#woke up at the very end and everyone DIPPED | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 2 years

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riptide | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it." His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won His touch is featherlight. But his eyes– His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

(it's like holding a lit cigarette to your pulse.)

part ii of in undertow

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; gendered reader; f!reader; female anatomy; near death experiences, MAJOR spoilers for the game (seriously, if you haven’t played it are saving it for later, or you haven’t finished, maybe don’t read this yet); PINING; cigarettes after sex was listened to on repreat during the making of this; also, i had “THAT’LL DO!” and “AHUEVO” on a loop, y’all. blame that.

notes: whenever someone asks what “doing the most” means, feel free to point them to this. it’s 16K. fullstop. it was only supposed to be smut. this ended up more plot than porn. but i so wanted the pining; the ambiguity, the danger, the drama. (i mean, this has none of that, but i wanted it.)

i told my very Welsh dad i was in love with an English man, and he said how could you do this to me? and that is pretty much all you need to know about Welsh culture.

Porthmadog hasn't changed much at all since you last washed up on the sandy shores, one hand gripping the strap of your off-duty duffle bag, and the other clenched around your passport. Wound tight. Ready to flee. A constant state of fight or flight.

The air is heady with the scent of the sea. Algae. Seaweed. Salt. Your lungs burn with the thickness of it. The sulphur sits in your throat, sticking to your larynx. It clicks when you swallow, refusing to budge. It curls behind your teeth when you suck the air in through parted, salt-chapped lips; the taste lingers in that strange microcosm of being both achingly nostalgic, and woefully foreign in the same breath.

The streets, too, live there: a realm of vague memories flashing by as your feet tap against the cobblestone. Boots heavy with exhaustion, and jet lag.

You're not ready to face it. Not yet.

Head bowed, you stare at the quasi-familiar cracks on the sandstone, and wonder how everyone else is fairing right now. An hour after takeoff. Soap would have been dropped off, wouldn't he? Safe and sound in Edinburgh.

You're both luckier than your American counterparts—the ones who have a full nine hours left to go.

Bouncing from the Middle East to Europe is a blink.

Europe to America is a whole ocean.

You and Soap played rock, paper, scissors for who got to depart first. In the end, you won. Wales was closer, anyway.

You left them behind with a heaviness that settled in your pericardium, compunction dipping in the valley of your pinched brow.

A strange feeling leaks from the fissures.

Ghost didn't depart.

They didn't stop in England at all. Right to Wales, right to Scotland. America. Mexico.

You try not to think about your prickly Lieutenant, but he flashes behind your eyelids, anyway. A bonfire in the dead of night. Tendrils of smoke drifting into the midnight blue aether. You're too close to the crackling flame. The heat scorches your skin.

He, too, sits heavy in your chest. A spooled cluster of questions bereft of answers. An unknown chasm gaping below. What it all means–

You woke up when the interior lights of the jet flickered on a few rows ahead, the jaundiced glow rousing you from your slumber. Your temple rested on something warm. Firm, sturdy. You blinked into existence, the ghost of a breath on your lips; a passing dream now left behind to rot. A world, forever unattainable, dissolving into nothing. Sand on your fingertips.

The world knits back into the cold clutch of reality: you're on a plane, and–

And you find yourself staring at tightly woven black thread. A balaclava.

Your eyes dart up.

The pad in his hands bathes him in iridescent light. It casts shadows on his face, in the pocks of his mask, and illuminates the white of the artificial bones. The paint used is tinged blue, brushed with cyan where it meets the black.

His lidded eyes crest low as he stares at the screen—a profile open on a man named Zyani stares back. Your eyes don't linger too long, pulled, instead, to the man you're leaning against. The coal under his eyes is smudged, nearly eroded away in the inner corners. You wonder if he rubbed them earlier, eyes gritty and heavy, but refusing to close. He won't sleep on the plane. He never does.

You don't usually, either.

Why didn't he wake you? Why did he let you stay?

There is no time for discussion—not on a jet that reeks of testosterone with ears everywhere. It will have to wait; shelved for another time when Gaz isn't snoring a few pews away, and Soap hasn't been glancing at you in intervals since you sat down.

Bonnie… you can almost hear him say. What are you doin'?

You can hear the steady breaths he takes, the sound swells through you.

It's the first time you've seen him so relaxed since–

Where are you going? Loose-limbed, one hand still wrapped around his softening cock, the other settles on the bend where your thigh meets the crease of your hip, fingers ghosting over the knob of your bone. His eyes are half moons. I didn't say I was finished with you yet, pet.

You shudder, a quiet breath leaving your lips. It draws his attention. His shoulder tenses under you. His head tilts just enough for him to slide his gaze from the screen balanced on his thick thighs to your open stare.

His eyes are liquid. Honeyed words over smouldering charcoal. "Alright?"

Your lungs quiver with your inhale. Outside of the acrid smell of ammunition, ozone, and gunfire, he carries something musky in his scent. Driftwood. Salt—sweat, blood, the sea. It's potent. You breathe him in again, lids lowering. You hold his scent there, nestled in the gummy webbing of your lungs, dripping down your throat.

Your eyes feel gritty when they slip shut. Anchors pull them down. You nod your head, slow and languid, murmuring your assent in a barely coherent mumble. The drag of his rough fatigues under your cheek, the straps of his tactical vest grinding into your cheekbone. And then—awareness. It startles you back into reality. Your eyes pop open, meeting the black pools above.

You wish you could chisel open his head, and read whatever it is that might be lingering in those unfathomable depths. His expression is shuddered, hidden by the thick of his mask. Eyes lidded and heavy and narrowed right on you.

Intense focus.

Sometimes, the others talk about Ghost like he's a berserker. A wild, untamed beast let loose in the shadows. Even the vilest people pale when they see him—his larger-than-life frame lingering in the background—and it's fear that dances in the cut of their brow, in their shaking glare.

You heard stories, of course.

Those always paled in comparison to seeing him on the field.

You got it, then, why no one mocked him. Why even the worst of the worst never bothered with leading him around by the nose.

He asked a question, and they answered.

For a long while, you thought it was his heigh. His size. Immense power. Expert precision.

But no. It's just him. Those eyes. His presence.

He doesn't just receive attention, he commands it.

You should move. You're awake, now. There is no reason for such intimacy with your Lieutenant, for a man more distant and unreachable than the sea.

You should.

But you don't.

He's warm milk under your chin. Heat bleeds into your skin from the firm bracket of his body. Ghost smells good—sweat and timbre—and feels even better. You could sleep again like this. Lashes fan down, sleep digs into the back of your eyes. You force them open.

Your fingers are tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed tight to his chest; there's a note of domesticity in the way he breathes with you, a palpable weight that falls on you like a thick quilt. His muscles jump. Body tense.

Eyes on you. Always.

But then they're gone. A flutter. They cut out to the pews, and you follow his gaze. Price wades closer.

The bubble pops. You're clinging to your Lieutenant like it's a luxury you're allowed.

Like it's something commonplace.

There is distance in his eyes when they flicker to you. The molasses hardened into something once again unreachable. A wall now sits between you.

(Maybe, that conversation will never come, after all.)

You should have known better than to let yourself want.

The air is crisp when you draw it in. The chill hurts your teeth.

You slip your fingers out from the wedge of his arm and ribs, already mourning the loss of him under your flesh—ticking muscles coiled tight; velvet draped iron. Ghost says nothing when you move, but his gaze is heavy on you when you fold yourself back into your seat. Proper, now. Lieutenant and soldier. You press yourself as far away from him as you can until your arms dig into the plastic around the window, and sit straight—as if you weren't sleeping on his shoulder.

As if he didn't let you.

He looks away when Price takes the bench on the opposite side, offers a nod.

Price echoes it. Flashes a tight smile your way.

Then his eyes linger. Not on you. Not on Ghost. He rests his pensive gaze on the sliver of space between the two of you. Where Ghost's bulky arm takes several inches of space up on your own seat, flesh glued together, parting only at the elbows. He's too big to get away from. Takes up all the space—

(—in your lungs, in your head, in your—)

Price, mercifully, isn't the type of man to pry. His brows buoy on his head, a fleeting glance sent in Ghost's direction, and then he's all business. Astute leader. Battle-ready even on a sleepy jet.

He clears his throat. "Where are you headed?"

It's for you.

Gaz is going to America with the men you'd picked up for this mission. His offer for you to join was swiftly rejected. The invitations from the Mexican operatives, notably Alverez, to come and enjoy the coast were also rejected.

"Is Soap going home?" You ask, hands fisting into balls on your lap.

Price's smile is wan. "He is. Not joining Gaz on his American adventure."

"Misadventure, more like." Ghost's dry tone makes your toes curl.

You can still hear the way he growled out pet.

You huff. "I'm…"

There is nowhere for you to go.

—Well. Nowhere else.

(Your knees ache, chafed and raw. Pebbles dig into your skin.)

"Wales," you murmur. You hear the ruffle of fabric when Ghost dips his head to look at you. "Whatever is easier. I'll take a taxi."

"Right," Price nods. "Get some rest while you're home."

It sounds like a dismissal.

Baleen lines fill your periphery when you turn your head. Your gaze sticks to the crease where his chin meets his neck. You can't bring yourself to look up.

"Better go fight it out with Soap."

He doesn't stop you when you stand, when you squeeze past him, thighs brushing his knees.

He says nothing at all when you depart.

(Don't think about it. Don't get your hopes up—)

The town is silent save your heavy steps on the cobblestone. In the distance, the roar of the ocean crashes along the beige shore.

Something inside of you begins to crumble.

(Too late.)

The woman by the apartment block greets you warmly, but the words are a strange amalgam of vowels and consonants that do not belong together. Her accent sounds English. The words make no sense to you.

Your bewilderment must show on your face. Her smile dips, a touch of laughter paints her words when she says, in English:

Sorry, dove. I thought you were Welsh.

It feels a little bit like a slap to the wrist. Naughty child… mind your manners, and speak your tongue.

"I'm not…," you murmur, chastised despite having done nothing wrong.

Wales isn't where you came from. Here is not the place of your birth. It's a paradoxical realm: a land where you were taken to as a child, and told welcome home; all memories erased of the other times they said the exact same thing. A taboo, now. Faux pas. A fresh start (for the nth time). Welcome home.

It's the place you stayed the longest, though. Your developing years from a child to a teenager, to a spiteful preadolescent with too much to prove, and an ocean to live up to.

(You wonder if the pavement is still stained red.)

You know Welsh. Have spoken it for years. You came, fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked, and the ladies cooed while they taught you the words.

But it's buried. They are covered in dust; a forgotten relic. You remember pieces of the greeting, but your lips are no longer used to forming them. Your tongue is too heavy, too foreign.

You say nothing at all, trailing off into a stifling silence.

"Right," her brows knot, rheumy eyes regard you warily. "Do you need a hotel—?"

"I live here."

You bend down, peeling the pristine welcome mat back, and fish out the key you keep tucked away. Years of training echo in the background; a firm voice rings out, one that sounds suspiciously like Ghost's, barking out how that's trouble. You'll come home to a world of hurt if you keep doin' that, soldier.

(You already do.)

You pull your duffle bag up when it slips, and nod at the bemused woman.

It's not much of a homecoming.

It never is.

The flat you own is barren. A bed that feels too comfortable at night for you to ever truly relax on is shoved into the bedroom, a wardrobe with civilian clothes, a shoe rack in the foyer. A kitchen that's always empty.

You mostly sleep on the worn, old couch where the springs dig into your shoulder blades, and remind you of that night you spent in Sierra Leone, belly full of yabeh. Ghost a hair's length away from you. His gloved hand brushing yours.

The duffle bag falls to the tiles with a heavy thud. Your passport will go in the safe along with all of your other belongings—clearance badge, certificates, your guns—until the call comes in for your next mission.

You hope it's soon. That Shepherd and Laswell trudge up some calamity that will take you far away from this place. A long-haul mission. The kind where you go deep into the trenches, and when you surface, it feels like an aeon has passed.

It's too quiet at night.

Your home reeks of dust. Disuse.

You settle on the couch, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend you can't feel his shoulder under your head even now.

A world away, and you still think of him.

(Always, always.)

Shepherd calls you weeks later. A secret mission with the Shadow Company, he tells you. When you ask about the others, his voice is tight.

Just you, soldier. Just you.

Breaking up the Task Force isn't unheard of. Ghost does so many secretive missions on his own that meeting people he worked with in the past on a group venture isn't at all a rarity anymore. Price is the same. Soap, sometimes, too.

There isn't much else to do.

(You held your phone in your hand each night for those weeks, finger hovering over the CALL button. Two letters— Lt— on the contact screen. His profile picture is a dune of sand.

It never rang. You never called.)

You give your affirmative, and go to the coordinates where his operatives will be waiting for you.

"Show me what you got," he says, a challenge in his voice.

Your grin is sharp. "Always, Actual."

Phillip Graves meets you with a wide grin on his face. The American flag on his fatigues sticks out against the green. So used to the British flag, you can't stop your eyes from sliding down to it, drawn like a beacon.

(Maybe, in a bygone era, it, too, might have been home.)

"Welcome aboard, soldier." His eyes flash in the setting sun. Eager. Heavy. You echo it in your own smile. "Let's get these son'of'a'bitches."

You're back at the bottom.

The Shadow Operatives stare at you when they think you aren't looking. Low murmurs fill the jet— princess, chick, girl— and you gazed, pointedly, out the window.

Your hands itch; the phantom scabs prickle.

It makes you miss 141 more than you thought possible. Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost. They flicker in your mind, and you wonder what they'd do in this situation.

How would they prove themselves to everyone around them?

(Answer: they wouldn't.)

The only one who isn't pushing you in a box is Graves.

"Heard great things about you," his smile crests over his lips. Eyes hungry. Ready for battle. "Can't wait to see what you can do."

He worked with Ghost a month ago. You find this out when he mentions it offhand. Secret mission with your Lieutenant. Is he always that much of an asshole—?

Actual is in your ear, stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

But it's Ghost you think of.

(Always, always.)

"He's not an asshole," you say, shrugging. "Just a man who cares too much."

Almost immediately, you want to swallow the words back down. Stupid. Stupid. You force yourself to remain still, nonchalant.

(How presumptuous of you to think you know him.)

Military likes to gossip. It'll come back to him somehow. The little rookie who stuck up for him. Who said he cared.

Graves' eyes flicker. "That right?"

You blush. English is gone. The only language in your throat is Welsh.

(Graves' guffaw echoes in the jet.)

Graves purses his lips, rolling them from side to side, as you sift through the documents in front of you. He's been pacing the room for the last ten minutes while you meticulously translate each paper in your grasp. Agitation bleeds through the usual warmth in his countenance.

It's tense. A slaughter.

His compatriots flank all of the exits; sounds of gunfire resound through the compound.

The infiltration was easy.

This—

This is not.

"So…," he drawls, the thick accent is warm, but his voice is constricted; pinched. "Heard you were the best at sniffing things out. What do you think?"

"It's not—," you pause, eyes skimming the page, squinting at it.

"What?"

His tone is sharp. Icy. The usual warmth dissipates into a palpable tension; a tight unease.

The shift is strange. Focus on the mission.

"It's not just Konni in this. They're being backed."

"That so?"

You suck in a deep breath. "We should leave. Tell Actual what's going on–"

"Yeah," he intones, crouching down in front of you. His eyes are placid. "We'll do just that."

It all happens so fast. A clichè, really, but a fitting one.

Head turned out the window of the cargo van, deadly missiles being dragged behind. Your mind is full, racing. Nothing makes sense.

You wish Ghost was here. Price. Soap. They're the ones you use to bounce ideas off of: this is what is happening, this is the missing equation, and this is what I think.

Good, bonnie. Now, tell us something we don't know.

And what if the equation is wrong?

Crafty, soldier. How do we prove it?

And then the world shatters.

Konni Operates. A gun to your head. Graves yelling in the distance; spitting curses, threats. Actual in your ear— you'll die here, soldier.

Chaos. Death presses cold metal to your forehead, snapped words in rapid-fire Russian, too fast for you to pick up.

The only ones that leak through are oozing glee. I'm going to blow your head off.

A dead-end. You think of Gaz—the closest to you in age, passing jokes back and forth; playing Never Have I Ever when the missions lull, the others looking on with amusement.

Kids these days, they scoff.

Have you seen this video? He asks, dropping into the vacant seat beside you. Ghost looks up. It's a club in London.

Soap huffing when you ask if he wants to come. Too old for that, bonnie.

You kids have fun, Price says, lips twitching. A rare show of amusement from the man. But I'll have to pass.

What if we went to a pub instead, you geezer? You chuckle.

Geezer? He nudges Ghost to his left, eyes dry. You've been rubbing off on the kids.

You meet his stare over the plastic table. Smile turns shy. Wanna come with us, Lt?

He holds it. Halfmoon. Eclipse. Liquid black. Negative, soldier.

You try not to let the sting of rejection show. It's stupid. Stupid—

Nice one, kid.

Y'did good, bonnie.

Let's show these old boys what us kids can do, yeah?

Their voices echo in your mind. One rings louder than the others. A sharp bark. Gravel shattering. Move, soldier!

You're a dutiful soldier. You never disobey a command from your superior officer. From him.

White-hot pain splits across your temple. The world turns static. You're falling down, down, down—

Waves lap at your body, tugging you out to sea. The briny water fills your throat.

Stay alert, soldier. The General. Voices.

"Well, shit." Graves. He sounds distant. Far away.

You think of Sierra Leone. Your first mission.

Hiding in a concrete house with no windows, no doors, no cover. Gunfire booming across the landscape, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night. Flickers of yellow-red light pop in the distance.

You don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Your hands tremble around your rifle. Eyes wavering.

Warmth against your back. You startle. A gloved hand over your mouth. The brush of a balaclava against your neck.

"Easy, soldier. They'll see you if you jump."

They'll see you—

"They dead?" A boot knocks against your calf.

You go limp.

"Yeah," Graves. Companion. Comrade. Be careful who you trust, soldier. All you have right now is yourself. Trust your gut; you're on your own.

Copper on your tongue. You let it pool between your teeth, keeping it held in the space between your lips. It tastes of pennies. You try not to choke.

Sir… you whisper the words against his tactical vest. Feel the shift of his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder. Let's get yabeh after this.

We're not on holiday, soldier.

Really? Feels like one.

You need to get out more.

Yeah… maybe…

C'mon, now. Stay with me, pet.

Always… sir. Always…

You drag him to someplace you'd heard of through your new friends–best yabeh in all of Salone; gotta try the Jollof, too, Sesay insists–and he fits in like a sore thumb.

You both stand out, really. Foreigners in the middle of a place visited only by locals. Him in his denim trousers, and short-sleeved shirt, tactical vest fixed on his chest; his mask stays on. A ball cap low over his brow. He exudes danger. The rippling musculature of a tiger. The stealth of a panther.

You—nondescript and tiny beside him.

There is something to be said about seeing your new Lieutenant in denim. In the custom facemask instead of the full balaclava.

With the baleen lines missing over his chin and neck, he almost feels too exposed to you. Too vulnerable. Too open.

You can't stop fixing your gaze on the scant flesh, uncovered, above the collar of his shirt. His arms, bulky, and big, fold over his massive chest.

He barely fits inside the small booth.

Your eyes dance. Amusement. A roseate veil shudders over you—a novice, a rookie—and high off of the success of a mission.

"Sesay says this is the best place in town."

"Sesay says a lot of things, don't he?"

You blink, fingers tapping against the worn wood of the table. It's hot in Sierra Leone. A wet swelter that brands your skin with white-hot intensity. It's different from the dryness of the Sahara.

Somehow, his tone is drier than the arid desert you crawled out of. Drier than the burning heat of the massive sun.

"That he does…," you agree, floundering.

Was this a mistake? Maybe you shouldn't have come here. What were you thinking? Dragging your superior out for dinner. You flush. It's barely discernable from the blistering sunburn over the bridge of your nose. Unfamiliar with the intense sun that scorches the land.

You're drowning, now. Wallowing in this limbo of uncertainty. Maybe you should have just come later with Sesay and Abdul. They asked you when you pestered for directions, but you met Ghost's stare from over their shoulders, and hadn't heard a thing of what they were saying once you met him in the middle.

He's a whole head taller than everyone he meets. Massive. The locals' baulk at him: this huge, terrifying being with a skull on his face, cutting through the throng of people like a tank.

There was so much going on once you started the mission. After the Intel was gathered, and the forces were ready, those long nights spent inside a tent that was barely big enough for yourself let alone the behemoth bulk of your Lieutenant came to an end. It was abrupt. Sudden.

It was just you and him.

And then it was a sea of people.

You'd spent the better part of a year pouring over documents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Scorpions and sand, and him.

The tent was deadly during the day; balmy with a humidity fit for the Amazon. At night, any complaints you might have had about the heat turned into regrets. It was freezing. You could see white clouds of condensation when you breathed out.

You'd lie next to each other. Grains of sand is the only thing keeping you apart. He was warm—bonfire hot.

You'll be frustrated, mad. That's normal when you spend so much time with a stranger. You might argue, bicker. But just focus on the mission. This is a test of camaraderie as much as it is endurance.

It wasn't like that at all. It was—

Seamless.

His ebb and flow were easy to adjust to. Maybe, it was the fact that you were a neophyte that made it so. Too afraid to let the bundle of frustration rear when this was your first mission. Your first test.

But—

It wasn't quite like that. You found that you enjoyed his company. His barbed insults spoken in a flat, serious tone often flew over the heads of the men you had to work with, but you grew accustomed to them. Enjoyed them, even. He was—

An enigma. A year later, and you know nothing about Simon Riley, and as much as he'll allow about Ghost. There is distance still, but;

It wanes. It cracks. Fills with the sharpness of his sarcasm, the stoic dedication to his mission; the grains of sand that stick to his sweat-slicked forehead. The deep hue of red from the mask he refuses to take off.

You'll suffocate, you quip, eyes glued to the paper in front of you.

Don't worry about me.

That's a silly thing to say…

It ain't. You shouldn't.

Mindless, stupid: well, I do.

Silence. Brutal and stifling. Then: focus on the mission, Rookie. Not on me.

You'd hummed noncommittally. It slipped into the back of your head, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of you.

But it wells, now. When Sesay asks if you want to go with him for dinner, when he tells you how to get there, and what to order.

Not on me.

Your eyes haven't left his. He holds your stare.

The chossy wobbles, cracks. Your hand on his arm. C'mon, boss, let's eat. It stays there while you lead him through winding valleys. The heat of his arm—bare, veins ticking under your palm, too burly for you to wrap your whole hand around the thick of him—bleeds into you. You, cold-blooded, leach the warmth from his flesh.

And now—

He doesn't eat when dinner is brought out. Doesn't take his mask off.

You watch him through the steam that wafts off the Jollof rice, his eyes roaming around the room like clockwork, looking for something that might strike. Hyper-vigilant. Wary. Cold. Distant.

A puzzle not meant to be put together, but your fingers itch with the urge to try.

Why did he come, you wonder. Why didn't he say no?

As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes are on yours. Tendrils of translucent white fog the air between you. His brow pinches. Lids crest.

It punches the air from your lungs. There is a phantom heat in your palm. Your hands shake around the fufu in your grasp, tightening around the tacky food until it bulges between your fingers.

The syphoned heat begins to simmer in your belly.

It bubbles over, blustering through your insides when his head pulls close, chin over the table, and says:

You did good, rookie. Might make a soldier of you, yet.

You bow your head. "Cachu hwch."

"English, soldier."

You shake your head. "N-nothing, sir… burnt my tongue."

You wake up in an empty hospital room. It was early August when you left for Al Mazrah. The calendar on your wall says it's now late September.

The space in between is a blur. Left in the mud. Graves was taken. Was he okay–

You don't remember anything after the point of passing out in the mud, and waking up—sick from infection, burning from a fever—and finding yourself strapped down on a jet. Medics surround you.

You'll be okay, you'll be fine–

You'd passed out again. The world slipping away until you felt the heat on your shoulder blades. The scent of yabeh thick in your nose.

You move, sluggish and heavy, on the rough hospital bed, fingers gripping the sheets below.

You still feel the grit of sand against your arm.

Heat in your belly.

(Cachu hwch, indeed.)

Shepherd calls you a day later on the phone in your private room. Your prison. The men outside say you're not allowed to leave. It's dangerous.

"Did good out there, rookie."

"Thanks, Actual," you murmur, hands clenched around the receiver. "Couldn't have done it without your help. Without you."

You want to ask about Graves. About your team.

You remember the rapid Russian spat in your ear. And this one? You bite your tongue, body pickling with unease.

"Rest up, now. My boys will be keeping an eye on you. They'll keep you safe."

You are discharged at the end of October.

Hands pressed against the still-healing scar on your temple. They peeled the bandage off yesterday.

The infection made it worse. It wasn't healing with the sickness you had. You're lucky some local boys found you in the mud when they did. You would have died.

Laswell finds you outside. Hand against her throat, eyes wide.

She looks like she's seen a ghost.

You certainly feel like one.

The ride to your safehouse is punctuated by a game of catch-up. She tells you about the mission they went on, the one you were exempt from.

The phone calls from Soap, Gaz make sense now. Straight to voicemail.

Hey, you skimpin' out on us, yeah? Skippin' duty? Not like you at all. Kinda worried, y'know? Text me somethin'. You know I don't like callin'. Anyway… we're keepin' it together, yeah? But kinda freakin' out. Uhh… anyway—

Not like you to miss one, bonnie. Call me when you can, aye? Want to make sure you're okay.

Price calls nine times. Leaves no voicemail.

A single text from Ghost. Wheels up at 16:00. Expect to see you there.

You didn't get your phone back until today. These were sent at the end of October.

The clock on your screen reads 2nd November.

"No one knew…," you murmur, hands clenched around the metal. "Why didn't Shepherd—"

"Shepherd said you were sent on recon. Said something happened. He didn't tell the others—just me and Price. Didn't want to distract them from the job."

"When did you find out?"

"That you were alive?" Her lips thinned, skin paling. "Yesterday."

"Where are they now?"

"That's confidential."

A scoff. "Sure. Now, off the record…"

"Mexico."

Something doesn't feel right at all. It sits like an anvil in your stomach.

"Laswell…"

"Get some rest," she says, even. Her eyes are glossy when she stares at you. "We'll keep you updated. I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know you're alive."

Your phone rings two days later.

The screen flashes. Lt.

Your hands tremble when you answer it.

"It was Shepherd," he admits.

Your head swims with the admission. Shepherd. Did good out there, rookie. Now, stay good. Stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

"Is he–?"

"No," he grouses, the word a sliver short of being a growl. "He's alive. Graves is dead."

It hits you in the sternum—a punch unlike any other you'd received. Air knocked from your lungs, chest throbbing in agony, you sink down into your bed, fingers gripping the sheets until your knuckles bleach white.

This shouldn't have happened.

This is what you do. It's your purpose. It's your job. Your role. You were selected by Shepherd, by Laswell, Price for that, for your ability to gather information, to weed out the moles, the rats. To sniff them out, and puncture holes in their ship until they sank to the bottom, secrets leaking out.

The words roll out of your mouth before you stop them.

"I should have been there."

The tremulous quiver makes you wince. Weakness. You're not weak. You're not—

Ghost won't see it as such, you know this; he doesn't really react to the harsh emotions of others. He carries an unwavering focus, rapt attention to the overarching mission, the end goal; pragmatic, astute on the battlefield, he doesn't flinch.

It's a toss-up if he'll ever respond. If he does, it's usually with a dry, biting dismissal. Sarcasm with him often rides the line of being too sincere, and too flat. It's not just murky, but opaque. He'll say something—equal parts scathing and wise: it's already done, no sense dwelling on what you can't change. Do better next time.

The bite in his words hurt; it was enough to make even the most impassive man irritated by the blunt, almost cruel tinge to his tone.

But it's later when the message will unravel itself. When you're lying alone in your cot, picking over the things he said, and why he said them, and then—

Oh.

Do better next time.

Right.

A soft sound. The rush of air being inhaled through clenched teeth.

Then: "I'm glad you weren't."

Silence. Your heart thunders. I'm glad you weren't.

It could mean a lot of things. A lot of bad things, but:

He thought you were either dead, or missing, or just—gone. You get it:

The last job didn't kill you—the evidence stacks in your head; one conclusion drawn:

It should have. It was meant to.

Your brush with death was a footnote. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things.

They wanted you dead. They failed.

Soap called you last night, voice tight. You good, bonnie?

Getting there, you joked. Actual had my back. Graves, too. I'm alive because of them.

You choke.

"You alright?"

It's on the tip of your tongue to say yeah. The usual response. Practised. Easy. Distant. But you think of his words, and your ears ring with the deep husk of his voice. He was honest with you. Open. And that's—

Your words are a rush, dipped in vulnerability. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Too much. Too honest.

Too open.

You flinch. Heart thudding in your throat.

Ghost makes you feel like an exposed wire. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Raw.

He says your name—a low, brassy rasp that tickles the back of your neck. It's rare for him to call you by your given name. It's much too intimate. Too—

Well. It's just too much. You want to lean into it, to drape yourself in the rich utterance. Have it whispered into your ear late at night, while he fucks into you the same way he bucked into his hand.

And in the morning when he first wakes. When he rolls over, body folding over your own. Lips against the shell of your ear. A husky rasp; the word dragged over gravel.

You want it, want him, in ways that are unattainable.

Domestic.

You gasp. "I–um. Thanks," you fumble over your words, head roaring with the realisation that there is more than just attraction in the way your heart flutters in your chest; the downy soft wings of a small bird ruffling its fresh plumage. "I'll… talk later."

Your name is barked through the phone when you pull it away. It's cut off before he can finish.

They video call you from some pub.

The sight of them together—Gaz, Soap, Price, Laswell, Ghost—makes you smile.

"Christ, bonnie." Soap's eyes are fixed on the line near your temple. Scabbed. Plum colour. Healing, but not yet there. An inch over, and you'd have been—

You flinch, shrugging. "Could be worse–"

"What happened?" It's a command. You try not to tremble at the bark in Ghost's tone. Perhaps Laswell didn't tell them everything.

His eyes are wide, the whites cresting over the puddles of black. You can't match his stare. You drop, darting to the clock in the corner.

It's Laswell who tells them about the mission with the Shadow Company. Graves. Shepherd.

"...Fuckin', aye." Gaz murmurs. He echoes Ghost's question. "What happened? No one told us anything. We thought— and then Shepherd said you were out for the mission. Not that—that you'd been— "

It falls silent. They don't know about the mission's end aside from Shepherd's lies. Laswell knows. She was the first face you saw in the hospital.

Let's talk…

"We were ambushed," you start, shrugging again. Blasé. Nonchalant. You pretend you can't feel the intensity of Ghost's stare through the screen. "I… they were going to shoot me. I got away. Got a scratch—," a scoff from Soap, a murmur of more than a scratch, aye; you ignore it. "They thought I was dead, so they left me there…"

There is more to it. Graves. The whispers in your head. Them, in your final moments. Agents outside your hospital door. Two inches from death. A day away from rotting.

You swallow it down. It doesn't matter. It happened and now it's over.

"Bonnie…," there is something raw in Soap's voice. It pricks your pericardium.

Left for dead. Abandoned by everyone around you. The ones you trusted the most. Your own team didn't even look. Had no time to mourn, no time to worry.

You know what they must see; the lines they must be drawing. How they, themselves, currently feel, and what they would do if it were them instead of you. It—

It hurts.

"I'd have joined you at the pub," you murmur, voice a shaky worble, before he can say anything else. "But–," you lift your head, eyes downcast. A facsimile of a smile flickers. You wonder if it hits the mark. "Maybe next time."

Price nods in your periphery. "Listen—"

"I'll be ready for Makarov," you interrupt. "I'm… I gotta go, though. Am I — can I be dismissed?"

"...Yeah, yeah you can."

You hang up without another word.

In the silence of your flat—in a land more foreign to you than the Sahara—you break.

Your night dissolves into a series of firsts in quick succession:

A knock on your door. No one knows that you live here. No one but Laswell when she dropped you off. The rheumy-eyed lady with knobby knuckles who mutters at you in warm Welsh. Words you pretend you can't understand.

Shepherd, too, because he needed a location to put down on paper. A place to find you if they couldn't get a hold of you.

You think it might be him—back for vengeance—and you hold your pistol in your hands, back pressed flat against the wall. One hand drops the brass doorknob.

"Who is it?"

A beat.

"It's me." A thick baritone—enough, you think, pulse racing, to rattle the door with his voice alone. "It's Simon."

Simon. Not Ghost—

Right. Off-duty, now. Until you get a lead on Makarov.

Your Lieutenant knocking on your door at—gritty eyes flicker to the stovetop in the kitchen—quarter to five in the evening is another first. Almost paradoxical, really.

Gun shoved into the holster, you turn to face the wood. Through the little window above, covered by a paper-thin curtain, you can see the dark shape of him, unmoving, as he stands on your porch.

There are a number of reasons why he'd be here, but only one makes you yearn.

You pull the door open, and the sight of him makes you dizzy. Hypoxia. Seasickness. Homesick.

He's dressed as casually as Simon is capable of. Black hoodie, wet on the hood from the snow that falls in clumps outside. A black beanie on his head. Skull mask flat against the bridge of his nose. Denim. Black boots.

The coal around his eyes is smudged. A nebula of pale skin through a black oasis.

"What—?"

"Shepherd." Right. He could have called. Got the Intel from Laswell. His words leave no room for argument when he lets out an amalgam of a snarl, a growl; it's ground to dust when he says: "we need to talk."

"Not—," you don't want him to see the emptiness inside. The vacancy. Militaristically barren. Lonely. "Not here…"

Shepherd was here, too. Not him, specifically—maybe. You don't know for certain. But his agents, definitely. Polluting the inside.

It's a flimsy excuse. You hear the threadbare conviction in your tone.

"Shepherd was here," you say, and then wince. "Not now, I mean—"

The words die on your tongue. Ghost— Simon —is smart. Of course he wouldn't think Shepherd was here now. He'd fled. Went into hiding. You shift on your feet.

He can read you like no one else.

(You wonder if anyone at all can read him.)

You flounder. "I don't want…not here…"

"Where do you want to go?"

Somewhere stiflingly hot. "Anywhere."

Simon doesn't press. He never does. His head rolls, tips toward the street. "C'mon, then. Get your stuff."

He reads it on your face, in the things you don't say. It reminds you of Sierra Leone— eat, rookie, you haven't all day; get some sleep, you're dead on your feet; I'll take the first watch— and the memory clots behind your ribs.

"Okay," you murmur.

You feel his gaze on your back when you turn around. The door is left open. He doesn't follow.

There is a chill in the air when you step outside, bundled up in a knit sweater that does little to stem the frigid sea breeze from cutting through the cracks in the threaded cable.

It's a cold night in Porthmadog.

Snow falls in clumps from the indigo-smeared sky, sticking to the cobblestone under your feet.

Simon says nothing as you walk out of the apartment block. He stays close to you, so close you could inch your elbow out and touch him. The heat from his body is a beacon. You're at war with yourself, struggling not to get pulled into his current, and swept out to sea.

Despite the closeness, there is a distance in the way he paces. Eyes roaming under the hood, taking in the lights strewn overhead, lingering on the alcoves where someone might hide.

Having him here feels a little surreal. Porthmadog is off-limits to everyone—it's a place where you come to rot.

His presence shatters the sense that it doesn't really exist outside of those long nights when you stare up at the ceiling, and want. A metaphysical realm that laps at the cracks inside of you, eroding the thick veneer you cobbled together over the years until it withers away, and you have to patch it up when you get called in for another assignment.

Intact soldier. Whole. Nile.

It's a place, now. Real. Tangible.

Seeing Simon—Ghost, Lt—walk beside you down Lombard Street, footfalls echoing through the winding road, makes something churn in your guts. It sits inside, and feels a little like finality.

How could you possibly come back to a place you pretend doesn't exist? A place that is just en-route to wherever else you have to go?

A place you come to because you have nowhere else.

You can't come back here now that the streets are tainted with the nitroglycerin scent of Simon. A bonfire on the beach. The burning logs doused in kerosene. The miasma will suffocate you.

It clots inside of your lungs, sticking to the gummy lining when you breathe him in.

He smells of bourbon. Cigarettes. Carries the scent of everyone else with him—Gaz's cologne: thick vetiver; the sickly sweet tang of Price's cigars; thick metallic: ozone and gasoline that Soap wears after a mission—and you greedily take it in.

You let it sit, red-hot barbed wire, against your chest.

Your eyes slip. Illegal. Wrong. They find him, always. Bathed in the streetlight above; flushed yellow. It casts shadows on him, and makes his eyes look lighter.

A peaking shoal in the middle of the midnight blue ocean.

He's dangerous. Makes your fingers prickle with want; with the urge to touch.

Makes you greedy.

Stupid.

Despite not knowing the area, Simon cuts through the supine street like he's familiar with it already. Maybe, he is. He must have looked at the map on his phone before he got here, eyes locked on the space, the landscape. Mentally cataloguing each hiding spot.

You follow him—a stranger in your own home—and cross your arms over your chest when the thick chatter carries from inside the shops along the street. Heavy Welsh. Warm milk and honey.

Salt in your wounds.

You don't belong here.

The familiar green of the carpet and flooring shop nearly makes you trip, but you steady yourself. Ball your hands into fists by your side, and drop your gaze to the cracked ground below.

You can feel the moment his gaze shifts, sliding over to you. It bores into your temple; abrasive, and grating.

Goosebumps erupt over your flesh. You blame it all on the cold—the stutter in your chest, the ache in your lungs, the shiver dancing down your spine. The frigid weather. The icy breeze.

Another shiver rolls through you, different this time, when you catch sight of the park.

Your chin hits the pavement. Palms sliding through jagged gravel. Knees splitting.

Your blood puddles on the grey rocks.

They crack you open. Nothing spills from the gaping hole.

"You with me?"

You blink. The reverie shakes, shudders. The little girl with her chin on the ground warbles.

Simon stands there, his back to the streetlights. His presence makes the image distort, and bend to fit him inside. It doesn't belong.

"What's a'matter with you?"

You flinch at his voice, and peer up at him from under clumpy, wet lashes, heavy with melting snow.

The words are harsh, but his tone is—

He steps forward, a few paces ahead. You didn't realise you stopped.

He doesn't come to a halt until there is barely an arm's length of space between you, and seeing him this close to you, his face concealed, blank and empty, has that strange feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach again.

His lashes are blond. It surprises you. You'd always imagined he had black hair. Black hair, black eyes.

It's blonde.

You don't know why it matters, why you can't stop staring at the soft wisps around his lids. They flutter shut, fanning across the smudged ink skin under his eyes. The tips are blond. The bottoms are ash. They're nice, you note, a flavour of that same something blistering through you.

His lids slide open, the corner tightening as his gaze sharpens, focusing on you. "Y'alright?" He asks again, waiting for an answer.

You swallow, and it tastes of sand. Gritty, and painful when it slips down your throat. Your voice is a rasp, a shiver above a whisper, when you say, "yeah. "

His eyes tighten again, deeper this time. Something flashes in those polychrome depths. Under the hat, his brow pulls taut together.

The indent makes your fingers itch, the urge to reach out, to soothe it, is nearly overwhelming.

"You lyin' to me?" He grumbles, an edge to his voice you can't place.

"No," you mutter, the words dragged out of you by force. "Just a —a headache."

He has a look in his eyes that makes you think he knows, somehow. That he can chisel inside your head, and rummage through all the secrets you try to keep.

Your neck aches from having to tip your chin back so much to even look at him, the 90-degree angle making you feel dizzy. The opposite of vertigo where you sometimes look up at the unending sky yawning overhead and feel that tendril of fear curling around you, admixing the awe, until you feel the urge to dig your fingers into the ground, and hold on. You can't fall up, but in those moments, it almost feels like you might.

Ghost gives you that same feeling.

His chin dips low, eyes lidded and heavy. You could almost mistake it for bland disinterest had his jaws not been working, gnashing together in a wordless tick. He says nothing. You watch the bones move. The fabric teeth snap.

All his focus is centred on the blood-red gash near your temple. The black sutures keeping the split skin together.

Ghost makes a sound, and you almost mistake it for a growl. Inhumane. Animal. It's pulled from his throat, but bitten off by his teeth before it can take shape.

You blink up at him, wide and owlish, when he reaches for you.

His hand is warm even through the glove. The rough fabric grazes your skin when he brushes your hair away with his knuckle. His eyes are fixed on your forehead, hardened, all militaristic concentration as he looks you over.

"It's—it's fine…"

"It ain't."

Gritty sandpaper. Harsh, abrading.

It's hushed, though.

Speaking above a whisper feels taboo. This whole thing does, honestly. Illicit, wrong. Ghost shouldn't be lasering his glare on your forehead, searching for a reason to do something about the anger that now brims in those dark depths. His knuckles on your skin feel sacrilegious. Touching you is exempt. Illegal. Off-limits.

But he does it, anyway. Strips the barriers pitched in front of you both like tissue paper, and holds his four knuckles to your temple, his thumb brushing a hair beneath the irritated skin. Gentle. Soft.

You didn't think these hands knew how to do something so delicate. That they were made, instead, to break. To crush. To ruin.

He might, yet: the pad of his finger feels like a brand when it ghosts over the soft curve of your forehead, soothing the phantom hurt, and you think you might just shatter if he doesn't stop touching you like this. Gingerly. Calming. A balm over your aching flesh.

You'd gotten so used to the pain, the constant throb in your head, that this respite from it feels like bliss. Nirvana wrapped in leather.

His touch is magnetic. It pulls a sound from deep within your chest, something desperate and wanting, and you can't snap your jaws shut quick enough before it's loose in the atmosphere, and cresting over him.

Ghost's gentle prods go still. With his thumb pressed into a place that makes liquid heat spume in your vein, you can feel it tremble when your tongue snakes out, gliding over your lower lip.

Your head swims. Phosphenes dance across the back of your lids, and you struggle to remember when you shut your eyes in the first place.

They flutter open.

His stare is fixed on your lips in a total eclipse, honed in on the slow roll of your blood-red tongue as it peeks out from the warm cavern of your mouth. The wet trail left behind is swallowed by his gaze. It flickers up, catching the bloom of heat under your cheeks. The darkened flush makes him rumble; the soft rattle of an engine purring. A frisson passes over his expression, lashes fluttering.

He's close. Closer than he was before. You can feel the molten heat bleeding into your skin with his proximity. Taste the gunpowder, the ash, and the ichor that clings to him; he smells of war when you breathe him in. Gasoline. Copper. A livewire scent that makes your lungs itch.

Dangerous. Powerful. Deadly.

Every synapse in your head misfires, sending off warning signs and sirens to run from the man that reeks of gun oil, and fire; napalm-scented demise with blood-soaked hands meant to ruin. But it only makes you lean in closer until the acrid burn of him corrodes your throat.

His body is warm, and the heat is stifling.

You're drunk off the fumes he exudes; reckless and wanting, and in the slurried molasses of your mind, you wonder if this is what it feels like for a gazelle to stand so close to a lion.

Something cold pools at the base of your spine, making you shiver. A warning—distant, ancient—but the calls of your ancestors are dimmed under the bulk of his shadow. The heavy iron in his gaze rests over you, and you imagine that his body pressed into yours would carry the same heft.

He's somehow bigger up close, you think. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest and waist; muscular thighs, firm calves.

He's not Adonis, but you imagine he feels just like marble all the same.

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

We. He says we, now. It's new. You shudder in his hold.

"I'm here," you whisper the words, afraid of breaking this strange spell between you. It feels like everything else around you has melted away until only you and he exists on this lonely street that makes you ache.

"You are…" he rasps; a low hush. Maybe he, too, is afraid of shattering it. "You did good, soldier."

His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won.

His touch is featherlight. But his eyes–

His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

A million thoughts run through your head, ones that taste like kerosene, and cauterise inside you like a cigarette to your skin. The heat blooms again, but it's not enough—all you can think of is how you wished you had more of him.

(You wonder if you run your tongue along his skin, kiss that acrid mouth, if he'd taste of napalm.)

Chiselled open, exposed to the air. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding the fumes of your burning need in his lungs. When he exhales, you can taste the smoke in the air.

His hand drops, fingers sliding down the curve of your face until he meets the plush softness where your chin and cheek meet. The hand he keeps on you is firm.

His eyes bore into yours. He wants your attention. Demands it. Then, he holds it steady until your mouth drops in a series of short, gasping breaths.

Your voice is featherlight when you say his name. His real one. Simon. It simmers in the air between you, and the scent of it almost makes his eyes snap shut, shoulders coiling. Tensed. Wanting. His muscles flex, bunching together in tight knots. Clench. Release. Clench.

It's only when you hear his haggard breath through the nylon, do you realise he's holding himself back from you.

Your belly flutters at the rumble roiling out of his throat.

Another command falls, deeper, darker, and your spine nearly snaps with how quickly you straighten up when he utters two words.

"Later, pet."

It's a promise. A demand. An out.

His mind made up, decisive and sure, he's now shoving the choice in your hands. Leaving the decision with you for safekeeping.

Like before, there is only ever one choice. As if you had any other answer for him.

When you nod, firm and eager, his chest shudders. "Fuckin' Christ–" it's a snarl, full of tension. Excitement.

His hand slides away from your face, and presses into the base of your spine, settling heavily over the curve of your ass. There is pressure, an urgency.

"C'mon," he rasps, jerking his chin to the end of the park. "Parked over here."

He keeps his hand on you, heavy and hot. A possessive branding as he leads you away from this place.

When you pass, your eyes drop to the pavement.

The gravel is clean. Your blood is nowhere to be found.

Your muscles go lax. You get pulled into his current, shoulder brushing over his chest.

Simon tightens his hold, and pulls you closer.

(Dragging you out to open water until you can't see the shoreline anymore.)

He leads you to a black jeep with tinted windows, and grounds out that it's rental when you press the heel of your palm into your mouth, futilely trying to hide a smile.

"It's nice," you quip, light and airy. "Very you."

"Just get your ass inside already," he says, pulling the door open for you. "Got a drive ahead of us."

His hand settles on your waist when you step up on the first rung, heavy. Firm. You want to lean into him. Have him pressed up against you like this for an eternity.

"Where are we going?" You breathe, shivering from the molten look in his eye. The heat in his chest.

He tugs you back into him, chin grazing the space between your neck and shoulder. His voice is white-hot in your ear. "My safe house."

Your eyes flutter. Heat blooms. "Simon—" his name is a whimper on your lips.

His fingers dig into your hips. "Fuckin' hell, pretty thing. You keep saying my name like that, and we won't make it to Southport."

There is no lie in the words that are forced out of his throat; inhumane, a growl. You don't want him here —in this town where you moulder.

Your fingers trail over his wrist. The coarse hair on his arms tickles your skin.

"Get me out of here."

His eyes sharpen. "Gladly."

Two hours and a half hours from Porthmadog to Southport.

A lot of time for him to reconsider. For that coldness he wears like a shield, that unbreakable distance, to pitch itself in front of him once more, locking you out. Perhaps, it'll be for good. Maybe—

Your hands ball into fists. Knuckles dig into the plush seat.

You know what you want. Know what you've wanted since before you stupidly opened your mouth— keeping my seat warm— and he saw it through.

But what about him? There was no time on the jet for a grand discussion, not when everyone was on top of each other already; not when Soap kept glancing at you, brow drawn tight, as if to ask really, bonnie?

Memories of Sierra Leone have you in a chokehold. Your purgatory, your limbo, your afterlife; when you were dying, it was all of him. Of the desert. Of the town that felt so warm, so inviting. The people baulked at his size but still ushered you over, offering snacks, and treats.

So tiny beside him, a woman laughs. You need to eat more. Your man should make you fat and happy.

You blushed. He's not—

Yes, yes… A wink. A coy grin. He watches from the dirt path as she presses bundled cassava into your hands. He says nothing at all. Your man. You like the sound of it more than you should.

You know what you want. What you've wanted.

It puddles inside of you. Droplets leaking through the fissures that have been splintering for years, now.

A man stands in front of you. Promise me, you'll get him.

You: young, naïve, nodded. I promise.

Ghost pulled you aside. He yells—quite often, in fact—but he's ice cold when he says, we don't make promises, rookie. Deadly. Your heart is in your throat when you apologise.

And then the scent of fire. A mission in Mesaieed left you and Gaz trapped. Helpless. Smoke clogging your lungs. Gaz wheezing under the intense blase; the noxious fumes billowing from the smoulder.

His voice in your ear. We'll get you out of there, rookie. Hang tight.

That a promise? You gasp, gagging from the black cloud drenching your lungs. Close to death, and cracking jokes. Confident. Assured. Nile crocodile lurking below the surface.

He isn't there to see your hands shake. You're thankful for it. Stupid, stupid—you want nothing more to impress your Lieutenant. Match him wit-for-wit. Vile joke for vile joke.

It surprises you when his voice filters through the line, one word slurred into your ear: yes.

Are you a man who keeps his promises?

Always. That's why I never make them. Close to a fiery death, and his voice crackles again. Why wasn't Jesus born in Liverpool?

Gaz coughed. Fuck's sake… Lemme die in peace.

Why, Lt?

There are no wise men or virgins.

Funny. I like that one.

Knew you would. Cover your heads.

The window above shattered. They saved you—just like they said they would.

(You realised then that Ghost cared for you, for all his subordinates, more than he let on.)

And now—

There is no turning back. Later, he said. He promised. A man who keeps his promises.

You think, then, of the look on his face under the streetlamp. Snowfall trickles between you. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes when he said:

"Thought we—fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

The words get lodged in his throat. They're ripped out with a harshness that bludgeons through you.

You turn to him, taking in his profile as he leans back in the seat, looking out the windshield.

As if he feels your stare, his eyes cut from the window, and find yours. He holds it until you taste smoke in your throat, until your lip trembles. Then it sinks low to your lap. One hand peels off of the steering wheel.

It feels like an anvil when it rests on your thigh.

"Almost there," it's a strangled rasp. A promise.

You nod. Your smile feels flushed when it pulls on your lips. Sunkissed. Warm. Expectant.

Your hand unfurls, fingers aching from the strain of your grip, and you curl them over his wrist. His pulse thuds under your thumb. You stroke it, and wonder what he would say if he knew yours beat the same.

The safehouse in Southport is not at all what you were expecting.

The winding road he drives on leads to a small, modest cabin on the outskirts of the town. Perched away from the rest of civilisation, it sits on its own island. Cut-off from the mainland.

The distance is something that makes a smile pull on your lips. So fittingly him —your lone wolf leader who only just learned the word we —but the sight of the house makes something gnarl inside of your chest. It's quaint.

Somehow, you'd expected a flat in the heart of the city. London, perhaps. Somewhere close to the airport, to the UK base used when you needed the closest weapons cache or jet.

The little abode in the middle of a farm doesn't mesh with the image you'd drawn of your prickly Lieutenant. It's too—

Wholesome.

"It's temporary," he grouses when he catches your teeth sink into your palm, a wide grin splitting across your face. "I haven't been back here in a long time."

"Is it yours?" You ask, turning to him. The jeep hums, idling. Neither of you makes any move to get out.

His fingers drum on the wheel. "Grew up here."

"I thought you were from East London."

"No. Moved there, then back here." He offers.

You nod. You get it.

"It's nice." You say instead, and it really is. A sprawling farmland with rolling hills in the distance where you know the sun hits in the morning. Where it'll bathe the boscage in ochre. "Peaceful."

"I'd have taken you to London," he grinds the words out from between his molars. "But it's too far."

Too far. Roughly four hours.

You've been sitting for nearly three. You shudder, eyes lidded when you turn to him.

A slow roll of your tongue has his arms flexing, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are stained white. Bleached.

"Maybe next time."

A promise. A question.

The vein in his forearm throbs. "C'mon, let's go."

You barely have enough time to pace a few feet into the foyer before it starts. You turn to look at him from over your shoulder—taking in the chimney, the chaise, the distinct lack of anything personal outside of a safe, a lighter on top of the fireplace—and he's suddenly there. Boots off. Hands curled into fists by his side. Head dipped down, and eyes more dangerous than you'd ever seen them.

That thrill pools—a warning. Run, run.

He stalks toward you, eyes burning coal. "Are you hungry?"

"No," you shake your head, swallowing thickly.

A step back. A step forward. They spark when you run.

"Thirsty?"

"N—no…"

Two steps bring him closer to you. Your back presses flush to the wall next to the fireplace, and he moulds over you like a liquid shadow. Dark, imposing. He's massive. You can't see anything but him.

Simon rests his forearm against the wall over your head, bending it at the elbow to bring him closer to you. The rough graze of his mask over your cheek has you panting.

His hand is a brand on your thigh. It slips down, fingers crooking in the fold of your knee, wrenching it up his hip. You gasp, hands grasping the bulk of his biceps when he drags your centre flush over the growing bulge in his pants.

Your head swims when he growls in your ear. "Is there anything you need to do before I drag you to my bed?" You shake your head slightly, pulse humming in your chest. "Because once I'm inside this pretty cunt, nothing at all will get me out. Understood?"

Your brain short circuits. A complete whiteout.

"A—affirmative." You choke, somehow coherent despite the absolute mess in your head. "Sir."

He rumbles. His chest pushes into yours; the sound reverberating through your bones. "Good girl."

He turned his back to you after he let you inside a modest bedroom, pulling the black sweater over his head. His back exposed—rippling muscles, etches of black from the tattoos—all pale skin wrapped in thick sinew. The sound you make has his shoulders coiling tight.

"Fuck, pet… I haven't even touched you, yet."

He turns, the mask slightly lopsided, and his beanie missing. His hair without the full balaclava sends a shock to your system. The newness of discovering something; elation bleeds in. His hair is ashen brown. Lighter than chocolate, darker than caramel.

You want to sink your fingers into the thick of it.

Thighs pressed tight together, your greedy eyes take him in. The way his hair—moussed from the hat—falls over his forehead; not cropped to the grain like Soap, and barely centimetres longer than Price.

He gazes at you. Waiting, maybe.

Your hands fall to your pants, eager to rid yourself of every barrier between your skin and his. You want him on you— in you. It itches like a sickness. Burns like a fever.

Your trousers fall. Fingers looped into the hem of your panties. He stops you, then, with his words.

"I took the mask off for the team."

You falter, bent down to push the panties the rest of the way off, and blink up at him.

The first thought, of course, is that Gaz saw his face before you. Gaz. The rookie rivalry (playful, carrying the flavour of siblings vying for their approval) makes you burn.

You swallow the jealousy on your tongue. "Oh…"

He waits, still.

"You don't have to…" you want to see him. He's a mosaic; an incomplete piece. You have two halves but the middle is murky. You try to fit them in your head, but the image doesn't line up.

"Lay back," he ordered, hands dropping to his belt buckle.

The image of him tugging the leather, veins rippling under the black ink of his burly forearms, feels unholy. It douses you with a want so palpable, your belly quivers with need.

You don't need foreplay, you think. Not when the sight of him pulling off a belt already has you melting. Has your pussy throbbing, your thighs slick.

"Damn, Lieutenant…" you mewl, dropping down on the bed, knees pressed taut together to stem the ache. "How are you so—"

"Simon," he rasps. The belt hangs in his hands. You wonder if he'd tie you up one day with it. Leave you quivering below him, completely at his mercy.

Or, would he let you use it on him? Let you bind this behemoth to the bed for your pleasure.

Your toes curl. The thoughts alone are enough to get you off, you think.

But it's the sight of him, then, standing over you, trousers hanging low on his hips, kept in place only by the thick thigh he slots between your knees, that really makes you shudder.

"Lay back," he orders again, hand dropping—white-hot, rough—to your shaking knee. His chin lowers, eyes staring at your pussy. "I want to taste you again, pet."

Fuck. Fuck —

He lowers to his knees, still somehow taller than you, and gazes at you between your bent legs. Dark eyes flashing. Goosebumps prickle along your flesh as he trails his gaze down the length of your body, settling, once again, on your cunt.

He looks as if he's going to devour you. Eyes wide, whites full, when he pries your legs apart, spreading your cunt for him once more. He hadn't seen you bare like this—beneath him for his own pleasure—and you feel the ghost of his breath on your sex when he leans in close, breathing in deeply.

"Bloody- fuckin' -hell, pet—" it sounds like a curse when he says it. A choked snarl. "So wet for me, and I haven't even touched you."

His hands are on the outside of your thighs, rough skin grazing the sensitive flesh as he trails them down to the soft flesh beneath your knee. With his thumbs hooked in the bend, pressing sharply into the cartilage, he wrenches them apart, opening you wider for him until your pussy is bared to him completely.

The groan he makes edges on the equinox of being absolutely filthy and wrecked when he drinks you in.

"Missed this pretty little cunt." His masked cheek rests on your knee, head cocked as he stares down at you. When he tips his chin, gazing at you, his eyes are blacker than midnight. A pool of ink. Desire brims.

He hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders, finger looping in the gap between his mask and the skin beside his nose.

You don't have a chance to see it. Fucking tease —

He dips his head before he tugs it down, and you feel the molten heat of his tongue slipping between your folds.

Your head falls back on the pillow, toes curling as that greedy mouth devours you once more. The stubble around his chin prickles the skin of your thighs. His grip is so tight, you already see blooms of blue pooling beneath the tips of his fingers.

The first time wasn't a flute. Simon presses his mouth to your cunt like he can't get enough; lips sealing over your throbbing clit, tongue lapping at you in even, thick strokes that make you see white behind your eyelids. It's good, so good —

He's going to ruin you.

"Simon—"

You remember those filthy groans rumbling against your slit, and your hand lifts, reaching down to tangle in his locks. A tug—sharp, pointed—makes him pant into your pussy, makes his fingers tighten until you can feel capillaries bursting under his firm hold. Until his short nails make indents in your flesh.

"Yeah, pet," his voice is molten rock; you throb, aching, from the sound alone. "Just like that…"

His mouth is on you again, devouring you whole.

You lift your head, staring down at the black eyes that bore into you, the thick locks of hair spilling out between your fingers, and you break.

You fall back with a groan, arching your cunt into his eager mouth, desperate for more. More of that liquid bliss that spools in your core, that has you leaking a puddle under his chin.

His hands shift, sliding down the meat of your thighs until they wriggle under your ass. Your flesh spills between his fingers when he grips you tight, lifting your hips, your cunt, to him.

Simon helps you buck against him, lets you cant your hips into his face, nearly smothering him with the sopping heat of your centre. When you're mewling, panting, with your head tossed back, and rapture in a quiver of his name spilling from your lips, he shifts.

His hold changes, and one hand falls back. His lips seal around your aching clit as a finger—long, thick—presses against your entrance. His tongue laves over you when he slowly presses it inside, crooking it to stroke against your fluttering walls.

The choked sob that leaves your throat is a mangled wreck of pleasure, of want.

"More," you mewl, but the plea barely has a chance to pass your lips before he's dragging his finger out until only the tip keeps you open. "Please, sir—"

He thrusts it into the last knuckle, groaning against you at the slick, wet sound that it makes. "Fuck, pet. Always so wet for me, aren't you?"

"Always," you gasp, fingers gripping his hair tight. "Simon, I need more—"

He pulls his finger out; another joins it when you whimper. The stretch feels good. Heat blooms in your belly. You won't last long. Your thighs quiver with each roll of his fingers pushing in as deep as they will go; with each stroke of his tongue over your clit.

You're going to cum—

"Simon—"

The coil snaps, pussy clenching on the thick fingers wedged inside of you, hips canting into his eager mouth as he rides you through the spasming pleasuring that ripples through your abdomen.

"That's it… that's a good girl," he slurs against you.

It's almost too much when he forces another finger into your throbbing cunt. You keen at the stretch, at the too-full feeling of him splitting your walls.

"Simon, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You're taking me so well already."

His voice is liquid sex; the wrecked sound of him makes your toes curl, and your spine arch. You want him inside of you. You want to know if he'd make those same grunts of pleasure with your pussy wrapped around him.

High of the sudden burst of endorphins, you look down at him—sloppy with your wetness, his face hidden by your cunt—and you tug his hair until he meets your blown-out gaze.

"Fuck me," you try to demand, but the word comes out as a shaky plea.

"Too tight, pet," he rumbles. "Gotta get you ready for me."

Three fingers buried to the last knuckle, and he says it still isn't enough.

You'd think him cocky had you not the pleasure of seeing him hard and aching already. Big, fat cock leaking between the seal of his palm. You shiver, head dropping to the pillow.

It's all you can do but take whatever he gives you—long, thick fingers stretching you out, brushing the gummy walls inside that flutter when his mouth seals over your clit. It feels like an eternity since he pulled you inside the room.

A tug of your hand makes him groan. You meet his stare, pleading. Breathless. It's too much—

And not enough.

"I don't care," you slur, drunk and stupid on the way his hot mouth glues to your cunt. "I wanna feel you inside of me for days, sir—"

"Fuck!"

It's a harsh snarl that makes you whimper. The sound ripped from his chest, and rubbed raw as it was scraped out. His forehead is pressed to your mound, breathing you in once more.

His head lifts.

It's dark in the room. You can't really make out the entirety of his features—the familiar long nose, the cut of his jaw. His lips. It's bathed in black, in shadows, but through the glimmer of the washed-out moon that spills inside, you can see the distinct wetness gleaming on his mouth, his chin.

You whimper, eyes burning with tears of desperation. When he speaks, it's shredded rocks. Gravel. Low and dark.

"You're gonna feel me for weeks, pet."

It's a dangerous precipice. His voice alone shatters your resolve, and seeing those full, pink lips form the words that will ruin you, it's overwhelming. Your cunt throbs, walls shuddering in pleasure ripped through your being.

He feels it against his fingers; it makes his eyes flutter. His tongue sweeps out. Eye hooded, half-mast as they take you in.

He sits back, hands slipping to the crease of your knees. His chin dips.

"Hold 'em open for me, pet."

You gasp, belly knotting tight from the command that drips from his drenched, wicked, mouth. Your hand reluctantly falls from the soft locks to do as you're told. The warmth of his skin brushes over your fingers when you take his place, keeping your legs bent, spread, for him. You're on display. Open, wanting.

His hand, now free, reaches for the bundle of fabric pooled at the base of his neck. The mask is fixed into place again—a needless action, you think, pouting. Gaz saw his face in better lighting.

(You hope he had the wherewithal to take a picture for you.)

But there is something to be said about how illicit he looks, mouth now concealed from your view until just his eyes are visible. The coal is rubbed off, shadows along the crease, the corner of his nose, under his eyes, but it feels dangerous like this.

With the mask on, he's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. Fearsome. Men cower from him. His name alone scorches the earth, and makes the underbelly tremble.

And he's going to be inside of you. Claiming you, taking you. It's a cigarette thrown on a sea of gasoline. Your skin, fervid, begins to blister.

When you look up, it's ink-blot eyes in a sea of white. Red tendrils in the corners; rivers of ichor.

If he keeps looking at you like that, like you're a feast for him, you might go a little crazy, a little delirious.

Simon stares for a moment longer, hand dipping below the bed to grasp himself in his hand. A grunt at the touch, a flutter of his lashes, and then he moves. Coiled muscle; rippling flesh. He looms above you like a Cimmerian god—drenched in tenebrose, mask soaked from your slick—his haunting eyes gazing at you like you're an offering meant to be savoured.

His thighs—thicker than the tree trunks in the distance—slot beneath yours, and the sheer width of them makes you dizzy. The bulk is bigger than your head. Simon must notice the way you're drooling over them, knuckles white as you stare, open and hungry, wanting, as he takes a small amount of mercy on you. He shifts until the bulk of it is pressed taut to your core.

Your back arches, legs trembling. Fuck—

You want to ride his thighs. Want him to perch you on his massive lap, and have those molten eyes fixed on you as you use him to get yourself off.

You could do it, you think, mind blanking out; that soporific pleasure slurring all logic from taking root until a gossamer spools inside, filled with want. With greed.

"Wanna ride you…" you slur, wrecked on the notion alone. "Your thighs. They're so big, Simon, fuck— you're so big—"

"I like that idea, pet," he rasps, thigh notching closer to your throbbing cunt, smearing slick all over the coarse hair that covers his flesh. "Wanna see you desperate for it."

"I am…" you whine, breathless. "I want you so bad, I can't stand it…"

His hands fall, bracketing his burly arms beside your head until the absurd heft of him fills your vision. The muscles in his core pull taut; veins in his arms pulse.

He told you to keep your legs spread, but your fingers itch with the need to touch him. To feel him against your palm.

His cock hangs, daunting and thick, between his legs, head brushing your belly. Prespend smears over your skin; warm, tacky. You want a taste—

When you tell him as much, chin tipped backwards to whisper the words into his neck, he shudders above you. His cock twitches, spits more prespend on you. You want him to cum on your face, you gasp, words liquid, slurred. You're not entirely sure they're in English. You don't think you have the capacity to think beyond want, want, want—

"Yeah?" He rasps, elbow bending as he drops to his forearm. It brings his chest flush to yours. The dark smattering of hair rubs against your nipples. His face is a constellation: white jowls, black eyes. The look alone makes you smoulder. "Don't worry about me, pet."

You're shaking your head, but the protests die on your tongue when his hips slip between your thighs, prying you further apart. Completely spread beneath the bulk of his body, you crumble.

He knocks your hands away, a low murmur of his approval slipping past those sinful lips for listening to him, as if there was ever a choice, and he notches your knees against his hips, pressing himself closer to your core.

Finally free, your hands spring down to grab him, gripping his bicep in a vice just to feel the way it jumps under your fingers, and the other flat against his heated chest. His pulse thunders against your palm.

"Gonna give it to you, now."

You wanted it— ached for it—but as he feeds his thick cock into your pussy, you wonder if maybe you'd been a little overconfident before. That, perhaps, he was right.

It's swallowed down, smothered with a whimper. His stupidly fat cock will not break you.

"That's it, pet," he slurs, mask pressed tight to your ear. "Take it… C'mon, now."

He pulls back, widening your thighs, and then pushing them up until you're nearly folding in half beneath him. The movement jostles his cock, and it nudges something inside of you that makes you spasm around him.

"Fuckin' hell…" he groans, sinking in deeper. His eyes are fixed on the spot where he stretches you taut. Skin raw; cunt pushed to the mettle. "Almost there… look'it your pretty cunt take my cock…"

The air is punched from your lungs when he pushes in deeper, when the blunt head batters up behind your belly button. He knocks against your cervix, and the deep ache has tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

"Go on, pretty thing," he husks in your ear, words drenched in pleasure. Your fingers dig into the bulk of his body, crescent moons embedded into his skin.

He bludgeons into something inside of you that has you see stars—galaxies burst behind your eyelids, and heat, supernova hot, burns low in your belly. It burns at the place where his cocks ruts into you so deeply that you can feel him in your sternum, almost taste him in your throat. It liquefies your body. You melt into a conduit under him; a receptacle that leaches pleasure from the stretch of his cock inside you.

Your body slackens. There is a give; something breaks. And he's suddenly deeper than you knew existed, than you ever thought possible. You feel him almost knocking against the cap of your womb. Each persistent jerk has your pussy clenching around him, milking him, trying to get him deeper.

As if that was possible. As if there was any room left inside of you for him to claim.

You're stuffed to the brim; overflowing with him. You can't take anymore.

You sob brokenly when his hips pull back until only the mushroom head of his cock splits your aching, raw cunt open. The seam of you flutters around him, as if begging to be filled again.

He grunts, a hoarse, low noise dredged from the depths of his chest when he shifts, his cock spearing back into you.

It nearly makes you scream. Your nails rake over his flesh, desperate to find purchase amid a crumbly chossy that threatens to send you plummeting down a precipice, hurtling you toward an unknown abyss.

"Easy, now," he commands, the bark of his voice bitten between clenched teeth. "You're gonna make me cum before I've gotten my fill of this cunt, pet."

"Want it," you slur, babbling on the liquid bliss roaring through your veins. "Want you to fill me up, Simon."

A snarl of your name is the only warning you get before his cock is battering against your gummy walls, blunt head jarring into that little place inside of you that has phosphenes filling your vision, has your lungs aching with hypoxia. Head dizzy, chest shuddering with each breath. You can't get enough of it. Of the heady scent of him, the sun-drenched heat.

Simon is normally so controlled, constrained, and you find yourself fracturing into pieces as his ironclad resolve seems to shatter with each squeeze of your cunt. It's a dizzying feeling to reduce your cold-hearted Lieutenant into a rutting beast, spoiling himself with each tight clench of your soft insides against his thick, hard cock.

Your eyes open, wet lashes flutter and stick to the crease of your eyelid, and you find the way his brow is pinched tight together as he burrows himself deep within you, until the taste of salt is heavy on your tongue, absolutely breathtaking. It's enough to get you hooked. Enough to make such an utter mess of you, that you don't know how you'll recover from this.

It's an intense feeling having him seated so deeply within you. Edging deliriously along that equinox of unfathomable bliss, and the sharp, distinct too much—too full quiver of pain. It's a pinch within your guts, a deep throb that follows the unending plume of pleasure so blistering as it batters into you, that you almost find yourself getting swept away by the sheer thrill of it all. Mindless, driven stupid by the way he takes, the way he ruins.

(You don't ever want him to stop.)

It's one thing to have his mouth on you, but another thing entirely to see how he breaks when he's inside of you. It's addicting. A powerful high that renders everything else static.

Pleasure, red-hot and dizzily intense, lacerates through your core, spooling at the base of your spine. It fills your limbs with molten bliss until nothing remains except the way he pounds inside of you, filling you over and over again with every inch he has to offer. You think you might just go insane if you don't have him. If you don't get to feel the delicious drag of his cockhead rubbing against your pulsating walls.

Your hands slide over his skin. The muscles clenching under the pads of your fingers as you drag them up, over his arm, his biceps, his broad shoulders.

The bulk of his back makes your fingers itch. You sink them into the corded muscles, clinging to him as Simon drags you to that hazy place where euphoria clots inside of your veins, and the heat you syphoned from him bubbles, frothing over.

It's pulled taut—an elastic band that stretches well past the breaking point, and makes your fingers sting when it snaps. You convulse beneath him, sobbing out barely coherent words that sound like a quivering war cry of his name, of how good he feels, and how you're mad with the taste of him nestled so deeply within you.

Your nails digging into his skin, his name on your lips like a gospel, the molten clench of you around—it all congeals together until he's snarling in your ear, a raspy grunt that makes your toes curl, that has you seeing nirvana once more. It's your name—somewhere in the mess of his growl, his groan—that is pulled out from him, and pierces you deep, makes your core tremble at the ragged sound of it, broken and hoarse.

He throbs like a heartbeat, cock pulsing as he sputters out a thick pool of cum. It's almost too much; your pussy is overstuffed, forced to take both the heaviness of his cock, and molten spume that fills you to the brim. It leaks out from around the plug of him, pushed to the base until not even an inch remains, and you feel it gathering under you.

You want a taste of it. It swells inside, fills you deep, and you wonder if he'd let you lick it off of him.

You murmur it into his drenched chest, more slurred words that only vaguely sound English. Maybe it's the tone of your voice—ruined and raw, and drunk of the taste of him—that punctures through, but it hits the mark. Simon buries his head into your neck with another gravelled rasp of your name that sticks to his throat, breaking over the vowels. His softening cock twitches within you.

Words, or sentiment, whispered into the crackling atmosphere that smells of sex and kerosene, and goes straight to his groin.

"Cheeky little—," he starts, a husking grumble, but you squeeze your sore, aching sex around him, fluttering like a soft heartbeat, and it dies with a groan.

The victory doesn't last long. Your raw, abused cunt aches from overstimulation, a throbbing sting from your tender flesh making you wince. You're too keyed up. A ragdoll against the shoreline, caught in the current that batters your body until you feel like one massive contusion.

Fucking Simon feels like surviving a war. It feels like clawing your way out of the trenches, tasting the heavy, gunmetal tang of acrid artillery fire in the air, and standing victorious. Brutalised, dazed, and numb from the beating, but full of the banquet of victory.

He keeps you under him, still buried to the hilt, and pants into your neck. Flushed with exertion, his chest red and drenched in sweat, you slip your hands through the mess of him, and find purchase where the knob of his spine protrudes from his flesh.

Simon's head rises. His eyes—quivering, glossy ink—lidded and sleepy with pleasure, and that tangible post-sex haze that permeates the air, find yours.

Sweat drips down his forehead, over his brow, his temple. It's swallowed by the fabric of his mask, lopsided on his cheeks. Red peaks over the black horizon. A deep flush the same bloodied hue as his chest.

(You wonder if it tastes like ichor.)

His eyes shudder, body trembling from the ripple of it.

"Fuck me, pet…"

You tip your heavy, mushy head back, and grin. Big, and wide. The smile of elation. Of success. "I already did."

He huffs, heavy and full, through his nose. "Bloody hell—" in response to your tease, he grinds his cock against your aching walls.

Your breath is sucked in through clenched teeth; a breathy, high-pitched whimper.

"Mae hi wedi cachi arna i…"

"English, pet."

Your ankles try to link at the base of his spine, body drawn like a bow. "Your cock ruined me."

His eyes are rapacious, tainted with the fervour of conquest.

"It was meant to." The smoke in his timbre makes your toes curl. Your lungs smoulder with the heat of it.

Simon has you seeing nirvana again, and again before the light outside crests through the thin curtains.

He rolls you under him, ankles hooked on his shoulders, and makes you watch as his cock spears deep inside of your well-fucked cunt.

Eyes on us, soldier. Don't you dare look away.

On your knees, head nearly smothered by the pillow, he covers you with the entirety of his bulk until everything around you is pitch black with the shadow he casts. He looms over you, chest pressed against your back, and fucks you slow, and deep. The position almost has you blacking out from the depths he reaches like this, and the burn of the stretch as your pussy pulls taut against his cock.

You can take it. This pretty cunt was made for my cock, pet.

Your favourite is being lowered onto him. Chests pressed together. You bury your hand in his damp hair, your face in his neck, and sink your teeth into the column of his throat until the salt of his skin nearly drowns you.

Fuckin' hell…

(In response, his hand brands the cheeks of your ass with the perfect impression of his massive palms.)

He lays back with you barely lucid, aching, sprawled on top of him, and runs his hands down your spine, husking in your ear about how good you've been for him, how pretty you look blissed out from his cock.

His words are mercury in your head.

"...wanna be good for you, Simon," you murmur into his collarbones.

He shudders under you.

His chest is slick with sweat when you rest your head on it, pulse thudding under your palm. His arm around your waist is an anchor, locking you tight to his side.

You'd woken up to the sun bleeding through the window, the room thick with the balmy swelter of sex. Ashes in your throat, salt on your tongue. Simon's heat burrows into your marrow.

There is a lot to be said, you think. Words that you were too cowardly to admit when in the soft, dazed atmosphere of the plane.

Only one thing buoys to the forefront. The only things you'd been clutching at this whole time. Life on the line, and all you could think of was the dunes outside of your tent. The searing heat on your back.

(Not on me.)

(Always, always.)

"...Since Sierra Leone," you confess into his flesh, mouth pressed against the side of his pectoral. His ashen chest hair tickles your nose.

Simon tenses under you. The soft strokes of his fingers–bare, warm–on your hip still.

You wonder if you misread things. If you made a mistake. Your mouth parts on his flesh. The briny taste of his skin is sharp on your tongue.

You won't apologise. The words are there, the confession lingering in the air like opaque tendrils of smoke. It's in his hands now. This little thing that flutters within your chest, tucked away for safekeeping since he turned to you, eyes dark and narrow, and said you did good, rookie.

His fingers coil over you, tightening against your flesh.

"Everything…" he rasps. Everything. It's pulled out of him; rolled over barbed wire.

Confused, you raise your head, brows knitting together. Everything—

A total eclipse. The ocean in the dead of night. Endless, unfathomable pools of black. The current threatens to drag you under to those depths that shudder in front of you.

The words die on your tongue, ashes in the back of your throat.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? So, what do you have to lose, soldier?

A smile splits across your face; a sun dawning over the beige spalls that seem to never end.

It tastes of the sea when you press your lips to his. You feel sand under your fingers, his pulse on your palm.

—Price calls it, has known since Mesaieed. He'd bet on Gaz, maybe even Soap. It never crosses his mind to think of Simon.

—But thinking about it now, it was obvious from the start.

("Sierra Leone. Wanna take Gaz with you–"

"No. I'll take the rookie.")

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #Simon Ghost Riley #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw2 spoilers #cod spoilers #simon riley cod

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chaotic-orphan · 4 months

Note

Hey! I've just read your defiant leader x confident villain story and HOLY SHIT is it good. I love the personalities that you've given the characters, and how the villain doesn't really want to hurt the leader and is trying to ignore all of their feeling. Ugh!

I would love it if you could write more of the story. I have a feeling there's a lot more twists and turns on the horizon 👀✨

Defiant Leader x Confident Villain (5)

Read part one here

Continued from here

Guys… i am so sorry to everyone who has requested more parts for this series… it has taken literally months, I am only finished now because I queued it when I discovered it again! I am very sorry, it is an active WIP again!! I hope you enjoy!

TW: NEEDLES

~*~*~*~*~*~

Leader woke to the door of his room opening. He was still sitting in the chair in the room where Supervillain left him. The last thing he remembered was staring at the wall to pass the time, limbs still tied down tightly. Sometimes, when he was feeling adventurous, he’d glare down at the hammer that mangled his hand, but even that got boring. He didn’t realise he fell to sleep until he was waking up with the click of the lock in the door.

He didn’t have time to wake up, so his mind shot alert, clearing the fog that usually came with waking suddenly. He felt his body come alive at the thoughts of Supervillain coming to destroy his other hand. His limbs were asleep but still Leader made a fist with his free hand trying to get feeling back into it just in case.

What he could do to fight against Supervillain he didn’t know, but… but who was he kidding?! Supervillain seemed to smash every bone in his good hand, his strong hand, his punching hand.

Leader wanted to cry out as he tried to make a fist with his hand on instinct, but swallowed the cry to a sharp hiss as loud, quick footsteps thundered behind Leader’s chair and they froze.

Those footsteps were unmistakable, and there was only one set. A swift slap to the back of the head and Leader let out a startled: “ow!”

“You deserve more than that, you fucking idiot!” Villain hissed, coming to stand in front of Leader, setting a doctor’s bag down on the floor in front of Leader and dropping to one knee, unzipping it. “What were you thinking, pissing Supervillain off, Leader? Do you know how difficult you are making everything for me?”

“How about you just let me go and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Villain jerked their head up, piercing gaze furious and accusing. “Would you? Be out of my hair?” Villain challenged. Leader was the first to look away, and Villain scoffed, before dipping their head again and searching through the bag beside him. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“Villain… I…” Leader began, searching for the words to express themselves, but none came, and Villain didn’t seem to be in the mood to hear them even if they did somehow miraculously find the words to defend themselves. “Look, you don’t have to keep coming to my rescue.”

“Clearly I do,” Villain ground out, accusing eyes finding Leader’s again. “If you keep riling Supervillain up, Leader, he will kill you. I’m not fucking around. He will murder you, but you won’t die quickly. It will be long, drawn out, torturous.”

Leader’s brows lowered over their eyes, hooding the sockets in shadow. “I know that, Vil.”

“I don’t think you do!”

Leader’s eyes widened at the intensity colouring Villain’s voice, the slight fear in their eyes as they spoke. It was almost… desperate, almost helpless. Villain scoffed and looked away, running a hand through their hair, pulling slightly at the end of the strands.

Leader frowned. “Villain… what’s that look?”

Villain didn’t answer right away but a million different thoughts seemed to flash across his expression— doubt, fear, disgust anxiety. Every time Villain opened their mouth to speak they seemed to pause, chew their words, search for a better way to say what they wanted to tell Leader.

Eventually a grim resolution moulded their features and they looked at Leader again instead of through them.

“Supervillain,” Villain began hesitantly not quite meeting Leader’s gaze, and instead running a nervous hand through their hair. “He didn’t exactly trust me when I wanted to join his side so he devised a sort of… test, or trial run and he gave me the job he thought I would run away scared from.”

Villain risked a glance at Leader’s expression, then let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of their nose, rocking back on their heels.

“It’s not something I’m proud of but I had to prove myself and if I didn’t do it someone else would have—”

“It’s okay, Vil,” Leader told them. Startled eyes found Leader’s and Villain’s expression softened slightly, shoulders losing tension. “Go on.”

“He made me the interrogator… or that’s what he called it, he made me his torturer,” Villain said quietly and it was as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Leader stared at Villain, studying their face. Villain let out a shaky breath. “Every Hero we captured, or enemy someone brought in I would take care of them. Get information, work the confessions out of them, or just make them suffer— whatever Supervillain told me to do.”

Villain licked their lips, their eyes looking down to their hands before continuing.

“That’s not even the worst part, Leader,” Villain continued, tightening their hands into fists. They raised their head, gaze steeled and said: “The worst part was that I was good at it.”

Leader would rather Villain pick up the hammer and smash their other hand, or every single bone in their body rather than tell them this. Rather than this be true, because Villain wasn’t… Villain couldn’t— Villain… it felt like all air was robbed from their chest as they stared at Villain and for the first time since they came, Leader finally saw Villain.

They saw how much Villain changed. The little moments that were shining through of the old Villain were only that. Fleeting moments. Villain looked the same, although they had a new haircut and a crueller smirk. They carried themselves a little taller, but they looked like Leader’s Villain, but there was something now that seemed to finally let Leader see the real Villain.

The new Villain.

As if a blindfold had just been taken off Leader’s eyes.

Villain looked older, not by much but they had a less innocence in their eyes. Instead they were hard, certain kernels of experience. They didn’t just carry themselves taller, Villain had a new confidence about them as if they had finally found their calling. As if they were born to be a Villain, to be an… interrogator.

Villain’s expression softened and they turned away, letting out a shaky laugh. “You hate me now, don’t you?”

“Not even a little bit,” Leader said without hesitation. Villain let the shock show across their face as they met Leader’s eyes again.

Leader forced their resolve to show on their face, as sure as anything. “You did what you felt you had to do, Vil,” Leader continued softly. “You did what I always knew you could: you survived everything that life threw at you. How could I hate you for that?”

Villain looked so vulnerable in that moment, and Leader wished that they had seen it sooner. They wished they noticed how lost Villain was within the team, how sad they were. Always lashing out, always a little more distant and reserved.

“I should have done more, Vil,” Leader said and Villain rocked back on their heels, shaking their head side to side. They opened their mouth to reply but Leader beat them to it. “No, I should’ve, I’m sorry you felt like you had to leave the team. I’m sorry about the way things ended… I— I miss you, if I’m honest. But sometimes…”

The words were rushing out of Leader’s mouth now, all emotion. “Sometimes when we start out life presents us with opportunities and we just go along with them because, well, what other option do we have? But you… I’ve never seen you more alive, more at peace. You really seem to have found your place in the world Villain and I couldn’t be more happy for you.”

“You can’t say that, Leader,” Villain whispered.

Leader laughed. “Says who?”

Villain frowned. “We are enemies, we’re on the opposing sides. We can’t— there is no world where we’re friends.”

“Just because I don’t agree with you, Villain, doesn’t mean I don’t know you. I don’t still care for you, that the years we shared mean nothing.”

“It does,” Villain protested. “It has too.”

Leader leaned forward in their chair. “If it does, then what the hell are you here for, Villain?”

The question was like a slap of reality that stunned Villain for a moment before they sighed. They glanced down to the bag they brought in and rummaged through it, pulling out a small black case and flicking it open.

Inside was a needle and a small bottle of something. Villain reached in and grabbed the needle. Villain reached into the bag and drew out two medical gloves and slide them onto their hands, snapping the band at the end of one and grinning up at Leader.

It unnerved Leader a little as they stared down at the bottle, trying to read whatever it was Villain was so happy about showing them. Now with the knowledge that Villain was the resident torturer.

Not that it was particularly news to Leader. When rumours started circulating about Supervillain’s new vicious agony agent it was Rogue who brought the idea of Villain to Leader’s attention. Rogue ran with other people before Leader; heroes, vigilantes, villains… probably the one with the most contacts across the city.

“How certain are you?” Leader asked them.

Rogue shrugged one shoulder. “I trust contact with my life. They’re not the gossiping type.”

Leader didn’t show it then, but the thought, the very possibility that it could have been Villain terrified them. How wrong did they go with Villain to make them want to hurt people? But looking at them now, Leader couldn’t help but see the same Villain they had always known. Maybe just more grown up and sure of themselves. The way they were working so deftly with the needle and vial. Drawing some liquid into the needle and spurting it back out again to re-draw.

They smiled up at Leader once they were satisfied and started rubbing Leader’s hand with cotton balls covered in rubbing alcohol. Leader hissed jerking their arm back, but Villain continued as if Leader was sitting quiet as a mouse.

“I know, but you gotta hurt to get better. No pain no gain, right?” Villain asked with a grin. Leader smothered their anxiety at that grin. Villain’s old reassuring grin, the same one they wore before they ran recklessly from the group to defend them. When they directly disobeyed Leader’s orders to intercept their enemies before it was time.

Now, it wasn’t any of that. It was reassuring and light, so Leader nodded and set their jaw into a tight line as Villain smoothed the skin on Leader’s hand. Leader clenched their teeth as their bone rubbed off bone.

“Okay, this will hurt.”

That was all the warning Leader got before Villain plunged the needle into their hand. Leader jolted forwards, swallowing a scream to a mewling whine in the back of their throat instead.

They felt the liquid being injected into their hand, it was a strange sensation but not one that was unfamiliar. Once Villain had thumbed down the plunger and injected all of the liquid they pulled it out gently. They replaced it with a cotton pad the dab the blood away.

Leader stared at Villain. “Okay. That actually wasn’t that bad,” Leader told them.

Villain grimaced. “Leader, that was the easy part.”

Leader frowned and then the pain came. It was a simmering kind of burning at first and Leader’s wide eyes shot to Villain’s.

“Vil… what is this? What is this?” They rushed out, gasping between the questions.

“It’s okay, Leader. It just resets the bones in your hand.”

“It what?” Leader shrieked, closing their eyes as they felt their bones start to move in their hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Leader cried as their hand ignited in agony. They gasped and shot forward as far as the ropes would allow them, their neck muscles straining as they tried to not scream but their hand was on fire.

“Hey, Leader. It’s okay, I know. I know.” Leader only very distantly heard Villain whispering assurances and comforting words to them as they writhed beneath the ropes.

“Villain!” Leader gasped, throwing their head back as a guttural scream was torn from their throat. Leader kicked out and tried to buck themselves out of the chair but the ropes just remained firm as Leader screamed louder than they ever have before. The pain ricocheted from their hand — where their bones were moving and mending under their skin — all the way to their shoulders and then deeper into their chest.

It was too much.

Stars burst behind their eyes as they felt their bones crack into place.

Villain was speaking to them. Lips moving but Leader couldn’t hear a word they said. Villain’s eyes widened as Leader let the blackness swallow them, the last thing they saw was Villain lurching from their crouch.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (tag-list, lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @nameless-beanie @aarika-merrill @criohfreeze @bandnbookbag @gala1981 @theonewithallthefixations @libellule888 @cardboardarsonist @shywhumpauthor r @written-by-jayy @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @whump-is-love-whump-is-life @icarusignite @shirtzip @honeyed-euphrates @shameless-dumbass @dutifullykrispyland @starlight-hope @thatlittlefirestarter

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glitch-after-dark · 6 months

Note

Ekidocksos i am in LOVE with your account!!!!!!

Just..Rodimus completely stuffed and bred with Drift & Ratchets sparklings from a drunken one night stand? He left before they woke up and dodges them for weeks on end not knowing they want so much more of him & his hot plush valve.

They get the drop on him when they find him rubbing his tanks & eating sweet energon mini cakes in his office.

They know right then he’s sparked & soon they have him bent over, stuffed with their spikes & trying to add a couple more for a clutch

I would have answered this sooner but I’ve been gardening so exhaustion prevented me from having the energy. I just found your account as well and SoundRod content is very exciting to see! I need to do more with them.

Anyway—this idea is brilliant. I love some Dratchrod angst+horniness+babies.

Just Rodimus hanging out with his best friend—they are officially Amica now, yeah drinks for everyone—celebrating the latest adventure on their Forever Adventure and well into giggling drunk that both Ratchet and Drift are as well. He’s been very cuddly grabby, draping himself over Drift—who is definitely over! He’s very supportive now—and instead of huffing Ratchet just tells him to shove over and when he’s moving too slow picks him up and sits under him making Rodimus half in Ratchet’s lap while still draped over Drift and Ratchet’s telling jokes and laughing at Rodimus and he’s lost track of whose hands are whose at some point. Then Dratchet kisses and Rodimus whines about not getting any so Drift kisses his cheek which Rodimus pouts and says isn’t the same so Ratchet huffs and grabs his chin to lay one on him that has him squirming especially when Drift is petting his spoiler and he’s panting when it breaks. Drift, of course, protests that Ratchet cheated and Drift was supposed to get the first move, making Ratchet laugh and before Rodimus can figure that out Drift is turning his head his direction and kissing him deeply. Rodimus is just a squirming mess not having to be moved and just moving back to the other with someone constantly petting him or grabbing his thighs or holding his waist until Swerve finally throws them out for “public indecency”.

Which gives Rodimus enough of a moment of fresh air to go oh wait what and start to think up an excuse to dip out only for the hands to come back and the three of them to stumble back to Dratchet’s room to resume the sandwich and kissing, which quickly escalates once they have Rodimus shoved in the bed between them. Rodimus catches bits of “wanted you here” and “thought we were going to take him to dinner first” teasing between the kissing and moving around each other and realizes what is going on. Drift and Ratchet are clearly wanting a threesome and intended to ask Rodimus who feels guilty how immediately into that he is for both of them and distracts himself by opening his own panel and mouth descending onto Ratchet’s hands to suck them in remembering how sensitive they are.

He is being passed back and forth between them and responding very eagerly, if a little clumsy which slowly peters out into more smooth movements when the overcharge fades through multiple overloads leaving him clear minded but unwilling to leave when Ratchet is holding his thighs thrusting up into him and Drift is petting him laying over his back, spike pressed against him waiting for his turn, telling him how pretty he looks taking his Conjunx’s spike and look how happy he’s making him and Ratchet is growling out and agreement that sends Rodimus toppling into another overload that makes him bluescreen a bit only to wake to Ratchet kissing him sweetly, Rodimus sprawled out on his front, Drift slipping inside behind peppering kisses on his spoiler with Ratchet’s hands steadying Rodimus’s hips.

He's too tired to leave immediately when it finally finishes and they clean each other off, nuzzling and kissing, this time slow and sweet without the expectation of it leading to anything, and shove him in between to cuddle. He wakes up with Drift having shoved between him and Ratchet, wrapping around their arms and carefully manages to slip out painfully sober and aware of what he’s done and flees cold and horrified by how much it aches to leave them.

Rodimus is panicking because he thought—had lied to himself—he was over Drift and now not only is he wrong he’s developed a crush on Ratchet—reliable, stern, stubborn, kind, smart Ratchet—his Amica’s Conjunx. And he knows very well it is unrequited. Even if they are wanting to be adventurous and invite someone new to sleep with them, Rodimus is going to be devastated when they finally close their bed again.

One night he could laugh off as a drunken fun time, but he will not be able to disguise how clingy and emotional and needy he’ll be if they make it a frequent thing. That’s why Rodimus didn’t do multiple nights with people! He “misunderstands” and thinks more is going on than it actually is. He refused to inflict that on Dratchet.

He’d just gotten better at not shoving his way into Drift’s way and asking for things because Drift won’t tell him no! Ratchet finally tolerates him enough to not protest them being Amica—not that he’d said anything before but Rodimus knew he thought Drift could do better—which Rodimus agreed but was selfishly glad he hadn’t.

So he avoids them, helped by arranging the schedule and a few emergencies, always ready to offer an excuse even if it did make Drift look at him sadly and Ratchet look suspicious. And if he starts to feel weird afterwards, at first sick and tired, falling asleep in his office and achy, and then horny and starving and can’t stop eating sweets that’s his business. He has successfully managed to scrap their interactions down to the bare minimum which he will continue to do until he’s unrequited feelings fade, which would be a lot easier if they’d stop trying to corner him and Minimus and Megatron stopped judging him every time he made the schedule.

Rodimus’s sweet intake leads to his density increasing making him way more as protoform is building up and he doesn’t notice the difference, difference until he has the subtlest belly budging out just above his array. Ratchet finally pegs what is going on when he notices the anti-nausea, the glow, and the belly and way Rodimus’s hips are rounding out and chest is subtly swelling. He puts his foot down and he and Drift finally corner him by using privileges to be put on the graveyard shift with Rodimus.

Rodimus, who’d been getting gentle pep talks (Minimus) and just do it pep talks (Megatron), allows himself to be lead away. Accept apparently him carrying has gotten Ratchet and Drift very hot and bothered and instead of the conversation they are kissing him and pushing him over his desk to stuff him full and Rodimus is ready to go at a moment at this point, constantly horny, and is immediately distracted by this and also can’t get away and is sober enough to actually hear them saying they want him to stay and how thrilled they are to have a clutch and the phrasing is with the intention of a future together. After Drift, who has to be responsible because it turns out Ratchet’s breeding kink is making him thoroughly distracted pushing Rodimus against the nearest surface so he can cup his belly and fuck him, calls Megatron and Minimus to take over their shift.

Rodimus wakes up the next day to a grumbling Ratchet getting out of bed and kissing Drift goodbye and soothing him back to rest and then seeing Rodimus looking up at him sleepily kisses him and tells him to keep sleeping too. And Rodimus gets to, still not entirely sure what is going on, but the possessive grasp Drift makes on him when he rolls back over to sleep and Ratchet’s firm stay here with his own instincts finally relaxed and sleeping good from a night in between them helps.

They do eventually talk and work things out in between a lot of makeup sex and now Rodimus basically living it while getting bent over or crowded up against a wall to make sure he gets enough material to make their clutch. Drift is more slow and sweet about it taking his time and gentling Rodimus through it, savoring every moment, but Ratchet is rougher and very into the breeding aspect, prone to picking Rodimus up and shoving him against the wall or desk or bed (if they make it that far), and filling him up, fucking him until Rodimus’s is yowling, still carefully and hand always gently petting over Rodimus’s swelling tank. Ratchet is also the one who is now the most prone to spoiling Rodimus at the slightest pout. The carrier of the clutch deserves everything is Ratchet's stubborn response everytime he has a happy purring Rodimus pepper his face with kisses and Drift tease him about it.

Happy pregnant Dratchrod sex and babies for the win with Rodimus getting pampered.

#valveplug #mech preg #mechpreg #dratchrod #mild angst #dratchrod pregnant

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uluvjay · 1 year

Note

Can I request a Nico blurb using the first prompt on the friends to lovers list?

hugging and absentmindedly kissing their neck, resulting in mortification for one of them

Nico Hischier x reader

Warnings?; Awkwardness, kiss, club scene, alcohol, hangovers

Sorry for any errors!

—

The devils were having a end of the season night out at their favorite bar in jersey before everyone headed their separate ways and Nico had invited you since you were his best friend.

However Nico was very wasted and you currently had him trapped in the booth while you waited for your Uber back to his apartment.

“Your such an Angel for making sure I get home safe” he told you, placing his head on your shoulder and wrapping his arms around you.

“Anytime Nico” you laughed while patting his head.

You got the notification that your Uber was only five minutes away so you gathered up Nico and made your way outside to wait the rest.

As you were both standing there he wrapped you in a big hug causing you to laugh, this wasn’t new Nico was usually pretty clingy when drunk.

However what you weren’t expecting was for him to dip his head down and place a few quick and short kisses to your neck. You couldn’t help but freeze even as Nico began to speak to you.

You were stuck in thought until your phone went off and you looked up to see your and Nicos Uber. “C’mon Nico, gonna get you home” you told him pulling him to the car.

After successfully getting Nico into his apartment and into bed you stood in his kitchen thinking about what had happened a little over forty five minutes ago.

To say you were embarrassed or modified would be downplaying how you were feeling. You were feeling a large mix of emotions from mortification, excitement, sadness, confusion.

You liked Nico more then a friend but he didn’t know and after tonight you weren’t sure how you were going to continue on. There was no way he was going to remember what he did and you didn’t know if you’d be able to bring it up In the morning.

You decided it was best to just go to sleep on Nicos extremely expensive and comfortable couch and that you’d figure everything out im The morning.

—

When you woke up in the morning you felt your feet on someone’s lap and quickly sat up only to realize it was just Nico.

“Morning sleepyhead” he greeted

“Ugh, what time is it?” You asked

“9:30 am” he told you.

“How the hell are you awake right now? You were obliterated last night” you told him trying to push the anxiety that was stirring in your stomach to the side.

He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders allowing an awkward silence to fall over the living room. You laid back down just staring at the ceiling, trying to decide what to do.

“Hey Nico?”

“Yeah?..”

“You uh…you kissed my neck last night” you hurriedly blurted out.

“I know” he told you, causing you to shoot up and look at him like he was crazy.

“What!?, how can you remember that?” You were so shocked right now.

“I’m not sure honestly but I am sorry, that was probably so uncomfortable for you and I just caused so many issues because I know you down feel the same and I-“

“Feel the same? Nico what?” You cut him off

“I have feelings for you..have for a while now” he told you.

You scooted next to him and sat up on your knees cupping his face. You looked in his eyes for a moment before you pulled him in and gave him a kiss.

“I like you too” you admitted as you pulled away and rested your forehead against his.

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #jack hughes #luke hughes #hockey imagine #nhl #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #fan fiction #new jersey devils #uluvejay request week

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be-with-me-so-happily · 1 year

Text

Chapter 5

Series Summary: Gemma is definitely Cassidy James' favourite Styles family member, considering they are best friends and all. And especially considering that Harry Styles is Gemma's smug and self-centered younger brother. Her life isn't perfect, and neither is she, but she knows for a fact that anything involving Harry gets messy.

Chapter Summary: Things are changing, for the entire world, so Harry and Cassidy navigate their friendship through the new situation that everyone now finds themselves in. Will things ever be the same as they were?

Chapter Warnings: Some explicit language, Covid-19, lockdowns & quarantines, mild injury, potential jealousy, wine consumption

[ present - March 2020 ]

With her phone held in front of her face, Cassidy quickly scans the vicinity of the room, through the door frame, making sure Cecelia is not within earshot.

"At least half of the country is on edge." She states quietly, eyes still glancing around to look out for her toddler. The little one doesn't need to hear or sense any concern that is present in their current conversation.

"It's the same here. The new travel ban isn't helping." Harry replies, sighing as he dips his head down. "It's the uncertainty of things. No one knows what's going to happen. It's as if the future is hazy."

"Hopefully it's nothing to be too concerned with." She responds, yet feeling a mild tightness in her chest. Just like Harry said, it's the uncertainty that worries her.

"On to a more positive subject, if things settle down, are you doing anything for Mother's Day? It's in a few weeks, yeah?"

Cassidy's shoulders raise in a shrug, an odd and solemn feeling rushing over her. She's never truly celebrated the holiday. When she was younger, her father obviously never did anything for her mum. Not anything good, anyway. Cassidy tried to do fun things with her, but it wasn't much. When she became a mum herself, there wasn't another person in the home besides her baby girl, so no one else was there to share in the traditional festivities of the day. Not that she wanted a big fuss anyway. Besides, this is the first year that Cecelia is even remotely aware that there is anything special about it. Needless to say, it has yet to be anything but another day of the week up until this point, so she hasn't thought to do anything specific.

"I don't know. It's like Valentine's Day, we'll probably just keep it simple."

"Nope." Harry states with a strong shake of his head. "I'm texting my mum."

"Don't you dare, Harry!" Cassidy exclaims, wishing she could reach through the screen to stop his plan from going any further, whatever it may be.

"You can't just do nothing for Mother's Day, Cass! You're a good mum! You should do something!"

"Harry, I swear to god-"

"Too late!" He proclaims triumphantly, that smug little smirk appearing immediately. Cassidy gives him the most intense glare she possibly can, hoping he can feel it somehow on the other end of the video chat.

"I hate you."

"That's not very nice…" He pouts, causing him to receive an eye roll of an unamused nature. "May I please talk to Cece? She's much more pleasant."

"Yeah, well, that's because she actually likes you." Cassidy quips, mimicking his mischievous smirk to add to her sarcastic insult.

"Hey…" Harry states. "Bloody hell. You're a grump today…"

Cassidy chews on the corner of her bottom lip. She knows she's being a bit too snappy. She isn't meaning to. All the talk, and worry, about this new virus that is spreading rapidly, it's getting to her a bit more than she expected. It doesn't help that she just started her menstrual cycle, and that Cecelia woke up multiple times during the night with a sudden onset of bad dreams.

"Sorry about that." She sighs, looking up to her phone, finding Harry's eyes attempting to flicker over her features through the video call. "It's just that things aren't really going very well today."

"Do you… you don't have to… but do you want to talk about it?"

Much to her annoyance, Cassidy cannot help the small flutter in her stomach at his concern and willingness to help. It hasn't even been that long but he really has become one of her closest friends.

"It's…" She chuckles, feeling just slightly awkward enough to stop herself before talking to him about her physical female issues. "Woman stuff."

"Ah. Okay." Harry responds, nodding as if he understands exactly what she means. Though, he might. He grew up with two women in the household, and has obviously dated a number of them too. Even still, it's not something she's willing to go into detail about.

"Also, Cece didn't sleep well last night." Her lips tense together in an awkward smile, and Harry presents a more sincere pout at the new information.

"That's no good." He replies, a slightly sad tone to his words.

"I'm sure she really would love to talk to you, actually." She admits, no longer with her comical demeanor.

"Alright. Send me over to her." He smiles, causing Cassidy to do the same.

She gets up from the edge of her bed, walking into the living room where she, of course, finds her daughter colouring across multiple pages of paper.

"Hey Bug, Harry wants to say hi."

Cecelia immediately drops her crayons and bounces in her place on the floor, waiting for her mum to bring over the phone. Cassidy giggles at her daughter's excitement and looks at her phone to switch the camera view for Harry to see the little girl's anticipation.

Suddenly, she is halted and instantly feels a shooting pain through her foot, originating from her pinky toe. Her hands fly up and she turns around to watch in agony as her phone lifts into the air and then falls onto the floor, smacking down against the tile in the kitchen.

"Oh for fu-... for crying out loud!" She shouts, holding back the true words she wants to release, for the sake of setting a good example for her daughter.

"Umm… hello? What happened? It's dark over here." She hears Harry say as she wobbles over and retrieves her device. "Are… are you alright?"

"I stubbed my damn toe." She growls, turning it over to find the back camera cracked all the way through. Shattered would be a better description. "And the camera is broken."

"Is it salvageable?"

"I doubt it. I can't do much about it anyway. I don't have the time right now to get a new one. Figures." She sighs, grinding her teeth down enough to feel pain in her jaw. She is usually better at handling or at least hiding her frustration, but her hormones and lack of sleep, as well as everything going on in the world, have just built up inside and this was the thing to tip her over. "Nothing is going my way today."

For some reason, she brushes off the phone, as if the dusting off would solve her problems, and then walks back over to Cecelia, whose eyes are wide open, clearly trying to use her three year old brain power to understand what just unfolded in front of her.

"Is Harry still on da phone?" Cecelia asks, her face changing to one ready for disappointment.

"Yes he is." Her mum replies, flipping the camera view back to face her, handing the device over to her daughter, and plopping down onto the sofa behind her.

"Harry!"

"Hello Cece!" He exclaims back, with just as much enthusiasm as he received. "What are you doing today?"

As Cecelia lifts up each of her drawings to proudly show them off, Cassidy examines her now throbbing toe, discovering the nail half snapped off, and she grimaces at the pain.

She leans forward and rests her elbows on her thighs, pinching her nose between her finger and thumb, squeezing her eyes shut. This isn't the worst thing to happen to her, and it isn't the worst day she's ever had. Not even close. Quite a few from her childhood could easily win that title. But, the sense of feeling overwhelmed still manages to hit her hard, and tears begin to sit on her lower lash line.

"Yeah, but Mummy helped-ed me when I had da bad d'eams."

"You have a very good mum." Harry states, causing Cassidy's head to snap up, seeing his gaze switch between her and Cecelia. His subtle smile pulls her out from the downward spiral of negativity, just enough to straighten her posture.

"She's da best mummy ever!" Her daughter exclaims, and Cassidy's eyes begin to water again, forming out of gratitude now instead of helplessness.

"Could you give the phone back to your mum, please?"

"Yeah, 'kay. Buh-bye Harry!" Cecelia waves to the forward facing camera, thankfully still working for this interaction, and hands the phone back to Cassidy. She quickly swipes a finger over each cheek, clears her throat, and lifts up the device to be in full view of the man on the other end.

"Cass, are you sure you're okay?" He asks, so much compassion in his voice that even the hardest of hearts would not be able to reject it. She's almost positive that statement would have changed her mind about him when they were younger. Possibly.

"I'll be alright." She replies, unsure of the honesty behind her answer, but certain that she does not want to burden him with any of these minimal problems.

"I'm here to help if you need me, okay? Well, I'm here, in Los Angeles, but the sentiment still remains." He chuckles, and Cassidy cannot hold back the small laugh she instinctively lets out.

"Thank you." She replies, knowing his generous heart, and not being one to hold back from doing what he can for a friend.

"No problem. But I should get going, and get a bit of sleep."

"Wait… what time is it there…?"

Harry pulls his lips inward, tightly, and closes his eyes, being accompanied by a subtle shake of his head.

"Harry…"

"It's 1 in the morning." He utters, scrunching up his face with the admission.

"Oh my god, Harry! We wouldn't have rung if we knew what time it was there! Why did you answer the phone in the middle of the night?"

"I couldn't ignore a call from one of my best friends, and her mum!"

"Piss off. You're horrible!"

"And you're still a grump. G'night!"

Cassidy rolls her eyes and watches Harry give a quick wink before reaching in front of him and ending the call. She locks the screen and reaches to place it in her pocket when she feels a notification cause her phone to buzz. She brings it back around and opens her messages to see a couple of texts from Anne.

🗨️ Anne: come over on mother's day

🗨️ Anne: and that's non-negotiable

"Oh for fucks sake." She whispers. "I'm going to kill him."

•••

Curled up on the couch in a blanket, fingers tapping away on the laptop sitting on her thighs, Cassidy groans at the sudden rapping at the front door. The thought crosses her mind to ignore the stranger on the other side, but the knocking continues, so she figures an answer to their persistence will shut it down sooner.

She angrily swings the door open, ready to scowl at the intrusion, when she is halted by the sight of her best friend.

"Bloody hell, CJ!" Gemma exclaims, her eyes wide. "Why weren't you answering the door?"

"I was trying to avoid the annoying person who was interrupting my day." Cassidy chuckles, feeling thankful it was simply her friend, and slightly guilty that she didn't respond to her sooner.

"Annoying?" Her friend drops her jaw in disbelief. "Bit rude considering I brought you some coffee!"

Cassidy's eyes travel down to the to-go cups in her friend's hands, and can already feel the warmth of the drink inside.

"Just let me in and then drink this immediately, for fucks sake." Gemma adds, bringing Cassidy's eyes back up as she opens the door.

Gemma makes her way in and directly over to the sofa, instantly settling herself in as Cassidy takes a seat to the side of her.

"So, what's up?" She asks, taking a sip of beverage she has just been handed.

"I can't just visit my best friend?" Gemma replies.

Cassidy immediately lets out a laugh. Despite loving to spend as much time together as they can, and do, she knows her friend too well to ignore the expression all over her features.

"Not when your face looks like that!" Cassidy points out. Gemma opens her mouth in dramatic fashion, attempting to portray offense at Cassidy's assumption of ulterior motives.

"Fine. I heard that you're spending Mother's Day with me and Mum…" Gemma states. Cassidy subtly grumbles at Harry's sneaky plan to get her to celebrate the holiday. She definitely plans to give him a few words about inconveniencing his own family, just to get her out of the house. "I was hoping you could help me figure out what I can get for her."

"Shit." She responds, thankful that her daughter is currently at daycare and not within earshot of the curse words that just have, and will most likely continue, to be uttered during their conversation.

"Right? Why is she so difficult to buy for?" Gemma whines, pouting as if she were a toddler herself, again.

"She's just always so fucking generous that she never wants or asks for anything for herself."

The pair laugh at the notion of complaining about how selfless Anne is, though they love her for it. Cassidy likes to think that Cecelia's contentment for anything and everything she receives has come from the influence of that wonderful woman. Neither Anne nor Cecelia care too much about what they have or are doing, as long as it's with the people closest to them, which sparks a small idea.

"Why don't we treat her to a fancy afternoon tea time somewhere?" Cassidy perks up with excitement, one she can actually get on board with if the celebration must include herself. "She's always wanted to go to Claridge's, right?"

"Yes! That's perfect!" Gemma exclaims, pulling her phone out swiftly and bringing it in front of her. "I'm going to tell Harry so he can pitch in."

"You're making him contribute? He's not even here." Cassidy chuckles.

"So? She is his mum too… and I'm pretty sure his bank account can handle it."

Her statement is true, and Cassidy is once again reminded of just how big a star her friend Harry is. It boggles her mind that she grew up with him, that she actually grew up with the now famous Harry Styles, because she still doesn't really think of him that way unless and until it's brought to her attention in certain situations. But, she realizes that as his career continues growing, his celebrity status is a fact that is becoming more and more prominent to her.

Cassidy takes another sip of her coffee and a sudden knock at the door causes both of them to immediately snap their attention towards that direction.

"I have no idea who that could be…" She states, turning back to her friend as if Gemma would have more of a clue.

"So then answer the bloody door, CJ." Gemma chuckles, rolling her eyes as her thumbs type out a message on her phone.

She gets up, hastily making her way over, and opens the door to find a man standing in front of her with a decent sized box in his hands.

"Miss James? Miss Cassidy James?" The man asks, and as she looks over his attire, she notices that he doesn't appear as someone who usually makes deliveries.

"Umm… yes, that's me…" She responds timidly, only leaving the door open enough to view the stranger on the other side.

"Excellent. I have a package here for you from Mr. Styles." He explains, lifting the box in full view with a pleased smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, what?"

The man looks down to the object in his hands, glancing over the information typed out on the printed label.

"Mr. Styles asked me to deliver this to you as soon as it arrived." The man clears his throat, which causes Cassidy to shift in place. "He said that he didn't want just anyone to bring it to you and to personally make sure you received it."

Her mouth opens slightly but her brain seems to be unable to form words. Without her ability to function normally, she gives the man a simple nod to thank him, retrieving the box through the doorway.

"Have a good day, miss." He states, responding with his own nod and a smile as he walks away, and Cassidy closes the door behind him.

As she makes her way back to the sofa, her expression immediately turns into confusion, and her curiosity begins to heighten. She is completely unsure as to what Harry could have sent her way, especially considering he is held up in an entirely different country.

"What in the-?"

"Just open it! I want to know what's inside!" Gemma squeals, bouncing in her spot much like something Cecelia does quite often when she is excited.

"You don't know?"

A simple head shake from her friend gives her the boost of interest to grab the mysterious package and pull it into her lap.

She looks to the small table to the side of the couch, quickly finding a pair of scissors that are just sharp enough to cut the tape. A few snips and the box is free to reveal what's inside. Cassidy gives a quick look to her friend, finding comedy in the giddiness they both suddenly begin to feel.

She pries open the top, reaching in and pulling out a box of chocolates. It's not something that needed to be sent to her or delivered by a man in a nice coat, but nonetheless, she won't complain.

The sweets are set next to her as she brings her attention to something else she seems to have been gifted. As her eyes meet the item inside, shock takes over the function of her body, as well as inhibiting any words to leave her lips, yet again.

"Well…?" Gemma asks impatiently, leaning forward and peering to get a view for herself. "A phone? Why did he send you a phone?"

Cassidy's focus shoots over to a paper flush against the side and pulls it out to find a note from the man in question.

CHOCOLATES TO FIX THE ATTITUDE PROBLEM AND A NEW PHONE TO FIX THE CAMERA ISSUE.

- H

"I'm seriously going to kill him." She whispers to herself, not knowing if Gemma was aware of the sentence she just spoke.

"I agree with the attitude problem. You've been quite moody. I suppose that's understandable though." Gemma jokes, pushing her shoulder against Cassidy. "But what's wrong with your phone?"

She lifts herself enough to pull the device out of her pocket, handing it over as she continues to glance over the new one now in her hands, removing the plastic from the outside container.

"Yeah, this camera is done for." Gemma states, placing the broken phone into the box in replace of the updated version. "How did Harry know that you needed a new one?"

Cassidy suddenly feels a miniscule version of something she experienced a long time ago. Something she felt after both times that she and Harry had sex. Nerves. And a dose of guilt. Yet, it's a ridiculous thing to be feeling. This is not the same situation in the slightest. She and Harry are friends, and that's all. And what's more, Gemma knows they are friends. Unlike her lack of awareness of the other incidents. It has to be residual effects from the past, because there is absolutely nothing for her to be worried about.

"We were on a video call when it happened." She replies, finally taking her eyes from her gift and landing them on her best friend, being met with a mildly inquisitive, raised brow.

"Oh, okay." Gemma plainly responds, her simple answer reassuring Cassidy.

"Yeah, me and Cece. I hurt my foot and dropped my phone." She shakes her head in remembrance of the event that felt so tragic when she was in the middle of it. "I told him I couldn't get a new one yet. Apparently he took it upon himself to do just that."

"He's that kind of guy." Her friend explains with a shrug, as if it's something Cassidy should automatically know. But then again, that's all she has been experiencing from him since their friendship started, so she truthfully shouldn't be surprised.

"He didn't need to do this." She utters, still having the instinct to turn down the kind gesture.

"He knows that. But it's not going to stop him. He takes care of his friends and family."

"I'm becoming very aware of that fact." Cassidy exhales with a single, subtle sound of a laugh.

"I'm just glad you two are finally getting along."

The surprise of the comment causes Cassidy's heart to stop along with her breath.

"What?"

Gemma turns her body towards her, rolling her eyes at the question she was just asked, as if the answer should be obvious.

"You two were insufferable around each other when we were kids."

"Well, I mean, he-"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Harry was definitely a major pest, still is at times to be honest. But, come on, you were exactly the nicest to him either." Gemma explains, and Cassidy can all but keep from readjusting in her seat. "I guess I just thought you both would grow up and grow out of it, and end up… ummm, you know, being friends. Eventually. Or at least not hating each other!"

Flashbacks flood Cassidy's mind as she remembers back to their childhood. Not once did she think that her friend felt anything but the same annoyance that she herself felt.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Gem."

Her friend raises a hand to wave off the apology, as if it wasn't needed, though Cassidy feels otherwise.

"Yeah, well. It was only torture for me, for about twenty years…" She thankfully giggles, helping Cassidy's sudden guilt to lessen in intensity. "So just stay friends for an equal amount of time, at least, and we will call it even."

The thought of being Harry's friend for that long causes Cassidy's stomach to tighten and her lungs to inhale a deep breath. It's a reaction she wasn't prepared for, and one that's indiscernible at the moment. Although, she can acknowledge that it isn't of a negative nature.

"Be around Harry for that long?" She smirks, looking back down to the new phone just gifted to her by the man himself. "I can't make any promises. I already want to clobber him for this!"

•••

The bouncing of her leg does not help the impatience she feels as she waits for the call to be answered from the other end. She double checks the time, hoping that her calculations are correct, and that she can catch Harry as his morning begins.

Suddenly, the ringtone from the video call disappears and her gaze is met by a tousle-haired Harry.

"Oh my god. Did I wake you up?" She immediately questions, her heart racing with worry that she may have disrupted his sleep.

"No. Not at all." He chuckles, a coffee mug being brought up to his lips, covering up the small smile that has appeared at her exasperated question. "And good morning…"

"Good morning." She replies with a sigh of relief, and she notices the smile still stuck on his face when it is revealed to her again. "Umm… I wanted to give you a quick ring to thank you."

"No problem." He quickly states, with a raise of his eyebrow immediately following his words. "Wait, thank me for what?"

Cassidy can't tell if he truly doesn't understand what she is referring to, or if he is arrogantly playing dumb to get her to elaborate, but either way she feels a mild sense of embarrassment creep out onto her cheeks.

"For the chocolates, of course." She jokes, holding up the box that already has half of it's contents consumed. "But mostly for the phone. Harry, you-"

"I'm going to stop you right there." He interrupts, sternly but somehow also sweetly.

"Right. I know. You like doing things for your friends. But come on, Harry. This is not the same as just cooking dinner for us…"

"You needed a new phone, Cass." He states, with a sincere yet still stern tone. "How else was I going to talk to Cece?"

"It was only that back camera that was broken."

"Not just that. Your phone was like one thousand years old. You needed an upgrade." He exclaims with a smirk.

"Coming from the guy who doesn't even use emojis." She jokingly scoffs, drawing out a loud laugh from the man on the other side of her screen.

"Fair enough." He simply replies, being followed by a poking out of his tongue. "Does it work, though? Do you like it?"

Cassidy blinks her eyes as if in disbelief at herself, truly realizing that she has only questioned his generosity, despite ringing to express her gratitude. But also disbelief due to his apparent insecurity about the gesture. Not only does he want to do this for her, but he also wants to make sure she's happy with it, and it's fully taken care of.

"It's great, Harry. Truly. Thank you so much." She responds, a warmth traveling up her neck. "The camera on this one is really good! I've taken so many photos of Cece already!"

Harry's expression brightens at her answer and the heat creeps further up to her face. It's the fact that he helped her, and her thankfulness, that are creating this reaction. As much as she's working on accepting all of this, it's still all new to them.

"You'll have to send me some." He mutters.

"Sure."

A silence falls upon them for a moment, a bit of flickering of their gazes from each person.

"So… do you have anything planned for the day?" Cassidy asks.

She notices him play with his bottom lip, and a more serious expression rapidly displaying across his face.

"Harry…?"

"Umm… yeah, I've got a meeting." He quietly states, and Cassidy senses a sadness in his tone. "Bit worried that I won't be able to tour this year…"

"Oh shit." Cassidy instantly feels her heart hurt for him. She's always known how much he loves that part of his job, and to potentially not be able to do it must be painting him more than he is showing. "I'm so sorry. I know how much touring means to you."

"It's not-..." He sighs, his fingers combing through his hair more than once. "It's not even about me. It's all the people who buy tickets… and flights… and hotel rooms to come see me. It's not fair to them."

Cassidy stays silent as she watches his gaze drop down in a preemptive defeat. She knows there is nothing she can really say to ease his worries. But he's there for her, and she'll be there for him. And if that means sitting in silence on the other end of a video call, that's what she will do. She'll be there for her friend.

•••

She doesn't know if she's ever been more grateful to have a new phone. With the new nationwide, and seemingly worldwide, lockdowns now in place due to the coronavirus, Cassidy has never felt more alone. Besides Cecelia, but there's only so much she can talk about with a 3 year old.

Needless to say, she has already used her phone more than ever before, especially for video chats with her friends. Particularly Harry. Because it seems that not even miles of separation nor a pandemic can break the bond he and Cecelia share.

"I wan' say g'night to Harry…" Cecelia pouts, as she nuzzles into her bed and under her quilt. Her little hands lift up to rub her eyes, deceitfully reassuring Cassidy of her daughter's need for slumber.

"I know, Bug. But it's very late at night for him. He's sleeping."

"M'kay…" The little girl mumbles, the sadness so evident in her tone that it tugs at her mother's heart.

"How about we send him a message, yeah? So he can wake up to it in the morning."

Cecelia's eyes light up as much as possible with the heaviness of the day, and Cassidy props herself up against the headboard.

🗨️ Cassidy: sorry about this being so late… cece wanted to ring you before bed but i told her we would message you to say goodnight… so, goodnight from cece.

"Okay. I told him." Cassidy simply states, locking her screen as she looks down to her daughter, stroking the girl's long locks.

"I miss Harry."

Cassidy's eyes instantly widen at Cecelia's words. She knows the bond they have, but it still manages to catch her off guard at random moments. Not in a negative way, just in how tight that bond is.

"I know you do. He's your friend." Cassidy replies.

"He's my best friend!" She explains, even with her sweetly sleepy voice. "Well, you first. And Emily at school. Harry is after. But… don' say dat part!"

Cassidy can't help but chuckle.

"Okay." She smiles, giving Cecelia one final kiss on her forehead and moving towards the bedroom door. "I won't. Goodnight Bug."

"G'night Mummy. Love you." A little, relaxed sigh leaves her lips.

"I love you, too."

Cassidy closes the door and makes her way back to the living room. She plops down and grabs the remote, letting her body sink into the couch cushions. She smiles as a thought crosses her mind. Despite the horrible things happening in the world, and the chaos that quarantine creates, she still has things to be thankful for. Things that aren't seeming to be affected by any of that negativity. Those things bring her comfort, which is more than welcome these days.

•••

With the sound from a rerun of 'The Great British Bake-off' playing in the background, Cassidy scrolls mindlessly on her phone, attempting to wind down from the day. A sudden buzz causes the device to drop into her lap from surprise, and as she picks it up, she is even more shocked to see that the vibrations are due to a phone call from Harry.

"Good morning!" He states as soon as she answers, not even waiting for her to speak. "Oh. Wait… guess it should be more of a 'good evening' greeting for you…"

"Yes." She quickly pulls the phone back from her ear and checks the time. "It's 9pm here.

"Shit. I'm sorry. Were you asleep?" He asks, his voice going quiet, as if he isn't thousands of miles away in a different country.

"No, no. Just watching the telly." She replies, swearing she can hear his relieved exhale on the other end of the line. "What time is it there?"

"Umm… let me see… it's 5 in the morning."

"Since when do you get up that early?" Cassidy laughs, covering her mouth immediately in hopes that she didn't wake Cecelia. She skipped her nap and really needs her sleep.

There's a pause in the conversation, and Cassidy looks at her screen once again, checking if the call has disconnected, only to find that he is still on the line.

"I haven't been sleeping the best, to be honest. Lockdown has that all out of whack." He mumbles, and it squeezes her chest tight. Everyone has been out of sorts these days. Quarantine is hard on each person in their own way.

"Hey, it's your X-Factor audition anniversary today, isn't it?" She asks, hoping to take him out of the negativity she can tell that he is sitting in. Maybe a good memory will do the trick.

"Umm... yes, it is... how do you remember that?"

Cassidy unintentionally lets out another loud laugh, bending over at her waist at the amount of comedy behind Harry's question, and the certainty of her impending answer.

"Are you joking?" She asks, doing her best to regain control of her breathing, and stay quiet for the sleeping toddler in the other room. "I think that date is ingrained in my brain forever! You wouldn't shut up about it after Anne signed you up!"

[ flashback - March 2010 ]

For the past several years of her childhood, Cassidy has been subjected to Harry's increasing levels of annoyingness. However, today she feels as if he may have reached his peak.

If she hadn't already heard the news from Gemma herself, it wouldn't have taken long for the information of Harry's upcoming X-Factor audition to be brought to her attention. It felt as if the entire school knew within a matter of minutes.

"Hey, Cass!" Harry shouts out from behind her, causing her to internally cringe at the sound of her name coming from his mouth. It can't mean anything good, at least not for her. It never does.

She stops in her tracks and twists around to find the young lad jogging up to her with a wide grin stretching across his face.

"Did you hear?"

"Hear what?" She asks, playing dumb, though quickly realizing it just creates the opportunity for him to brag, and she internally scolds herself.

"I'm gonna be famous!" He exclaims, and the arrogant statement causes Cassidy to unintentionally scoff. "Hey…"

"You don't even know if you'll be on camera." She replies, knowing full well that the crew will inevitably be drawn to his irritating charm that everyone seems to fall for.

"So you did hear…" His grin widens. "I don't care. I get to sing!"

"You sing all the bloody time!" She reminds him.

"Right. Exactly. People seem to like it. So, I want to see if the judges do too."

"I don't like your singing." She blurts out, not meaning to let her annoyance with him get the best of her and her words. Especially considering the statement wasn't exactly true, though she'd never openly admit that to him.

"That's rubbish… you sing along any time White Eskimo plays..."

"That's because I like the actual songs."

"You can come along… if you want…"

"What?"

"To my audition. You can come along if you want. Robin, Mum, and Gemma will be there."

Cassidy opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Is he really inviting her? There's absolutely no reason for her to go, and definitely no reason for him to want her there. Unless it's to feed his growing ego. Maybe even use it as a way to 'prove' to his schoolmates that she 'loves' him, like he continues to lie about. The realization hits and manifests into a strong furrow of her brow.

"March 27th? I think I'll be busy that day."

"Marked it on your calendar already, did you?" His arrogant smirk immediately pulls his left dimple inward. "Might be the last time you get to see me…"

Cassidy cannot help the rolling of her eyes, even if the idea is quite shocking to think about. As her gaze focuses back on him, and sees his smug face, her desire to sass him back quickly reappears.

"Don't get my hopes up Harry."

[ present - March 2020 ]

"Hey, I was excited!" Harry exclaims, almost as if to verbally pout, as Cassidy chuckles at the memory.

"But I'm pretty sure you weren't supposed to tell anyone at that point. At least not the whole town!" Cassidy pulls her lips inward to hold back another loud laugh threatening to push out.

"I didn't ring you to be teased." He responds, a clear lightness to his tone.

"You should know better by now…" She teases again. "Why did you ring then?"

"I was told someone wanted to talk to me. But… I didn't realize what time it was for you."

Cassidy feels a little smile form with her mouth at the fact that he is so thoughtful to call Cecelia back, yet missing the slightly important detail of what time it is on the other side of the world.

"She just wanted to say goodnight to you."

"I miss that little one." He confesses, and she feels a warmth build up inside her chest. "I miss both of you, I suppose. When you aren't being a bully."

"First off…" Cassidy begins, letting out an amused exhale. "No, that's fair… but you're not missing anything. It's only been a couple of days since we've all talked."

"I'm aware. But I enjoy our chats. They're keeping me sane." Harry replies, and she can practically feel the sincerity to his statement.

"You don't feel sane?" She asks with a small laugh, though genuinely understanding his meaning.

"I just miss everyone. I miss home. Feels a bit lonely over here."

"Aren't you living with a bunch of people right now?"

"That's… yes. But that's not what I mean." He sighs, and she can hear a mild pain in his exhale. "Los Angeles isn't home. Not truly."

"Right. It will be nice to have you around again." Cassidy admits, sensing the mild desire to have had this be a video call, for the sake of displaying a reassuring expression to ease him.

"Did I just hear that correctly? You actually like having me around?"

"Shut up, you twit." Cassidy scolds with a chuckle. "But, it's honestly not the same without you here."

There's a silence that falls between, and Cassidy feels that light comfortability she is becoming accustomed to feeling when she dwells on the good things she still has to keep her going. These talks, and this friendship with Harry, are definitely one of them.

Her attention turns back to him as she hears the clearing of his throat, and she reverts back to being grateful that this call is not a video, as she senses a pink hue rushing to her cheeks.

"I just think that, when I'm finally home in London again, it'll feel like things are getting back to normal."

•••

[ present - June 2020 ]

As nice as it's been to work completely from home for the past few months, and spend more quality time with Cecelia, there is only a certain amount of sanity that someone can maintain while quarantining in general, let alone with an energetic toddler. So, Cassidy jumped at the chance to accept Anne's invite to her home, especially giving her daughter some freedom to go off and play while she chats face to face with another adult.

However, as she sits across from the woman who basically helped raise her, she can sense an awkward nervousness coming from Anne as she strums her fingers on the tea cup.

"I'm still sorry about Mother's Day being canceled." Anne expresses, slightly throwing Cassidy off that her anxiousness seems to be based off of the uncontrollable situation.

"It's not your fault. We went into lockdown!" She giggles, hoping her easy going demeanor helps to ease the unnecessary guilt Anne seems to be feeling.

"I know. It just would've been nice to have one last outing before everything shut down." Anne smiles, small but sweet.

Cassidy stays silent, gazing down to her beverage, the two seemingly understanding the nonverbal agreement. It hasn't been easy, for anyone, despite the rules of lockdown beginning to ease up. She's never been more grateful for open coffee shops and food delivery services, even if masks are required.

"Have you been out much now that we can, you know, go out a bit?" Anne asks.

Cassidy shakes her head slightly and she swallows her sip of tea.

"Haven't had much of a reason to go anywhere, besides the shops, for groceries."

"Oh." Cassidy hears the short reply.

As her eyes gaze back up to Anne, she is met with an unexpected expression, though one she had just been witnessing. The anxiousness has returned, or is still there, she isn't sure which one.

"Is… is there something else bothering you?"

"No, no. Not bothering…"

"But there is something." Cassidy replies, her eyebrow raising immediately.

"Well… it's just that, if you did want a reason to go out… there's this very nice guy, the son of a friend I have, and I thought-"

"Oh, so this was an ambush!" Cassidy states with amusement, but also a little frustration. She knows Anne means well, but she isn't even sure if she's ready for anything like a set up, and certainly wasn't expecting it to come from Anne.

"No, darling! No. I just… you're just a wonderful girl. And from what I know, he seems like a good guy. I just thought you two would have a nice time together…"

"I just don't know if I'm ready to date." Cassidy replies, the truth to her answer apparent to her in the way the thought of such a thing chaotically swirls around in her mind.

"Not ready? I can't even remember the last time you went on one! You definitely haven't since Cece was born!" Anne exclaims, snapping her mouth shut once the words come out, her features filled with regret. "I'm sorry. It's not my place."

"It's okay, Anne." Cassidy places her own hand over Anne's, waiting until their gazes meet.

"I just want you to be happy, CJ."

"I am happy." She reassures her.

"But you deserve to be loved. You deserve someone who absolutely adores you. Who, umm, who thinks the world of you, and never stops feeling that way. Who loves you through anything and everything life has and will put you through."

"Well, I have Cece…" Cassidy giggles, trying to divert the conversation to a more comfortable topic of discussion.

"You deserve someone who will love you both that way." Anne states, and Cassidy can see the emotion manifesting itself as tears form in the corners of her eyes. "I'm surprised you're still single, to be honest. But, if nobody… has tried… that's their loss. It's not as though you need it. A woman doesn't have to have a man to be happy. But, darling, you both deserve all the love in the world."

Anne's beautiful words and pure-hearted expression cause Cassidy's heart to melt. There isn't a sneaky or malicious bone in that woman's body, and she knows Anne is only doing it out of genuine love of her own.

"It doesn't have to be a commitment. Just a date. Or even just a… hang out of sorts." Anne adds, and Cassidy realizes she doesn't think she can reject Anne's offer. Or suggestion. Or whatever it is. She sighs, partially from gratitude but also defeat, and squeezes the hand she's holding.

"Alright." She agrees, watching as Anne tries to hide the way her face wants to light up.

"Alright?"

"I'll meet him." She concedes, every fiber of her body pricked with anxiety.

"Are you sure?" Anne asks, suddenly displaying more timidity than moments before.

Cassidy nods, mostly out of instinct. Anne has the best intentions, but bringing a guy into her life is not as simple as a casual 'hang out'. She has Cecelia. Not every man is open to being in a relationship with someone who already has a child. And Cassidy is more than a little cautious about who she brings into their dynamic. However, she knows that Anne is onto something. Even though she is perfectly content with it being her and Cecelia together, she can admit to herself that having someone else join their little unit wouldn't be the worst thing ever. As long as it's the right person. And she can't know if someone is the right person unless she gets to know them. So she might as well start somewhere, with someone. And if Anne knows this man, that's certainly not a bad place to begin.

•••

Derek is nice.

As planned by Anne, he and Cassidy first met up outside a small cafe, taking caution by social distancing from others, and enjoying the company together outdoors.

He is nice. Smart, successful, good looking, and seemingly uncomplicated.

The last part could be most important, considering that, as a single mother, her life can be the opposite at times.

Though, he seems to be very fond of her. He immediately made his intentions known that he won't see anyone else while they get to know each other. Again, uncomplicated. And any free moment she has, he wants to spend with her.

Which is why they are walking down the corridor to her flat, after he treated her to a very posh picnic in the park.

He guides her to the front door, a warm and strong palm placed on the small of her back, and stops behind her as they reach it.

She spins around, causing his hand to glide to her hip, and she swallows the lump in the throat that developed from the motion. It's been quite a long time since she's been touched like that, in that way.

"Thank you for today." She states quietly, some nerves seemingly getting the best of her.

"I'd like to do something with you tomorrow." He replies, a subtle squeeze of her hip accompanying his statement.

"Oh. I… I have some work to do, unfortunately." Her gaze drops out of unexpected shyness. It's not a lie, she does need to complete a few things, but she always finds herself in a daze after being with him. Dating feels new to her, all over again, and she always feels as if she needs to process their time together. Process the feelings.

His disappointed sigh is halted as the sound of the elevator rings out. They both turn their heads to see the doors open, and watch as Harry walks through them, his head down and his hands behind his back.

His pace slows as he gets halfway down, gazing up to meet the eyes of Cassidy, then shooting them over to the man beside her.

She looks over to Derek, whose expression matches that of her friend's.

"Harry? Harry Styles?"

"Yes…" Harry answers with hesitancy, and Cassidy concludes that he may be nervous about an awkward interaction with a fan.

"It's Derek. Derek Mills." He exclaims, raising his hand to his chest as if to provide visual proof of who he is. As if his identity should be obvious to the other man. "Holmes Chapel Comprehensive!"

Cassidy watches as Harry's eyes widen, flickering between her and the man he has now, apparently, been reintroduced to.

"Derek. Right. How's it going mate?" He asks, giving a blank stare and similarly neutral tone.

"It's going well. Yeah, I'm doing really, really well." Derek replies, giving a smile as his gaze moves to Cassidy before returning to her friend. Potentially his own old friend, though she can't quite be sure.

"Wonderful." Harry states, providing no emotion in his statement. He looks down to his hands after bringing them in front of him, showcasing a beautiful arrangement of flowers that she had somehow missed when the interaction began.

"I didn't realize you two knew each other. Especially considering, you know…" Derek points in Harry's direction. "He's famous."

"Oh, well-"

"We're good friends." Harry interjects. "We've known each other since we were kids."

An uncomfortable silence falls between the three of them, with only the jingling of Cassidy's keys sounding down the corridor.

"Those are nice." Derek states plainly, pointing to the bouquet, matching the tone he has been receiving thus far.

"Oh, right. I, umm, brought these over… for Cece." Harry replies, now keeping his gaze fixated on Cassidy. "Can I give them-"

"Oh." She responds quietly, suddenly feeling a tidal wave of tension filing the space around her. "She's having a little afternoon nap."

"Of course." Harry nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I should've remembered it was her nap time. I'm sorry."

"That's okay!" She instantly responds. She waves her finger between herself and the other man beside her. "We were just… saying goodbye. So I can take them inside."

She turns to Derek, being met with pure confusion. Not that it wasn't clear he wasn't being invited inside. That's something Cassidy put a boundary on as soon as he asked to see her again after that first date. So the confusion is most likely regarding this uncomfortable interaction between the three of them.

He gives Cassidy a nod and a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Message me tonight." He states, turning away from her and moving closer to Harry. "Nice to see you again, Harry."

"You too." He utters in reply, not giving the man much acknowledgement as he walks closer to Cassidy, and Derek walks further away.

Harry looks back at the now empty hall, and turns around to meet her stare.

"I didn't know you were… dating anyone…" He states softly, with a familiar timidity that she hasn't heard in a while.

"We've been on a few dates. Nothing too serious right now." She shrugs, rummaging through the bag she has hanging from her shoulder.

"Right. Well, that's… nice..."

"What's with the tone?" She asks, a sternness beginning to attach to her own tone. What reason can he have to be snarky with her?

"I'm a bit surprised that you didn't tell me about this."

As much as Cassidy was just questioning his current, negative demeanor, she didn't expect a real answer. Certainly not that answer.

"I didn't realize it's something you would even want to know…"

"I'm your friend! Of course I want-... I mean… we talked a lot while I was away. Seems like this would be something that came up in conversation…"

She studies his face, watching with uncertainty as he expresses the same sentiment.

"Your mum only introduced us a couple of weeks ago and-"

"My mum set this up?" Harry's eyes widen, just enough for Cassidy to pick up on the movement of his features.

"Yeah…" She replies, still sensing a sliver of the snarky tone he had used moments before. "She thinks I'm not happy. Or… wants me to be happier, at least. She wants me to have more love in my life."

"Love?" Harry immediately straightens his posture and his eyes widen with, what looks like, a curious shock.

"Well, god, one step at a time please…"

"So, do you like him?" He utters, a volume that almost caused Cassidy to miss his question.

"I suppose so." She shrugs. Her answer would truthfully be that she does, but that suddenly feels as if it would be a troublesome response to give at this moment.

"You suppose so?"

"He's a nice guy."

"Did you even know him in school?" He asks, passive aggressively at best.

"No… he was in the year ahead of mine. What's that got to do with-"

"I just don't remember him being a nice guy."

"In school? Harry, that was ages ago." She chuckles, trying to ignore the once familiar frustration making itself known. "I don't particularly remember you being at your best back then either."

"Yes, but that's-... it's just that, I-" He stutters, swallowing harshly and running his fingers through his hair as he clears his throat. "You're right. I wasn't."

"And look at you now. Bloody hell, look at us both now! I hang out with the biggest pop star in the world!" Cassidy exclaims, delighting in the comedic truth to the statement, even if it's not the real heart of their reconciliation. "But, moreso, I'm your friend. We are friends. People change, Harry."

"True." He utters in response. "I just… I'm looking out for you."

"I appreciate it. But you don't need to worry about me, I can handle myself." She smiles, standing up straighter to further display her confidence. "I'd like to think I have a good judge of character."

Harry opens his mouth, but quickly closes it, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

"So… did you only come over to bring Cece some flowers?" Cassidy gives a small smile, still feeling an odd, mild tension in the air, but hoping the change of subject eases it away.

"Well, no. Since I just got back into town, I was going to invite you both over to my place." He returns her smile with one of his own, but the attempt still doesn't give her the reassurance she needs. "But since Cece's asleep, maybe another day then."

"Sure! Tomorrow?"

He hands over the bouquet and brings one hand up to fiddle with his lower lip, crossing the other around his waist, and furrowing his brow in thought.

"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon will work just fine."

Harry gives her a slight nod, along with a matching smile, and turns back to walk down the corridor. Cassidy watches as he gets back on the lift, his expression still seeming to be one of deep concentration on whatever his mind is dwelling on, and she begins to feel an uneasiness in her chest that she wasn't expecting to materialize between the two of them.

[ flashback - July 2014 ]

Dragged to yet another One Direction concert in London. That's where Cassidy finds herself with Gemma. It's annoying, at this point, that she so easily caves to her best friend's request of joining her, when she never wants to attend any of their shows. Not fully anyway.

And this time is worse, because Gemma managed to convince Cassidy to hang out backstage before the show, rather than after when she can use exhaustion as an excuse to get out of there quickly.

"So, what's new?" Niall asks her, scooting closer to her as they both lean against one of the dressing room walls.

"Not much really." She shrugs, considering the fact that her life is nowhere near as exciting as the one they lead.

"She's being modest." She hears coming from her right, feeling her friend nudge her with an elbow as Gemma walks up beside her. "She's finishing up at uni and then doing an internship for a place in Manchester!"

"That's amazing, Cassidy!" Niall exclaims, giving her a cheeky wink.

She simply shrugs, still highly aware of the company this news is being given to, knowing that this megastar's reaction is out of politeness.

"And she started seeing someone…" Gemma adds, causing Cassidy to shoot a strong, scolding glare in that direction.

"You're dating? Who are you dating?" A voice asks, and Cassidy turns her gaze to see Harry walking over from the other side of Niall, leaning one shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed over his body.

Who does he think he is to assume he has the right to even know the details of the new relationship she is in?

"You don't know him." She growls through her teeth.

"I might…"

"You don't."

She watches Harry look over to his sister, and out of the corner of her eye, sees the confirmation Gemma gives him. As if Cassidy's answer wasn't enough, or wasn't the truth. As if he knew better than to take her word for it. That arrogant prick.

"Does he know you know me?" His annoyingly famous smirk immediately appears after his words come out.

"Why would I tell him that?"

"Just don't want him to get jealous." He states, tapping Niall on the shoulder, obviously looking for someone to agree with his comedic statement, but only, and thankfully for Cassidy, receiving a shake of Niall's head.

"There's nothing to be jealous of."

[ present - June 2020 ]

The sound of chopping can instantly be heard as Cassidy and Cecelia enter through the front doors to Harry's house.

"In here!" They hear coming from the kitchen, and as they turn the corner, Cassidy is met with the view of Harry busying himself around the room.

"Can I go ou'side?" Cecelia asks, looking between her mother and their host.

"Of course!" Harry immediately exclaims, not bothering to check with Cassidy, even though her answer would be the same. She smiles at the comfort and normality of it all now, and realizes that it may never cease to cause her heart to fill up with so many good feelings. Happiness qand gratitude being the main emotions. "I could use your help picking some pretty flowers to put on the center of my dining table…"

The little girl's eyes light up, nodding at the suggestion and skipping her way outside.

"What have you got going on over here?" Cassidy asks as she turns back to Harry and moves into the kitchen, finding different foods sprawled out across the counter.

"Just… a small charcuterie selection…" He replies, laying cheese slices on the middle of the board.

"You didn't hav-... it looks delicious, Harry!" She states. Clearly she is still learning to accept his generous gestures, though that is one thing she may never get used to. She has spent so many years having to do anything and everything herself, that it is still doesn't feel entirely normal for her to have someone else do something for her.

"I have some wine over there if you'd like to pour yourself a glass." He gestures behind him, not taking his focus away from the food in front of him.

Cassidy walks over to the opposite counter of where he stands, picking up the one bottle he has pulled from his collection, and reading over the very intricate label.

"Are you sure you want to open this one? It looks pretty fancy."

"It's just a bottle of red wine, Cass."

"It's a 1982. That's older than me! And it says 'rouge'… I consider that pretty fancy. But then again, I'm not the famous Harry Styles. I usually just go for the cheap Zinfandel or a pink Moscato." Cassidy giggles, looking up from the bottle in her hand to find Harry lacking the amusement that she herself is finding in her statement.

"Oh I'm aware." He replies, rolling his eyes in a very sarcastic nature.

"But maybe this pinot will wash away your 'grumpy old man' mood…"

Harry's gaze shoots up from his task, displaying wide eyes, as if he hadn't been clueless of his previous, serious expression, or the sourness in his tone. Although, she is almost positive that he knows.

"What?"

Cassidy scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, choosing to move past his clear pout over her beverage commentary.

"Nothing. I just think you should save this one for another time. A better occasion."

He shrugs. Simply shrugs, and arranges the final few strawberries with the other fruits, as Cassidy finds a less extravagant wine for the both of them to consume. One that is more relatable to her more normal lifestyle.

"Shall we?" He asks, nodding in the direction of beautiful back doors, leading out to an even more beautiful backyard.

Cassidy grabs the glasses and they exit, each finding a comfortable spot on his patio furniture, both close enough to the outside table and within reach of the lovely food spread he has created.

"So, catch me up. What's… what's new in your life?" Harry asks, taking his glass and then a sip of wine, seemingly hiding his expectant expression, though failing to keep it from Cassidy.

"Well, considering we saw each other yesterday…" She giggles mildy. "Nothing."

"Right." He scoffs within a chuckle of his own. "But it wasn't much of a conversation, and I have been away…"

"We also talked multiple times a week, you pest. Besides not actually being around, and considering we couldn't do much anyway, you didn't miss anything."

"Don't know, it feels like I did." He mumbles. "With… with everyone."

Her gaze flickers over to him, noticing the way he has begun to run his teeth along his bottom lip, staring out to the backyard view.

"I bet it feels good to finally be back home then, yeah?"

"It does. Yes." He utters in response, a quietness that feels a little surprising to Cassidy, considering how desperate he seemed to leave Los Angeles and return to London. "I won't be able to settle in too much though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm… I'm actually headed to Italy soon."

"That sounds amazing! How soon?"

"Umm…" He runs his fingers through his hair and his gaze drops as he swirls the beverage around in his glass. "I'm leaving next week."

"Next week?" She exclaims, turning to face him completely. "Wow. I feel like you just got back home."

"I know." He softly states, giving nothing more than that simple response.

"What are you going for?" She feels her brow furrow slightly, the expression caused by the confusion she feels throughout herself. However, she lightens her features, even if just to ease her own mind. "Finding even more pretentious wine?"

"Of course." He replies with a simple smile, very unlike his usual grin, or smirk. "And, umm, I guess to also figure out what I want to do next. Maybe write a song or two, if inspiration strikes."

"And you can't do that here? At home?"

"I need a clear head. Free from distractions."

The confusion grows and a worry begins to build alongside it, though she isn't quite sure why. He's a grown man. He can do whatever and go wherever he wants to, it doesn't affect or involve her in any way. Except that, to an extent, it does.

She looks over to Cecelia, who is completely comfortable at Harry's home, and completely content digging around in the garden outside.

Her gaze quickly shoots down to her fingers as they begin to fidget with the stem of her wine glass, then slowly moves back over to him.

A realization falls over her. She's a bit sad. For Cecelia, who just got her best friend back, but also for herself. She just got her friend back too. Her other best friend. Now he's headed off again, and another realization hits her. Their lives are so different. As much as she sees him as the Harry she knew as a kid, he is not just that. And for the first time since they became friends, she worries that it could change things. Change what they now have.

"Right." She utters, still caught up in her thoughts. "Free from distractions."

Series Masterlist

•••

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chocolatestrawberrymilk · 10 months

Note

hey hey! could you do tenko miu and kaede general relationship hcs? pls + ty if you do it!!!

aaa hi my first request! I'll try my best! >:)

Kaede

Ok she is literally the sweetest EVER.

If she likes you that only intensifies by 10x.

I don't think she's one that beats around the bush to tell someone her feelings, even if she's not sure you feel the same.

Probably goes up to you one day and just kinda says it! She doesn't see the point in pining when you two could be even happier even sooner!

If you say yes, she'll play one of her pieces for you.

Oh yea that reminds me - she TOTALLY writes music for you on, like, a daily basis.

Can you imagine going with her to her piano room, falling asleep, and then waking up to her softly playing a piece she wrote for you?

"Oh, you're awake! I'm sorry if I woke you up, sweetheart, but there's a piece I'd like to show you that I wrote just for you while you were sleeping - would you like to hear it?"

She'd be the kind to gently show you off, if you know what I mean?

Like, she isn't SUPER in everyone's face about it, but she takes every chance she can get to talk about how cool you are and how lucky it is that you two got together!

She probably doesn't get jealous easily. She knows that you're trustworthy, she's confident that you won't just drop her on the spot if someone even more attractive comes along, and she knows that she's also a pretty nice girlfriend herself!

We love a self-confident queen!

She'd take you to all her piano performances! If you don't like classical music... well, that's either going to change or you're going to be in for quite the ride.

If you told her you didn't like going to them, she'd get a little passive-aggressive for a bit - she loves you and doesn't want to make you do anything you don't want to, but at the same time, she feels a little like you don't care about her as much as she cares about you and that hurts her.

Kaede would also be VERY enthusiastic about anything you've got going on.

Sports? She goes to every game/practice and brings embarrassing signs!

Music? She watches every concert, listens to everything on repeat (even if it's not her favourite genre), and constantly asks to duet!

You get the idea, haha.

10/10, hand in marriage

Tenko

Literally your personal bodyguard.

Even before you two got together, she had a habit of following you around to make sure that you weren't going to get hurt and weren't being touched by any degenerates.

It could even dip into borderline stalking territory at some point.

It's just... she's Very protective, okay?

She just needs to keep you safe!

Even if you don't really need her protection...

If you're strong/into martial arts, you're her new favourite sparring partner!

Somehow both the complete opposite and exactly the same as Kaede when it comes to confessing.

It's obvious to everyone, no matter how dense they are, with how she acts and what she says!

"Here, do you want me to feed you? Because I can! If you-If you want! Ahhh, do you need me to get rid of these males? I... I can also do that!"

If you're a guy, her misandry definitely tones down. As much as Tenko can tone it down, at least. It's definately going to be a lot harder for your relationship to move along, though.

If you're a girl, it's going to be a lot easier for the two of you to get close. She'll be very adamant about keeping you away from keeping you away from her so-called "degenerate males". If you ask her to stop, she'll try her best, but it's going to take some time.

She'd probably end up only confessing on accident, lol.

You know that video where the person goes “I’m going to confess to you on valentines day”? That's probably her.

She'll have this whole script planned out, so it turns out perfect, but then she slips up and says... that.

Once you two officially start dating, she tries to teach you martial arts, so you can defend yourself even when she isn't there. Whether this succeeds or not... is up in the air.

She really likes to feed you for some reason...

Maybe she just likes feeling like she's doing something for you. Or maybe, she feels like you settled, and she wants you to at least feel better about it-

Yeah, she overthinks things a lot, and can be pretty insecure about if you even like her.

Pls comfort her even if she says she doesn't need it <333

Can get pretty jealous for that reason too X)

shes so SKRUNKLY

Miu (suggestive)

She's... a bit of a wreck.

But you knew that already.

She's probably going to be a bit of a tsundere - it'll get better over time but it'll never go away, and I think that's part of her charm!

She likes to hang around you, and likes when you sit with her while she's inventing, whether or not you understand what's going on.

I honestly hc that her main love language is quality time because it reassures her that you actually like her (whether that be platonic or romantic) instead of just liking her appearance or body.

She can have a bit of a hard time talking to you normally sometimes, since I also don't think she's ever had a relationship where the main focus was emotions and the two people actually really liked each other and not just for doing adult stuff.

So these new feelings of attraction are a bit new to her.

Because of this, I think she'd try a couple ways of "flirting" that only succeeded in making everyone uncomfortable.

That's obviously not the best way to go about it, but it's the only way she knows, so you'd have to tell her.

She thinks that you now hate her forever and probably hides from you. If she does see you she runs off, lmao. She's not the bravest girl.

You'd have to be the first one to confess. She would get really defensive at first and would probably take a while to accept it and realized that you liked her for her.

After you did get together, she'd always be making stuff to make your life easier.

"What do you mean 'that's a little unnecessary?' Babe, this gorgeous girl genius just invented THE solution to your daily problem of needing to find the correct amount of milk to put in your cereal, and it only takes up, what, five square feet!"

She might have a hard time defending herself, but she tries her best to defend you.

Is immediately up to throw down the moment she hears someone insult you lol.

Miu's also one of those people who's really academically smart but kind of stupid everywhere else.

So, you might need to help her with little things like cooking or apologizing.

She always makes it up to you, though - with yet another unnecessary invention XD.

Very jealous, and can get openly hostile with the person she thinks is about to sweep you off your feet. She really just loves you a lot, though, and thinks she knows that you can do so much better than her, though she'd never tell anyone that.

Maybe not the best with advice, but I think she could actually be a darn good listener when she wants to. Very good when you just need to vent + cuddle.

My precious little dumpster fire <3333

Sorry if that wasn't good enough/ooc, this was my first ask! Just tell me if you need a rewrite and I'll happily oblige :)

#danganronpa x reader #danganronpa x y/n #danganronpa x you #miu x reader #miu iruma x reader #kaede x reader #kaede akamatsu x reader #tenko x reader #tenko chabashira x reader

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winchesterwild78 · 6 months

Text

Chance Meeting pt 14

Part 13

18+ Minors DO NOT interact

Please be kind and all mistakes are my own. All work is mine. Please don’t take or copy it.

Warnings: fluff, angst, smut, Jensen being a sweetheart

Chapter Warning & Summary: SMUT! Unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), Fluff. It’s Saturday and the Padaleckis have arrived. Jensen being a sweetheart and falling in love

A/N: This chapter is Fluffy and a little Smutty, then fluffy again 🥰. Our lovebirds are falling in love and everyone sees it😁

———————————————————————

The next morning you woke up to a bed full. At some point in the night both girls climbed in the bed too. Jensen was laying on the edge of the bed with his oldest practically pushing him off the bed. His other daughter was snuggled up between her and their brother, who was still snuggled to you. You smiled at the sight and felt your heart warm. You slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Before you could close the door Jensen was walking in behind you. “Looks like we had a bed full last night” you smiled as you hugged him. “How did you sleep” you asked him. “Pretty good. I had all my babies with me” he said kissing your forehead. “How did you sleep, sweetheart” he asked. “I slept good. I was worried he would have another nightmare but I’m glad he didn’t.” You told him as you finished up and grabbed your jogging pants and put them on.

“I’m going to go make some coffee and get breakfast started” you told Jensen as you opened the door. You looked at the bed and saw the kids still sound asleep. You smiled as you crept out of the room and went downstairs.

You started the coffee and started pulling out the stuff for breakfast. You heard Jensen coming downstairs and into the kitchen. You had music playing and of course you were dancing and singing. He loved watching you sing and dance around when you were doing stuff in the house. He laughed and came up to you grabbing your hand and spinning you around. You laughed while you two sang and swayed to the song. His voice was a gift from heaven and you could listen to him sing all day. As the song ended he dipped you and pulled you up kissing your lips. “Babe I need to cook breakfast before the kids get up.” You said trying to pull away from him. He pulled you tighter and said “too late” as you heard giggles and feet running down the stairs. The three of them came bounding into the kitchen and ran right past Jensen straight to you. “Miss y/n, good morning!” They said as they all three grabbed onto you. Jensen laughed and said “see I’ve been replaced”. You smiled and playfully rolled your eyes.

Jensen leaned against the doorway watching you and the kids. You hugged each of them and asked them what they wanted for breakfast. They asked for pancakes and bacon. You looked at Jensen and said “of course they want bacon, they are your kids” you laughed. He walked over and gave the kids hugs and told them to go play until breakfast was ready. They left the room and Jensen started helping you with breakfast. “Babe, you don’t have to help. Go play with the kids” you said. “No, y/n I want to help.” He said grabbing a pan. You cupped his face and said “Jensen, I’ve got it. Go play with your babies. You’ve missed them. I promise I can handle breakfast.” You kissed his lips. He poured a cup of coffee, kissed you again and went to find the kids.

Breakfast didn’t take too long to finish and you set the table. You walked to the playroom where you found the kids and Jensen laughing and talking. You heard his oldest talking to him and she said your name. You stepped into the room as you heard “daddy, do you love y/n?” Jensen said “yes I do baby, very much.” “Are you going to marry her” she asked. The question surprised you and you gasped a little. Jensen heard you and he looked up at you. He turned to her and said “maybe one day sweetheart. If she wants to.” “I love her too daddy, she takes care of us and she helped bubba last night when he was scared like mommy does.” She told him. As he stood up he said “yeah, she takes care of a lot of people. She’s amazing like that.” You smiled and blushed a little but said “hey guys, get washed up. Breakfast is ready.” The kids ran to the bathroom to wash their hands and Jensen came over to you. He kissed your lips and said “I like it when you blush, it’s adorable.” You didn’t know if you should mention what he said about marriage so you just left it alone. You absolutely would marry him. Even though it’s only been a few months you knew he was it, but you were not going to push him. He kissed you and must have seen you were deep in thought so he asked “what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours”. “Nothing just thinking about how lucky I am.” You said.

He grabbed your hand and you both walked to the table and started serving the food. The kids were hungry and ate all their food quickly. They asked to be excused and when they got up they came over to you and hugged you. “Thank you for breakfast” they all said and gave you a kiss on your cheek. You smiled warmly, hugged them tightly and told them they were welcome.

Jensen stood up and told the kids they needed to take a bath and get dressed before Uncle Jared, Aunt Gen and the kids came over. His oldest was old enough to shower without help, but his youngest kids still needed help. “I’ll clean up if you want to get them cleaned.” You said. He nodded and walked over to you. He kissed your cheek and whispered in your ear “I meant every word I said to her. I would marry you in a heartbeat if you wanted.” Your breath hitched and you turned your head towards him. Looking in his green eyes you took a deep breath and said “I’d marry you in a heartbeat too, Jensen” then you kissed his lips. He cupped your face and deepened the kiss. As he pulled away you were gasping for air and could still feel his lips on yours.

You watched him walk upstairs and you stood there for a few minutes trying to get your brain to work again. Jensen was the only man who could make you stupid with one kiss. He had a power over you that both excited and scared the hell out of you. You cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed another cup of coffee. You sat down at the table looking through all your pictures. The ones from the con where you met Jensen were some of your favorite, but your absolute favorite ones were the one you took last night of Jensen and his girls and the one he took of you and his son. You couldn’t wait to get pictures of all of the kids with you and Jensen.

It wasn’t too long before you heard the kids and Jensen coming down the stairs. They were all dressed and clean. Jensen’s hair was wet too and he had on a Led Zeppelin shirt that fit him perfectly and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his body in all the right places. You looked up from your coffee and smirked at the sight. You stood up and walked over to him kissing his lips and letting your hands linger on his chest. “I’m going to shower and get dressed” you said walking past him. You let your fingers run across his chest and bicep watching his eyes turn a dark shade of green. You knew your touch turned him on and you wanted to tease him a little. He let out a little growl and you bit your lip to stifle a laugh.

The kids asked if they could play in the backyard and Jensen said yes and told them to be careful. You started to climb the stairs when you heard Jensen coming up behind you. You giggle and moved to the bedroom faster. He loved chasing you to your door. You stopped just outside the door and he grabbed your waist and turned you pressing your back to the wall. He grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head as he started kissing down your neck. You squirmed and giggled trying to get out of his grip. “Jensen, stop the kids are outside.” You said breathlessly. “They will be fine. The yard is fenced and locked, and they play outside all the time. We’ve got a few minutes. Besides I started something last night I didn’t get to finish.” He said wiggling his eyebrows at you. You bit your bottom lip and blushed. “I told you that’s my job” he said taking your lip in his mouth. “Come on baby, let me at least finish with you” he said guiding you to the bedroom.

He gently laid you on the bed and hovered over you staring at you with his beautiful green eyes full of lust and love. You could feel the heat rushing through your body and to your core. You clenched your thighs together and let out a little moan as Jensen ran his hands under your shirt. Goosebumps formed and your skin was on fire wherever he touched you. He kissed you deeply and you moaned into his mouth. His hands traveled down to your pants and slipped his hands in your waistband and down to your mound. He slipped a finger through your folds and felt how wet you were. “Damn baby, you’re soaked. Is all this for me” he asked smiling. All you could do was nod as your eyes rolled back. “Use your words sweetheart” he said in your ear. “Yes, Jensen please make me cum.” You said gasping at his touch. He pulled your pants and panties off with one pull and you pulled your shirt off. Leaving you in nothing. Jensen crawled up the bed and between your legs. He started kissing your thighs. You could feel his stubble rubbing you and it sent heat coursing through your body. His calloused hands found your clit and he started to rub circles on it. He slipped two fingers inside you and pumped them. You moved your hips as his mouth attacked your clit. God he knew how to use his mouth. Your walls started clenching around his fingers as you were close to your release. “Jensen I’m gonna cum” you said as you grabbed his hair and pushed him further in. “Let go sweetheart” he said as he moved faster and lapped at your pussy. That’s all you needed before you were cumming all over his tongue and fingers. He helped you ride it out and when he pulled his fingers out you moaned at the loss of fullness. “Please Jens, I need you” you said pulling him to you. His lips attached to yours and you could taste yourself on his tongue. He slid his jeans and boxers down releasing his hard cock. He pulled his shirt off and hovered over you. As he kneeled between your legs he pumped himself a few times while lining himself up to your entrance. He guided himself into you slowly. You moaned and gripped the sheets with one hand and his shoulder with the other. He kept teasing you pushing in slowly. “Jensen if you don’t stop teasing me I’m going to hurt you” you said playfully. He chuckled and bottomed out causing you to gasp and grab both of his shoulders. He set a quick pace and you wrapped your legs around his waist. Moans and the sound of skin hitting skin filled the air. Jensen grabbed your legs and put them on his shoulders getting deeper. He leaned down capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as he thrusted deep inside you. His mouth swallowing all your moans and calls of his name. He sat back looking you in your eyes and his were soft and full of love. You could feel your second orgasm coming. “Jens I’m close” you moaned. “I’m there too sweetheart” he said with each thrust. As your orgasm hit you felt Jensen’s thrusts get sloppier and then you felt his seed coating your walls. He stayed inside you for a minute. Laying your legs down carefully and leaning down to kiss you. “You okay sweetheart” he asked. “I’m more than okay, baby. You were amazing.” You said looking at him. He removed his now soft cock and some of his cum spilled out of you. “Let’s get you cleaned up darlin’” he said helping you to your feet.

He started the shower and once it was warm he pulled you inside with him. He helped you wash your hair and your body and you helped him wash too. Once you rinsed off you both got out and dried off. He cupped your face and said “y/n you are one of the best things to ever happen to me. I love you so much and I’m so happy. You made me believe in love again and you’re an amazing example of what true kindness and compassion are. Thank you for taking a chance with me and loving me and everything that comes with it.” He placed a soft kiss on your lips and a single tear fell from your eyes. He wiped it away with his thumb and threw his arms around you. You felt safe and loved in his arms. You couldn’t believe he took a chance on you and here he was thanking you. “Jensen, you’re an incredible man. You’re always there for everyone, you’re humble and kind and you love with your whole heart. You took a chance on me. A nobody at a convention who was distracted by her own singing she didn’t see you at first. I’m in awe of you and everything about you. You’re an amazing father, friend, son, brother, actor, singer, lover and hopefully one day my husband. I love you and everything about you.” You said as you kissed him. He wrapped his arms around you tighter and pulled you close. Your head was on his chest and you could hear the steady beat of his heart. A heart you knew was yours.

As you two stood in each other’s arms you felt your heart swell. “Come on baby, let’s get downstairs before the Padaleckis show up.” Jensen said as he grabbed your hand leading you downstairs. Just as y’all got to the bottom step there was a knock on the front door and it opened. “Knock knock” Jared said as he walked in. Jensen greeted him and his family. Gen came over to you and hugged you saying “hey y/n it’s so good to see you. How are you.” You returned her hug and told her you were good and things were going well. Jared came over and hugged you too. They introduced you to their kids who ran past looking for Jensen’s kids. “Sorry y/n, they usually are more polite” Jared said laughing. “It’s okay, I’d run and go play too if I had a choice” you said laughing. He gave you a big Jared hug and kissed the top of your head. He whispered “how’s things going y/n” he asked like a big brother would. You smiled and said “really good, thanks for helping us out. We are really in a good place.” The four of you grabbed a drink and walked out to the patio to watch the kids. You guys talked while the kids played.

“So y/n how are you liking Texas so far” Gen asks you. “Oh I love it. Definitely different weather in December than I’m used to.” You said taking a sip of your drink. The kids came running over and wanted Jensen and Jared to play with them. Both guys got up and went into the yard leaving you and Gen to chat. Before Jensen walked away he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lips. He pulled away smiling and walked down the steps to the yard. Jared playfully hit his shoulder and they both laughed. Gen looked over at you smiling and said “that man is so in love with you. I’ve never seen him like this before.” You sighed softly and said “yeah, I’m in love with him too.” And gave her a soft smile. You two sat and talked while watching the guys and the kids. Jensen and Jared are big kids and when they are playing with their kids there isn’t anything more adorable. Jensen looked back at you and smiled. You returned his smiled. It gave you butterflies every time he smiled at you.

After awhile you told Gen you were going to make lunch for everyone and got up to go inside. She asked if you needed help and you told her no and to relax. You walked to the door and went inside. You figured some sandwiches, fruit and vegetables would be a good lunch so you got to work. Humming along to the song in your head you couldn’t help but wiggle and dance around while chopping the fruits and vegetables. You heard a chuckle behind you and turned around to see Jensen leaning against the doorframe watching you. “What’s so funny” you asked him. Giving him a sly smile. “Oh nothing darlin, just enjoying the view. Need any help” he asked giving you a quick kiss. “If you want to get the sandwiches on the tray that would be great.” You said as you finished chopping and plating the fruits and veggies. You both carried the food out and called everyone over to eat.

The kids started eating right away and as you sat down Jensen’s son grabbed his plate and came over to you. “You okay buddy” you asked him. “Yes, can I sit in your lap Miss y/n” he asked sweetly. “Of course you can sweetie” you said pulling him up. He snuggled in and finished his lunch. Jensen watched and Jared smiled and nudged him. Jared whispered “looks like little man is getting attached”. Jensen said “yeah, I think we all are.” With a smile on his face. “Damn man, you’ve got it bad” Jared said. Jensen just smiled and nodded.

After lunch it was time to bake cookies and decorate them. By the time the cookies were finished and decorated the kids and adults had their fill of sweets. All of you went to the living room and turned on a Christmas movie. Jensen sat beside you and pulled you close to him. The kids sat on piles of blankets and pillows on the floor. Gen and Jared sat on the opposite end of the couch snuggled up too. As the movie played you noticed one by one the kids started to fall asleep. Jensen’s son climbed back in your lap and before you knew it he was asleep. Jensen leaned over and whispered “he really loves you y/n. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him warm up to someone as quickly as he has you.” You looked down and smiled saying “I love him too.” Jensen leaned over and kissed your head. When you looked over at Gen and Jared they were both looking at you and smiling.

After a few hours all the kids started waking up and it was time for dinner. Jensen and Jared fired up the grill while you and Gen made the sides in the kitchen. The two of you were chatting like you were old friends. Every once in a while you would glance outside and watch Jensen. He and Jared were talking and playing around while cooking. You loved seeing this side of him that few people get to see. He’s relaxed and happy. His laughter is so contagious and you can feel the joy from him. Jared and him are really like brothers and you love that. Jensen is very family oriented and his friends become his family. Gen clears her throat and smiles at you when she sees you looking at him. “Sorry I kinda got a little distracted” you said smiling. “It’s okay, I can see how much you love him by the smile in your face.” She said putting her hand on your shoulder.

Jensen’s POV

I saw her in the kitchen with Gen cooking, laughing and talking to her. I couldn’t help but stare at her a few times while trying not to burn dinner. Jared cleared his throat “dude, take a picture it’ll last longer” he said playfully hitting my arm. “I can’t help it Jar. I’m in love with her. The kids love her and she’s great with them and my ex. Jared I want to marry her.” “Wow man, that’s awesome. A little soon, but awesome.” Jared said. I looked over again and saw her smile at Gen and Gen place a hand on her shoulder. We made eyes contact and we smiled. My heart fluttered and I knew I needed to make her mine forever.

Readers POV

Gen and I were almost done making the sides when I made eye contact with Jensen. We smiled at each other and butterflies filled my stomach and my heart fluttered. “Gen, you know he mentioned to the kids he wanted to marry me.” You said. “Oh, y/n that’s amazing. I know he wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it. That man has it bad for you” she said. The guys came inside carrying burgers and steaks as you and Gen set the table. Jensen came over to you and pulled you in for a passionate kiss. Gen and Jared stood there in shock. They couldn’t believe how passionately he was kissing you. They exchanged looks and smiled and cleared their throats. You both parted and you blushed. Jensen laughed and said “sorry guys, I couldn’t help myself.”

Gen called the kids to dinner and everyone went outside to eat. It was a gorgeous night. Everyone ate their fill and the kids ran into the yard to play more. You and Gen cleaned up the food and carried everything into the kitchen. You told Gen to go sit and relax and shooed her out of the kitchen. You started putting away the food and loading the dishwasher. Jensen came inside and started helping. You tried to get him to go back outside but he refused. “No sweetheart. You’re not going to clean up by yourself. I’m going to help.” He said placing a soft kiss on your lips. You both got to work and cleaned the kitchen together. Once you were done you joined Jared and Gen outside watching the kids play. As the sun started to set and it was getting late The Padaleckis decided it was time to get home.

Before leaving Jared gave you a big Jared bear hug lifting you off the ground. He whispered in your ear “take care of our boy. He’s in love with you and I know you love him too.” You smiled and nodded before giving Gen a hug. “Thanks for our chat today, Gen” you said. “Oh any time honey. Let’s plan a girls day next week.” She said squeezing you. The last of the goodbyes were said and Jensen closed the door. “Okay kids, time to get ready for bed. It’s late” Jensen said as he climbed the stairs. You followed behind him and helped get the kids ready for bed. Once all three were tucked in you and Jensen made your way to your room. “Today was amazing, Jens” you said giving him a hug. “Yeah it was” he said kissing your forehead. You both crawled in bed and snuggled together. “Good night Jensen. I love you.” You said kissing his lips. “Good night y/n. I love you too” he said as he placed a soft kiss on your lips. You both drifted off to sleep with the events of the day dancing in your head. This was home. This was family, and this man was your future.

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