try to tell yourself the warmth you feel is just from the jacket, and not the helpless feeling of longing you keep secret there inside your chest.

You catch Ghost pause just long enough to look over his shoulder, but whatever choked thanks you can offer feels swallowed up by the wind.

At the top of the hill, you pause to take a breather, clutch the jacket a little tighter around you and let the wind ruffle your hair. Below lies a lush, green valley cast in soft hues from the gray shadowed sky, a tiny village tucked away at the edge of the long, sloping hills. It’s nothing more than a collection of houses, a shop or two, a petrol station, and a pub of some sort, but to you it’s the closest thing to civilization that you’ll see for the greater part of the day.

You don’t notice Ghost’s eyes on you until you turn to him.

“Olright?” He asks, and you pause for a moment, looking at his smoky brown eyes to wonder why they feel so heavy on your form.

A sound catches both your attention, and you turn to observe the sight of a small factory Ford making its way up the sloping valley road.

After a moment, you shoot Ghost a grin.

“Ever hitch-hiked before, LT?”

Before he can answer you sway to the roadside in sight of the oncoming car, jutting out your hip and sticking out your thumb before glancing back at him.

“Stay back a little, might scare them off with the whole serial killer get up.”

Ghost squints at you, hard, and you feel a little laugh bubble up your throat at the fact he looks almost offended. But he obediently takes a step or two back before crossing his arms and staring at the oncoming driver. If anything, you think he looks more intimidating than he did before.

Fortunately it isn’t enough to dissuade the driver, who honks at you both before slowing and pulling up beside you facing the wrong way.

“Do ye need some help, lass?” The woman in the passenger seat asks, accent thick. She’s a homely sort, round in the face with graying curls and rosy cheeks. Her gray-green eyes dart between you and Ghost behind you nervously, and it takes all your resistance not to shoot Ghost a look that says “I told you so.”

“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind. Our car broke down a while back and we were wondering if we could have a ride to town?” You ask politely, putting on your best smile and explaining quickly. “We tried fixing it ourselves but we need a mechanic.”

“Oh!” You see the woman visibly relax and flutter a hand at the driver, an equally older bearded man you assume to be her husband. “An American! You’re not that common around these parts. Archie dear, don’t you think we can give the nice girl and her fellow a lift?”

You nearly choke at that, opening your mouth to correct here when the husband, Archie, you presume, arches a thick eyebrow at you and looks at Ghost for a long moment.

“Aye, hop in.” He offers gruffly, jerking his head, and you thank him profusely before nodding to Ghost and sliding into the cramped backseat. Ghost takes up almost the entire space in the tiny car with his breadth, but manages to not squish you against the door despite having to tuck his legs a bit sideways to fit. You have to make it a point not to look at him lest you give yourself away.

It takes Archie a minute or two to point the car in the direction of town again, by which point his wife, who introduces herself as Ainsley, has begun to talk your ear off.

“Are you two on holiday?” She asks cheerily, all previous suspicion gone. “Visiting family?”

“We uh-” You spare a glance at Ghost, who’s stony silence offers no help. “We’re- yes. On holiday. Up to Balfour Manor?”

“Oh lovely! It’s quite the romantic spot, Balfour. We get lots of couples up that way. Archie and I had our handfasting ceremony there, ye ken.”

Oh.

You glance at Ghost, a little aghast at Aisley’s bold assumption. Yet when Ghost returns your stare, he looks oddly amused.

You feel your face warm, clearing your throat and attempting to speak. “O-oh well we’re not-”

“Balfour isnnae all that far from here. We might as well drive you all the way. We know the manager there, Lorna. She’s as sweet as they come. She’ll get you all set up and send someone for your car.”

She pauses, looking at her husband. “Aye, Archie?”

Archie grunts, looking at you in the rearview mirror before shrugging and nodding.

“That’s...very kind. Thank you. But you really don’t have to, we can wait at the petrol station-”

Aisley waves her hand at you. “Dinna fash yerself. We were going out for a drive anyway, got to stretch the ol’ bones. Now we’ve a story to tell at the pub!”

That seems to make Archie perk up a bit. “Aye.” He drawls, chuckling as he navigates down the valley road. “Bout the polite American girl and her burglar beau.”

“Archie!” Aisley gasps, swatting at him before turning to you apologetically. “He dosnae mean anything by it, lass.”

Ghost huffs beside you, offering Archie a withering look, but gives no indication of a reply.

“It’s alright.” You try. “He’s just-”

“Shy.” Ghost deadpans, and you arch an eyebrow at him. You can see his eyes laugh. Something breathless flutters in your chest.

“I was going to say ugly.” You whisper teasingly, low enough for him to hear- and Ghost leans in, crowding your space.

“You and I both know that’s a lie, Fix.”

Jesus.

He pins you with his coal dark stare, and you feel the sudden urge to look away from the intensity of his gaze. Your heart is racing in your ears, and the backseat suddenly feels too small, too close with the way Ghost suddenly is almost on top of you, heedless of your company.

Fortunately, it seems Aisley is too busy chastising her husband to notice the way Ghost has to practically crowded against the opposite door, his hand planted over the middle seat just close enough so his gloved thumb grazes against your hip through your jeans-

Only to sit back in a blink when Aisley pokes her head back again and begins to prattle on about the care rental salesman down in Perth and his shady marketing tactics. It takes all your composure to calm your racing heart and nod along politely despite the warmth flooding your face.

Beside you, Ghost looks oddly smug.

In the miles that follow, you find yourself glancing at him, and trying to match the memory of his moonlit face against the impenetrable mask that you’ve begun to see the cracks in.

- - -

Aisley and Archie end up driving you past town and into the hills where the manor rests upon a rolling, green slope that sits on the other side of the valley. Shadowed in mist, the ancient brick manor house overlooks the village below with tall windows and a tall, imposing archway which shelters a thick iron door. Carefully tended ivy crawls upwards along the brown brick towards the chimney, where a whisper of smoke is carried away by the gusting wind.

The car rolls to a stop in the long, gravel driveway that encircles a bubbling fountain and a collection of signs that likely details the land’s history. You long to peruse them, but Ghost is quickly shuffling out of the car with a murmur of polite thanks and quickly heading up the front steps. You scoot out behind him, remembering to turn and wave at the couple. Before you can trot after Ghost, Aisley makes a quick, urgent gesture for you to come closer.

“Have patience with him, lass.” She whispers with the window rolled down, halfway leaning out. her eyes dart to Ghost, who stands a ways behind you. “My Archie was a stiff, quiet one too. Give him time, he’ll let you in when he’s ready.”

You blink, and once again open your mouth to once again try and dissuade her of the notion that you and Ghost are a couple, but Aisley’s gray eyes shine knowingly, and in the end you smile quietly to yourself and give her a small whisper of thanks before turning to follow Ghost inside out of the slicing wind.

The interior of the manor appears to have blended well with the ages, renovated but kept at its bones a true token of history. The carved banisters and railings are worn with age, and the walls maintain their wood carved paneling. Yet the furniture is distinctly modern, and the grime of centuries past has been sanded down to nothing.

There’s a freckled, ginger-haired woman who greets you at the desk labeled ‘check-in’, and upon seeing Ghost you watch her instinctively raise her hackles at his mask and gigantic, looming stature.

“Reservation for ‘Riley’.” Is all he offers as his shadow falls over her, and it takes her a moment to process before she’s furiously typing at her computer.

You peek your head out from behind Ghost, and the woman who you assume to be Lorna instantly looks relieved at your smile.

“Sorry for the late arrival, we ran into some car issues on the road and had to hitch-hike. Do you have a way to call the repair shop in town? Neither of us have a signal.”

“Oh!” Lorna chirps, looking befuddled, then mildly distressed. “That makes sense. I tried to phone you, Mr. Riley. I’m afraid that we’ve run into a wee problem with your reservation.”

She swallows thickly, typing away at her laptop for a few moments. “We- we’re terribly sorry. We had a stag party booked prior to your stay, you see. The guests before you were a bit of a rowdy bunch. We’re still cleaning the walls after the…” She trails off, looking a little green. “...Well.”

“Does that mean the reservation is canceled?” You ask, brow knotting. Beside you, Ghost stiffens. You hear his gloves creak as his fists clench.

“No, no! We’ve just been forced to switch you over to a different cottage. It’s slightly smaller, but this one comes with a fireplace at least. We’ve also charged you the lesser price due to the issue, but we won’t be able to put you in your original booking seeing as we’re all booked up.”

You glance at Ghost, who appears mildly annoyed but otherwise calm. “O’lright.” He eventually offers after a beat, and Lorna’s shoulders relax visibly.

“Lovely. Let me finish checking you in, and then I’ll see about your car. I know the repairman in town, he should be able to drive out and see what the issue is.”

“It’s one of the spark plugs.” You tell her, stepping forward a little and ignoring the way Ghost’s bulk stays warm at your back. “Should be a simple change, but we’d like to at least get our luggage if possible.”

Lorna nods seriously, which is a bit of a humorous expression on her otherwise mousey features. “I’ll be sure to let him know. We’ll try to get your bags to you by this evening.”

Lorna quickly gives you a series of pamphlets and map of the surrounding grounds, pointing out the small trail that leads off into the woods towards the cottage you and Ghost will be staying in.

“There’s breakfast and dinner served in the dining room at seven am and seven pm, plus tea service at three. Otherwise you’ll have to run into town for lunch or groceries.”

Ghost nods stoically, eyes tracing over the hunting pamphlet, which Lorna sees him eyeing.

“Oh, and the hunting range is northwest of us. You’ll need to check in with us before you set off to make sure your hunting permit is in order. We do process any deer you hunt for a fee, otherwise you’re welcome to take it back home yourself.”

Ghost nods again, and murmurs a small thanks before tucking the pamphlet in his hoodie pocket and turning. You give Lorna a smile and a wave before following after him out the thick iron doors. The clouds outside have darkened to an ominous gray, with a whisper of moisture lingering in the air. You huddle deeper into Ghost’s jacket, falling in step with him as you begin to make your way towards the forest cottage.

You eye him out of the corner of your eye, finding his gaze directed forward. Yet he softens his stride, ensuring that you don’t fall behind him as you walk. One of a thousand silent things to fit further into the puzzle of him.

“Riley, huh?” You ask after a minute or two of walking, and Ghost glances at you before making a small, noncommittal grunt.

“Laswell gave you my file, didn’t she?”

She did, but the file had been so redacted that you’d only managed to get bits and pieces. SAS selection, top of his class, record breaking scores, details of his skills in covert infiltration, sabotage, and clandestine tradecraft. There was a mention of an extended leave, but after that? Black. Nothing. The words POW stood out among the endless redactions, but until his recruitment into the 141, Ghost’s file was an enigma, an anomaly, leaving you to fill in the gaps in between with the scarce glimpses behind the mask he offered you.

Then again, there were things in your file that you refused to share as well.

“You’re a mysterious man, Mr. Riley.” You smirk at him, and if you look close enough, you think you can see his mask tug at the corner with a smile.

“You sleep with that mask on?” You ask teasingly.

“Like a log.” He drawls.

“Might scare the deer off with that.”

“Brought a camo one.”

You gape at him. “You’re joking.”

Ghost looks at you, silent, deadpan. “I’ve been told I’m a comedian.”

You bark a laugh, out of pure surprise more than anything, only to quickly dissolve into a fit of giggles.

In the woods now, a thick grove of twisted trunks that shields you from the worst of the wind, you and Ghost enjoy a comfortable, mutual silence. Despite the fatigue from the day’s travel, the lingering unease from ruined plans and impromptu decisions, there’s a small warmth that curls inside your chest as you walk beside him, huddled in his jacket several sizes too big as the moorish wind sweeps across your cheeks.

“Well.” You say at last. “Broken car, nosy neighbors, and a just barely rescued reservation. They say bad things come in threes. I think we’re past the worst of it.”

As if on cue, a raindrop falls right on your nose.

You look up just in time for another to land on your cheek. Ghost pauses beside you, cocking his head, listening. There’s a distant rumble of warning from the sky above....

and seconds later the bottom drops out of the clouds and onto your heads.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Ghost swears, glaring up at the sky with putrid annoyance. Then he looks at you as you hold his jacket over your head to try and shield yourself from the worst of the downpour.

You gulp.

“I...might have jinxed it” You confess, and you think you see a vein in his neck throb.

Your clothes are soaked through by the time you get to the cottage, teeth chattering loudly as the cold quickly sets in. Ghost’s tension is palpable, a low rolling thunder that mirrors the stormy skies above. You try to remind yourself you are not the source of his ire, rather that the events of the day draw heavy on his shoulders and rest as a tightly coiled tension under the soaked fabric of his hoodie.

You drip water onto the mat of the entryway, hugging the jacket tighter around your shoulders as you survey the interior. It’s quaint, cozy. The entryway feeds into a small kitchen with old wooden cabinets complete with brass handles. Beyond is the living area, and without thinking you walk over to the old stone fireplace and crouch before it, heedless of the puddles you leave in your wake.

“It’s an actual fireplace.” You smile at Ghost, nodding to the wood stacked on the edge. “Do you remember your boy scout lessons?”

Ghost scoffs, striding past you to survey the living space with keen, wary eyes. You know what he’s doing on instinct- marking entryways, noting escape routes and barricade points, possible fire hazards and other threats. Like you, he’s able to leave the battlefield, only for it to exist in his mind.

As he checks the locks, you wander over to the two doors opposite of the fireplace, peeking inside one to find a bathroom, and the other to find the bedroom.

Except...

“Oh.” You whisper, and you sense rather than hear Ghost instantly pause behind you, crossing the room to hover tall and dark behind your shoulder as he looks at what’s caught your attention.

A single bed, neatly made. Between the pillows, a red rose.

You feel Ghost go stiff behind you just as heat warms your face all the way down to your toes.

“Did you...” You ask quietly, without turning towards him. “...Book us a single bed?”

“No.” Ghost replies, a little too quickly, terse, and scoots his massive frame past you to grab the red rose on the pillow and briskly toss it in the garbage pail. You hear him mutter an annoyance under his breath that you think sounds like “Bloody stag party.”

There’s a laugh bubbling in your chest akin to hysterics. You’ve slept close to Ghost before, sure. Hell, he kept you alive with his body heat before, but that...that was different. That was on the field, in the presence of teammates, things necessary for duty and survival. Here, in this quiet, romantic cottage where it’s just the two of you, where everyone seems to be operating on the understanding that you’re a couple...

“I’ll take the couch.” You say before you can catch the thought. “You- you’re too tall to fit comfortably. You can have the bed.”

Ghost looks at you, dark eyes meeting yours, and you’re reminded just how intense his gaze is. You feel untethered, unbalanced, caught in the gravity of his stare alone. For a single, daring moment you pray that he’ll find a reason to disagree, that he’ll insist you both sleep together, but eventually he blinks and nods.

“Olright.” He cedes at last, finally turning away from you, and it feels as if there’s something left unsaid between you both, something you’re not brave enough to voice yet. It curls under your skin, and you shiver hard, curling your arms around you for warmth.

“You’ll catch a cold.” Ghost nods at you, and proceeds to unzip his wet hoodie so it lands on the floor with a wet splat. “Should change out of those.”

You don’t respond for a second, too distracted by the way Ghost’s shirt clings to every plane of his muscled torso, the soft flesh of his belly, the dip between his shoulders. Eventually your brain catches up with you, and you blink, swallowing back the dryness in your throat.

“Into...what, exactly?”

Ghost looks at you for a beat, before grabbing a quilt off the end of the bed and tossing it at you. You gape at him, equal parts baffled and aghast.

“Y-you can’t be serious.”

“If you’d like to catch your death that way, by all means.” Ghost returns, and turns from you to begin stripping off the shirt that clings far too tightly to his massive frame. You stand frozen to the spot, hands clutching too tight to the quilt as the pale, scarred flesh of Ghost’s torso is slowly revealed. The ink on his forearm swirls all the way up to his shoulder, and from there you trace a long, jagged scar that forms a ‘T’ across his pecs with their pale pink nipples. You don’t miss the blonde thatch of hair that coils just below it, curls down his stomach towards his waistband as his fingers go for his belt, only to pause.

With dawning horror, you look up and meet Ghost’s heavy, lidded stare.

“Looking ‘respectfully’, Fix?”

You can feel the instant your neurons misfire, electrocuting into nothingness as you stand paralyzed with your mouth open, caught ogling him in a way that’s so far removed from what might be considered ‘respectful’ you may as well bury yourself alive. You try to speak, to say an excuse, to offer an apology, anything, but the way Ghost’s eyes burn into you, the way you can’t seem to budge from his stare roots you to the spot, staring at the pale expanse of his bare torso and forgetting how to breathe.

The clink of his belt as he resumes undressing sends you scrambling out of the room and slamming the bathroom door behind you.

As you bury your burning face in your hands, you swear you hear Ghost chuckle from the other room.

You lean hard on the door, waiting for Ghost to finish doing...whatever it is he’s doing, and desperately trying to ignore the torrent of images that flood your brain of his scarred, pale shoulders, the smattering of freckles at his clavicle, the wisp of hair trailing below his waistband...

It takes effort to silence the groan bubbling up in your throat, caught somewhere between desperate desire and baffled embarrassment. Still sitting in your sopping wet clothes on the bathroom floor, the water slowly puddling beneath you, you try vainly to compose yourself and think of something...anything other than the vision of Ghost’s bare, rain-slick body hovering mere feet away from you with nothing but a wall to separate you both.

It’s the shivering chill of your soaked limbs that eventually forces you up, carefully peeling off your wet layers and wringing them as best as you can in the sink before hanging them to dry. By the time you step under the hot stream of water in the shower to warm up, you’re shivering head to toe from the cold.

Steam curls around your bare form just as the sounds in the other room gravitate towards the living room, and once more you try to brush away the thought of Ghost striding around the cottage completely naked with little success. There’s a coiling sort of tension that runs southward at the image of your lieutenant’s muscled, bare figure just steps away from your own naked form. It’s not the first time you’ve caught yourself with such thoughts- thoughts you usually reserve for your bunk at base, alone, lights turned off as your hand slithers below your waistband.

Even now, your fingers glide southward, cupping your bare cunt with a shuddering little sound. You’re a little wet just by the sight of seeing Ghost dripping, shirtless, hands fiddling brazenly with his belt with little regard for your presence. You can’t help but think about what might greet you if he had pulled his pants just a little further down, letting you see the bulge there. Ghost is massive, towering over your frame, and you wonder if whatever he hides there is at the least proportional.

You spread your cunt a little, fingers slipping between your folds as you tip your head back against the tile with a soft little sigh. You’re not sure if it’s the water or the burning heat of your own skin that coils warm in your veins, sending a murmur of pleasure electrifying across your hips and up towards the small of your spine. Your fingers trace slow, languid circles around your clit, your other hand raising to cup your breast just as you surrender and allow the vision of Ghost to engulf your hazy thoughts.

Ghost, bare, strong, built like a tank and able to rip men apart with his bare hands. Ghost, with scars littering his skin that speak of a lifetime of brutality and yet his eyes- eyes that fix you with a stare so intense you wonder sometimes if you’ll crack under the weight, burn so brightly you turn to glass, obsidian as dark as his voice that purrs in your ear during missions. Ghost who’s dark, swirling ink traces shadowy tendrils across your mind and drags you down, down into the abyss of his phantom touch.

You keen a little behind your teeth, hips pushing up into your hand just as you shudder at the thought that it’s not your nimble fingers, but his.

You have to keep quiet. The last thing you need right now is Ghost knocking on the door and asking about the barely stifled whimpers and moans you’re swallowing down with deep lungfuls of humid air. It’s hard not to make noise though, especially when you think about the idea of Ghost walking in on you like this, caging you with his towering frame against the shower wall and purring down in your ear.

“Fix.”

“Ghost.” You whisper, barely audible as your breath hitches, eyes squinted shut with pleasure. There’s a whimper bubbling up your throat, and you bite the back of your hand just to silence it, fingers working your clit faster now, the dawn of your climax ascending rapidly. You think about him, about Ghost trapping you against the shower with nowhere to run, sinking two, broad fingers into you deep enough for you to feel his knuckles broken one too many times to be even. You wonder if even that is little compared to the cock that hangs heavy between his toned thighs, ruddy and pink and leaking at the thought of sinking himself into you.

“Fuck-” You gasp, a little too loud, but you don’t care because you’re close, close enough that you can feel yourself teetering on the razor’s edge, ever nerve in your body drawing taut, tighter.

You want him. You want him here, in the shower. You want his fingers inside you plucking at the sensitive point of pleasure inside your gummy walls that clench down on him with every retreat, trying to keep yourself full. You want him to split you open on his cock, to haul your legs up to his shoulders and fold you in half as he fucks you down into the bed, growling, snarling in your ear. You want to feel yourself bow off the bed with a little cry, walls rippling over his cock just as he huffs warm breath into your ear: “Good girl, Fix. Good fucking girl.”

When you cum, you have to swallow down a sob.

As the liquid warmth of your release unspools through your veins, you tip your head back against the tile, panting, trying to catch your breath. Your legs quiver as they hold your weight, muscles weak. It takes concentration to just remain standing in the afterglow of your shattering orgasm, shoulders heaving and brow pinched as you try to regain yourself.

You raise a hand to wipe the water from your face, holding the heel of your palm to your forehead and whispering out a little curse that’s muffled by the water. Outside, you can hear Ghost shuffling about in the kitchen and living room, and you pray by some grace of god he heard absolutely nothing from inside the shower.

It’s only after you’re steady on your feet again that you remember you have no clothes.

You groan then, heedless of the sound, burying your face in your hands and praying for some type of divine intervention or damnation. Inside the mist of your mind, Ghost’s chuckle haunts your thoughts.

You’re so fucked.

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#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #Simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x ofc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #fic: snowblind

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heich0e · 1 year

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leave the light on - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 10 in the bff!osamu series tags: childhood friends to lovers, tw instant coffee mention, miscommunication, confessions, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Onigiri Miya closes early on Sunday nights.

It’s not for lack of business—the shop would certainly take in enough revenue to justify staying open regular hours an extra day per week, especially on a weekend. But in the early days of Onigiri Miya, when it was just a one-man show, Osamu needed at least one night that he could count on having off. The workweek business—office workers and students going through their routine hustle and bustle—kept him going, enough so that Sunday nights weren’t a make or break for him, and he was able to start shuttering in the early afternoon once per week.

He remembers those early days. Sweet talking vendors to bring down the cost of produce and haggling with the grubby, bleary eyed men at fish market stalls at the crack of dawn for a deal on the catch of the day. Promising suppliers that he’d be able to get them their money in a couple of weeks if they’d just give him some more time. Standing on the road, because Onigiri Miya was just a street stall back then, trying to coax people in and try his food. To convince them to take a chance on him. He remembers burns on his hands and cuts on his fingers and an ache in his bones that ran so marrow-deep he forgot what it felt like to not be so sore. Sunday nights were the only night he had to relax. The only night he had to sit down, to take off his hat, and to have a beer—or, even more frequently, pass out on his couch in his uniform at 8pm and sleep right through to his alarm the next morning.

Closing early on Sundays had been your idea, way back when— suggested to him gently while he rested with his head in your lap in your tiny student apartment after another 16 hour workday. He still remembers the worry in your eyes as you brushed his hair back from his tired face.

Nowadays things aren’t so hectic. Osamu’s got a good team of people around him to help Onigiri Miya run smoothly—a team who he trusts and values. It doesn’t all fall onto his shoulders in the same way that it used to: he doesn’t have to be there for every open and every close, his bills are paid, he’s not fighting to lure people in off the street just in the hope that he can scrape by for another week.

Now when he closes early on Sunday, it’s more for the sake of his staff than anything else. Occasionally Osamu will take the night off, too; he’ll go home and catch up on housework, run an errand or two, or even grab dinner—usually with you, though evidently not so much lately. But most Sundays he stays behind after his last employee heads out for the night; locking up behind them, switching off the sign in the window to tell the world the shop is closed, and then holing himself up in his office to do some admin. He’ll grab a plate of whatever’s leftover from the day’s service and a cold can of beer from the fridge, put on a rerun of Atsumu’s game from the night before, and get to work shuffling through the paperwork that he’s left to pile up over the past seven days.

Osamu hates paperwork.

It’s not that it’s particularly challenging work—the really hard stuff is left to his bookkeeper after all. It’s just tedious, a mindless task in many ways, and he always finds his thoughts drifting as he sorts through invoices and inventory registers: catching himself being inattentive halfway through a spreadsheet, and having to force himself to go back to the beginning just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything in his carelessness.

You used to help him with this kind of work, or at least keep him company while he got through it—sitting on the lumpy couch crammed into one corner of his little office and pretending like you weren’t asleep each time Osamu caught you with your eyes closed. More often than not, he’d throw his jacket over you to keep you warm while you napped and then rush through the last of his work so that he could wake you up and get you home. But just having you there on those late nights was enough for him; your presence was the thing that helped.

Coffee is his only saving grace, these days.

Samu shuffles out to the front of the shop on one such Sunday evening, taking off his baseball cap and ruffling the hair underneath tiredly. He’d finally gotten a trim, and he’s glad that things feel a bit more normal again as he rakes his fingers through it—his mother had been right when she remarked that it was getting too long the week before. He tosses his hat down on the front counter of Onigiri Miya, rounding the end to grab a sachet of instant coffee from behind the bar where he keeps his emergency stash.

The overhead lights in the shop are off, but there’s enough brightness filtering out from the still-lit kitchen that he doesn’t need to struggle to see as he prepares himself some hot water to add to the mug in front of him. He tips the granulated contents of his instant coffee sachet into the bottom after ripping it open with his teeth, tapping the empty plastic packaging against the edge of the cup to make sure it all comes out. The kettle behind him hums quietly as it heats to boiling, and Osamu sighs, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

He stares out at the restaurant—his restaurant, as hard as he still finds it to believe some days—his gaze sweeping over the tables with their corresponding chairs resting atop them. One of the staff had mopped the floors at the end of the night, which left them still slightly wet and glistening. There’s light filtering in through the front windows from the streetlights and the other shops that line the Osaka street outside, and their glow catches in the water that hasn’t yet dried from the tile.

Osamu’s eyes suddenly snap up to the glass that lines the front of the restaurant.

There’s a silhouetted figure—so familiar he could trace it even with his eyes closed, from memory alone—standing on the other side of the door.

Osamu blinks, thinking that the paperwork must have finally gotten the best of him, or maybe that the beer he’d had earlier is inexplicably hitting him too hard. But no matter how many times he squeezes his eyes shut, the familiar shape stays where it is on the other side of the glass each time he opens them again.

His heartbeat thumps, loud and wet, in his ears.

Like the shot of a gun, the man stumbles gracelessly into action: loping around the end of the bar and slipping slightly on the wet tile as he heads towards the door. He fiddles with the lock as he struggles to unlatch it, accidentally trying to force it the wrong way in his haste before eventually getting it right. When he finally throws open the door, a gust of cool night air flooding into the restaurant along with it, he takes in a deep, gasping breath.

“Hey.”

His voice is shaky when he greets you—mostly air and very little shape to the word.

You stare at him from a few paces away, your arms crossed firmly over your chest and a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth. Osamu thinks you look pretty when you’re mad. He always has. But it’s worse now because he knows all too well that he shouldn’t—because he knows you’re mad at him.

You seem to have something to say, he can tell as much from the almost spiteful glint in your eyes, but you stay tightlipped as you simply stare at him.

“D’ya… wanna come in?” Osamu asks, still holding the door open. He nods his head back into the shop. “Still got some stuff prepped, I could make ya—“

“You’re a jerk.”

Osamu blinks, taken aback.

“Yeah,” he agrees plainly after a moment, thinking it’s only fair of you to say given then circumstances.

His concurrence only seems to upset you more.

“Like, you’re a real asshole, y’know that?” You’re nearly spitting you’re so angry, your features twisted up in contempt. Your arms uncross and drop down to your sides, and Osamu watches as your hands ball into fists. He’s the one who taught you how to throw a punch, years and years ago now, and he’s wondering if he’s about to experience a practical demonstration of his teaching abilities firsthand.

“I don’t necessarily disagree.” He nods, agreeing with you once more, though this time his response is slower, more hesitant—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he’s not sure that it’s what you want to hear.

“Ugh!” Your following exclamation is loud, and palpably frustrated, all but confirming his suspicions. “You…!”

Your tone is climbing with every passing second, and Osamu looks furtively up and down the road around the two of you. It’s late in the evening but there are still a few people out, and he sees heads turning in your direction at the commotion.

“Hey,” he says, his own voice dropping in volume but still pleading all the same. “My name’s on the door and we’re gettin’ some weird looks. I wanna hear everythin’ you have to say, but could you please just say it to me inside?”

You look at him blankly, your lips puckering into a petulant, unhappy pout. You seem like you want to say no, to keep causing a scene, and for a second Osamu really thinks you’re about to round in on him again. Instead you trudge forward, stomping past him over the threshold of Onigiri Miya.

Osamu hesitates for a moment after you pass, half in shock and half in relief, and then he lets the door swing closed and locks it behind him for good measure—he’s not sure he wants any unsuspecting people coming in search of onigiri and stumbling upon a brawl.

It’s dim in the restaurant when he turns to face you, but he can still see your fury burning in the dark.

Neither of you say anything.

“You can keep goin’ if you want,” Osamu is eventually the first to speak, and he means what he says. This is the least of the punishment he deserves, after all. And hearing you yell at him is markedly better than the silence.

“Martyrdom doesn’t suit you at all,” you mutter sullenly.

Osamu sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I just wantcha to say whatcha came here to say.”

You begin to pace as you work through your thoughts, slowly walking back and forth in front of the counter, picking at your cuticles. You’d put a fair amount of distance between the two of you, and he’s sure it was intentional. Osamu keeps himself confined to the entryway near the door, while you walk a path back and forth along the length of the service counter. His eyes follow every step you take, like a captivated child watching fish at the aquarium.

“I had a terrible dream last night,—” you finally force the words out, your feet stilling against the shiny tile as your pacing comes to a sudden halt.

Osamu decides to just do the right thing and shut the hell up for once, giving you the floor.

“—I was going to buy 30 kilos of rice from Kita-san’s farm—”

That’s a lot of rice, Osamu wants to note, but his lips part to let the words through and then he decides better of it.

“—and I was there, at the farm, and then Kita-san started telling me that you got married and had a baby. A baby, Samu! Kita-san standing there telling me all these terrible things with that big bag of rice in my hands, and I couldn’t even get mad at him because he’s Kita! So I just had to listen to him go on and on and on about the venue and the flowers and the baby name that you picked out. And the more he’d tell me the worse it was, and the bag of rice just kept getting heavier.” Your teeth bite down so hard into your lip as you suck in a breath that Osamu's amazed he doesn’t see blood. “I was hearing all of these things—terrible things—and all I could think was that I should have been there to see all of that for myself. I shouldn’t have been hearing about it from someone else. And I realized that you were living a whole life apart from me, a life that I didn’t know about or get to be a part of, and it just kept getting worse and worse and I woke up and I felt like I was going to scream.”

You’re out of breath by the time you finish your rambling thought, your chest heaving and your eyes wild and your mouth faintly wet. You look to him, and Osamu doesn’t see that same indignation in your eyes anymore, only hurt. He watches as the expression hardens again, whets itself like a blade—sharpened not in anger, but rather in resolve. In resignation.

“That day. I looked for you first.”

Osamu feels lost now. Are you still talking about that dream?

You understand without him saying it, and explain yourself further. “In high school. The day that I kissed Suna.”

Osamu’s stomach drops, all of the blood rushing to his head so quickly that the shop begins to spin a little around him. He can hear his pulse in his ears. He can feel it in his throat. He can’t help the twist of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, writhing and ugly though it may be, at the mere mention of his friend’s name. He doesn’t have the right to feel the way he feels, but it happens all the same.

“I looked for you,” you keep going, like you’ve broken a seal and have to let it all out. Osamu doesn’t dare try to stop you. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He watches on like it’s a conversation that’s happening not with him but rather to him. “You were eating lunch with Tsumu in your classroom. I realized he would have had a fit if he knew that I was asking you and not him. I thought about asking him but…”

Osamu can’t feel his fingers from how tightly his hands are balled into fists at his side. His lungs burn in his chest—the breath he’s holding having long since lost the oxygen his body needs, though he can’t seem to draw in another.

“If it wasn’t you, I didn’t care who it was. So I asked Suna.”

The young man processes your words slowly. Incompletely. Like only every third word seems to register.

“Ya wanted me to be yer first kiss?” It’s not the question he ought to ask you but it’s the one his brain chooses to spit out.

Your reply is frustrated, but with an unmistakably melancholic rasp running through it. “Yeah. I did.”

Somewhere distantly, Osamu recognizes a sharp, stinging pain. An ache as part of him realizes that it could have been him. All along. All this time. Him. But the pain is muted, because part of him—most of him—still doesn’t quite understand.

“I think that was the first time I realized it.”

Osamu watches your face, maps the achingly familiar lines and dips and curves of your features as he tries to read meaning in the space between your words. But he still finds nothing.

“I liked you, Samu. More than I should have. Differently than I liked Tsumu, or Suna, or any other guy.” You laugh, but it’s a hollow, watery sound. “I realized it and it was awful.”

You’re waiting for him to say something, but Osamu is at a loss for words. No, that’s not quite it either. It’s not that he has nothing to say, but that he has everything he wants to say to you. To ask you. But he doesn’t know where to start, or how to sort through them, or even how to will his lips, teeth, and tongue to shape any of them.

“You… Y’know ya don’t have to say this,” his voice is tight, like a rope drawn to secure a knot not unlike the one in his throat, when he finally manages to speak. “Ya don’t have to pretend or convince yourself that you… felt the same as me. I care about ya too much to ever ask that.”

You laugh—a single, sharp, distinctly mirthless ha!—as you throw your hands up in exasperation. “There you go again not letting me have any say, Samu!” You punctuate your exclamation with a frustrated little sound. “Stop deciding things all on your own and just listen to me.”

That shuts him up again.

“I thought I was over it,”—you begin to pace once more, your steps slow and measured—“I really did. I told myself it would never happen and moved on because I never ever wanted to fuck things up between us. Between any of us.

“You told me that you’ve loved me your whole life, but you don’t know if or when something changed. I do. I had a singular moment that I could point to where I realized that if I did or said the wrong thing after that, I could fuck up something that meant more to me than anything else in the world. Even if you felt the same way I did, there’s no guarantee that something like that would work out. But if we tried and it didn’t work, we wouldn’t be able to just go back to how things were. So I told myself that no matter what I wouldn’t. No matter how hard it was or how awful it felt. I could get over it if it meant I never had to lose you. And it was fine. For years it was fine. We were fine. Everything was fine. And then I lost you anyway.”

You suddenly stop pacing and crouch down, your arms winding themselves around your knees as if to comfort yourself.

“That night, when you…” You swallow, and risk a glance up at him. “I don’t think I’m over it.”

Osamu feels like he might die. Maybe he did already. Maybe this is his life passing before his eyes, because it’s always been you anyway.

“But it’s scary, Samu,” your voice is so small, so vulnerable, when you speak to him again. You’re trembling as you hold yourself. “Aren’t you scared?”

Osamu is suddenly reminded of that fall day in the woods, so many years ago now. Reminded of two kids who didn’t know what they were doing. Who didn’t know anything. But who knew each other.

Slowly, Osamu crouches too—his joints cracking in protestation as he drops his body down to your level. Your eyes never leave his.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. Soft but sure. “‘Course I am.”

You let out a soggy, incredulous laugh, but it somehow doesn’t feel out of place. He watches as you reach up and scrub at your eyes.

“I love you,” Osamu says, because it’s true. Because there’s no other words he can possibly think to say in this situation. Because it’s the only thing that he has in his mind.

You look over at him, sniffling a little, wiping at your running nose with the back of your hand in a way that Osamu absolutely should not find as endearing as he does. “How can you just say it like that? Like it’s so easy?”

Osamu wants to laugh too, like you did earlier, but he worries that the sound might come off as almost hysterical thanks to the misplaced hope he can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach. “Sayin’ it’s the hard part, that’s why it took me so long. But I’ve spent forever lovin’ ya. S’always been the easiest bit.”

You choke back a sob, your head hanging defeatedly as your body slackens. You’re a ghost of the angry little thing that was outside of his door only a few minutes earlier, but more yourself now than Osamu has seen you in weeks.

“What about you?” he poses the question so quietly he might worry you didn’t hear him if not for how silent the dark shop is around you both.

“What do you mean?” You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. You’re stalling, trying to buy yourself time that’s run out now.

“Do you love me?” he asks, praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s been a good enough man up until this point to deserve the answer that he wants to hear more than anything else in the world.

“Of course I do,” you say evasively, refusing to meet his gaze. But it’s not the same. It’s not enough.

“But are you in love with me?” Osamu finally dares to ask.

There’s a stretch of the most painful, profound silence that either of you have ever experienced. It goes on for an eternity, though the clock hands in the corner say differently.

You still refuse to look at him, your gaze fixed instead to a point on the wall on the other side of the restaurant. Osamu watches how the light from the windows catches in the tears that cling to your bottom lashes.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, barely a whisper. You speak the confession like it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable. Like it's wretched.

And it is maybe, but Osamu’s never felt happier to hear anything in all his life—he feels a rush of something so visceral and elated flowing through him, he thinks he might pass out.

“Can I touch ya?” he asks hesitantly, his voice thick and unlike its normal tone. He hardly recognizes it as his own.

You peek over at him for the first time, and Osamu revels in the feeling of having your eyes on him. Delights in watching you watch him and knowing that behind the gaze is the same feeling as the one he holds inside of himself. You consider it for a moment, and he doesn’t dare rush you, but eventually—mercifully—you nod.

Osamu inches forward slowly and wraps you in his arms. Your body relaxes into his hold instantly, and he pulls you into his lap on the tiled floor. He holds you so tightly that he’s scared he might break you, but he still can’t find it in himself to be more delicate. You cling to him anyway.

It’s the first time he’s touched you in months, but every inch of you is still known to him. Still familiar in every way that matters. You smell the same. You feel the same. You’re soft and warm just like always. Osamu buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers eventually lift to play with the hair at his nape. He holds you, and holds you, and holds you more—sating a thirst that’s been building for longer than the time the two of you have been apart.

And you let him.

You hold him too, in the same way.

“If I kiss ya, you gonna cry again?” Osamu asks you quietly after a while, his lips brushing against your throat as he murmurs the words.

You snort, your fingers twisting into the material of his t-shirt at his shoulders. Osamu peels himself away from you and looks up, and finds that your faces are so close. Too close, in any other circumstance.

His palm lifts, cupping your cheek in his hand, running his thumb against the smooth skin underneath.

“Shut up, Samu,” you say, a little smile twisting up the corner of your mouth.

And Osamu happily obliges by pressing his lips to yours.

#osamu miya x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #bff!osamu

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themonotonysyndrome · 2 months

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A couple of days ago, I posted some headcanons about Castin. I sprinkled in some Modern AU and I thought: "Why stop there? Why not go crazy? Go stupid?" So after rambling on and on with @moonandstarlightsposts last night (love you, baby~), here's my take on Desmond Asmr's characters in a..

High School AU!

Characters (background + types of club/school activities they would join)

Baroness:

A wealthy heiress who was homeschooled her entire life until her legal guardian enrolled her in school so she could gain some life experiences. The aloof, popular girl type was quickly befriended by the Queen Ascendant while she and Reyes were childhood friends because their families were in the same social circle. She's the secret alcohol supplier for Tigress' parties, and her form of payment is favours. So be careful when you request any help from her~

She met Castin after their teacher arranged for her to be his history tutor. She found him annoying at first, but after his heartfelt confession, they slowly became friends and later, a couple after both had to hide in a nearby bathroom before the hall monitor noticed.

She joins the Book Club with Reyes. If you want to find her, she's either reading in the library or chilling at the bleachers during football practice. Occasionally, she raises a thumbs up when Castin hollers at her, her eyes never leaving the pages.

Castin Hammer:

The popular jock who all the girls write his surname in their notebooks and all the guys want to be. He's riding on a scholarship. Thinks that secured his future, so he's more concern with maintaining his popular image alongside Rhett.

Fell in love at first sight with the Baroness when she got out of the principle office but thinks she's playing hard to get when all his flirting attempts get shot down. After receiving a reality check from Rhett, he becomes more honest with her and confesses to her after they scramble into a bathroom to escape the hall monitor. At first, he was highkey afraid that being his girlfriend would mean she would get bullied by his admirers, but after a particularly nasty cheerleader was expelled due to several allegations, Castin thinks his girlfriend is scary and hot, lol.

He joins the football team after his puberty glows up and is considered one of the school's star players. He likes showing off to the Baroness during practice and insists that she wears his varsity jacket.

Queen Ascendant:

The girl that can fit in any friend group, but she's no alpha bitch, no, no. The Queen Ascendant is friendly and constantly invited to parties, yet at the end of the day, she only has a few close friends who would stay by her side even after graduation. She's grateful for them. She befriended the Baroness because she looked so awkward during the first week in high school, so she helped her out by showing the ropes and they became close ever since!

The Queen Ascendant actually went to the same middle school with Rhett! Though they were never really friends, they were aware of each other's existence. She thought they were cool, but for some reason, he absolutely hated her guts after prom. This carried over to high school, and everyone knows it. The Baroness once asked if she wanted her to get rid of Rhett, but the Queen Ascendant promised that he was not going to hurt her.

...Aaaannnddd then came abduction. But don't worry! They managed to communicate well and all is good. Now, she has to restrain the Baroness from trying to kill her boyfriend.

She joins the swim team. She's not too big on competition, though. She likes it as a hobby, especially when he bends down to leap into the pool, and Rhett has full view of her ass.

Rhett:

The face of the high school. The number Mr. popular. Anything and everything he does will circulate around campus THRICE! Everyone wants to be in his friends' group. At least 2 girls would confess to him in a week to the point that there's a running bet. Strangely, he never accepts any of them nor has a girlfriend.

Rhett is Castin's childhood friend and is a constant support figure when his mother dies. He's also unafraid to dish out tough love when Castin needs it.

How she and Rhett became a couple, well, took the entire school by surprise! Everyone knows that Rhett had a personal beef with her, but no one knows - including the Queen Ascendant! - why and he refuses to explain why. The truth? He asked her out to prom during middle school via love letter and slipped it in her locker. Unfortunately, it flew away when Rhett's back was turned. So he was heartbroken when she went with someone else and, thus, has been nursing a grudge ever since.

The two were forced to work together on a school project, which resurfaced his feelings for her, who is still trying to figure out why he hates her so much because he's super hot and cold with her. The boiling point is when he abducted her from her home during the weekend and took her to his family's cabin. They finally talked it out and returned to school as a couple after being missing for 2 whole weeks. Needless to say, their friends were very concerned.

He is the captain of the football club and a damn good leader. He cares for his boys and is close with the coach. Under his captainship, their school won several inter-state competition trophies. Don't admit to his face that he preens like a peacock when the Queen Ascendant watches him in the field. He will punch you.

Cupcake:

The quiet, studious girl who only sticks close to her group. The wallflower that everyone missed. Cupcake tends to get bullied by those who are looking to take advantage of her, forcing her to do their homework and such. Her only goal is to graduate high school with flying colours, keep her head under the radar and help out her family.

She became entangled with Warren when she accidentally caught him sneaking out of school when the teachers were looking for him. To buy her silence, Warren offers to befriend her and keep the bullies away. Everyone in school was surprised and jealous at how closely he stuck to her after that. They gradually fell in love with each other after lots of hardships. He even asked her out to prom!

She joins the Science Club and sometimes tutor the juniors for extra bucks. She doesn't feel comfortable sitting with the Baroness and the Queen Ascendant at the bleachers during Warren's practice at first, but she eventually warms up to them.

Warren:

One of the stars of the football team, where he, Rhett and Castin form a trio and so share the same amount of popularity. He always has a new girl hanging off his arm every month. He is the life of the party and sometimes even the host. He and Castin play fight a lot, and rarely butt heads with Rhett. Academically, well, you rarely see him in class because he would rather be somewhere else.

When he met Cupcake, he didn't even know she existed, but the more he hung around her, the more he realised that she was actually pretty funny and chill. Expect him to bring her to parties, introduce her to his friends and be all protective whenever his exes dare mess with her. He's secretly a softie around her and lowkey enjoys looking out for her.

Warren is all about being street-smart and quick on his feet to get out of trouble. His goal is to ensure that Cupcake enjoys high school to the fullest.

He joined the football team as soon as tryouts were open. His varsity jacket is more often found in Cupcake's closet than his.

VP:

Girlboss. Gatekeep. Gaslight. That's VP. She kicks ass and takes names on the regular while running to be valedictorian. Everyone looks up to her, and she owns it. Her style is always on point, and she appears untouchable. In reality? Her home life sucks, so she's desperate to have her public image appear clean.

VP has a fierce rivalry with Wajid because their visions of their club keep clashing. Somehow, Wajid found out about her background and used it against her: either work with him to produce the best show ever so that their after-school curriculum looks great, or he'll deliver the info to the newspaper club. Not wanting to be bested, she seduced him into sleeping with her, took a selfie afterward, and threatened to share the pic with his girlfriend at the time if he tried anything shady.

After that incident, you can hear them fighting non-stop, and sometimes, you might even catch them stumbling out of the janitor closets or other inconspicuous places. Rumours never stop circling around them.

She is the co-leader of the theatre & costume club. Her job is gathering funds for props and textiles and her biggest investor is the Baroness. Sometimes, she would also act on stage with Wajid.

Wajid:

The cool, serious and somewhat mysterious guy that you can't help but turn your head twice when he walks by. He's a bit intimidating to approach at first but once you get to know him, you'll realise that he's actually... pretty alright. He just ain't got time for drama (which is hilarious because he's all up on VP's business).

The teachers love him because he always submits assignments on time and respects the rules. The girl who one day declares herself his girlfriend likes how obedient he is. To sum it up, Wajid has no complain about his life.

...Until VP rudely tries to usurp his position in the club that he's painstakingly built with sweat, blood and tears. The girl that haunts him like a beautiful spectre. She's a shooting star that tilts his world on its axis. But unknown to her, he enjoys arguing with VP. Enjoys this forbidden feeling growing between them, and for once in his life, he wants to do something for himself.

He is the director of the teacher and costume club. He coordinates every play, interviews actors and actresses, and ensures everything runs smoothly. When he's on stage with VP, he struggles to ignore his growing feelings for her.

Tigress:

The delinquent, rebellious student who transfers from so many schools because she keeps getting expelled. Her father was wrongly framed and is jailed for life, leaving her in the care of a dirty cop for an uncle. She having a rough time growing up is an understatement.

Tigress is a pretty scrappy fighter. She has connections to all sorts of things and knows lots of people, which has earned her a bit of a reputation. For what it's worth, she's proud of the person she has become.

She and Renae were good friends before his mum accused her dad of embezzling money from their joint company, and that's when bitterness and hatred toward Renae's family set in. She's looking forward to her pound of flesh now that she and Renae are studying at the same school. Despite that, she still has some fondness for her dorky friend, and it really confuses her.

She tries to join several clubs but none of them interest her in the long run.

Renae:

Another rich kid but unlike the Baroness, Renae has an overprotective mum who controls every aspect of him, even his school life. Also, unlike the rest of the bois, he's more of a pretty boy. Adorable, smartly dressed and is the hall monitor. Yup. This makes him unpopular with a lot of people, but no one dares to mess with him because rumours have it he comes from a royal lineage. Renae is also haughty and a bit of a Tsundere, so his friends are those who share his background.

He and Tigress were childhood friends, and despite being too young to recognise it, he was heartbroken when she mysteriously disappeared one day. So excuse him when it took him several weeks to realise that the new transfer student was his friend!

Tigress being a delinquent does not stop him from trying to befriend her. In fact, he's determined to be her 'prince charming/knight in shining armor' and rescue her from other delinquents in the school, much to the annoyance and amusement of Tigress.

A delinquent and a hall monitor—will love bloom between them? The newspaper club is keeping a close eye on them!

He doesn't join any clubs or after-school activities because his mother prefers to have him at home.

Gorgeous:

The QUEEN BEE of the school. The female alpha. The one girl that the Baroness, Queen Ascendant, Cupcake, VP and Tigress dare not to cross. The one who ensures the school doesn't become a flaming dumpster. Gorgeous is genuinely friendly, always there to lend you an ear and is a multi-tasking master. Her grades are always top-notch, she's athletic and someone that the faculty and student body could rely on.

However, getting to where she is currently requires a lot of sacrifice. See, she and Desmond came from the same middle school that ended up burnt down due to an accident. She belonged to a gang that wanted to change the school for the better, and so did Desmond, but unfortunately, both had very different ideas on how to achieve it. There was a fight that resulted the school getting destroyed. Investigations were launched, but no ties could be found.

When she and Desmond enrolled at the same high school purely out of luck, the two swore to work together instead of against one another, and they fell in love!

She is the vice president of the student council. She manages all the clubs, checks through student attendants and humbles Desmond occasionally.

Desmond:

This is the guy that your mama warns you about. A bad boy who has fooled the entire school faculty into thinking he's an angel. Those who knew him back in the past like Gorgeous? Well, they'd immediately transfer the moment they saw him.

Controlling a school is just a trial run for him to see if he has what it takes to create his own empire once he graduates. He had plans even in middle school, but Gorgeous became a force he never expected, including falling in love with.

The moment he laid eyes on Gorgeous, he knew that she would be his downfall. His suspicion became true when she held up a lighter with a vicious smirk on her beautiful face. After their middle school was destroyed, he vowed that if their paths were to cross again, he's gonna do everything in his power to make her his partner-in-crime and future wife. Girlfriend would have to do for now.

And wouldn't you know it, both of them had a fresh start when they noticed each other during orientation.

Present of the student council. Nothing goes within the school without his say-so. He can easily withdraw the football team from participating in competitions, shut down any clubs he wants and even fire teachers who he has a problem with. It helps that he still has contact with his old gang.

#monotony's rambling #desmond asmr #headcanons #sjdskjdnasd #it took a whole day to write these out #can i just tag everyone that exist in desmond's world?#well #all the relevant couple #anyway #ENJOY!

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sinon36 · 6 months

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Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part III

warnings: violence, blood, mistakes, badly written British speech, smooth Ghost

P.S. I loved Frenchie from The Boys and I just couldn’t help myself. Apologies 😊

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

- the third time you meet is in the small briefing room, you sit next to one another, in silence, eyes forward waiting for your MI6 handler begin his presentation

- the plan is similar but this time you’ll have a gun on you, that thought brings a little more than a smidge of comfort; when you make contact with the supplier and confirm that the merchandise is legit you give the sign: three nods, as natural as possible; at that alpha team and bravo team will breach

- you stand up for everyone to see what you’re wearing, cream coloured jacket and light blue jeans, you picked it yourself and you explain that you’ll be more visible to them among the black clothed guards

- when contact is made your job is to get out of dodge, because everyone expects a fight and you aren’t dressed in protective gear to survive being caught in the middle; you’ll make yourself scarce thus not even giving the impression of association with the black ops teams; just a coward that runs away at the first signs of a fight desperately trying to save their skin; this will save the work you’ve done in creating this fake persona for later use

- the hours before the mission gives you a déja-vu feeling: you read, he listens to rock music; you raise your head from the notebook and motion for him to take of the headphones; he obliges

- ‘Why rock?’ you seek the useless information, not from curiosity but a weird need of talking to him

- ‘Pumps me up…’ that’s what you expected of him, you know heavy metal is used in boot camp training to simulate the chaos of battle, when hearing is no longer a dependable sense and one must rely on his vision, gut feelings and training; it’s something he’s familiar with you conclude

- you ask permission to listen for a bit and he allows it, handing you the headphones; you place them on your head and listen to the disharmonic sounds emanated straight into your eardrums; you close your eyes and bob your head to the rhythm getting lost in the screams of the vocalist

- a hand firm on your bicep startles you; Ghost is tilting his head towards the door; you turn and see a general; in a swift move you are up, headphones thrown on the couch where you just sat; you don’t salute as you are not part of the army but you are straight as a plank in utmost respect to the new comer

- the general to you about your achievements so far and that keeping up with the work we’ll get you very far very quickly in the hierarchical structure; you reply that you like your work and wouldn’t give it up for a boring desk job; he chuckles and with a ‘Have it your way, agent’ he turns and leaves you two to your pre-mission coping mechanisms

- Ghost smirks even more ‘A woman of action this one’ he comments, you turn eyes glinting in mischief, smirk unknowingly mirroring his ‘Bloody right’ your answer is met with a small chuckle

- ‘Would murder for a cuppa…’ you utter with a sigh

- ‘Understood’ he disappears out the door without missing a bit and you are left smiling to yourself like little schoolgirl

- in the car, you go over the plan one more time, you check the gun and the two magazine Ghost gives you; the Glock feels comfortable in your hand but its weight does little to ease your mind; you’ll be alone, surrounded by tangos, and now there is a new variable: the supplier and his men; they might open fire at the slightest misinterpretation of words, or worse, they might try to cross you over an try to kill your party and get away with the money

- everything is accounted for as much as not knowing the rendezvous location allows

- he makes sure to reassure you insisting on his position in relation to yours, in your made-up chess board scenario ‘I’ll look for yer’ you nod

- everything you’ve been through repeats like clockwork, this time the drive is longer; your gun is taken from you, and you feel your legs numbing from disuse where you sit on the hard van floor

- at your destination you get shoved around and put in the back seat of a limo; in front of you the buyer; you ask for your gun, motivating you won’t go win ‘without proppa protection this time ‘round’; he promises to give it to you when you get there

- he asks about you and your motivations behind switching sides; you tell him the fabricated story, how you got fucked twice, once by your commander and once by the government, when they threw you out without any means of survival while your commander got a pat on the shoulder and a laugh at another ‘young score’

- he understands a tells you a little bit by his motivations; you’ve heard this kind of talk and your sick of it, but you empathize with his hate for the British Government; he discloses to you that soon he’ll hit them hard, and all thanks to you, like being in league with him is something to be proud of; human filth

- after a short ride you get there, wherever that is, you don’t care; it’s just another job; your handgun is returned to you ‘a sign of good faith’ and you check that not even a single bullet is missing not as inclined to trust

- you are led to another warehouse this one filled with crates and random things strewn around; you are met with a gang of thugs, definitely not trained to properly hold a gun, or fight for that matter; you regard them with the superiority of an expert in guns and explosives, which is not an idle affirmation; you do in fact know what you’re doing not just faking it; the only thing that’s fake is the story behind it, the skill is there

- the supplier introduces himself as ‘Frenchie’ his French accent quite obvious; you request to se the merchandise; he comments to his thugs about the lack of manners in the British Isle; you stare him down unphased; he laughs;

- the buyer backs you up, voice demanding, reasoning along the lines of ‘pressing matter’ and ‘time sensitive issues’; Frenchie takes you to the back where crates full of C4 and more professional equipment, far superior than what you had to work with; everyone awaits your verdict in silence; you approach the crates to take a better look, and scrutinizing everything, though there is no need

- this is the real deal, military grade equipment, syphoned from somewhere where command is lax or corrupt; everything is brand new, though there is no flag, no insignia to indicate their origin

- you prepare yourself for the incoming breach; the signal this time a loud whistle of appreciation followed by a ‘got some hell of a gear ‘ere, huh?!’; Frenchie does not get the chance to brag about it as windows shutter, tear gas canisters fizzle, doors burst, shouts are heard, bullets start flying

- you duck and move to the side away from the crowd of thugs that try to return fire in vain as they fall like flies in a cacophony of screams and shouts of pain and terror

- you find the nearest door and burst out coughing having inhaled the bloody tear gas yourself; devilish contraptions you hated with a passion from your days in the academy when you first had tasted it; but as you struggle to regain your breath and get as far away without seeing where you are going a shadow follows close to you

- as your breath settles to a more manageable pace you hear a gun click and you slowly raise your hands in surrender; you turn around slowly as per the buyer’s demands; he clicks his tongue and wonders what a coincidence that black ops bust the deal right after you confirm the merchandise to be legitimate; you don’t deny it and he takes a step closer putting the gun to your head; but he takes to long to shoot you feeling more preoccupied with the villain discourse

- a gun shot is heard and he drops dead; wide eyed you watch as Ghost struts to you rifle shouldered in a professional manner and his figure the epitome of a perfect stance; he gives you a look over checking for any stray bullets you might have caught in your hasty exit

- and with a nonchalance at corpse that paints red the asphalt at your feet he calls in the kill over the radio

- the rest is a flash, you get checked by a combat medic for any signs of wounds, he dismisses you when he finds none, and your escorted away from the scene and to a black SUV to take you away to HQ now that your job on the field is done

- Ghost finds you again right as you climb in the back; he holds the door with one hand and the other is casually placed on the hood right above your head as he leans his tall frame to talk to you; but you beat him to it and a quick and sincere ‘Thank you’ escapes your lips

- ‘We even then, love’ he says quickly slamming the door shut; the first thing that catches your attention is the pet-name he used that makes the tip of your ears feel hot; and then his words hit you; you’re confused and a ‘What did ‘e mean by that’ escapes your mouth without volition

- ‘Huh’ the driver turns to you ‘You ok ma’am?’ he asks in mild concern; you didn’t even notice him, a young pale blond blue-eyed private regards you in confusion; your meagre answer comes in the form of ‘Yeah…, peachy. Just drive.’ A far away look takes over your face ‘Yes. Ma’am’

- you smile in thought; you’ll have to seek him out to ask for clarification; smooth bastard.

Previous part here.

Next part here.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod headcanons #simon riley

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ohnothisisathing · 1 month

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Deadlines

FitPac fanfic, fashion au. Fit has a project he needs done and he has just the place to get it done. He’s keeping it very professional with the floor manager.

Character: Fit, Pac, Mike, minor Bagi, mentions Missa, Madagio, and Lullah

I originally wrote this for Hideduo week, but got busy. It’s based off aspects of my job because I thought I could write something quick enough if I knew the subject well and I was wrong. Wasn’t going to post it, but I re-read it today and liked it.

Fit takes a moment to himself in the elevator to just breathe for these precious few seconds because as soon as he is on the correct floor it is back on the grind.

He’d just spent the last two hours sourcing zippers because one of the ones they’d ordered custom broke when it was being sewn in the day before but the jacket needed to be shipped today in order for it to be in London in time for the red carpet. His usual place only had one zipper with black, plastic teeth in stock so he had to go shop-to-shop in the fashion district until he found something good. Thank fuck Pac can cut the zipper and chage out the pull for him. Speaking of.

Fit walks out of the elevator and walks into Atelier Jorge. Pac is on his sewing machine still working on the dress, which would hopefully be done today. Fit would have to fly it there himself if it wasn’t and he’d prefer not to spend half a day on a flight just to handover the garment to the stylist team.

“Oi Pac!” Fit says rushing into the factory. Pac looks up from his work and smiles at him and Fit feels a bit more eager to be there.

“Oi Fit!” He says, lifting a hand from where he’s skillfully sewing a line of stitches to wave at him.

“Brought you a gift,” Fit says, holding the zippers up and then placing them in Pac’s hand, their fingers brushing slightly.

“Oh Fit, you shouldn’t have. This is too precious you know?” Pac say with fake seriousness, dramatically putting a hand on his chest. Fit snickers at his joke and Pac laughs with him.

“What can I say? I live to serve,” Fit jokes but turns to the task at hand, “I was able to find 15.5 cm so we won’t need you to shorten them like we thought.“

“Oh thank God,” Pac responds more sincerely.

“Yeah, so we save some time there, but we still need to put our custom pull on the zippers, but you can do that, right?”

“Yes! Absolutely! It will take, eh, maybe 10 minutes.”

“That’s incredible Pac!” Fit says genuinely, feeling relief at having one less step to worry about.

“It’s not that incredible,” Pac says in that doubtful way of his that Fit has never understood. He sews the highest quality and manages all the other sewers and fixes all the machines. He’s so blindingly talented that there is no way anyone doesn’t see it.

“Really Pac, you are saving us so much time and money. Most places don’t offer this. I’d have to get it done at a zipper supplier. Really, you’re too good to me.” Fit smiles down at him.

“Thank you Fit,” Pac says with a shy smile. Fit feels warmed by him accepting his praise and putting any weight behind Fit’s opinion.

“Stop flirting and get back to work!” A familiar voice says behind them, “we have a deadline, you know?”

Bagi smiles at Fit as Pac bristles.

“We are not flirting! We are talking like professionals”

“Yeah, we’re just having a professional conversation,” Fit assures her because they were only talking as colleagues.

“Uh huh,” Bagi says with amusement though Fit doesn't know why, “Well. Can you talk professionally and work? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yes, Bagi. Of course, sorry,” Pac says, going back to sewing.

“I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry to distract your floor manager and best sewer Bagi.”

“It was only a moment so it was okay. I just did not want him to be distracted too long. You two can do that after the deadline,” the owner of Atelier Jorge says and Fit feels his face turning red, which is extra embarrassing for a bald man

“Do you want to see the dress so far? It’s nearly done.”

Fit did not, but his boss would want photos, even if it’s best practice to not take pictures until it’s fully done. It should be fine since they already fit the muslin sample weeks ago and Madagio was happy with it then.

“Yes please,” Fit says taking out his phone to text his boss that he was taking pictures.

Pac stops sewing and snips the thread before handing the dress to Bagi. Pac then gets up and moves to the small work bench area with the zippers. Fit is tempted to stay and watch him work, but his job comes first.

He follows Bagi to a door and after she finishes knocking they walk into a small office with a large window and a large drafting table.

Mike is hunched over the table, measuring a circle with a ruler, turning it in a precise measurement. No doubt working on their next job. Mike is a brilliant patternmaker so it could be anything from a maxi dress to a tailored coat.

“Oi Mike, Fit is back and wants to see the dress.”

Mike looks up from his work, frowning and sneering at being interrupted but that quickly changes when he sees the dress.

“Oh, yes! Fit, it's amazing. You’re gonna love it,” Mike says, taking the dress from Bagi and putting it on the form. They didn’t have a child’s form so it didn’t fit at the waist correctly and did not zip close at the shoulders, but the overall look was easy to see. They’d already made the dress to the measurements of their client and when Lullah came in for her muslin fitting she was completely delighted from the experience and the dress.

It did look amazing. The skirt was completely purple organza ruffles with sleeveless embroidered tulle on the bodice. It was elegant and fun and his niece was going to love it, but he had to make sure his boss, who was paying for it, also loved it.

“It looks really good,” Fit says while taking pictures of the front and back and sending them to Madagio, “I want to take a picture of it with the jacket on.”

Bagi, smiling, leaves the room to go get it. When she leaves Madagio texts him back.

Wow!

Let me see it with the jacket

“The boss likes it,” Fit tells Mike with a relieved grin, not conveying the second part because it’s already handled.

“Good. He did not give us a lot to work with, you know?” Mike says with understandable irritation considering that Madagio didn’t have almost any experience in this and Mike ended up practically designing everything because of that, but that’s why he hired Fit as a production manager since he did everything else.

“We usually do T-shirts and sweatpants and hoodies, not all this.”

Pac walks in instead of Bagi, but he’s holding the jacket so he figures that Bagi must have gotten busy with something else. Besides, he's always happy to see Pac.

“Bagi asked me to bring the jacket,” he says to the room and Fit walks up to take it.

“I’ll take that. Thank you Pac.” He pauses to smile at him and Pac smiles back and it’s always such a nice smile to look at that everything else falls away for a moment. Fit realizes that he’s staring and clears his throat and awkwardly says, “uh, yeah thanks”

He misses Pac’s embarrassed look when he forces his eyes away but he does not miss Mike’s snigger.

Fit puts the child size jacket on the form and takes a picture, front and back, of the jacket. It was the most important piece since it tied the two looks together and has the most visible branding for this pet project Madagio gave Fit. It’s a leather jacket embroidered with flowers with their new high luxury brand “Stranger in Paradise” embroidered on the back collar. It looks incredible. Fit immediately gets a text from his boss.

Beautiful!

This will definitely sell

Good job Fit

Tell the team thank you

Send me pics of suit when ready

Fit smiles at the response. When he got this job at Vacuus, a hearing aid brand, he’d basically been hired to make merch. They made colorful, art printed cases and designs for hearing aids that were popular with children and the fashionable set so they updated their merch along with updates in their hearing aid designs. The job had its own problems but it was consistent and Fit was good at it. The opportunity with the current project came up when his ex-brother-in-law, Missa, needed a red carpet look for himself and his date, his daughter Lullah. He’d told Missa about this atelier that could make him whatever he wanted, but when Fit mentioned it to Madagio his boss saw it as an opportunity to expand their clothing line with a few luxury pieces and said he’d like Vacuus to be involved. Lullah already wore Vacuus hearing aids and Missa was relieved to work with Fit so they’d said yes. Luxury was not at all like everything else he was doing before for Vacuus, but he still had his connections and experience from working for Wasteland and nothing can be worse than working for his previous company.

“So Fit, what do you think? It’s pretty, yeah?”

Fit looks up from his phone to Pac.

“Yeah the boss likes it a lot!”

Pac’s smile falters and Fit scrambles to think about what he said that caused that until Mike speaks up.

“He wants to know what you think of it Fit, not your dumb boss. He wants you to say ‘ah Pac you’re so talented! I want to stick my-“ but Mike gets cut off by Pac covering his mouth with his hand. If looks could kill a tragedy would have happened. Fit just smiles at their antics. Those two are just like this.

“I think it’s beautiful. I can’t thank you enough. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without either of you. This project will change everything for me. For the better!” Fit adds, meaning every word, “I’m lucky to have such talented friends. Thank you Mike. Thank you Pac.”

They both seem stunned silent for a moment, Pac’s hand still over Mike’s mouth, but only a moment.

“Mmmmm hmmm hee,” Mike says under Pac’s hand but slaps it away with a chuckle, “you’re welcome Fit. You’re very easy to work with. It would be good to get more jobs from you.”

“If all goes well, you will be seeing a lot more of me.” Fit smiles. If they get sales after the red carpet Fit’s whole job will change and he’ll need all the help he can get.

“Ooh Fit, that would be amazing. We would like to see you here a lot more,” Pac says with an admiring look that makes Fit’s heart beat faster. He has to remind his stupid heart to stay professional. Pac is a friend but also a colleague.

“I would like to see more of you,” he settles on what he hopes sounds more neutral to them than it does to Fit. Not just that he likes spending more time with Pac. Just in case it comes off weird he adds, “If this luxury line does well I’m getting a promotion! More money for Ramón’s college fund!”

“Oh Fit! Speaking of Ramón, I’m making a present for him, if that’s okay. I’ve been too busy with the dress and jacket and the suit, but you know very well what I’m working on, right? You don’t need me to tell you what we’re making for you. But anyways I made one for Richas and-“

“One for Richas? Only if counting has changed. He spoils him, Fit,” Mike says with a conspiratorial stage whisper.

“Me?” Pac immediately turns to Mike, “You let him have a chocolate fountain in his room! I don’t want to hear about spoiling our son from you!”

Fit just watches amused. These two are like a comedy act together. Their son Richas is a lot like them. Fit has met five of Richas parents, but he knows there’s at least one more, and he’s sure that between all of them he’s plenty spoiled. He doesn’t say that though.

“So you made something for Ramón?” Fit interjects between their domestic spat.

“Oh, yes! Yes, it’s not ready and I want to keep it a surprise if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, I’m sure if it’s fine for Richas then it’s okay for my boy. I trust you Pac.”

Pac seems pleased with his words and that makes Fit feel like a giant. Making Pac happy feels like a high and he’s only too happy to continue doing it. In the confines of professionalism of course.

“Thank you Fit,” Pac says a little in awe, “I should be finished in a couple days. When is he coming here with you again?”

Ramón has been staying with his twin, Dapper, adopted separately but Fit and Dapper’s dad found each other and have made sure to set up time for them to be together.

“He’s away for another week. I have him staying with family while I’m busy with this job.”

“Perfect! I miss seeing him. He always likes to show me all the little things he makes. He’s so cute”

Fit just smiles to that, enjoying the praise to his beautiful baby boy.

“I’m sure he’ll love it. He thinks you’re great.”

“He does?”

“Mmmhmm,” he hums in the affirmative. He doesn’t mention his cheeky little son asking if Pac will be his new dad. It has been a little lonely with him away and after today he won’t have this deadline to take up his time and a full week without his son at home.

“Would you, uh, would either of you want to do something next week? Outside of work? We haven’t hung out in a long time and Ramón isn’t back for a week.”

“I’ve got Richas next week, but we’re going to the zoo on Wednesday if you want to come along,” Mike offers and Fit nods.

“That would be fun. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a zoo. Is Richas as crazy about birds as you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mike lies to his face.

“I mean the 10 birds you were fostering for half a year. How many do you even have now?”

“Oh you hate saving the lives of birds. You’re jealous that they have feathers and you’re bald. I see how it is,” Mike says, suspiciously not answering him, “Can you believe him Pac?”

“How could you Fit?”

“I just prefer them grilled,” Fit jokes, enjoying the banter, “but I’m in for going to the zoo. What about you, Pac.”

“Oh, yes!”

“You know since I’m watching Richas, Pac’s schedule is empty. He will be sitting at his apartment alone all week.”

“Oh, uh Pac, would you like to do something? Besides the zoo that is. Not that we can’t do the zoo again or something if you really wanted to.” Fit rambles, to his own embarrassment.

”Oh, yeah, we could hang out or something. We can even go to the zoo again if you want! Yeah, just the two of us hanging out. Just two bros. Haha!”

”Yeah, we can go to the zoo again. Or maybe we can go to that Bakery Etoiles is so crazy about, “The Dungeon” but in French.”

”Isn’t it “Le Dungeon”? Actually I don’t know what it is in French either,” Pac laughs nervously, “Ignore me. But I would love to go with you to the dungeon bakery sometime next week Fit.”

”Cool, it’s a date,” Fit says and only processes a second too late what he said, “I didn’t mean it like that! It’s an expression, an expression.”

”It had better be a date. It’s the only reason I haven’t told you all to get back to work,” Bagi’s voice suddenly interrupts them. Pac and Mike both actually jump at her voice. Fit is grateful for the distraction from him wanting to fall into a hole from embarrassment.

”Right, sorry Bagi. I’ll get to work finishing the dress. I already gave Batista working on the jacket to put the new zippers in.”

”Good, good. Now go stop getting distracted by your boyfriend.”

”Bagi!”

”Go Pac.”

Pac Grabs the dress and heads back out to the sewing area of the floor. Mike has already moved back to his drafting table without a word, pretending that Bagi’s intervention hadn’t been needed. Bagi smirks in amusement at them before turning her gaze to Fit.

”I’m surprised it’s you of all people who is distracting them.”

”Why? I’ve known to be distracting by many people.”

”Because if these clothes don’t ship on time you are the one who will have to answer to your boss and your family. Two kinds of people you never want to let down.”

“Fair enough,” Fit grimaces, because he really can’t afford to lose this job and he’d hate to disappoint Missa but especially, Lullah. Then Phil would never forgive him. There’s a chance that if this doesn’t ship then Fit loses his job, gets deported, disappoints his family, and loses one of his most reliable friends, “ you make a good point.”

Bagi smiles amusingly at him and makes her exit, presumably to get back to her job doing what it takes to run this place.

It’ll all work out. He has faith in these people to get everything done in time. Bagi is good at her job and Pac is exceptionally good at running his floor, speaking nothing of his own skill as a sewer.

Fit smiles to himself.

And he has a not-date with Pac to look forward to once this is all done. Not bad at all.

#FitPac #QSMP fanfic #my temp fanfic tag

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