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hotdamnhunnam · 2 years

Text

Lies

A/N: Hiiiiii you guys 🤗 So I don’t intend to be *back* on tumblr actively the way I used to be, but this mofo Lin is inspiring the shit out of me, I just adoooore him, so of course I have to write a lil fic for him ✨ I’m not tagging my tag list or anything, just dropping this out in the world lol. Much love to you all! ❤️

Pairing: Lin Ford x F!Reader Warnings: smut (p in v, face-fucking), some plot (but no spoilers for book or show), brief ref to blood (not reader’s or Lin’s tho), swearing, smoking, fluffity fluffin’ fluff, and sorry I can’t shake off the old habit of my clownass poet stuff 🤡 Word Count: ~5.2k

“You’ll probably write all this into a great big book someday. Like a love letter to Bombay.”

His blue eyes lift, from where he sits half-naked smoking a half-finished cigarette, out on the balcony of your apartment. Blink once and then lower again as he takes in the words you say.

Four stories down, the city hums to the calm rhythm of late evening: car horns honking just every so often rather than the afternoon constant, the soft croon of love songs, the closing of storefronts, handcarts plodding slowly towards home. The setting sun warms his bare skin as he leans back against the rail, casting in gold the whorls of metalwork that seem to him so frail because they aren’t caging him in and everything he lives and dreams is always relative to that dark place he’s been.

Almost everything at least. The almost is how he convinces himself that he’s free.

Lin cracks a half-smile and quits his cigarette although it isn’t finished yet. Joins you inside, leaves the door open to the balcony—open as you and he both like the door to be. Crosses the tiny room then stops to stand with the back pockets of his jeans pressed up against your desk, facing you where you’re half-reclining in your bed. “What makes you say that?”

Thoughts start drifting then because you’re such a mess. Drifting to how he’s fucked you up against that desk. And in this bed obviously. Out on that balcony, once in the middle of the night for all the stars above to see. So many times he’s fucked you right out of your head and in this moment those blue eyes are fucking you out of your body.

Makes you feel so fucking free.

“It’s something in the eyes,” you answer him, realizing in this instant that it’s how you know he writes. “It’s like… you don’t just look at things, or into them, or through them.”

Lin quirks up his brows and smirks a little bit, biting his bottom lip. “What do I do then?”

“I’m not sure if there’s a word for it. But I bet you would find the word, if it exists.”

“Or fake it if it doesn’t. Because fuck it. That’s half of what writing is.”

“Lies?” you laugh.

“Yeah and not even half—all words are lies, you know? They’re just so small. Words try to capture shit that’s honestly so big and sometimes infinite. The worst thing a writer can do is believe he’s succeeded.”

You wonder for a minute just how permanently stoned he is, from one too many visits with that godfather-philosopher of his. “So I was right—you do write? Even despite thinking you’re doomed to fail?”

His shrug tells you maybe because of it. Maybe failure has found its home deep in his bones and he’s drawn to whatever results in it.

Then he picks up his unbuttoned shirt from the chair where he’d tossed it some hours ago and digs into his pockets. He shows you the notes that he’s scrawled on spare napkins and looseleaf scraps over these past several months, which you both know he’s bound to stitch into a novel. You read them and can’t help but smile, and he looks—looks in that way of his you can’t describe at all. Thinks to himself that smile would burn the goddamn pages if he ever tried to write it in a book.

It almost makes him want to try, but that’s the part of him that’s drawn to what feels wrong. The part he used to think was strong. The part that he’s constantly fighting to deny.

“It’s lovely. All of it, honestly,” you praise his work as you tuck all the papers back into his pockets, relieved to have found that he wrote not so much about people he’d met; rather, these notes are focused on places and concepts. But the finished book is sure to feature characters, so you need him to make you a promise. “Just promise me something?”

You join him where he lies in bed, his sun-gold hair bright even deep in the night, halo upon his heavy head. At the sight it’s easy to forget that the sun past the window has set. He’s becoming your sun and a lot more than that, but you’re not sure if he knows it yet.

Then whisper your request, propping your chin against his chest and searching those infinite eyes for words that won’t ever exist. “Just… promise you won’t write me into it. Please?”

He won’t ask why. Any reply would be a lie.

Just nods, although it’s soft and weak, and it’s a promise that he’ll keep. He won’t write you into a single line, the string of lies that truth-seekers and soul-searchers the world over might someday call a literary masterpiece. You know more deeply than the aching love he makes tonight that he won’t write you into it. Not in words at least.

***************

The first time you lay eyes on Lindsay Ford you know right there and then you’d like to lay a lot more than your eyes on him.

He has wanted man written all over him. Even for a gora, as they call him, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Wanted in far more ways than one. A man worth wanting as a friend, or as a lover—maybe as a business partner or a customer—and then of course for some, a man who’s criminally wanted just in terms of what he’s running from.

On this fine day you catch a glimpse amidst the crowd of sandy hair swept back and gathered in a bun. Slung over one of his broad shoulders is a heavy bag that probably holds his every life possession. Through the pale cloth of his shirt his sweat is visible because no doubt the Bombay heat beats down even more brutally upon someone who’s always on the run.

You’re in no need of that distraction. So you tear your eyes away from him and go about your day. Later that afternoon fate throws his fine ass straight back at you anyway.

Now as you see him ambling absentmindedly along the road the fucker is about to get run over by a car, yet you can’t stop it from this distance—you’re too far. Someone else steps forward that instant, as you stare: a woman dressed in white with ravishing dark hair. Even from here you can just tell that she’s the type who would inspire countless writers to craft characters like her because she’s so much more remarkable than everything you are.

And sure enough this woman makes a mark on Lin; his gaze lights up as if he thinks he’s in the presence of an angel or a fallen fucking star.

Quite clearly smitten and already dreaming up the pretty lines that his poetic heart insists on being written.

So you take one last long look and then head home. You don’t belong in this man’s life because you’re not a fucking poem.

***************

It’s been weeks since that day. Out of sight, out of mind is a thing people say. It’s a lie. He’s inside your mind’s eye.

Your local chai shop is your favorite place to watch neighbors and strangers strolling by. You try to focus on their faces but you keep seeing his traces like the blue of the noon sky, not quite as blue as you might dream his gaze to be, though from the distance that had been in between you and him you couldn’t clearly see. Surely you’re better off that way because to have him anywhere in close proximity you’d probably fucking die.

You shut your eyes just for a second and envelop all your senses in the warm sweet spices wafting from your half-full cup of chai.

And when you open them he suddenly is all that you can see.

All you can hear as he asks if the fully empty seat across from you is free.

He’s standing here so fucking near and really really shouldn’t be.

You smile a silent yes, too stunned out of your wits to fucking speak. Too mesmerized at how his sweat glistens so brightly on the smooth skin of his neck down to the upper part of his half-exposed chest. Sweat has no business glistening like this and making you so weak.

It’s a small shop; of course the seat across from you had been the only open seat. And yet he didn’t have to stop. The chai in any other place would’ve been just as hot and sweet.

The thing is that he didn’t come here for the tea.

Having stared down at yours too long, biting your tongue, you glance up at him nervously.

He clearly sees your nerves but sees them in a way that makes them slowly start to fade. Something about his bay-blue gaze smoothes out the ends where they’re all frayed.

“I’m Lindsay by the way,” he takes the chance to say. “Or Lin for short. And yes I know the Hindi meaning of the word.”

The tongue-in-cheek response that slips off of your lips is far more forward than you’d ever have expected of yourself but so it goes. You wouldn’t say this to a man with a short penis but he’s far from such a man and you don’t doubt it. “Well then I suppose… you ought to know there’s nothing ‘short’ about it.”

Thus your thing with Lin begins.

And from that moment some small part of you already lives in fear of how it ends.

All afternoon the two of you talk over fresh roti and frothy cups of tea. You’re thinking more than half the time of just how good his lin would feel deep in your pussy.

Conversation flows so smoothly till it goes in the direction of a subject that you wouldn’t share so openly in any other circumstance—for several reasons your best practice is to keep this fact about yourself a secret or to lie whenever given half the chance. “My father works for the Australian embassy.”

You don’t tell him just what your father does exactly. Or what you do. But those words just hit him badly. Maybe lying would’ve been the better play for you, yet something when you’re with this man compels you to be just a little bit closer to true.

Even if it costs you the hope of knowing him and the loss burns you fucking brutally.

The ghastly pale shade that just fell across his face somehow still suits him fucking beautifully. Then again anything would; he can’t look anything but good. In any case you don’t ask questions that a wanted man could never answer truthfully. You just muse aloud ruefully. “I guess this means that you’d be better off not having anything to do with me.”

“Yeah, I would,” he says in a nervous half-laugh. Dead serious despite being amused at fate’s cruel joke so that’s what cuts the laugh in half. “I really would be.”

In that moment you can see so fucking clearly that the one thing this man needs most desperately in all the world is to be free. Like, fully free. If any man can ever be. You’re caught up in a life that threatens that for him; you’re bad for him. Look up at him and beg him silently—then just be done with me.

What you don’t know is that he sees the sweetest fucking kind of freedom in your eyes. He’s lost his appetite for chai and so he lies. “The thing is that I’m not done with this tea.”

***************

The first time you lay hands on Lindsay Ford you know right there and then that you’d lay down your life for him.

There’ve been so many cups of tea between the two of you in these past weeks, before you ever touch. A playful punch perhaps against his shirt-clad bicep in the chai shop when he cracks a joke that hits home just a little bit too much. The distant closeness of hello kisses on either cheek, and goodbye hugs and such.

But when your hands meet his bare skin, when he’s standing in front of you here in your room and tells himself he’s finally man enough to let you in… that’s when you know the way you truly feel for Lin.

Your eyes don’t linger on the color of the scars that streak his body since you’ve always been more focused on the wounds deeper within. The wounds that heal a little every day he spends with you and finds new hope of freedom from the prison of his sin.

The problem is he’s been conditioned to consider the escape itself a crime.

With whole truths and half-lies, you’re always finding new and better ways to reassure him otherwise. Tonight you place your palm softly against the skin above his heart as you gaze up into his eyes. “Has it been… a long time?”

Since he’s been with a woman? Since he’s felt anything other than alone?

Either way the answer is the same. It’s been so long. So fucking long.

“No,” he lies. Without shame. Knowing full well his body will tell you the truth even harder than it would have otherwise. Fuck you the better to spite his false tongue.

Yet his tongue sure as fuck doesn’t taste false to you. When you lean in to press your lips to his half-parted, first kiss fully open-hearted… when the kiss deepens and you can feel the wet heat of his tongue upon your own, making you moan as if for all your life till now you’d been alone… it tastes like nothing else you ever fucking knew.

There are no words for how it tastes or what it does to you. But you can tell from this first kiss he won’t let any of his self-hate claw its way through, cast its shadow on the way that he makes love to you.

He lays you down upon your bed, one hand cradling your head, the fingers of the other twined in yours. A soft smile plays about those lips that you just kissed, as if to ask whether a man like him should be allowed to feel such fucking bliss. He asks the universe. It answers, without words. Of fucking course.

Those smiling lips move down your neck and to the skin around your ear; your free hand tangles in the spun gold of his hair to hold him near. And fuck you’ve never smiled so much during sex or during anything. It’s fucking wild how much happiness you get from just the rhythm of his breathing. It’s the only sound you ever want to hear.

You hope those bright blonde bristles on his upper lip and chin will mark you up with rosy little burns across your tender skin. The scrape of them when he’s working his starved mouth on your tits feels like it has to be a sin. He leaves your nipples so damn stiff, that when he shifts, so he can kiss your gasping lips again and then your spit-slick chest rubs against his, you may have come undone already just like this, when the real fucking sex still has yet to begin.

And when it does you’re fucked in far more ways than one. Lin brings a whole other dimension to the meaning of undone.

You want this man to make sweet love to you tonight but also fuck you fucking filthy.

First thing you feel is the length of it when it finally springs free. The girth and weight and fucking strength of it just from the glossy tip pressed up against your pussy lips have seriously knocked you dizzy.

Pretty sure that shit won’t fit. But you’ll split all your insides open till you’re literally nothing but a hole for it.

Lin of course has other ideas though, for just how the night will go. Intense and passionate yet slow. He wants to ravage you for sure, and fuck you like a whore, but only in the ways that make you whole for it.

He doesn’t tell you that in words but still you know. There’s so much freedom in your eyes when he drives home between your thighs, and unlike all the other kinds of freedom built on fucking lies… this one is true and he won’t even have to sell his soul for it.

***************

Whenever you go down on Lin, it’s… it’s the closest thing that you’ve ever experienced to what infinite is.

It’s like the full scale of the universe collapses into mere inches and minutes.

Nothing mere about this though—not here when you’re gaping your throat to take his massive cock as deep as it will go. When your hands grasp onto the firm globes of his ass as if for dear life just to pull him ever closer while you suck and slurp and swallow. When your wide eyes glow with rapture as you thirst after his load until it has to fucking blow. You want this now and every day and night for all your life to follow.

These past days and nights you’ve tasted every inch of him till each became a mile. All the traces of self-hatred in the creases on that perfect fucking face of his that fade a little farther every time you make him smile.

And the sweat that you had seen—glistening on his neck that day when he first met you over chai and mesmerized you with that goddamn gorgeous sheen—you know now it tastes even better than it looks from all the nights you’ve licked him clean. The salt of sweat and tears and all of his regrets through all the years and then the bitter and the sweet of his release when you’re beneath him on your knees feed you so full it feels obscene.

Sometimes he fucks your filthy face because you begged him for it once. He goes all out and pounds your mouth like it’s a sloppy little cunt. He groans and grunts and grabs a firm hold of your skull and plows harder into your hole with every perfect push and pull until he pumps you full of everything your soul could ever want.

Release hits different for a man who’s on the run and it tastes different too. Takes on the taste of what it’s running to. He frees himself a little more, each time he pours himself into his dirty little whore. Tastes fresh as dew and real and true. And the one thing that he is most desperately longing to be free to do… is feel something for you. So long as he remains a prisoner of his own inner war, he can’t be free to feel this deep shit that’s already shaken him down to his core.

Till then he’ll just keep running to it. Maybe this shit ran him over from the day you met before he even knew it. Still he runs because for once he has something worth running for.

***************

“I win because I said it first.”

Lin waggles his adorably disheveled head, hair straggled from the several hours he just spent wrecking the bed, as he declares his little victory and keeps insisting on it while you laugh until it hurts.

You’re set to burst. The motherfucker won’t stop tickling your sides till tears are falling from your eyes.

“But they’re just words! All words are lies…!” you playfully clap back at him and slap one of his thighs.

He finally stops tickling you, settling down snuggled up sweetly in his bed so he can tease you with a cheeky little coo. “That means those words were a lie too. So if that statement was a lie then at least some words must be true.”

“I am not going to philosophize with you.”

At that he laughs and lands a kiss upon the corner of your pout, wagging his head again and sticking his tongue out. “That’s what a sore loser would say.”

This wicked bastard is dead set on getting you to say touché, but you won’t let him win today. “Words are just words. I loved you first. I’ve told you that I fucking loved you from the day your fine ass landed in Bombay.”

“No, you just told me that you saw me and already knew someday you had to have my cock inside of you.”

“So, just a very classy way to say I love you.”

“Oh, so classy…” he lets out another laugh and it’s so free and full of all the stars strung out across the galaxy, flung out much farther than the eye can see. Holds far more fire than the sun rising above you.

I love you.

Sun shines the same regardless of who said it first. Words are just words. And it’s a good thing they were spoken on this day, because tomorrow all the hands of fate at work here in Bombay… are set to do their fucking worst.

***************

His name is Lindsay Ford.

His name is Lin because that’s how you came to know him and to love him though some part of you had known deep down the name was probably fake. Made no mistake. Yet even so it was an instinct you ignored. For after all a name is just another word.

All words are lies.

You shut your eyes. Replay the treachery that your close colleague in the embassy risked his life to record. Of all the words in all the world these were the worst you’d ever heard.

Your father sits across from you and folds his hands, as the recording carries on. That snakelike voice had been his second in command. He knows by now the throat from which it sounds was slit just before dawn.

Not the first snake you’d ever slaughtered.

“The boss doesn’t know that the bastard he’s after—” at this he can’t help but erupt into laughter: “he’s fucking the boss’s daughter.”

The boss clenches his jaw. As if for anyone to fuck you has to be against the law.

“It’s him, I know it’s him. I passed right by him once some months ago when I had business in that shithole Pentridge Prison. It’s the same damn face I saw.”

“We’ll if you’re certain, then we’ll just—”

“No, listen, listen: he’s too… valuable to simply arrest.”

This had been how the conversation went, between the traitor and your trusted friend: the friend who had recorded it, so that he could report it. While the snake spoke he just listened, and replied only enough to act as if he was on board with it. The snake thought he’d convince him in the end.

“This is an advantageous man. He’s an escaped convict with some steep fucking price on him; our boss and everybody at the embassy and the Aussie authorities, okay, and some of the local police, and all the underbelly enemies this motherfucker made here in Bombay, all of them want him—and on top of all of this apparently he’s worth something to Abdel Khader Fucking Khan.”

“So what do you propose we do?”

“If it’s so obvious to me, it should be obvious to you. We do him dirty. And the boss’s pretty little daughter too. They’re valuable to each other, and to others; most importantly he’s worth something to Khader. And the slut is worth a whole lot to her father. We’ll work undercover—boss won’t have a clue that we’re the ones who got her. You know the big fat Bombay racket of ransom and blackmail and threats. We’ll just crack it and win at whatever the fuck we can get.”

Eventually your father has heard enough. If you hadn’t already shown him proof of death he’d be paying a personal visit to this piece of shit to rip his head clean off.

After a few moments of silence, he studies your face to assess how affected you were by the kill. Your heart’s still too young to have gone numb to cold-blooded violence. The murder was righteous and leaves you no guilt, but it’ll be a while longer before you get over the blood that you’ve spilled.

Your father offers you a tissue—though your eyes are dry it’s just a natural habit that he has with you, when you’re working through issues—and pours you a glass of tea. “Did you take care of it yourself so that I’d grant the favor you’re about to ask of me?”

He asks lightheartedly, half-jokingly thanks to how well he knows you, and it is partially true. You know him well too. And you know just what his answer has to be.

Once years ago, he had entreated you to promise him you’d leave this life behind before you ran the risk of falling in too deep. You hadn’t made the promise though; you weren’t sure whether it was one that you could keep. You took the leap, and now you’ve fallen in as deep as you could go. Your father knew the choice was yours but he had never wanted you to be a part of this corrupt embassy caught up in the crime that cuts across this sweeping city where the price is always steep, especially when it feels cheap.

Yet in Bombay this is the only kind of life you’ve ever known, and this infinite living breathing poem of a city is your home. Where you were born and raised and loved and lived a life that’s full and free and all your own. There is no other place on earth you’d rather roam.

You couldn’t make the promise to your father then but now the time has come.

He’ll make a vow, right here and now—against all reason and all sense because he knows you need this desperately—to let the man called Lindsay Ford live and be free, as if the embassy had never learned of his identity.

He’ll make that promise if you make yours. And you will of course. Not in the spirit of some sort of quid pro quo, and not because you feel in any way pressured or forced; it’s just the way shit has to go. The unintelligible order of the universe. Your father loves you and he can’t live with himself if he grants clemency to such a wanted man—a dangerous man, one all the wrong kinds of people would find an advantageous man—knowing that your life is entwined with Lin’s and then… and then another snake happens. Or worse. The blood that’s spilled next time could very well be yours. Love comes with fear and that’s it’s curse.

For all your life from this day forth you’ll live in fear for Lindsay Ford: fear that his past caught up to him at last and got him killed or captured.

On this day, you’ll do your part to make that tragedy less likely, even if only just slightly, once you finally depart Bombay… but you’ll be powerless against whatever comes after.

You won’t be here. You’ll be off someplace faraway with a heart full of love and fear. Far more of each than you’d have thought you could afford.

With a heart full of Lindsay Ford.

***************

You tell him the whole truth because he deserves nothing less, and because he would fuck it right out of you anyway if you had tried. Taste it off of your lips and trace it through the cloth of your dress, through the skin that it sheathes, and through everything deeper beneath. Take the truth from the places he reaches inside. When he makes love to you this last time he knows you never lied.

He can only be free if you free yourself of him. The two of you can’t run away—the promise you had made to your father today isn’t just that you’re leaving Bombay. He had asked you to promise to steer clear of Lin because otherwise you’ll end up dead on account of how fiercely you love him.

In any other circumstances, you would have taken your chances—and your father would have blessed it—it’s your choice after all whom to love and die for. And yet it was your father’s choice whether or not to grant the illegal and potentially lethal favor you’d requested. He granted it only on the condition that your life wouldn’t be more at risk if he did; that was the peace of mind that he rightfully needed, and why wasn’t hard to decipher.

And so… this is just how it goes. Your head fights it a bit though. Your heart somehow knows.

Lin resists it at first; you had figured he would. His head looks like it’s going to burst. Tries to figure out some way to hold onto you for reasons that are honest and good, or at least that aren’t selfish and wrong. But until he met you he had been nothing other than selfish and wrong for so long. So damn long…

He realizes tonight more than ever before, that he isn’t that man anymore. That he’s no longer locked in the prison of his inner war.

For now all you can do, is just love him through one last release, into you, and then maybe he’ll finally have peace, to let you go without losing sight of the love for which his heart still beats that’s still worth running for. And still will be long after you’ve gone out the door.

Even after it closes, the doors to both his heart and yours will be open because of this love and he knows this. Open as you and he both like the door to be. Love set him free.

He lets you go knowing that every time he wakes to the sunrise it’s you he’ll see.

Someday you’ll see his great big book up on a shelf, and smile to yourself. Knowing that he’s alive and well then you’ll no longer be afraid. Before you left you had reminded him to keep the little promise he had made.

He will. Lin isn’t one to make a promise he can only half-fulfill.

But you’ll be there through all the dark and all the light—between and behind and inside every line that he’ll write. The sun itself shines just as bright in day or night. Survives the shifting of the skies. Half the world watches as it dies, the other half watches it rise. The whole of it is fire that no man could ever kill. That was the kind of wholeness he would find when he sought freedom in your eyes. And holds it still. Freedom to love until his heart has had its fill.

He won’t write you into his book, but you’ll be there to see for anyone who dares to really look.

Whether or not all words are lies, no matter what they can still mean things that are true… or fucking try to.

So he tries. And all the while, with a full heart and a whole smile, he writes for you.

***************

Much love and I hope you enjoyed this! 💖

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