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lavender-romancer · 9 months

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Hello I couldn’t find your request terms or anything but I was wondering if you still wrote for teotfw? If so could I request a James x reader where she’s traveling with both James and Alyssa and maybe reader gets hurt in Clive’s house before he goes and finds Alyssa? Maybe he comes onto her and she punches him? And maybe they all comfort eachother the next day or something??

Comfort

James x Reader CW: blood, death, attempted assault

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

James had always thought he was a psychopath, wanting to hurt everyone near him so he kept people at arm's length. Maybe it stemmed from his mother killing herself in front of him… it was probably that. But either way he didn't think so obsessively about killing people anymore, not since you kissed. It was very awkward and out of place plus you ran away afterwards but something changed within James from that day onwards.

"You're fucking joking," Alyssa started laughing way too loud and you nodded, staring into the dark with a blank look on your face. "You kissed him!" She yelled in-between fits of laughter.

"I'm such an idiot," you groaned and began rubbing your temples.

"You're fucking hilarious," Alyssa leant back on the bench and fell off the back of it, laughing even more.

"You daft bitch," you smiled and pulled her back onto the bench.

"How was it?" She tried to hide her smile behind her hand but you just rolled your eyes.

"It was so fucking awkward I want to shoot myself." You covered your face with your hands.

"Go on," she took her jacket off and handed it to you. "Scream into this. I always used to scream into my pillow after one interaction with Tony. It muffled it enough."

You took the jacket in your hands and folded it over a few times before putting it close to your mouth and pressing it to your face before screaming into it. You took a deep breath and gave her back the jacket.

"I need alcohol," you said with a disappointed look on your face.

"Well we can hardly afford food let alone shots so unless you're willing to go whore yourself out in the toilets. I'd focus on other things," Alyssa hit you on the back twice before standing up "Come on, we should head out."

"I'm not getting in the car now!" You half yelled half hissed.

"Oh you're so fucking dramatic, James will be weird and awkward. He's always weird and awkward. You're the one who needs to act normal." Alyssa reasoned as she walked off to find James, you sat down with a huff.

The car journey was horrifically awkward even when Alyssa would try to fill the silence as she often would, it came out as hollow. You were beginning to reconsider even being on this sort of expedition with them. After a few hours Alyssa was asleep in the backseat and even though it was about 2am you couldn't sleep with the atmosphere being like it was.

"I'm-" you started

"I wanted-" James said at the same time and you both smiled.

"I'm sorry, I ambushed you in such a… unfair way and I wanted to apologise," you looked at him as his hands tightened on the wheel, his face beautifully highlighted every few meters with the orange street lamps.

"Oh. Are you regretting it?" James asked, eyes fixed forward and you considered your answer for a bit too long. "I'll take that as an unanswered yes then." He said quietly.

You weren't sure how to bridge the knowledge gap of whether he wanted to kiss you and the fact that you did want to kiss him but didn't like making a fool of yourself. It was a lot of information for your brain to process and you'd never been good at thinking quickly unless it was a gut reaction like how you felt when you kissed him. It now felt as if it had been too long to say anything that would make it better, you turned slightly and leant your head on the window, watching the orange street lights go by.

"Fuck sake!" Alyssa's outburst woke you up with a start

"What! What is it?" You turned around, eyes wide adjusting to the morning light.

"We've run out of fucking petrol." She groaned and you sighed.

"Loud fucker," you muttered and Alyssa hit your head. "Ow!"

"We should start walking," James said, putting the car with no petrol in it into neutral and putting the handbrake on.

"We're on a flat road, why are you even doing that?" Alyssa asked with a confused look on her face.

"It might still roll back, it's road safety." James reasoned and you saw Alyssa roll her eyes in the rear view mirror making you smirk.

"Well, come on." You opened the door and started walking down the road, hands in your pockets. Even after a long nap you still felt that tightness in your chest that rose up to your throat whenever you saw James. The tightness made you feel like you wanted to cry because of the feeling of uncertainty between the two of you.

"Why are you running off?" Alyssa asked when she caught up with you.

"I think I just need some space away from him to get over all this." Your face must've looked dismally unhappy at that moment.

"Come on, it was just a kiss. It can't be that awkward between you, you're both nearly adults." Alyssa frowned and you nodded.

"It's not that. It's the feeling of rejection in all of it. After the kiss his face was fucking unreadable but it wasn't exactly happy." You looked up at the sky and took a deepth breath in. "Crushes feel so fucking adolescent but they still persist."

"I don't think I've ever had a crush on anyone so far. I like attention for a few hours and then I just want to be on my own again." Alyssa replied, looking at you.

"You don't strike me as someone who would be interested in teenage relationships." You smiled at her and she rolled her eyes.

"I almost hate that you're right. C'mon, let's cut through here, looks reyt posh." Alyssa headed towards a gap in some bushes and you stopped hands on your hips in confusion.

"A bush looks posh?" You called after her and she gave you a death stare.

"Where's she off to then?" James asked and it made you jump.

"Uh…not sure. She's um… off on a whim I think." You said quickly before following Alyssa and leaving James to look longingly at you as you walked away from him.

You walked for about 30 minutes before Alyssa spotted a large modern looking house. "Jackpot," you heard her say quietly and you couldn't think why it could possibly be one.

"How do you know?" James asked.

"Know what?" Alyssa asked, peering through one of the windows.

"He means how do you know it's safe?" You continued and James couldn't help but want to reach out to your hand.

"Post has built up, dust everywhere. I don't see why it wouldn't be." Alyssa reasoned as you followed her to the front of the house.

"Is breaking and entering a good way to lie low?" James asked and you couldn't tell if he was trying to be sarcastic or genuine.

"You worry too much." Alyssa shook her head before picking up a rock and smiling at you.

"Alyssa. Come on. You can't be-" Then she broke a window and opened the door. "Fuck sake." You muttered with a smirk.

"Who has this many pictures of himself in his own house?" Alyssa asked as the three of you stood in the front room.

"A narcissist," you replied, picking up the photo and looking at the man. "If he's the owner anyway. Otherwise it's more of a creepy shrine."

"No, it's him. His post says Koch, so does the book." James pointed to the book that was next to the photo.

"Okay, so we've established who lives here can we stop being weird please." Alyssa groaned and headed into another room as James turned to follow her, you put a hand on his shoulder.

"James, wait." You said quietly and he turned around. "I wanted to say I didn't-"

"I know I'm bad at reading people, but I'm good at observing. You're uncomfortable around me now. You don't need to keep apologising, it's okay." He couldn't seem to reach your eyes and you couldn't get the words out before he turned around and left. James looked through some cabinets before finding a video camera, he sat down on the stairs and opened it, wondering if there was some kind of home video or something. What he saw terrified him immensely, he quickly closed it and put it back in the cabinet.

You walked over to the sofa and sat down, opening the side table to find some spirits- maybe they could lift yours. When Alyssa and James came back in you had set out some vodka and rum and some shot glasses.

"It's finally time for us to get drunk with each other," you grinned and Alyssa practically bounded over to join.

"Come on James!" Alyssa called as she poured out some vodka shots.

"This is a terrible idea." He said as he sat next to you on the sofa.

"I think it could be very fun." You said picking up one of the shot glasses.

Many drinks later Alyssa was passed out asleep on the sofa, you and James were sitting together listening to the music you'd put on and playing never have I ever.

"Okay, never have I ever… punched my dad in the face." You said to him with a raised eyebrow and he almost regrettably took a shot.

"God, vodka tastes like acetone." He grimaced and you giggled. "Never have I ever slapped someone?" You sighed before taking a drink.

"That's a fucking given, me and my sister are always getting into fights like that! Another!" You exclaimed as you slammed down the shot glass and it suddenly broke in your hand "Oh shit."

"Okay, open your hand. Have you got any glass stuck?" He asked, turning your hand around to look at your palm.

"I don't think so, but I do think I might be bleeding. I fear I shall die!" You clasped your hands dramatically before wincing at the feeling of your cut hand.

"Come with me, I'm sure there's a first aid kit in the bathroom." James stood up and helped you to your feet, when you stood up you were both extremely close and you wanted nothing more than to kiss him again. But you didn't, after last time even your tipsy brain would think twice. As you sat on the toilet and James opened the first aid kit you looked up at him and how the shape of his jaw was so perfectly framed by his ears, this could be seen as an odd observation but you were tipsy so you allowed yourself to look up at him with a stupid smile.

“Why are you smiling like that?” James asked as he knelt in front of you and began disinfecting your cuts.

“You’re just so… mhmm.” You make a humming noise and put your free hand on his face which seemed to surprise him because his eyes shot up to meet yours.

“And what does, mhmm, mean?” He asked, going back to disinfecting your hand.

"You're so pretty," you leant back on the toilet and giggled, James didn't seem to know how to respond so you closed your eyes through the silence.

"There's a bed upstairs," you said as you stumbled out of the bathroom.

"You should head up," James said as he headed towards the front room.

"You should come with me-eeeeee." You pleaded and he shook his head.

"No, you need to sleep. Come on." James gestured for you to stand up and as you did you stumbled a bit and giggled before following him upstairs. James took you to a bedroom and sat you down on the bed. "Try to sleep the drunkness off. Your hand is going to ache tomorrow but it'll be okay."

"Okay," you looked up at him adoringly as James looked back at you with a slightly awkward slightly uncomfortable expression before walking out.

You lay back on the bed in a drunken happiness that your anxieties and overthinking couldn't penetrate. The feelings you had towards James didn't feel fully developed but they were definitely there and hard to ignore. In your head he had always worked best with direct expressions of feelings with minimal subtext. But just kissing him had seemed to be a foolish decision.

A few hours later James quietly came into the bedroom. You were lying on your front, a little bit of drool on the pillow under you and your hand hanging over the side as you star-fished the rest of your body. It didn't surprise him that you slept like this, unashamed of taking up space.

When you kissed him he didn't know how to react. Whether he should go with his gut reaction of pulling you into another kiss or just sort of stand there. Unfortunately he went with the latter and there was no way back from that.

He slowly lay down on the floor and looked up at your hand twitching every now and then. Even your hands looked pretty. He was so frustrated with his own brain for not responding the way he should have when you kissed him. James just wanted you to understand how he felt and that he-

A car pulled up outside and James' eyes opened wide as he heard the front door open. He shuffled under the bed and pulled his hunting knife from his ankle holster, holding it in somewhat prepared terror. He couldn't help his own fear even though he wanted to save you so desperately he was terrified of being found himself. The light turned on and he saw someone with very shiny formal shoes walk in and heard you gasp.

"How did you get in here?" The man asked in an accusatory voice, James supposed he had a right to be a bit accusatory considering you were literally sleeping in his bed.

"I-I." You stuttered but couldn't seem to get the words out.

"Shh, shh. It's okay. You just gave me a fright, if I'd know it was someone who looked like… you. I might not have been so worried." The man placed down the fire poker against the nightstand and James gulped, frozen in terror.

"I'm sorry." You whispered in a terrified voice and the man walked closer to the bed.

"That's alright. You on your own?" He asked and you quickly replied with, yes.

The man closed the door and James could only look in horror as he sat down on the bed next to you. All he could think about was the videos on the camera, the horrifying images of bondage and pain he assumed this man put other women through.

"Have you eaten my porridge too, Goldilocks?" He asked with a laugh that sent a shiver up James' spine.

"What the fuck?" You replied, almost whispering and the man tutted.

"No language like that, you're too pretty for that. Just stay still." He made some sort of movement and the bed creaked. James was waiting for when he should try to help you but what could he do? Stab this man and be a hero? What would that do?

"Please don't." You sounded as if you were about to cry.

"Don't do what?" The man asked in a condescending tone that made James even more angry. "Are you going to make this more difficult?" He asked more aggressively this time and made another movement that made the bed creak and you began protesting.

You weren't sure what was happening now, as soon as this man closed the door you panicked but whatever this was it was no longer safe.

"You don't want to make this difficult." The man threatened and you pulled your arms away from him, he lurched forward to grab them again and you punched him in the nose. "You fucking bitch!" He exclaimed with a bloody nose before jumping forward on top of you. Putting all of his weight on top of you so you could hardly breath, pinning you down with an incredible amount of force.

You were screaming at this point, screaming for James or Alyssa or just help. He put his hand over your mouth and you bit down hard, he responded to that by punching you in the ribs with his good hand and you cried out closing your eyes.

Suddenly the door flew open and a warm liquid sprayed onto your face. The pressure on your arms was gone, the weight was gone. You opened your eyes and saw James standing there with a knife in his hand and Alyssa with a large bookend, both with blood on them. The man was staggering backwards holding his throat that was gushing with blood. Dark, deep red blood sputtered out of his mouth and his throat, running down his chest and onto the floor. Then you looked at yourself, covered in the same deep red blood and you began to panic. Hyperventilating and eyes wide as you looked at this man fall to his knees and then the floor. You could only assume he was dead and could only grip the bed sheets in pure terror.

The three of you looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. Having no idea how to react to what had just happened. Alyssa was the first to move, she crouched down in front of you and she was speaking but you couldn't hear. You couldn't hear anything aside from the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. She took your hands and stood you up. Taking you to the bathroom she sat you on the toilet and took off your blood stained t-shirt. She got into the bath and all you could look at -as she used the shower to wash you- was the blood. The blood was everywhere. All over the porcelain of the bath and your hands and nails and legs and feet. It was all you could see and all you could smell.

Whilst you changed your clothes in the bathroom, Alyssa and James worked in efficient silence. Washing all of the clothes and sheets with blood on them, bleaching and cleaning the floor, wiping down every surface they had touched the whole night and generally cleaning up. The two knew how serious this situation was but talking about it was acknowledging it happened and they simply weren't ready to do that.

As morning approached the three of you were sitting outside by the pool in a line and in silence. Alyssa had a hand over yours and your other hand was held in James'. Alyssa mentioned something about getting a drink and walked inside, you took a deep breath and lay backwards on the concrete, James joined you.

"Well that was fucking insane." You said finally and James let out a strained laugh.

"That's one way to put it." He replied. "I'm sorry that happened to you. I mean when he was making you uncomfortable."

"That's one way to put it." You imitated how James had said the same sentence and looked at him with a small smile. "Why did you do what you did?" You asked, after wondering for so long.

"He was going to hurt you." James looked at you and searched your eyes for annoyance or anger, assuming he had fucked up again.

"How do you know that?" You asked.

"There were these videos I found. Of him hurting women, I didn't want it to happen to you." James squeezed your hand tighter and you moved closer to him until you were nearly nose to nose.

"I was just lucky you and Alyssa were there, even after I punched him he was still going to hurt me." You sighed and closed your eyes.

"I wouldn't let that happen." James whispered and you opened your eyes, seeing him looking at your lips.

"I wouldn't let anyone hurt you either." You whispered, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb.

The morning air was crisp, you felt a slight chill but nothing could take your attention away from what was in front of you. James leant forward slightly and kissed you softly. It was tender. Nothing like the hurried kiss you had given him two nights previous. James put a hand on your cheek and you both turned onto your side, intertwining your legs together. When you pulled apart you sat up and just hugged one another. Nothing like a bloody murder to bring two people together…

"Awh did I miss it!" Alyssa exclaimed as she came outside.

#james x reader #james teotfw imagines #james teotfw x reader #james teotfw fanfic #james teotfw imagine #james the end of the f***ing world #james teotfw #the end of the fing world imagine #the end of the f***ing world #the end of the fucking world #the end of the f***ing world imagine #the end of the f***cking world imagine #the end of the f world

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nero-neptune · 1 year

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one of these days, i’m gonna have to write an essay about the phenomenon of, specifically, black lesbian cops in television shows bc it’s so weird to me and it’s like a jumpscare whenever it happens. it’s like the strangest diversity checkbox

#even worse if they're the only prominent black female character in the show at all #shows that have done this include hunters and dead to me and the end of the fing world and the wire and only murders in the building #and i know i'm missing more. and that doesn't even include that onward movie #rambles

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flordeamatista · 1 year

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𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀

pairing: ceo!silverfox!ari levinson x personal assistant!reader

concept:. One kiss will ignite all this, which will light my darkest fire for your body

word count: 3.6k

warnings: silver fox Ari, bossy boss, business trip, hot tub love time, fireplace love time, p -in- v, a tiny bit of man—ipulation edging, fing- ering, o-ra-l (f receiving), tiny wine body painting, sweet kisses, pu-ssy slap-ping, soft power imbalance, dumb-ification, praise, Sir k-ink, dirty talk, spanking, nickname ──(Princess, Sweetheart)

a/n: @navybrat817 When I was dancing with my other wips, I remember when you dropped this sweet silverfox Ari, leaving me daydreaming for months. I am grateful for you dropping him off so I can write him a beautiful story.

@lookiamtrying @/writing-for-marvel @sunshinebuckybarnes, thank you for letting me rant for months about him and brainstorm ideas.

lovely betas: @lunarbuck and @writing-for-marvel

the cute gif/line divider/moodboard made by me

thank you @jen-with-a-pen for making the silverfox ari image on the second moodboard.

Masterlist

As time passes, each note rests on each string.

Your eyes are captivated by the clouds you pass. One sky, one trip, and countless cloud formations.

The clouds reminded you how far away you were from your real destination, and you could only remember how you got on his plane.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” you asked as you entered his office. He nodded and motioned for you to take a seat. “I have some important news to share with you,” he said. “We’ve just been awarded a large contract from a new client. There is a crucial business event next week that you must attend with me." Ari keeps typing on his computer without looking at you.

"I can't go," you say.

Ari stops typing and looks up. "Why not?" he demands.

"I have my holiday, and I will be out of the country for a while."

“That is part of your job. You are expected to attend. You can pack up your things at the end of the day if you are unable to attend this business trip."

You look desperate in his eyes as you say, "My vacation was approved months ago."

He pauses for a moment, then says, "I'm sorry, but this business trip is mandatory. You will have to postpone your vacation."

“I have given you access to my schedule. Do you mean you didn't read what was coming up? ” he asks in a dead tone. He is trying to point out that he had been clear with his scheduling and that it was your responsibility to be aware of what was coming up and plan accordingly.

As you leave Ari's office, you feel frustrated. You feel your heart sink as you think about all the time and money you’ve already spent preparing. You have been looking forward to this vacation for months, and now it seems like you will have to postpone it indefinitely.

Ari Levinson's name has become so familiar that nobody can escape it. He is a top influencer in the business world and is often a keynote speaker at industry events. His advice and insights are sought after by some of the most successful companies around the world. His reach is unparalleled, and he is an inspiration to many.

From small startups to large corporations, Ari Levinson has been able to make an impact on nearly every sector. His success story is one that continues to be shared and celebrated as he continues to break boundaries in the business world. It would make many human bodies swoon to gaze into his lustful blue eyes. He is a true testament to the power of ambition and hard work.

Ari is a role model for entrepreneurs and business professionals who are looking to make a difference. His story is an inspiration to many who aspire to greatness.

Ari Levinson is an icon.

However, you see the rude, uncaring, sexy heartless boss.

He often puts profits before people and shows zero regard for those he works with. His attitude contrasts starkly with his public image.

You and the hot silver fox icon are stuck in Switzerland in a cabin alone. This was supposed to be your vacation since he told you that you had to join him. You were supposed to be at the beach enjoying the sun with a drink in your hand in the Bahamas, not sitting next to a fireplace freezing your behind off.

You turn to him and ask why he dragged you here.

A mischievous glint appears in his eye as he tells you that success in this world comes from working until you can earn money while you sleep. "And I intend to show you just how to do that," he says with a smirk.

In the end, you will never be able to recall the wisps of a dream because he took a weekend full of sun and pleasure from you, and now you are flying into the cold.

He stands tall, proud of his body, gazing out the window, letting the cold winter air fill his lungs. His muscles tense up as he takes a deep breath in, his eyes focused on the horizon. He is ready to take on whatever the night might bring.

His eyes are shut tight as he savors the warmth of the fire. His feet are planted firmly on the ground as his hands reach for the stars. He is in his own world as he basks in the glory of the fire.

He takes another deep breath and turns back to the fireplace, determined to make it up to you. He adds a few more logs to the fire, watching the orange and yellow flames flicker against the night sky. He knows that he would do anything to make you happy, and he hopes that you will forgive him. He smiles, content in the knowledge that at least he tried.

Little did you know, the silver fox had an ulterior motive for bringing you to Switzerland.

A smile spreads across his face as he watches you relaxing in a hot tub, washing away the stress of your long day. Clearly, he pushed you to the limit and saw your not-so-subtle eye rolls during the flight. He knows he has been too harsh on you, but he wants to ensure you succeed with him.

He lingers around your body tonight as he writes your name next to his.

Taking a deep breath, you let yourself sink deeper into the warm water, feeling your muscles relax with every step. If you can’t be in the sun, this is the closest you can get to feeling warm all over your body. The hot water embraces you with comforting warmth like a hug from a friend. You stay in the hot tub for as long as you can, allowing yourself to forget the stress of the day and simply enjoy the peace. Your boss has always made sure you don’t have a social life beyond being his personal assistant.

You have been trying to find a respite from the stress of the man's presence, and the soothing sound of the bubbling jets and the gentle hum of the motor are just what you need. The sound of his voice, however, is enough to break the illusion and bring you back to reality.

"Mr. Levinson, I don’t start until tomorrow morning. I am enjoying my free time. I need to relax, please," you say softly and finally put down your foot. It‘s time for you to relax after he stole your time off.

"Sweetheart, I apologize if I appeared harsh to you earlier this week, but you need to understand."

“I know! But let me relax tonight," you plead.

You sigh and open your eyes and stare at him with shock.

His desire for your body will reveal where his electric current resides.

When he opens the white robe's string with his strong hands, your heart races. He pulls it open, revealing his exquisite figure. You can't help but gasp in surprise. He suppresses a smile and nods.

"Would you like some company ?” His sculpted arms flex as he reaches for the wine, and for a moment, you can’t take your eyes off him. He smirks, knowing his effect on you. He pours one glass of wine. You feel electricity between you, and you can tell he feels it too.

You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

You can't help but stare, unable to take your eyes off him.

You feel an overwhelming urge to touch him, to have him touch you.

You feel a tingling sensation throughout your body as he stands in front of you, exposing himself to you.

As he dips into the hot tub, you can see the water wavering around him and towards you. He slowly submerges himself in the water, letting out a sigh of relief as his tension and stress slowly melt away. The steam rises slowly around him, enveloping him in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

You can't let your attraction to your boss get in the way of your job. But as he leans in closer, you feel yourself getting lost in his piercing gaze. Suddenly, the room feels too small and too hot. You try to focus on anything but him - the painting on the wall, the clock ticking away - but it's no use. Your mind keeps drifting back to him and how badly you want to give in to this forbidden passion.

Your breath comes out nervously as he floats closer to you.

"Wine?” Taking a sip of his wine, he closes the distance.

"I don't have a glass," you mumble nervously as he invades your space.

You hold your breath as he draws closer, hovering his lips over you. You feel your heart racing as you close your eyes and wait, anticipating a kiss. He pulls away, leaving you disappointed and flustered.

Then he nods at you to drink from his wine glass and slowly places it near your lips. You hesitantly sip, feeling the wine's warmth spread through your body.

Drops of wine drip from your lips, and he touches your neck with his finger to stop them from falling further. "Drink more, Princess," he urges. He leans in again, trailing kisses down your neck and sending shivers down your spine.

You feel nervous and excited as your heart races for a kiss. You take another sip of wine to steady yourself, noticing how his fierce azure eyes darken with desire.

He reaches for the bottle and pours more wine over your body. His hands caress your skin as he moves the bottle along, letting the cool liquid slide down your skin. His lips follow the path of the wine, leaving you trembling in anticipation.

One kiss will ignite all this, which will light my darkest fire for your body

He leans in and captures your lips in a passionate kiss.

The taste of wine on his lips is intoxicating as he takes another sip of you.

When his lips touch yours, a wave of passion washes over you. You feel the warmth of his breath. You get lost in the moment, the world around you fading away. As the wine lingers on your tongue, it mixes with the taste of him. He deepens the kiss, feeling his arms wrap around you as he pulls you closer. The heat between you is palpable and electric, making every nerve in your body come alive.

He smiles and whispers in your ear "Let's make tonight one to remember" You can feel a shiver down your spine as you nod.

Your new sweet obsession is his warmth, his smile your lust, his kisses your obsession

"I know you're a good girl; you're going to do everything I say, aren't you?" he breathes deeply over your exposed neck. You nod, unable to form any words.

A smile spreads across his face as he lowers his hands under the water and covers your pussy. "Princess, use your words."

You let out a whimper, "Yes, Sir." He chuckles, pleased with your response, and kisses your neck again. His hands explore further as his grip tightens around you.

“My girl," he murmurs softly. "Do you know how hot you are? How insane you drive me? I can barely contain myself. I want you so badly," he whispers in your ear.

His lips move down your neck, and his hands travel all over your body, exploring and caressing your curves.

The words he whispers to you stir something in you as his lust rages inside.

"You have such a slutty little mouth," he murmurs against your ear, holding you still with one hand against your throat and the other under the hot water rubbing against your pussy. "I'm sure you're tight as hell. I'm looking forward to hearing the sounds you make as you stretch around my dick. Princess, I promise to let you feel every inch of my cock"

Against his fingers, you grind, your eyes closing as you're enthralled by the kisses he leaves across your jaw and neck.

You feel him slide his thumb across your skin before sweeping it across your clit. As he moves his finger gently inside you, you can feel the movement of the water.

The sensation of his hands touching you, and watching his face as he does so, is intoxicating. You want more of it. He moves his fingers in circles inside you, sending pleasure waves through your body. But he stops when you explode, teasing you. More of him, whatever he can do, is what you need.

It's more of his filthy words and thick fingers.

Put his passion for you into words through his touch

The air blows on your pussy while he holds onto your thighs. You feel the cool air of the night on your skin as you try to focus on your boss' words.

It never occurred to you that you would be in this situation. You are lying on the floor next to the fireplace, naked in front of your boss, and the firelight enlightens the room. You were left to find comfort in the heat radiating from the floor, the only warmth you had after your swimsuit was carelessly discarded.

As you try to piece together the events leading up to this moment, your boss leans over and whispers against your pussy.

He kisses you there, a slow sweep with his tongue from bottom to top, ending with sucking your clit between his lips. You grip the rug cover end in your fists and try not to grind your pussy toward his face.

There's something about the way his tongue feels so freaking warm and soft. Then there's the way the scruff on his beard feels against it. It's lightly abrasive, and you're overwhelmed by the mix of sensations. You moan as you move closer, wanting to get close as possible.

"My Princess has a wet pussy, doesn't she? Want me to play with it? Stick my fingers in it? Maybe later, she can welcome my dick?" Using the tip of his finger, he runs it around your pussy, then slaps it and puts you on edge. “You're so sensitive." His voice echoes in the room, satisfied that you're affected by him.

You moan. "Sir, You're teasing me."

He chuckles and leans in closer, his breath tickling your pussy. "I'm not teasing. I'm just trying to make you feel good."

You hold your breath and scrunch your eyes shut as he exhales and laughs. "You can relax, Princess." He leans closer, his breath tickling your thighs. "It's just me." He pulls away, a smirk on his face. As he bites softly on the sides of your thighs, his gaze drifts to your pussy. "It's going to be a long night," he says softly.

Your hands clench in his salty pepper hair, and you shift your hips, intoxicated by his mouth on you.

I felt a deep sense of pleasure flowing with each kiss of lustful attention.

It is as if your soft sounds, your delicate moans, pull him deeper inside, just like the swell and the throb in his cock.

He couldn't resist the temptation any longer. He had to have you, all of you. The way your body moved and responded to his touch drove him wild with desire. He wanted to explore every inch of your skin, taste every part of you. Your innocence only made him want you more, to be the one who initiates you into a world of pleasure that only he can provide. As he plunges deeper inside you, he feels like he is finally complete.

"Fuck, this slutty pussy is begging for my cock," he says, slapping your thighs while your muscles clench around him, teasing you.

He grabs your hand and guides it over his body - smooth, warm, and inviting. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can feel his desire radiating from him. You can't help but feel a wave of pleasure wash over you.

He smiles despite the tension near his eyes, as though waiting for your response. "Tell me how this feels. How does my cock feel inside of you?" You bite your lip and moan softly.

He slides his hips back and forth, pushing deeper and deeper into you.

You can feel his hardness pulsing and stretching you, and your pleasure builds with every thrust. "I feel like you're breaking me, but I'm full, hot, and - so alive, Ari. I need more, please." Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it's enough to make him shiver with desire. He leans down to capture her lips again, deepening your connection and losing himself in the sensations you bring out in him.

He slides his hips back and forth, pushing deeper and deeper into you. You moan in pleasure as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. He pulls out and then thrusts back in, pushing you over the edge as you reach your climax.

You moan into his mouth as he begins to thrust, your body arching and trembling with each stroke as he moves faster and faster. His strong hands grip your hips tightly as he drives into you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. He pulls away and whispers in your ear, “Do you know why I hired you, Princess.”

You look into his eyes, your body still shaking from the pleasure he had brought you. You gasp and whisper back, “No, why did you hire me?”

He smiles and pulls you close, kissing you deeply. “Because you are the most talented, and I always hire the best.”

The smug grin on his face lights up as he kisses your neck and shoulder, his fingers now playing with your nipple. His pace slows as your body begins to revive itself. The tip of his nose trails up your neck and shoulder as he marks your skin. "I knew from the moment I saw you that you were special. Your pussy had to be special to take my cock." His voice is hoarse and filled with desire, and his breathing heavy as he whispers these words into the air, emphasizing the power of his feelings for you.

"You're doing so well for your CEO, Sweetheart," he whispers, his lips against yours. "We have all week to explore every aspect of your performance."

You run a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Ari - I?" A second orgasm hits you before you can even speak, and your whole body tenses against him.

You are his, so he owns everything about you

As your climax approaches, Ari whispers, "You're mine." His hands press against your skin sending shivers down your spine. He leans in and kisses you again. "Mine," he repeats when the first spasm of pleasure makes you shudder and throw your head back.

All that is audible are his grunts as he takes control of your body with each thrust.

It was Ari's dirty secret that there was no conference; instead, he will keep himself warm by being inside of you for the entire week.

He knows you won't mind it.

This weekend is a winter storm, and he knows you'll need him to soothe your body and make you moan. This weekend, Ari is ready to wrap himself around you and provide the warmth and comfort you desperately crave; he will be your source of comfort in the midst of the storm. His skin is soft and inviting, begging you to let him into your heart for a moment of pleasure together.

As you hold each other, the world outside freezes away - it's just the two of you in this heat.

Your body ached, curved, and was drenched. It embraced him.

1K notes · View notes

yeyinde · 1 year

Text

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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mountsmase · 7 months

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a/n: hi 🤭 I just wanted to say a quick thank you for all of the love on my last fic, I was so nervous to post it and it means the world that you all enjoyed it 🩷 this fic is just a little something that came to my mind after all the golf content we got last weekend and it ended up being so much longer than I thought 👀 I loved writing this but it is still only the second piece of smut I’ve ever written, so it’s not perfect but I really do hope you guys enjoy it 🩷

word count: 5k

genre: Smut/Fluff

———————

Patience - MM7

You watch as Mason approaches the tee box, failing to follow the path of the ball when he eventually hits it.

The flexing of his muscles and the black ink of his tattoos a much more appealing sight to you, which you find yourself struggling to pull your gaze away from.

You’re currently sat on the cold, faux leather seat of a golf buggy, playing spectator whilst Mason plays a round of golf with a few of his friends.

It’s a rare week where neither of you have any obligations. International break has given him some free time after a busy month of matches and you finally have some time off work.

You knew he’d be playing golf with the boys today, and when he initially invited you to join them a couple of days ago you’d been hesitant and had ultimately said no. Letting him know that you wanted him to spend some uninterrupted quality time with his friends, which is something he’s not been able to do in a while.

He’d been pouty, arguing that he’d not been able to spend time with you in a while either, but you managed to convince him to go without you, really not wanting to infringe on his time with his friends. After all, you had the whole rest of the week to spend together, you could last one more day being without each other.

Or so you thought.

When he rolled out of bed early this morning, placing a quick kiss onto your forehead before asking you one more time if you wanted to join him, you caved.

Suddenly not so keen on the idea of being without him all day when you watched him change in to a simple black shirt with trousers that hug his body perfectly.

So here you are.

Woody steps up to take his shot and Mase makes his way back over to the cart. He puts his club away before settling into the seat next to you and takes the moment where the boys are distracted to pull you closer to him. Your body practically on top of his on the little leather bench.

You can’t help but sink into him as he peppers kisses on your shoulder, the light scratch of his beard sending shivers along your body as he continues his way up your neck, your hand landing on his thigh out of instinct.

When he sucks lightly on your soft spot, you slide you hand up a little higher, fingers grasping gently at his skin when you feel the hem of his boxers through the material of his trousers. Two can play at this game.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Masey” you whisper close to his ear.

“Who said anything about stopping?” He replies casually, a little too casually for your liking and when you catch that mischievous glint in his eye you know you’re not going to like whatever he says next.

“Just need to learn a little patience baby, I’m all yours once we’re home, promise” he murmurs close to your ear, placing one last kiss to your shoulder and your whole body heats up at the thought of being alone with him later.

You’re pulled out of your bubble when the rest of the boys climb into their respective carts, pulling away to go and find their balls.

Mason sends you a cheeky wink, hand settling high on your thigh as he follows them down towards the fairway and it’s then that you realise you’re in for a long afternoon.

The rest of the day goes by way too slowly, the time dragging as Mason does everything in his power to rile you up.

He’s always doing something, resting his hand a little too high up your thigh, his head falling into your neck and leaving barely there kisses to your skin when the others aren’t looking, brushing his fingers over you skin or resting against the side of the golf buggy, arms on full display whilst he acts completely innocent. It’s all driving you crazy.

His incessant teasing makes the minuets feel like hours and your patience is wearing thin.

Your busy schedules have meant you’ve not really had time to be intimate together recently, with one of you always being too tired or just generally not having the time.

You miss him loads, and that - combined with his endless teasing and the promises he made earlier - has your mind spiralling every time he so much as looks in your direction.

And you know you’re done for when he messes up his shot at a later hole, letting out a ‘fuck’ as he throws his head back.

All the boys laugh with him, but you find your mind in a completely different place. The sound of the groan leaving his lips and the stretch of his neck as he tilts it back sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

You know in that moment that you need to get him home soon, the urge to touch him becoming harder to resist by the second.

—————

“Finally,” you mutter, speaking under your breath when he pulls his car into the driveway of your shared home many hours later.

You can’t deny that you had a great day, enjoying the time you got to spend with him and his friends, but, after watching him play a full 18 holes, and then having to sit through a long meal at the club house, you’re glad to finally be alone with him - not to mention how incredibly worked up you are after all of his teasing.

You enter the house in front of him, kicking off your shoes before rushing upstairs, leaving him to lock up behind you.

You make your way into your bedroom and plug your phone into charge before heading over to your full length mirror to begin removing your jewellery.

Mase isn’t far behind you and you can see him entering the bedroom in the reflection of the mirror, closing the door softly behind him before making a beeline for you.

He stands behind you, meeting your gaze in the mirror and you almost melt when he reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he unclips your necklace.

He leans over, placing it into your little jewellery box that sits on the cabinet beside the mirror, and you feel goosebumps spread all over when his chest brushes against your back.

His hands gravitate to your hips, wordlessly turning you around so that you’re facing him and he barely gives you time to prepare before he’s crashing his lips into yours.

His plush lips move against yours in perfect sync, and he’s tightening his grip on your waist to pull you closer to him, your bodies now pressed together and your hands find his shoulders frantically. Needing something to hold onto when you feel his bulge press into you through the layers of clothing that separate you.

He coaxes your lips open, slipping his tongue into your mouth and the way he brushes it against yours in slow, languid strokes has all over thoughts leaving your mind until all that’s left is him. Him and his lips and his hands that are roaming all over your body.

“Been waiting for this all day” he says between kisses, chuckling against your mouth and you can’t help but roll your eyes. The two of you knowing full well that he was the one making you do the waiting.

His lips disappear from yours, head burying into your neck, carefully nipping at your delicate skin and if it weren’t for his hands on your hips, you would’ve melted to the floor then and there.

“Mase” you sigh when he sucks against your sensitive skin, the feeling of his warm lips and the scratch of his beard against your skin sending pleasure shooting down your spine.

Your hands grip onto his shoulders, his own roaming over your back and you arch up into him when he finds your sweet spot, teeth grazing the skin before sucking harshly.

“Mason, please” you whimper,

He smirks up at you, “Please what, bubs?”

“You know what”

“I don’t think I do,” he teases, “tell me what you want, baby girl”

“You, your mouth, your fingers, anything, please”

The heat of his body leaves yours and he wordlessly guides you over to the bed, pushing you down gently to sit on the mattress.

“Arms up” he instructs, and you do as he asks, lifting your arms in the air so that he can pull your t-shirt over your head and a groan rumbles in his throat when he notices the bra you’re wearing, the white lacy fabric leaving little to the imagination.

“Lie back for me, baby” he murmurs, and when your back hits the mattress, his lips are quick in finding your collar bone.

He scatters sloppy, open mouth kisses along your chest, stopping every now and then to pay extra attention to the spots where he knows you’re most sensitive.

The little noises leaving your lips spur him on as he makes his way further down your body, not leaving a single inch of skin untouched by his lips.

When he finally meets the waist band of your jeans he taps your hips in a silent request, and you lift them off the bed so that he can pull the denim down and over your legs.

Your panties follow close behind and you’re left bare in front of him.

“So pretty, baby, all of you” he says softly, breath fanning across your hip and his dark eyes meet your shy ones, your whole body flushing at his praise.

Your hands cover your face as he takes in your body beneath his, suddenly feeling insecure under his intense gaze.

“Hey, none of that, no hiding” he climbs up your body, moving your hands away from your face before brushing his lips over yours, “Please don’t ever hide from me, gorgeous”

He entwines his fingers with yours, placing a kiss to each of your knuckles before settling them beside you. Once he’s satisfied you won’t try and shy away from him again, he slides back down your body, kneeling on the carpet and settling in between your legs.

“Can I?” He hums against your thigh, and when he hears you let out a breathy ‘yes’ he leans forward, pressing a barely there kiss to your clit before licking up your entrance.

He works you up slowly, tongue moving skilfully through your folds and moaning at the taste of you on his tongue, the vibrations travelling all over your body. Your head falls back and eyes flutter closed in bliss as he continues to lap at you.

His hand reaches up and takes one of yours, tangling your fingers and letting you squeeze and hold onto him as your body becomes overrun with pleasure.

“Fuck, Mase, feels so good. Don’t stop” you plead and his tongue dips into your entrance, nose nudging against your clit as he begins to eat you out like you’re his last meal.

Your free hand sinks into his hair, needing something else to hold onto as pleasure strikes up your spine, and a satisfied groan rumbles in his throat at the feeling of your hand in his hair.

You begin to squirm against him, struggling to stay still as he continues to suck and lap against you and he hooks his arm under your thigh, hand finding your hip in an attempt to keep you still.

“Shit - Mase - gonna make me cum” you whine and hold on to his hand a little harder.

“Come on, let go for me bubba, I’ve got you” his voice is so soft, so opposite to his actions as he suctions his lips around your clit, flicking his tongue over your sensitive nub and that’s all it takes to have you crashing over the edge.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, your body thrashing against the mattress as Mason works you through it.

He soothes his tongue over you, working you through it until your whimpering in sensitivity, your hand weakly pushing at his head.

He removes his mouth from you, leaning back so that he can look up at you properly and he swears he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. You, sprawled out on the mattress, hair spread around you like halo, flush covering your cheeks as you smile down at him lazily.

You reach down, hand cupping his cheek and you use your thumb to swipe away a small drop of your cum from his chin before holding it against his lips.

“Taste incredible, baby” he hums around your thumb when he sucks it into his mouth, licking the drop from your fingertip.

He climbs back over you, lips finding yours in a soft kiss and you thread your fingers through his hair, revelling in the weight of his body against yours.

You allow yourself to bask in the brief moment of bliss, letting yourself regain composure after your orgasm.

But it’s not long until you get fidgety again, overcome with the need to touch him.

Your hand makes its way over his clothed shoulder, pushing slightly and you use all of your strength to roll him over, straddling his thighs as he relaxes back into the sheets.

“You’ve got way too many clothes on” you mumble and he chuckles against your lips, sitting up slightly to allow you to pull his shirt over his head.

His trousers are next to go, your fingers finding the button and you’re quick in undoing it, sliding the fabric down his legs with his boxers.

“Much better” you drawl and he lets out a whimper when you lightly scratch your nails across his stomach.

Your lips follow their path, paying special attention to all of his little moles and freckles as you kiss your way down his body, ignoring the area he wants you most to continue your trail down his thighs.

He sucks in a breath and you feel the muscles in his thighs clench when you graze his sensitive skin with your teeth, one of his hands tangling into your hair and tugging gently in an attempt to direct you towards where he needs you.

“Relax, bubba” you whisper against his skin, thumbs rubbing soothing circles and you feel him settle beneath you.

“Y/N, please. I need your mouth baby” he begs when he notices that mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Patience is a virtue Mase. You made me wait and I’m simply returning the favour. Now, hands off.” You smirk up at him and he groans in response, throwing his head back into the pillows.

His arms lays limp beside him, and he throws one over his face when you mumble a quick “good boy”, the praise going straight to his cock and you feel a sense of pride when you see it twitch out the corner of your eye.

Then he’s groaning out in frustration when your hands leave him completely so that you can get a little more comfortable between his legs.

One of your hands returns to his thigh, walking your fingers up his skin slowly and he jolts when you finally touch him, length twitching when you run your fingertip along the underside. Not using enough pressure for him to really feel it, but enough to drive him mad.

Your other hand joins and wraps around his base when you reach his tip, smearing the pre cum that’s collected and he lets out a desperate whimper when he feels your thumb rubbing over his slit.

He feels thick and heavy in your palms when you stack your hand on top of the other and twist them slowly, applying a little more pressure and watching as he squeezes his eyes shut, both of his hands clutching the bed sheets in an attempt to not touch you.

“Feel good, Masey?” you coo and he nods his head quickly, unable to form a coherent sentence as his eyes pop open again, just in time to see you lowering your head.

You wrap your lips around his head, your tongue flicking over his slit and you pull your hands away, bracing them on his thighs as you move your mouth further down his length.

You go as far down as you can, and he hisses at the sensation of his tip hitting the back of your throat before you’re pulling back up.

The moan that leaves his lips has butterflies erupting in your tummy.

“Fuck Angel, feels so good, you’re so - oh fucking hell” he moans and you flutter your eyes open, finding his already on you, blown out pupils staring down at you.

You continue to bob your head, hand coming up to work what you can’t fit inside of your mouth and your fingers and lips work in perfect sync.

When your other hand begins fondling with his balls he can’t help it anymore and his hand goes flying to the back of your head.

You let it slide, gazing up at him through your lashes and by the look on his face and the noises leaving his lips, you can tell he’s in heaven.

“I-I’m close,” he moans, fingers tangling into your hair “gonna cum y/n, oh my god” he pants out as you relax your jaw, taking as much of him as you can until your gagging around him.

“Come for me, Mase” you breath out and with a final twist of your hand, he’s cuming into your mouth.

You swallow all of him, working him through his high and when his hips start bucking up out of sensitivity, you leave one final kiss to his tip before pulling off of him.

“Holy shit, y/n, you’re so good at that” he laughs, scrubbing a hand over his flushed face before reaching out for you.

You settle on top of him, feeling his heart beating where your chest presses against his and you leave a series of kisses up his collar bones, making your way up his neck and to his lips.

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth and when he tastes himself on your own, he lets out a content sigh.

You stay like that for a few minuets, enjoying the calmness of the moment before you feel him hardening again against your thigh.

You giggle as he hides his face in your neck in embarrassment.

“You okay there?”

“Need to be inside you, angel” he speaks into your neck, neediness evident in his voice.

“I’m all yours, love” you send him a cheeky smile, rolling onto your back when he nudges your shoulder and he crawls on top of you.

His fingers fiddle with your bra, pulling the strap back before letting it snap back into place.

“Let’s get this off” he mumbles and you sit up slightly, allowing him to reach around and unhook your bra.

He pulls the straps down your arm, throwing it somewhere behind him and you watch as his pupils dilate at the sight of you completely bare in front of him.

His lips make their way down your chest, and he speaks between kisses.

“So” kiss, “fucking” kiss, “gorgeous” kiss.

The last kiss lands right next to your left nipple and he doesn’t hesitate to shift slightly, lips leaving an open mouthed kiss to the hardened nub.

He brings his hand up, thumb stroking over the neglected nipple and you arch your back in desperation.

“Mason, need you, please baby” you moan breathlessly, and you here him chuckle against your skin.

“You’ve got me baby,” he whispers right next to your ear, leaving a kiss to your cheek as he spreads your legs a little wider and settles between them.

“You ready, bub?” he asks softly and your lips tug up into a smile.

You cup his cheek and lock your eyes onto his, “Yeah, baby. Want to feel you.”

He nods, nudging his nose against yours as he braces one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself between your folds.

Your hand lands on the back of his neck when you feel him sliding into you slowly, wincing at the slight stretch you feel after not being with him like this for a while.

“You okay?” He asks, voice full of concern when he sees the slight look of discomfort on your face.

You meet his worried eyes, nodding in reassurance. “Yeah bub, just go slow please”

“Of course,” he pushes his hips forward, making sure to be gentle whilst he buries himself to the hilt inside of you.

“Let me know when I’m okay to move” his thumb brushes in tender motions over your hip, attempting to sooth any discomfort you may be feeling.

You stay like that for a few moments, his head hidden away in your neck, brushing gentle kisses against your skin whilst he gives you all the time you need to adjust to him.

You slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly to get him to look at you.

“You can move, Mase” you whisper when his eyes meet yours.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, forehead resting against yours and you moan out in unison when he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in.

He keeps his pace slow, swearing under his breath and digging his teeth into his bottom lip at the feeling of your plush walls surrounding him.

“Missed this so much Angel” his raspy voice is barely audible when he speaks against your lips.

All you can do is nod, unable to find your voice when he picks up his pace but wanting him to know you missed it too.

His warm palms slide up the back of your thighs, finding the curve of your bum before hooking your legs around his waist.

The new angle allows him to to reach much deeper and you feel a bolt of pleasure shoot up your spine when he brushes that special spot inside of you.

“Fuck, Mase. So good” you whimper out, hand finding his shoulder and your holding on so hard that your sure you’ll find little crescent shaped marks there later.

His face finds home in your neck, thrusts faltering slightly when he feels your silky walls clench around him.

“Oh my god, Angel. Going to make me cum already” he stutters, slightly embarrassed at how quickly he’s approaching his second orgasm of the night.

Little does he know, you’re just as close. Still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

“I’m there with you, bub” you move your hips up in time with his, cupping his cheek to move his face from your neck.

You meet his eyes and the sight of him on top of you is almost too much. His hair tousled from your fingers, cheeks flushed and lips swollen as he continues thrusting into you at a brisk pace.

His hand grips at your hip a little tighter and the other grabs your free hand, fingers tangling with yours as he brings them up to rest next to your head.

“Fucking hell, y/n. So tight” he grunts and you let out a string of curse words when you feel your orgasm barrelling towards you.

“Gonna cum, Mase” you sob, eyes squeezing closed as he buries himself to the hilt inside of you.

“I’ve got you, bubba, let go for me” he rasps close to your ear.

And that’s exactly what you do. Moaning out as he hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him as your orgasm hits you like a wave.

Your high is overwhelming, the sound of his voice and moans the only thing you can focus on as your body is overcome with pleasure, the feeling rippling through you leaving you breathless.

Your walls constricting around him is what sends him over the edge, his whimpers are muffled in your neck, his body collapsing on top of yours as he hits his own orgasm.

He keeps himself buried inside of you as you both come down from your highs. Your fingers scratching over his neck and back as he slumps on top of you, completely spent.

Neither of you make the effort to move for a while, and he stays buried inside of you whilst you bask in the serenity of the moment. Your heart rates and breathing slowly returning to normal.

He groans when he eventually pulls out of you, head dropping to your shoulder and you brush a series of kisses over his temple.

“You feel up for showering bubba?” He asks softly, fingers brushing your hair out of your face as he looks down at you lovingly.

You send him a soft smile, nodding lazily and you let him scoop you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you through to the en-suit bathroom.

He switches the bathroom light on, immediately dimming it when you wince from the brightness before he sets you down on the counter.

A kiss is brushed against your temple and then he’s turning around, turning the shower on and making sure it’s the right temperature.

You catch his eyes widening slightly when he turns back to you. “What? Is something wrong?” you ask, slightly alarmed by his expression but his face softens as soon as he hears your voice.

“No Angel, nothing wrong. Let’s just say, it’s a good job we’ve got no plans tomorrow” he chuckles, thumb brushing over your neck and all of your confusion goes away when you turn and look into the mirror.

There’s a dark bruise standing out against your skin, a few lighter ones littered across your chest.

“You really went for it, huh?”

“Sorry” he shrugs, not really looking sorry at all.

“No you’re not”

“Nope, not one bit”

You turn back to him, slapping his chest with the back of your hand playfully before he’s helping you down from the counter and guiding you into the shower.

Your body slumps into his when he comes up in front of you. His arms wrap around your waist in a hug and his head finds home in your neck as the water cascades over you.

“love you” his voice is muffled against your skin but you hear him loud and clear, your heart fluttering at the simple phrase.

“Love you too, Masey”

You bring your hand up to the back of his head, fingers running through his damp hair and scratching over his scalp and you feel his chest vibrating against yours when he hums in content.

He steps back and takes your body wash from the little shelf, the familiar citrusy scent engulfing you as he squirts some into his palm, lathering it up before massaging it into your skin.

He pays extra attention to your hips and thighs, helping to sooth the aching skin with his thumbs before shuffling so that you’re both under the water again.

He helps you rinse off, letting you clean him up as well before stepping out of the shower in front of you.

He wraps his own towel around his waist and then takes yours from the heated towel rack, holding it out for you to step into.

When you step out of the shower, his arms are immediately circling you again, wrapping you up in the warm towel as pulls you against his chest.

“Someone’s clingy” you utter, looking up at him through your lashes and if he blushes, you can’t tell. The heat from the shower already leaving his cheeks a little flushed.

“Can’t help it, just want to hold my girl” his confession makes your heart warm and you smile up at him softly.

“How about you go and get into bed, I won’t be long and then you can hold me all night” you suggest, the idea sounding more than appealing.

“I’ll get some pj’s ready for you” he says, pressing his lips to your temple before leaving the bathroom so you can finish getting ready for bed.

Your quick in finishing up your skin care routine, not bothering with any extra serums tonight, the thought of him waiting in bed for you being way more appealing than the idea of standing in this bathroom for even a minute longer.

You switch the bathroom light off and enter the much softer atmosphere of the bedroom. Mase is already tucked up in bed waiting for you, looking all cozy and snug under the duvet.

Some fresh panties and one of his shirts sit a neat pile at the end of the bed and you quickly pull them on, throwing your towel into the laundry basket before climbing into bed next to him.

“Feeling okay, bubba?”

“I need to watch you play golf more often” you giggle, settling into bed next to him.

“Oh, definitely” he sighs, hooking an arm over your waist and sliding you closer to him.

“Seriously though, thank you for coming with me today, I know we’ve technically still seen each other everyday but I really have missed you the last couple of weeks” he speaks shyly, and you can just about make out the blush littering his cheeks in the warm light.

“I missed you too,” you lean up and meet his eyes, “so much”

His hand goes to the back of your neck when you lean in to kiss him. It’s slow, calm and loving as he works his lips against yours carefully.

You rest your head again his bare chest when you pull away, snuggling into him and relaxing completely against his body as he reaches over and switches the lamp off.

The room is engulfed in darkness as he shuffles around a little, getting comfy before settling his arms around you.

“Good night, my love” is the last thing he says to you, and you just about manage a quiet ‘good night’ back before you’re drifting off to sleep, Mase not far behind as you both fall into the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

———————

Hope you enjoyed 😚 feedback appreciated as always 🩷🫶🏻

#mason mount imagine #mason mount concepts #mason mount x you #mason mount x reader #mason mount #mason mount smut #mason mount fluff #mason mount fic

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ao3cassandraic · 7 months

Text

Meta roundup

I can't even find all my own meta any more, so here's my attempt to fix that!

s2's Final Fifteen Minutes, and Related Posts

You can kind of see my thoughts evolving here. I'm not displeased at that!

When angels overplay

Kayfabe: A Good Omens meta

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2, The Chinwag

Part 3, The Fiasco

Part 4, The Aftermath

Heaven and Hell as surveillance states

Coffee as forced-teaming tactic

Crowley refusing complicity

The Metatron failing Aziraphale's tests

Aziraphale may justly feel abandoned by Crowley

Why does the Metatron even want Aziraphale?

Jimbriel the Holy Fool

Jimbriel the Holy Fool (cw: historical ableism around mental health and cognitive ability)

The almost-defenestration scene, what Crowley is up to

The almost-defenestration scene, ending

Aziraphale's memory, Jimbriel, the Metatron, and forgiveness

Muriel

"No one" and Odyssey intertextuality

Muriel as possible s3 mole

Muriel as bookshop proprietor

Good Omens God is a Horror

Good Omens God is a m-fing open-source techbro

Good Omens God as abusive parent to the Ineffables

Crowley the Maker, God the Wrecker: Part 1, Part 2

Costume Meta

Jimbriel's ball costume

Clothing and identity in Good Omens

Color on angels (from s2 preview)

Crowley's 1941 costume and the Blackshirts

Crowley's sleeve garter

Crowley's bee!demon getup

Bildad the Shuhite

s2 Dagon

s2 Uriel

Saraqael

s2 Michael

Muriel

s2 Beelzebub

Jimbriel

Shax, also Shax, original Shax (with some wrong guesses)

Random Intertextuality

With Gulliver's Travels

s2 as tragedic in structure

Dies Irae

Britten's War Requiem

With Nineteen Eighty-Four

Miscellaneous Other Meta

Angels, demons, language, and culture: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Saraqael, Heaven's Only Competent Angel

Heaven's so-called command team

The ineffable educators

"Funny old world" (Crowley in the elevator)

do be do be do

Job's children as Heaven microcosm

Crowley and the Bentley: partners in threat

a Bentley headcanon (n.b. this one's been Neiled, but I still think it's cute)

Crowley loves his Bentley

Is Heaven even literate? And sequel ("yes, but").

Aziraphale's deeply crappy work situation, compassion fatigue

The Ineffables' understanding of love: love as ritual

Schools of ethics in Good Omens

Can Heaven and Hell attribute miracles?

As far as they can: how Aziraphale and Crowley interact differently with their head offices

#good omens meta #my meta #holy crap how did I write this much freakin' meta

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tatumtater · 1 year

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summary ; joel shows back up to lovers quarrel with unexpected cargo and an unexpected present waiting for him.

pairing ; joel x reader

warning ; grief, heartache, not sure, head my warning

tease ; " you just left. " " yes. that was an asshole move. i'm sorry. " a/n ; so part to for you little tator tots, i tried to push this out quickly while part one is still fresh in your mind. i hope it meets to you every heart desire. i'm still learning my writing and do write most of my stories of very short sentence prompts. requests are open so if there's something you'd like to see, let ya girl know. i hope everyone got tagged correctly. your thoughts whether they're good or bad is always appreciated. i tried pushing this out as quickly and as thoughtful as i could but i had writers block for hours unsure how i wanted to go with this.

part one

" joel? "

your heart thrashed in your chest, pounding in your ears. you feel as if you could vomit right there. unsure of what to do, unsure of what your feeling. grief, heartbreak, anger? you became frozen in your thoughts, your heart sinking into an unknown pit of agony as you stared at the two outside the fence. blinking yourself back to reality, you looked over at nicholas, ushering him to let them in. your heart ached seeing him here, he was suppose to come back for you and four years later he didn't show up until today. sucking in a breath, and batting back the tears, you waved an arm toward joel and his guest. " bill and frank will want to see you but just a heads up, frank isn't doing to well..he hasn't been. " you sighed, hoping the appearance of joel will brighten the mans spirits. taking a breath, you released the anxiety that had rippled through your body moments ago. you needed to buy yourself time. you weren't prepared for the sudden drop in from joel four fucking years later.

taking the memorized path to bill and frank's it was agonizingly quiet. no one said a word but the girl he had with him, usually muttering something under her breath. pushing open the fence to the men's home, you smiled, greeting frank on the porch who painted. " afternoon frank, how you feeling so far today? got you a special someone i'm hoping that will clear up these sunday blues. "

his eyes glanced over at the three figures walking his way, pushing the gate open and up the steps, you planted a small kiss on his cheek. " joel! long time no see, been what? a million years? " frank chuckled out and small smile laying on his lips. joel huffed a chuckle out, " only what it feels like huh? " it was silent after frank courted a small nod, mumbling about ' yeah sure does. '

you dusted your hands off your pants, feeling your hands clammy with the tension. it was tough you could cut it with a knife. " well if you won't excuse me, i have to go, thomas will be needing me soon. " you gave frank a pat on the shoulder, heading down the steps. a small nod to joel and his guest, " i'll be at the white house at the end of the street if you guys need anything but i think leslie might be the best bet to help. " pushing the gate open and closing it behind you, you. a small wave goodbye and you headed down to your house.

tucked into bed, thomas snuggled deep into your side, gripping the soft fabric of your shirt. you laid there, exhausted but with a million thoughts running through head, your fingers messing with the bangs of your toddler. his soft breathing and relaxed face breaks your heart more as you realized how much joel has missed out on his child, how much tomas has missed out on his father. but the sadness turns into anger. but are you more angry at joel for leaving or more angry you didn't tell him before he left, leaving you to raise him alone in this cruel world. you rolled over onto your side, leaning your head against your child's, studying his face. if joel laid eyes on thomas he would know instantly that he belonged to him, the similar features on his face laid upon thomas's. you brushed your fingers across his cheek, planting a small kiss on his head before shifting out of the bed.

you weren't going to bed, not anytime soon anyways. you grabbed your rob before making your way down the creaking stairs, hoping thomas was in a deep enough sleep to not be woken up. you grabbed a small glass of water from the kitchen before making your way out the front door, not shutting it fully behind you. the cool breeze of the mid night air wrapped around your legs, causing you to shiver slightly. you sat your cup down on the small side table by the porch swing, sitting down and sighing. one leg hanging off the swing your pushed the porch, swinging slightly becoming lost in your own thoughts.

" y/n, " the voice was rough but in a hushed town, so lost in your own mind, you didn't see joel making his way up the porch, " couldn't sleep? " you shook your head, " not, not really. you? " " no, i reckon not. don't sleep much these days anymore though. may i? " he asks, motioning to the swing. you move your leg, straightening up on the swing. it was an awkward silence, internally wanting to get up and go inside to completely avoid him at all costs. you cleared your throat, shifting nervously, " did you find what you were look for out there? did you ever find him? " joel interlocked his fingers, staring at the ground and nodding slightly before glancing at you, " yeah, i did. he's um married now, got a family. he's doin' alright for himself. " a family, he has a family. something you yearned for, something for thomas. " that's good " you muttered out, avoiding looking at him. your heart ached, it felt empty. you just wanted to reach out and touch joel, to feel the longing feeling of love from him. you missed him, you missed everything about him, the rough exterior but the soft side he only showed you. the air shifted as joel leaned back, swallow hard, " bill and frank talked a lot about you and someone named thomas. i'm glad you found someone. " you snorted, laughing slightly as much as it pained you. did he really think you moved on? that you just forgot about him when he never came back? " you just left. " he rubbed his chin, taking a deep breath. " yeah. that was an asshole move. i'm sorry. " " no- you just left and never came back, like you promised. you promised you'd come back and you didn't. you left me here to raise thomas on my own. you never fucking came back. "

joel's face scrunched in confusion, " wait- thomas isn't- you're not- what the fuck. so you didn't find someone? " you scoffed, standing up from the swing, turning your back to him. " no joel, i didn't. i waited you said you were coming back, you never showed and i ended up raising my child. our child on my own. " panic struck inside his chest, his heart pounding. for the first time since sarah's accident, joel felt scared. terrified. the thought of being a dad against never crossed his mind, he never wanted to be a dad again, not in this world. maybe if the world went back to normal, he could see himself settling down again. you grabbed the handle of the door, pushing it open, " i wanted to tell you joel, the day you left. but you didn't love me like i loved you so i didn't pry. thomas had me, he has me. i raised him while my heart was broke. i put a smile on my face everyday and worked my ass off for thomas to have a normal and simple life. i was alone. that's the kind of heartbreak time could never mend. " you went to shut the door behind you, but the palm of his hand stopped the door, " i love you y/n. i lied. i thought about you every damn day. i thought about turning around so many times. " your heart broke more, you were uneasy, not sure to believe his words, " you can't come back and just say these things! " your voice was hushed and it lingered with venom., " i was alone. do you not realize this. i'm all he has and he's all i have. "

joel shook his head, reaching for your hand, " no " you huffed, choking back tears, eyes focused anywhere but him. your breath was uneasy and heavy. " look at me, " he demanded, moving his hands to your neck, cupping your face and using his thumbs to brush against your cheek. you looked up with glossy eyes, meeting his through your eyelashes. " we're going to do this together, alright? i'm done leaving your behind. that was a mistake i regret every fucking day of my life. " your hands moved for your sides to his shirt, gripping it tightly. his thumb brushed your bottom lip before his pressed his against yours, every wall you had put up faltered, your guard was down and you were vulnerable.

" i'm never leaving you again. "

tag list ; @amazonabxtch @kyuupidwrites @sloanexx @rosecoloredlenses708 @julesjewelss36 @chloelmao67 @bby-lupin @koremis @onlyrealjoy

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel x y/n #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #tlou imagine #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 2 months

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This one guy I talked to on AO3 said that Emilie shouldn't be brought back because Adrien has already moved on from her death, but I'm not so sure about that. Other people think she should be revived so she can be her own character and not just someone else's sad backstory, and so Adrien has one good parent, of course. What do you think?

I think that it depends on the story you want to tell. There are cases to be made for bringing her back and cases to be made for letting her die. In the context of canon, I find not bringing her back to be fing stupid because it makes everything feel pointless. We obviously don't know the wish yet, but why let Gabe make the wish at all if he's not going to restore Emilie? Making a different wish isn't him being a good guy at the end. It's still him playing god, he's just now using his god powers to abandon his son for no logical reason. What loving father happily leaves his son an orphan???

Yeah, Gabriel saved Nathalie. I don't care. Nathalie chose to use the peacock to support Gabriel in his plan to terrorize Paris. That wasn't some noble sacrifice on her part! She didn't deserve to be saved any more than Gabriel did. Of the three dying/dead parental figures (I really don't know Emilie's status) Emilie is the only one who was never tempted by the dark side if we ignore the uncomfortable implications of how they got the peacock in the first place/Adrien's childhood isolation and just embrace the canon narrative that Emilie was a good and loving mother who was Too Pure For This World.

Meanwhile, Nathalie was a terrible mother figure! She supported Gabriel's awful treatment of Adrien for four seasons and then spent all of season five gently prodding Gabriel to change/tell Adrien the truth while leaving Adrien completely in the dark to everything that was happening. If Gabriel hasn't won, then Adrien would have lost both his father and Nathalie who knew that they were dying, but never gave Adrien a chance to say goodbye because Nathalie never stopped putting Gabriel first in almost every way that mattered. Adrien still doesn't know that he could have been allowed say goodbye to his father because Gabriel's death was entirely predictable.

Along similar lines, I don't think that Nathalie was wrong to undo Gabriel's senticommands, but it is deeply messed up that she was happily doing it in secret and never once considered giving Adrien a chance to consent. A loving parent should find the idea of controlling their child deeply upsetting. She should have been tempted to tell Adrien the truth, especially since she knew that she was dying, but we never see her consider that.

She also does nothing to get Adrien's slave collar away from Gabriel or to stop Gabriel from terrorizing Paris even though we have a scene where she literally pins Gabriel to a table. Her turn to "good" did nothing but maintain the status quo because she continued to support Gabriel in all the ways that truly matter. She never really protects Adrien. She does not deserve to be Adrien's new mother. #BringEmilieBack!!!

All of that is assuming that Gabriel's wish saved Nathalie while sacrificing himself and Emilie. If so, then that is literally the most boring way to go about letting the wish happen. You could have just as easily had Gabriel lose and have Ladybug know a way to save Nathalie via Guardian magic. The end result would have been the same.

If Gabriel had chosen to give up on the wish entirely? Then Emilie not coming back would be a satisfying ending. I personally really like Gabriel being defeated and the heroes then bringing Emilie back. Very much a spite move for me, plus it's a nice way to lessen the sting of Gabriel's defeat. Adrien losing his father, but gaining his mother feels really satisfying to me, especially if Emilie gets to serve Gabriel divorce papers. Got your wish, old man. Now suffer for it.

No matter the case, saying that Emilie shouldn't be brought back because Adrien has moved on is bad logic as it implies that Emilie is only worth bringing back if Adrien say he wants her back, as if she's a beloved childhood toy that someone broke long ago. It also implies that Adrien wouldn't want her back just because he's accepted her loss. Those are two very different things. Imo, one of the show's failings is the fact that Adrien is denied the right to grieve as if that makes him a better person. A better show would show healthy grief vs unhealthy grief (Adrien vs Gabe). She's been gone less than a year when the story starts. Everyone processes grief different, but that's really fast to move on from the death of a parent.

#ml writing salt #ml writing critical #ml season 5 salt

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anadiasmount · 10 months

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hugs and fireworks - christian pulisic x reader

hello everyone! i hope you are all okay and doing well! happy fourth to those who celebrate! in honor of it being the fourth I couldn't stop thinking of dad! christian. so here's a small blurb of how i'd think your holiday would be spent with him! i enjoyed writing this, so I hope you enjoy 🥰🥰

here's my masterlist!

wc: 1.6k

“Do you remember when we met back in Austin?” Christian asked softly. You hummed and felt him cuddle closer to you. His head was on your chest while you stroked his bareback. “How could I forget? I saw you on the pitch and immediately fell over heels for you.” 19-year-old you would be gushing over excitement.

While growing up, you and your family didn't go out at all for the 4th of July. Sure you had a small backyard cookout and some fireworks but that was it. A USA shirt, or a red white, and blue to keep the “tradition”. You vividly remember the summer when you traveled down with your girlfriends to Texas for the 4th of July. A random trip that ended up changing your life in the most unexpected way. A flight booked from home, to your girlfriends and you pitching in to take a road trip from the tip of Texas to the south where you explored different beaches.

During your last night in Austin, you attended a USA soccer match, being fortunate to receive front-row seats. A certain brunette caught your eye, but the feeling of being embarrassed and rejected made you overthink plus, this guy was a pro, right? A sleeve of tattoos, sweat running down their body, the white jersey clinging onto their fit body for dear life. You were in a daze, mesmerized, noticing the #10 and PULISIC in the back.Of course, nothing would ever happen, so you and your girlfriends decided to go to a bar nearby and celebrate before heading off south.

While coming back from the restroom, you accidentally stumbled against someone, “I am so sorry, I did not see you coming,” you touched their shoulder apologetically but when you looked up and met a pair of brown orbs you blushed profusely. “It's okay darling, I didn't see you coming either,” it was him.

“Im Y/n,” you extended your hand making the first move, he smirked and shook your palm, “Im Christian, a pleasure to meet to meet you.”

Who knew sharing a couple of beers, small talk of his life and yours included would have you holding onto hope? Christian paid attention, he didn't just nod or hum then and there, he made sure to make you feel safe and comfortable, never overstepping by asking unsuitable questions. You didn’t do this, you were always shy and rather would sit and watch people than make the effort and meet someone, but with him, it felt right.

Christian didn't hide anything, explaining how he grew up in Hershey, his move to Europe, his parents being his biggest support to this day, attending state fairs meant the world to him, and that sometimes you have to take a risk if you want great things to happen. His words, not yours. You had not realized you sat in the bar ignoring the blaring music, loud cheers, and drunk people behind you, till the bartender gave you a ten-minute warning before closing.

“If I'm being honest… I don’t want to go back to my hotel right now… Would you care to join me for some late-night tacos? I know just the place here,” Christian spoke shyly, rubbing the back of his neck afraid you’d say no. “Who can turn down some tacos? Just hope you won’t disappoint me, Chris…” you said without thinking. Christian loved when you called him Chris, it just sounded like heaven to him. True to his word, you had enjoyed eating the delicious tacos in the taqueria. Later taking a walk to observe the Austin skyline, where your fings delicately brushed his. You shared your first official kiss there, his hands holding you by your waist, as you rested on his broad chest.

“We were just kids then… Now look at us now,” he replied looking up to you where you placed the softest gentle kiss on his forehead. “We’ve come a long way to be here today. All the sacrifices and distance but we made it work. And I can’t be more grateful to have the most gorgeous stunning wife and mother to my kids…” he kissed over your wedding ring and the small bump. You had surprised him after putting your almost two-year-old to sleep. Christian was overjoyed and crying happy tears, immediately sinking to his knees and promising the baby he’d do everything in his will to protect them and you. His little family.

“I'm so fortunate to have a man like you, Chris. We fell in love at such an early age and I would’ve thought you’d get rid of me, but you've never stopped loving me. You're the best dad to Axel, to me, and to those around you. There’s not a day that goes by where I sit down and think of the what if’s, but you're always there to get rid of the overthinking. I feel safe and at home with you,” you let out the smallest tear and Christian giggled.

“Oh stop it! It’s the pregnancy hormones,” you gushed as he continued his teasing. A sound from the baby monitor had Christian up on his feet going to pick up Axel from his room. When your boys came back, Axel was rubbing his eyes with his chubby hands while Christian brushed back the small coils of curls. He was the spitting image of him, anything Christian did, Axel was doing so already. Despite following his dad, at the end of the day, he was a momma's boy.

“How about we spend the 4th by the beach, take some food, small fireworks, and just spend time watching the fireworks at the end of the night?” Christian asked to which you clapped your hands excitedly. “Your family is still coming right?” you asked while prepping some hamburgers for Christian to grill. He came back inside holding Axel by his hip, “Yes they should be here soon!”

The doorbell rang and you greeted his family with a small hug, urging them to come inside while you continued to finish cutting the lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. Christian, his dad, brother, and brother-in-law spent their time outside grilling while you, his mom, and sister, and now Axel stayed inside until it was time to leave. His sister explained how excited she was to begin riding after her pregnancy, and his mom talked about the upcoming vacation you all took.

After setting the table you all ate and shared stories over the years, Christian sitting next to you holding your hand or from time to time grabbing your thigh, feeling his nails rake up and down against your skin. Once the sun started to die down, you all took the shortcut walking down to the shore, “Careful baby,” Christian spoke to where only you and he could hear. Christian always was cautious but now that you were pregnant again, he had to make sure you weren’t overworking yourself.

You sat on the sand, feeling the cool breeze and sand beneath you. You watched and heard your son Axel let out waves of giggles when the waves crashed against his little chubby feet. Christian spun him around from time to time and held him close. You took a small photo, relishing the moment before your family turned into four. Of course, Axel followed him when they began to play a small game of football there. They pulled out the small fireworks or sparklers, Christian was being protective again, holding his son and showing him how the sparkle was, it was generally safe so you weren't worried. Your son just clapped his small chubby hands and made happy noises that brought Christian to smile.

You helped his mom set up some chairs after the tide began to rise just a bit, and changed into a knitted sweater. “Look at you two,” you laughed when you saw Christian come up to you with your son. You gave Christian a towel and some change of clothes, while Axel cuddled against your chest. You covered him with a towel and a blanket protecting him from the cool air. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, especially after the day he had.

When Christian returned he sat next to you, but it wasn't long before he asked you to lay your back against his chest. He peppered small kisses along your bare shoulder due to your top, and kissed your temple, just giving you love and affection. That’s one thing he won't ever hide, his love and adoration for you.

Christian chatted with you quietly about tomorrow's plans which included a boat ride for the entire day, promising to watch Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time with you after coming back home. His fingers drew small shapes on your bump, while you rested your head gently below his chin. “Boy or girl?” you asked knowing the answer right away. “Girl. I want to dress her up in small cute dresses and learn to do her hair. But I’d be equally as happy if we had another boy. Just hope we won't drive too crazy,” he joked.

You heard the chime of the fireworks as they began. You saw a small streak of light before it burst into a pit of different colors. Christian watched as your eyes glowed as you observed the different fireworks. He’d rather watch you because you were the only person to make his chest feel like it had fireworks lighting inside. “Kiss me,” he said abruptly. You blushed but did as he told, brushing your lips into a small but passionate and intense kiss. “Won’t ever get enough of these soft lips,” he said smiling across your lips. He rested back, humming when your hand reached up and played with the hair in the nap of his neck, “I love you, princess.”

“I love you, Christian.”

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic x you #christian pulisic blurb #christian pulisic one shot

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lanalove2012 · 6 months

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characters with mommy issues ᕤᕦ

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the-wanderer · 1 year

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“When someone’s very important, and you haven’t seen them for a long time; and as soon as you do, it’s easier to breathe.”

- James

#James #James TEOTFW #TEOTFW #people quote #quote #tv show quotes #the end of the f***ing world #the end of the fing world #the end of the fucking world

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honeyhotteoks · 1 year

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into the aurora - chapter twenty-eight (ot8)

chapter twenty-eight: it's all just treasure

chapter summary: after all that talk... you slip away with yunho, san, and wooyoung special note! this chapter was previously published as a one-shot called treasure a long, long time ago. i've completely rewritten so the thread of the fic is the same though. i far prefer this version.

warnings: heavy smut, but specific content warning for the use of a safe word mid sexual act. reader is momentarily panicked/overwhelmed, but no one is hurt at all and no boundaries are disrespected. otherwise; mmmf group sex, oral (f receiving), oral (m receiving), rough oral/face fucking, fingering, overstimulation, rough sex, gratuitous orgasms, light choking, allusion to woosan, big dick yunho, size kink, discussions of boundaries/safe word, aftercare

pairings: ot8 x reader

genre: fluff, angst, romance, ateez ensemble x reader, polyamory, non-idol!reader, fem!reader, smut

word count: 5.6K

(previous chapter) | (next chapter) | AO3 | masterlist

You knew living in the dorms with them would be an adventure, but there was no way in the world you could have anticipated the position you find yourself in now. It’s not even really clear how you even ended up here, but after a long and stressful day and just enough soju, the tension crackling between you finally sparked. Spread across Yunho’s bed, pliant, needy, and nearly naked, you wait for someone to make the next move.

It shocks you, you’re the one who had suggested that the four of you slip away while the rest of the boys were out. You’re not sure what possessed you to take the step forward and stop talking in hypotheticals, but it certainly seemed like a good idea when you were cuddled between them and feeling their warm touches and soft murmurs against your skin.

Wooyoung dips forwards eagerly and locks his lips on yours, groaning as you work a hand into his open jeans and under the waistband of his boxers. San continues to kiss and nip at your inner thighs, easing your legs up over his shoulders so he has a better angle. Yunho lays lengthwise on your opposite side, his long legs hanging over the edge of the bed with one foot planted on the floor, watching in rapt fascination as he palms your breast and rolls a nipple experimentally with his thumb and forefinger. While you often catch him watching you during sex, it’s a rare thing that he gets to take a step back and see every moment of your pleasure, and he loves it.

At a pinch of your right nipple, you gasp against Wooyoung’s lips, and drop your head back on the comforter.

“Baby,” San murmurs from between your legs, his fingers hooked under the sides of your underwear. You look down to him and he continues, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Yunho’s hand stills and you look up to him, watching as his features soften. He smooths his hand down your bare stomach gently and meets your eyes, “It’s whatever you want,” he assures you, “but you should say it.”

You wet your lips and ease up on your elbows to meet Yunho, your mouth connecting with his softly. “I want you to take care of me,” you confess, “I don’t want to stop,”

Yunho’s eyes harden, a familiar expression of desire and soft aggression that you have come to seek out. He cups your neck with his warm hand, running the pad of his thumb down your throat. “You’ll have to earn it,” his voice is husky and low, and he drags his thumb back up over your throat, up your jaw, and gently presses your lips open, hooking his thumb on your bottom teeth and meeting your eyes.

You respond instantly, so familiar with this dance. You close your lips around his thumb, sucking lightly, before opening your mouth for more. “Good girl,” he says, pressing another finger against your tongue, watching you eagerly suck his digits, your eyes locked on his. With a low exhale he smiles, “That’s it,”

For a moment you forget anyone else is in the room, completely focused on Yunho’s gaze, but a labored “Fuck,” from Wooyoung draws both of your attention.

Yunho’s fingers leave your mouth, and you look to the side. Wooyoung is painfully hard, his hand softly gripping the base of his cock, “I had no idea,” he manages, his surprise at Yunho’s more commanding presence in the bedroom evident.

Yunho shakes his head and returns his hand to your breast, “try to keep up,” he shoots him a wry smile before turning to San and nodding once.

That’s all he needs. Before you can blink, your underwear is stripped away and San’s tongue is firmly against your clit, his hands gripping your thighs as he rolls the flat of his tongue on your sensitive bud. You inhale sharply, dropping your head back against the bed again, gripping Wooyoung’s thigh as he kneels by your shoulder.

San settles your legs over his shoulders again and holds you steady, dragging his tongue up your slit and sucking teasingly on your swollen nub, earning a rush of wetness between your thighs and a desperate whine from your lips. Your nails dig into Wooyoung’s thigh, your other hand searching for purchase in the sheets next to you as San works you. He adds a single finger, opening you up just a little, and you curse, catching Yunho’s hot gaze. His lips are parted as he watches you, his breath steady and low and his eyes devouring you.

San holds you against his mouth harder and you choke, “God, San,”

He hums pleasantly, the vibrations running straight up your spine, and he adds a second finger, curling upwards to catch against your g-spot and pumping them in time with his mouth’s ministrations.

Your back arches up off the mattress, your hips jerking, and you press your eyes shut, focused on the feeling of San between your legs and you’re already nothing but a panting mess.

Yunho runs a wide hand down your chest, your stomach, your hips, before leaning closer to murmur, “Sweetheart, don’t be greedy,”

Your eyes fly open, and you realize Yunho is gesturing to Wooyoung’s prone cock, only inches from your cheek. “Oh, Woo,” you smooth your hand down his leg, “Come here,”

“Yeah?” He checks and you nod, propping yourself up on your elbows and opening your mouth expectantly as he shuffles forwards on the bed.

Yunho’s hand settles warmly in the center of your back between your shoulder blades to take some of the pressure your core muscles that are helping hold you up as Wooyoung’s cock connects with your bottom lip. He groans when you softly lick the tip of him, wetting your lips and sliding your mouth down over his hot length. Wooyoung’s hand settles at the back of your head, winding into your hair and he gently guides your head as you start to bob your head against him.

“Fuck, y/n,” Wooyoung sighs.

You’re already overwhelmed with the sensations around you, but you take a deep inhale through your nose and settle yourself, sinking down fully on Wooyoung’s cock and opening your throat. You can’t help but gag softly, but you control it much better now and you can’t help but feel proud as you sink him fully in your mouth from tip to base.

“Oh, fuck, you’re getting good at that, baby,” Wooyoung hisses, and you hum softly against him in response.

Yunho’s hand shifts slightly on your back and you feel his fingers spread wide, pressing you forwards a little to support you better, and he sighs, “So good, you’re being so good for us, sweetheart,”

You whine around Wooyoung’s cock at his words, the pleasure rippling through you at his words and the building heat from San’s fingers now pumping more steadily inside you. Wooyoung mutters something above you that you can’t make out, and you realize quickly that he’s not talking to you.

Yunho responds to him, “Mhm,” and you can almost picture the smile on his face, “she loves it when you tell her how she’s doing,”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung looks down at you, his cock slipping free from your mouth so he can meet your eyes, smiling.

“Watch,” Yunho leans in close, at your ear startlingly quick, “I think you deserve a reward,”

You whine in affirmation, “Please, please,”

Wooyoung’s eyes widen watching you beg, he’s never seen it quite like this and his hand in your hair tightens.

San lifts his mouth away and looks up at you, breathless, “Are you close, baby?”

Your thighs are trembling around him, and by now he knows your body’s responses like clockwork, knows you’re close, but he likes it when you say it. “So close,” you pant.

“Woo,” Yunho nods towards him, gesturing for him to get involved again, and Wooyoung nods before eagerly pressing his cock back in your mouth.

San’s lips close over your clit again, his fingers now hitting the perfect pace, and your orgasm starts to build, your ability to properly focus on properly sucking Wooyoung falling by the wayside and you moan around him. He catches on quickly though, and starts to thrust into your mouth, holding you steady and letting you take him the way he needs.

Your free hand searches blindly for Yunho, your fingers closing over the fabric of the thin white t-shirt he’s still wearing, and you clutch the garment tightly. He hums pleasantly at your desperation before he makes you see stars. Running his hand firmly down your stomach, he presses the heel of his hand down against the sweet, soft spot above your public bone that he knows makes you dizzy, and you snap. The combination of the pressure, San’s fingers, and the return of his tongue against your clit breaks the dam and you whine, muffled and messy as you start to crest into coming, your body shaking beneath them. “There you go,” Yunho croons close to your ear, “that’s it,”

Wooyoung collapses over you then, supporting himself with his free arm and thrusting faster, chasing his own orgasm with abandon. “Fuck, fuck,” he groans above you, and you have the wherewithal to run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, hollowing out our cheeks and adding just that perfect bit of extra pressure. He comes with a gasp, his release spilling hot and sudden down your throat and as soon as you can you pull your head back sharply and Wooyoung lets you go.

Your mouth finally unobstructed, you cry out and arch back, your head against Yunho’s thigh as he supports you, coming hard and fast against San’s mouth. As you blink your eyes open, you see Wooyoung above you, leaning heavily on Yunho’s broad shoulder still, his eyes on you.

You’re shuddering, and Yunho’s hand relaxes, adjusting to stoke your skin softly, lovingly.

“Pretty baby,” San murmurs, kissing the insides of your thighs softly as you come down.

Wooyoung finally rocks back on his heels, pushing away from Yunho and looking down at you. “That was incredible,” he grins, cupping your cheek and gently massaging your scalp where moments before he had gripped your hair so tightly.

“I don’t,” you stutter, still trying to regain air and some semblance of what is up and what is down.

“Shh,” Yunho murmurs, “you okay?”

You nod and steady your breathing, assessing yourself, but what you really are desperate for is San. Flopped back on the mattress, you catch your breath and Yunho slips your hand free from his shirt so he can press his palm against yours. He squeezes your hand once, and you squeeze him back – you’re fine, you just need a minute.

San’s hand is running a steady, comforting line up your leg, waiting for you to recover when he hears you.

“I need it,” you manage, “baby, please,” your hand outstretched to San.

Yunho grins next to you, “You want more?”

You look down to San, his position resting still between your knees, and he smiles up at you, a little wolfishly, “What do you need, baby?”

“Sannie,” you open and close your outstretched hand to him, trying to communicate even through your brain is still foggy, “you, now, please,”

“Mm,” he hums, “You need me where?”

“San, please,” you beg.

“Tell us what you need,” Wooyoung offers, and the sound of his voice being assertive and direct melts you. It clears your brain just enough for you to beg once, “Inside me, please,”

“That wasn’t so hard,” Yunho chuckles, his fingers softly stroking along your side.

“God,” you sigh as San stands up to undo his jeans and slip them and his boxers off, “All three of you are teases,”

“You love it,” Wooyoung shoots back, and you grin, the banter with him something you were used to.

“You and your mouth,” you crane your neck to press a kiss to his bare thigh, the closest skin of his you can reach.

“Always make you come?” He drags his thumb over your nipple playfully and you bat back his hand.

“That was all me this time,” San interjects, kneeling on the bed and moving between your open legs.

You’re about to open your mouth to respond, but Yunho cuts in, “Do it again then,”

“Love to,” San hauls your hips up off the bed fast and you yelp in surprise, gasping as he presses into you suddenly. The angle of your hips up like this makes the push of him inside you delicious. You’re soaked, and he slides in easily, his warm length running a wave of pleasure across your body and making you shiver.

“You feel so good,” San groans as he begins to move, rolling his hips against yours and working himself in deeper.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe, relaxing into the sensations, the way San has you held leaves you little room to your hips on your own and he likes it that way.

Yunho gathers your wrists in one hand and raises your arms up over your head to pin them down to the mattress, and he watches your face twist up in pleasure.

Usually, San loves to take his time with you, drag things out for as long as possible, but something in his eyes today is starving and consuming, and his hands on your hips tighten so hard you know you’ll have bruises. You watch him as he thrusts into you, mouth parted softly, the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensing, and the feeling of his hips knocking firmly with yours, the sound of wet skin on skin.

You don’t notice at first that Wooyoung has left your side, you’re so singularly focused on the way San is making you feel, and the way Yunho is holding you down, his free hand dragging up and down your body softly with his nails, heightening the sensations. Wooyoung stands by San, his jeans fastened again but still shirtless, and you feel San tense in surprise when Wooyoung runs a hand down his back. “Oh,” San breathes, glancing to the side at his best friend.

Yunho looks up at the sound, smiles at them briefly and refocuses on you, but you keep watching.

“You look so good making her come,” Wooyoung admits, “so fucking hot,”

“Oh fuck,” you manage, moaning tightly and squirming your hips back against San’s, desperately shifting to try and hit the right spot, floored by how good the two of them look together between your thighs.

Yunho makes a sound to your side, and you snap your head over to look at him, through your haze you realize how neglected he’s been, so focused on you and your pleasure, and you crane your neck to catch his eye better. “Baby,” your voice catching, “Yunho, let me help you,”

You can see the strain of his cock against his sweatpants, tenting them, but he shakes his head and tightens his grip on your wrists, “Soon,” he says.

“y/n,” Wooyoung says, a smile in his voice, and you turn to look. He bites his lip, his eyes trained you, “you take his cock so fucking well,” he says, and drops a kiss on San’s bare shoulder.

You curse softly and groan, and you hear Yunho chuckle at your side.

“I’m not going to last,” San chokes out, and when you look back you can barely breathe, the sight of Wooyoung’s lips on San’s neck and the way his eyes have slipped shut, head lolling back.

“Let me help,” Wooyoung reaches around for you and slides his fingers directly over your clit, rubbing firm and frantic circles that normally wouldn’t hit the right pace, but suddenly have you crying out and arching up, your body moving on its own.

San clings to you, biting out a curse as he starts to come, and the combination of his frantic thrusts and Wooyoung’s fingers push you straight over the edge again. With your wrists held down and your hips held in place you stain against the three of them as they hold you down to ride out your orgasm.

“Good,” Yunho breathes, but you can hear the strain in his voice, and you know he must be desperate for someone to touch him too.

San eases your hips down to the mattress again, slipping his softening cock out of you and letting your legs drop open. You catch the shared look between San and Wooyoung easily, but thankfully there’s no discomfort there, just easy trust and a little open curiosity in their eyes.

You press up against Yunho’s hold on your wrists and turn to him, “Yun,”

He releases you immediately, and you reach up for him, bringing his face closer to catch his lips in a kiss. He inhales sharply, but responds immediately, his tongue dipping into your mouth against yours. You moan softly against him, and he breaks away, his forehead still resting on yours. He runs a hand down your front to cup your soaked cunt, “Can you take me, baby?” His voice is just him this time, no extra edge, and you know he’s just checking in with you.

“God, yes,” you nod against him, and rock your hips up into the flat of his hand, “I need you,”

He hums softly, pleased, and kisses you softly before pulling away entirely and moving off the bed to stand, “Let’s move up,”

You ease yourself up on your elbows, but after the amount they’ve already put you through you’re pretty sure your legs aren’t working right. Quickly sensing your dilemma, Yunho scoops you up with ease and shifts you up, closer to the center of the mattress. As you settle in the new position, you watch as he pulls off his shirt, running a hand through his dark hair before gesturing for Wooyoung, “Come over here and get behind her,”

He complies quickly, climbing back onto the bed and when Yunho pulls you up to a sitting position, Wooyoung slides in behind you with one leg on either side of you. “Like this?” He checks.

“Yeah,” Yunho eases you back down so that your back connects with Wooyoung’s slick chest, “support her,”

Wooyoung shifts, getting comfortable leaning against the headboard and letting you recline back onto him. You rest your hands on his thighs and allow yourself to relax fully into his touch as he drops soft kisses to your hairline. San moves to follow, and settles at your side, cupping one of your breasts softly and kneading it gently. You look up to him and he smiles, “Hi, baby,”

“Hey,” you sigh.

“Feeling good?” San checks, cupping your cheek for a moment.

“Really, really good,” you nod, and he smiles.

Yunho shucks off his sweatpants and boxers and kicks them to the side, and just like every other time before, his size sends a rush of nervous anticipation through you. He kneels on the bed between your legs and eases forwards to catch one of Wooyoung’s hands, placing it against your throat.

You nod eagerly and Yunho gives you a half smile, but refocuses on Wooyoung, laying his hand on top of his and showing him where to hold and how to press. Your mouth drops open with a gasp when he tries on his own, flexing his hand around your neck experimentally.

“Good,” Yunho nods.

“This okay?” Wooyoung flexes his hand again and checks with you.

You nod immediately against him, and feel yourself getting wet and needy again, your eyes back on Yunho who’s watching you hungrily. He runs his thumb across your abused clit softly, flicking it gently and making you whine, before shifting over you. He dwarfs you like always, and his large hands grip you tightly.

He directs his cock to your entrance and presses in, sliding in an inch at a time. “Fuck, tiny,” he groans, his brows tight together.

“Slow, slow,” you jerk your hips back, “please, Yunho,”

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, keeping it slow and controlled as he moves into you, “I’ve got you sweetheart, I know you take me,”

Wooyoung’s fingers twitch tighter, and you can’t stop the desperate whimpers that bubble over as Yunho slowly works himself in until he’s fully seated inside you. It burns to stretch for him, it always does, but after a few moments and gentle rocks of his hips back and forth your muscles relax and accommodate him with ease.

“Yunho, God,” you stutter out.

He dips low and kisses you, leaving his hips dropped down against yours, and he murmurs a quick, “Okay?”

“Move, please,” you nod, and he shifts back up to start rolling his hips.

Your body feels sharp, every inch of your skin buzzing and your head dizzy, and despite the knot of tense pleasure building up again, every press of his body forwards connects your hips and runs a sharp spike of pain up your body from every shift against your overused clit.

Yunho shifts himself back to kneel, holding your hips tightly in his hands and thrusts in, hitting you as deeply as he can and from this angle the light bulge of his cock presses up visibly in your lower stomach. The sight of it makes you squirm, the slide of him against your soft spot making your hips jerk against him.

“Fuck, Yunho,” San manages, seeing the ripple in your stomach and watching you come apart at the seams.

Yunho ignores him, focused entirely on the way your head has dropped to the side, looking like you’ve been fucked dumb with your mouth hanging open and your eyes pressed tightly shut. You groan when San drips to catch a nipple in his mouth, sucking sharply and flicking it with his tongue, Wooyoung using his free hand to tweak your other nipple, and Yunho watches as you whine against them.

You’re fully caught between them all now, and you can barely keep up with the way you were falling apart, the feeling of Yunho filling you to an almost painful proportion combined with the heady loss of air and their sharp ministrations almost too much to handle.

“Fuck, baby,” Yunho pants above you, “you take me so well every time,”

You whine softly, and your hips jerk on their own, pressing up into him and Yunho mistakes it for you silently pleading for more. “Harder?” he says, his voice teasing, “look at you, you’re so full, tiny,”

At the words your brain somersaults, but then his thrusts become faster, needier, and harder into you. The sound of his panting and soft groans in your ear suddenly drowned out by your own heartbeat. The raw feeling from being thoroughly fucked doubles, and when the head of Yunho’s cock gently connects with your cervix, you jerk. Wooyoung’s hand on your throat stifles your voice, and you try to swim up but are struggling for your words. Black spots dance across your vision, no amount of blinking clearing them, hot tears rolling down your temples. When Yunho hits the spot again, you know you have to get out.

Frantically you tap Wooyoung’s thigh with your available hand, striking him firmly and his grip on your throat releases, letting you suck in a gulp of air, the feeling dizzying. "Treasure!” You choke out, reaching back in your mind for the safe word you’ve never used before, the word crystal clear in the air in this moment of your striking panic.

Yunho rocks back immediately, he’s been waiting for this moment, always knowing that with his level of intensity and obvious size difference there was always a chance it would be too much. Wooyoung’s hand drops away from your throat and San looks up at you, studying your face to see what could be wrong.

You stay collapsed against Wooyoung’s chest, your breathing shaky and you blink to try and clear your vision. Yunho reaches for you, pulling your face gently up to meet his eyes, “y/n? Hey,” he cups your cheeks, “y/n, talk to me,”

Your vision finally clears and the first thing you realize is that Yunho is directly in your eyeline, clearly panicked, “I’m okay,” you manage, clearing your throat gently, “I’m okay,”

Yunho looks relieved, leaning away a little to give you more space. San brushes his fingers down your hair softly, “What happened, baby?”

You shake your head against Wooyoung and take another raspy breath, “I got scared,”

Yunho’s eyes soften instantly, his expression crumbling and he shakes his head, “I’m so sorry,”

“No, no,” you protest, “it’s okay, it was just a lot all at once, I was afraid I might pass out,” but when you shift against Wooyoung Yunho watches the way you wince and lifts his hands off you.

Wooyoung wraps an arm around you and kisses your head, lips against your hair when he says, “I was too rough with you, I’m so sorry,”

Tears gather in your eyes, and you try to swallow back the knot in your throat, knowing that crying will only make them more terrified, but you’re suddenly emotionally overwhelmed and Yunho’s not touching you now, and that fact combined with the look on his face makes your chest tight.

The sound of San pulling on his jeans draws your attention and you shift to look at him, “Where are you going?” The idea that he might leave you now of all times is more upsetting than anything.

“Hey,” he notices you’re fighting off tears instantly and pulls you into his arms, cradling you close, “I’ve got you; I was just going to get you water, that’s it. I’m not going anywhere,”

“I have to,” Yunho starts behind you, but his words trail off, and when you turn you see that he’s tugged his sweats back on and he drags his hands through his hair, his eyes faraway.

“Yunho, don’t,” Wooyoung shakes his head, “Sit down.”

Tears spill over, and there’s a sharp noise when you take an inhale. Yunho’s eyes snap to you, and you shake your head, “Don’t go, please don’t go,”

He shakes his head, and finally reaches for you. San passes you over carefully, and Yunho settles back down to sit on the bed, cradling you now in his lap.

“I’m getting that water,” San says.

“Wait,” Yunho stops him, tearing his eyes away from you, “get something with sugar, and toss me that sheet,”

San and Wooyoung both yank the sheet up and hand it over, and Yunho tucks it around you, before gently holding your cheek in his hand, brushing tears away, “Did I hurt you?” His voice is raw.

Wooyoung watches quietly, up and on his knees, ready to do something but not knowing what.

“It’s not that,” you assure Yunho and take a deep breath, able to control yourself better now that you are in his arms, and you know he’s not leaving.

“Don’t lie,” he murmurs quietly, “not to me,”

Before you can answer, San’s back, water bottles tucked under his arm and fistfuls of candy, gummy ropes and chocolates. He tosses everything down on the bed and Wooyoung snaps up a water bottle to crack open the seal and pass it over to you. Yunho leans back and gives you a little space to drink the water and choke down some of the gummy candy before he runs his hand up and down your arm, nodding at you to answer his question.

“It’s never hurt before,” you admit.

His fingers tighten on you, “but it did today?”

“A little,”

“Fuck,” he breathes, and the look on his face is too much.

“Yunho, no,” you protest, reaching for him, “it was just everything all at once. I’m okay, I’m not hurt, I’m not upset, I just needed to stop, and you stopped.”

He pulls you to him, dropping his face down onto your shoulder, “I never want to hurt you,” he whispers, and you hear the tense crackle in his voice.

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “and you didn’t. You did what I needed, you all did,”

He nods against you, and you feel Wooyoung and San shuffle closer on either side of you, finding some patch of skin to stroke and soothe you. They watch the moment between you and Yunho carefully, knowing they’d feel exactly the same, and Wooyoung reaches out to squeeze Yunho’s shoulder and offer a bit of silent comfort.

After a few minutes, Wooyoung breaks the silence, “Is there anything we can do?” His fingers knead comforting circles in your extended palm.

You sigh, leaning back from Yunho a bit to look up at them, “Something more substantial to eat maybe?”

Wooyoung nods immediately, “Food, on it,”

“Actually,” you stop him from running off and lean back from Yunho a little more so you can swipe at your eyes and take a deep breath, your head finally feeling clear, “if someone can help me get cleaned up, I say we meet back on the couch for food and something to watch?”

San brushes your hair behind your ear and nods, “Of course,” he says, “we’ve got you, we’ll always take care of you.”

Wooyoung nods and squeezes your hand again.

Yunho kisses your temple, “Let’s get you cleaned up then,”

He stands with you still in his arms, angling towards the door, but quickly checking with San, “Is anyone else home yet?”

“Nobody,” he confirms.

Yunho moves you into the bathroom and sets you down on the counter softly, and Wooyoung leaps up, rushing ahead of you both to turn on the warm shower and lay out some towels.

“I’m going to start some food,” Wooyoung makes sure you know where he’ll be, before looking up to Yunho, “you got this?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice still a little hoarse.

“I’ll see you in twenty, babe,” Wooyoung gives you a quick kiss, trying to lighten the mood a little already and giving you and Yunho some space.

San watches Yunho check the heat of the shower, and steps close to you, “You’re alright?”

“I promise,” you tell him, and he runs his hand along your thigh.

“I should help Woo,” he murmurs, kissing you tenderly before stepping away, “and I’ll give you some space.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and with a last look he slips out the door.

“Ready?” Yunho kicks off his sweats again and reaches for you.

You nod and ease yourself off the bathroom counter to stand on your own two feet, despite how shaky your legs are. He catches your forearm for support, and you lean on him as you both climb into the warm spray. From behind you, he holds you against him again and dips his head to rest against yours, “You mean so much to me,” he confesses, the tension still evident in his voice, “I never want to cause you pain.”

“I know,” you run your hand along his arm wrapped around you, “but you didn’t, I just got overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and you shake your head.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” you lean back against his chest, “you made sure I picked a safe word for a reason, and I know we never wanted to use it, but we did it right.”

He’s quiet, holding you close.

“Yunho,” you turn your head to the side and kiss his arm, “you made me feel so safe,”

“Safe?” you hear the tone of his voice, and you shake your head.

“You listened,” you insist softly, repeating yourself and intent on making him understand that the problem isn’t a moment of discomfort, it would have been a dismissal of your boundaries, “you heard me, and you stopped, and you stayed with me. That’s all I could have asked for.”

He doesn’t respond but wraps you tightly in his arms and says everything in his soft embrace and gentle rocking. He helps you shower, easing you through the process and wraps you in an oversized fluffy towel at the end. San had grabbed a comfortable change of clothes for you from your room, and you slip into them happily and braid back your wet hair.

In the living room you gather back together, wrapped up in each other’s laps as you rest, keeping as much skin on skin contact as possible. Yunho’s starts to relax by the time you're midway through eating, and it releases any lingering tension about the night, leaving you just in the middle of a movie night with your boys.

When the first movie of the night rolls its credits, you shift in San’s embrace, “I want you to know,” addressing them all now, “I liked what we did. I want,” you pause and collect your thoughts, “I want to do it again. Maybe just less passing out next time, we can take water breaks,” you smile.

“I would love to,” Wooyoung says first, and you don’t miss the quick flick of his eyes to San, “as long as you feel comfortable.

“I do,” you nod.

“Okay,” San nods, “then we’ll try again sometime, but for tonight let’s just take it easy.”

“Definitely,” you agree.

Yunho’s still quiet for a few moments, but when you look to him, he nods, “Next time we’ll be more careful,”

You sigh in relief, taking his hand in yours, “Next time.”

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