My Body Sleeps On Your Boredom
my body sleeps on your boredom
SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER
18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.
What you have with Price is entirely transactional.
His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.
It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.
Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—
You take care of him, too.
a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).
It's an effortless synchronicity.
When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.
(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)
And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.
He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—
(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.
blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)
—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around.
(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)
An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.
And you are.
You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.
Always.
Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).
Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.
Predictable, really.
You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.
(until he does—)
Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.
It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.
"You don't have any refills for this month."
He's gone for two months.
MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.
You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.
The return address on the box is in Liverpool.
It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.
Perfect for a family, it adds.
You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—
Or pulled tighter.
He doesn't bring it up.
And so, neither do you.
It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.
You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.
And nothing else.
There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.
He didn't shower before he came to see you.
You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.
(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)
His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry.
You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.
He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.
But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.
He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long.
You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.
It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.
Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.
He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.
There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.
It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.
He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.
Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.
(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.
(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)
Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)
Balance, maybe.
the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.
Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.
It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.
But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.
Bought and paid for.
Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—
His cock swells. Throbs.
Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—
wishful thinking.
But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.
Price sees it and groans—
"that's it, sweetheart—"
(ain't gonna be empty for long.)
He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.
Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.
(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)
He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.
A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.
He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.
But you indulged.
Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.
("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")
But that was before.
When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.
Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.
His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.
(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)
But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.
MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.
The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.
When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.
He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare.
Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.
And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.
A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for.
That's all this is.
But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.
And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried.
The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.
(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)
But the next thing he left is the real gift.
Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.
Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could.
Domineering. Grossly possessive.
He has you already, but that's not enough.
It'll never be enough.
("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")
You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be.
He's serious.
And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.
That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—
("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)
The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse.
The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out.
Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life.
Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—
He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous.
Dismissive.
Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—
That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe.
He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only.
There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm.
You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time.
All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy.
(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)
He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time.
(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—
before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)
And the ring—
You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—
and the Whore—
A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away.
(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)
—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content.
It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him.
Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile.
It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce.
If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut.
Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable.
And besides—
(you place your hand over your belly and hum)
—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.
He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct.
Good girl.
The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye.
All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.
(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.
You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.
You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)
More Posts from Junkyuholic and Others
To that one thought about the different monarchs YES TO ALL
Ahahaha im so glad so many people liked that idea (OG post here), so ive decided to work on it. So, lets set the story okay? (also btw do not @ me with historical inaccuracies and dates because i simply dont care about all of this that deeply). This AU will have multiple parts, where reader gets to travel through different time periods (and some of them will be real historic figures, others would be created by me).
Reader is a scientist, was working on her time machine (which is just a small box with time/year slots on it), and decides to travel to the past to solve some mysteries, or perhaps simply for the love of history.
So, where does reader travel to first?
1180. Landing right in the kingdom of Jerusalem. And who does she meet?
King Baldwin IV- the leper king.
Reader wanted to see how leprosy, a deadly disease at the time, had affected the king, who despite his conditions, still managed to possess great military strategies and IQ. And how even though his people knew about his outcome, still pledged their loyalty and unwavering support.
You, a scientist of the modern time ofc brought along futuristic gadgets with you. Knowing how youd look in your present era clothes, you wore a watch that allowed you to change into clothes of old times, to blend in easily. All of your gadgets were concealed easily because of their "invisibility cloak" feature.
You made your way towards the castle, making sure to not let awe be apparent in your face as you took in your surroundings, thinking of all the questions youd like to ask the wise king. Of course, you had to make sure you dont do anything to disturb the historic timeline, because then it just might lead to disastrous results.
Getting into the castle was easy, after all you had equipment to sneak you in undetected. You looked around as the servants rushed around, talking about making the arrangements perfect for the feast. You figured out that the feast was probably for another victory the king had gotten, which meant that everyone would be too busy to notice you snooping around.
With everyone engaged downstairs, you had your way up to the king's study, where you opened the door only to be met with a tall burly man standing there, looking surprised to see you.
"Who are you?" He barked, and you got the worst vibes from this man.
"Uh- Im a servant!" You said,backing up a little, just in case you needed to make a run. The man narrowed his eyes as he looked you up and down. "A servant? No servants are allowed in the king's study!"
"The king sent me here." You lied. "And why are you here if servants are not allowed?"
The man's eyes widened in rage before grabbing you by the neck. "Because Im not a servant, fool! I'm his brother in law!" He shook you hard. "And I dont think youre a servant, if you couldnt recognise me! I will have your head, spy!"
"GUY!" Someone yelled from behind you, making Guy look up as his grip around your neck loosened. "Let her go!"
"Your majesty, she's a spy-"
"She's a servant. I sent her up to retrieve my papers." Guy let you go, as you quickly turned around to see him- King Baldwin. You bowed to him as you gave him a glance, noticing his piercing gaze through his iron mask. His gaze shifted from you to Guy. "And what were you doing here, Guy?"
"I was looking for Sibylia, your majesty." He said.
"In my study? My sister is waiting for you downstairs. Go." Guy scrambled away with his tail tucked between his legs, while you watched as the king made his way into his study, leaving you outside.
You took a step back, about to leave-
"Well, come on in." He called you. You ponder over it for a second before walking in. Look, how many times can you meet a historical figure like him?
Baldwin was sitting in his chair, his eyes looking at you through his mask. "So, who are you and what were you doing here? And dont bother lying, unless you want to be tortured for attempted assassination on the king."
You bit your lip before sighing. "Im Y/n L/n." Clasping your hands together, you took a deep breath. "I came here because... I wanted to know about you."
He rested his chin on his palm. "Why? Do you not know about the king of Jerusalem? Where are you from?" He's not vain, but he knows that his numerous victories have made him popular over the years. So why do you not know of him? Or his brother in law, Guy, who is very vain.
"Im from nowhere. For as long as I can remember, Ive been travelling from place to another. Of course, Ive heard about you, but... I crave to know more." You said, partly telling the truth because you do want to know more about him.
His eyes remained on you, the same intense gaze. "And why should I allow you to know more? Do you mistake yourself to be worthy enough to even be in the presence of a king?"
Shit. He was trying to put you in the corner. You had to play this smart.
You smiled softly. "Of course not. Then again, none of us are worthy of anything God blesses us with." You paused, letting the words settle. "Your majesty, I only wish to know more about you because I like to write. I like to write about history, and when one day, God forbid, you succumb to your illness, wouldn't you like to be known for more than just your victories?" You'd read about how Baldwin IV was a fan of history and stories.
His eyes stared at you- no, through you. Unmoving, he replied. "Man shouldnt be so narcissistic to have someone write about his deeds."
You gave a nod. "Jesus wasnt a narcissist. Neither was Mary, nor Abraham. Muhammad wasnt a narcissist either, yet theyre mentioned in books- holy books, nonetheless."
The room fell silent for a few seconds, before he spoke. "True. But why should I have you write it, instead of using one of my scribes?"
"Precisely for the reason you just said." You raised your head a bit. "They'd write never ending praises for you, portray you as this omnipotent ruler, make you look like a narcissit even. I have a keen eye, your majesty. I like to look at what there is beyond the surface. If you let me be your scribe, I could write about details you dont even know. Id write about your strengths as well as weaknesses, for the generations to read and learn from you."
Baldwin remained still for a few moments before finally standing up, walking directly towards you until he was face to face. His blue eyes shining bright under his iron mask.
"I will let you write, under two conditions. First- I approve what gets to be in the book. And second... you spy for me."
"Wait, spy?"
He hummed. "Well, not a conventional spy. You wont have to leave this castle and penetrate enemy territories to eavesdrop. I still dont trust you enough. No- you- you will spy on my court. I want to know what is happening, when, where, and who says what." Under his mask, he raised a brow. "Do you accept?"
You pretended to hesitate, when in reality this was the exact situation you wanted to be in. "Hmm... yes. I accept."
"Good." He walks back towards his desk. "I expect that it goes without saying- complete discretion." You smiled. "Of course, your majesty."
-
Months passed by as you worked for the king. He let you in on details, allowed you to ask personal questions, and in return you kept an eye on everything that happened in court. Listening on to what the servants whispered to eavesdropping on "secret meetings" of the nobles- of course, headed by Guy. Oh how you loathed that vermin's guts. No- he had no guts. A spineless creature, who blatantly talked of the king's eventual demise and all the ways he'd make the kingdom flourish again, how he'd show "no mercy to Salauddin and his muslims". You have no idea how Sibylla was attracted to him- a man who plans her brother's demise openly.
As for the king, working with him- or for him, wasnt all bad. In fact, it was quite fun. The amount of stories, the secrets youve been able to discover- none of it could ever be found in any history book. Most of all, you respect Baldwin on a whole new level now.
His struggles, ever since he was kid- not being a legitmate ruler, his parents being forced to separate, then being diagnosed with leprosy but forced to keep it a secret, the competition with his other sibling to be the heir, and of course, even when he did become the king, he still had to prove his mettle- his worth that he's worthy of ruling even with his disease.
With his life expectancy being uncertain and a huge amount of responsibility being shovelled onto him, he had to learn a lot and master various skills in very short time.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Y/n could only imagine how isolated he must feel. Not being able to touch anyone, to have a significant other, to constantly win battles and do everything in your power to help the kingdom flourish, just for him to not even be alive to enjoy the fruits of his efforts. And worse, he's forced to give it away to his brother in law, that useless piece of shit.
Its one thing that confuses you about Baldwin. You know how persistent he is, how when he sets his eyes on something, he does everything in power and BEYOND to achieve it. For example, when he was only a child and had started to lose the ability to use his hands, he quickly learned to use his thighs to steer his horse. He did not let his disease hold him back, so how does a person as motivated as him simply allow his kingdom to be left in the hands of someone as incapable as Guy?
Then again, you suppose he's doing it for the sake of his sister. Baldwin adores Sibylla, and you could see why. Sibylla was his older sister, she took care of him, and she was forced to marry early because the court would only allow Baldwin to be king IF she were married, so that when Baldwin dies of leprosy, her husband could take care of the kingdom. Baldwin views it as the ultimate sacrifice, so even though he has tried to separate his sister from Guy, she has refused because she's in love with him.
God knows how. You wondered. Guy does not have any redeeming qualities, then again youre thinking like a 21st century woman. Woman of this time had the bar for men set below the deepest level in hell.
"So, what do you have for me today?" Baldwin asked you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You sighed, shaking your head. "Nothing new, really. Your brother in law, pardon my language your majesty, has been spewing shit about how he'll make the kingdom great again when you die. But when those nobles ask him how, he either has no answer and tries to cover it up by saying its a secret, or he'd say something so ridiculous- his ideas are bound to not only fail, but actually destroy the kingdom even more. I am surprised he doesnt give himself a headache by his own voice. God knows i get one whenever he opens his mouth." You complained, rubbing your temples making the king chuckle. Baldwin seemed to enjoy how informally you spoke.
"Guy is... something else. I apologise on his behalf." You could sense him smiling under his mask. You gave a small smile, but truthfully, your head was actually hurting a lot. You could only hope this was not a migraine developing.
"Would you like tea? Or wine?" He asked as he called in a servant. "Just water for me, thank you." You said, closing your eyes for a few moments as the sharp ache in your head increased.
Baldwin's eyes remained on you, a calculated gaze. "Are you alright? Should I call in the physician?" You shook your head. As if you could trust physicians of this time. "No, I'll be fine after I sleep." You have some medical potions with you that could heal your basic diseases and pains. A gift of modern medicine. But you'll have to use it discreetly, lest someone from this era discovers it and calls you a witch.
The servant soon brought in a chalice filled with water for you and you immediately took a sip of the cool water. Baldwin stood up as he walked over to the window, looking out into the dark night.
"Can I ask you something personal?" You asked. He hummed. You stared at his back, the white cloak he was dressed in. "Do you think if you never had this disease, would you still be a great king? A king who is so motivated to make his kingdom as successful as he can before his time is up?"
He looked back at you, and for a second you wondered if you had slighted him. But these past few months, you've learned to read his body language, despite how hard he conceals both himself and his thoughts.
"No." He said, turning back to the window. "I probably would've been a spoiled brat, I don't think I would've even been chosen to be king. I would've lost it to my half brothers." He tilted his head as he looked at a particular star in the sky. "I suppose my disease is a blessing. God blessed me with it to humble me. Had He not, I probably wouldn't be religious."
"And is that how you see your suffering? A blessing from God?" You asked as you pulled out the medical vial from your cloak and poured it in your chalice. Your headache had started to pulsate now and you needed this.
"I do. I have to serve my people, and my suffering has brought me closer to them and to God. And even with my disease, I was made a king. Isn't that divine intervention? My purpose on earth?" He said almost monotonously, as if he's had this conversation a thousand times.
You took sip of your medicated water, headache immeadiately reducing in intensity. "So... if you had the chance, would you still be the leper king? Or would you be healthy but... not a king? Just a man who gets to experience life like the rest of us, eat normal food, play with others, walk without having to wear a mask, or even fall in love?"
He remained silent, but his shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Tired? Or defeated?
"I prefer not to think about things I have no control over, Y/n." He finally turned around and his blue eyes looked at yours, though this time, there was something else swirling in them. "Finish your water and head to bed. I don't think you're well enough to tell me a story tonight." You smiled gratefully. Over these past few months, the king had enjoyed the modern world stories you told him. Some were literature classics, like Romeo and Juliet, others were straight up fanfic plots with details missing because he wouldn't have understood them anyways.
You were about to pick up your chalice when suddenly Baldwin fell to the ground.
"Your Majesty!" You rushed over to him, watching him tremble on the ground as he struggled to breathe. You dropped to your knees and attempted to remove his mask, only for him swat your hand away.
"No! You'll get it too!" He said, his eyes screwing shut in pain. He was worried about you contracting leprosy.
"Just- trust me." You pursed your lips as you moved his hand away and removed his mask, before removing the white veil underneath it, which was there to prevent his peeling skin and sores from sticking to the iron mask.
You didn't gasp when you saw his disfigured face. No, you'd seen it already when they constructed his face using modern technology. You touched his forehead with your palm, noticing how warm it was. This was one of his leprosy fevers, it was serious and quiet painful. But you already know he doesn't die until 1185 and it's still 1180.
"I'll go fetch the physician-"
"No!" Baldwin yelled, struggling to breathe. "No- just-" He suddenly whimpered as pain shot through every fiber of his body, making him dig his heels into the ground. Your heart wrenched at the sight.
"Its- too- hot- i-" you looked around before grabbing your chalice and bringing it to his lips, holding his head in your lap, you helped him drink the water. He drank it all, his forehead now covered in sweat and his face still contorted in pain. You held his hand and squeezed it.
"Its okay, Baldwin. I'm here. I'm right here." You whispered, his head resting in your lap as you gently wiped his forehead with your sleeve.
Baldwin stared up into your worried eyes, and that was the last thing he saw before he passed out.
-
Baldwin woke upto screaming. Opening his eyes, his blurred vision slowly cleared upto watch you and Guy screaming at each other, the latter had his hand clawed into your hair.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOURE TALKING TO, YOU WENCH?!" Guy yelled as he shook you harshly.
"A SPINLESS BEING NOT WORTHY OF BEING CALLED A MAN!" You spat back, eyes red with rage.
Guy's eyes widened at the insult before he raised his hand to strike you, but was stopped by Baldwin.
"Guy! Let her go!" Both of your heads snapped towards the king.
"Y-your Majesty?" Guy couldn't believe his eyes. He survived?
"I said- let. Her. Go!" Baldwin commanded as he stood up and walked over to them, making Guy immeadiately let you go and bow to him. Baldwin's eyes landed on you, and you gave him a small bow.
"Leave." Baldwin commanded, eyes fixed on you.
Guy looked up from his his bowing position. "Your Majesty, I'm so glad you're well-"
"I said, LEAVE!" Baldwin's voice boomed, his eyes never leaving yours. Guy scrambled put of the room quickly, and you started to leave as well, but Baldwin grabbed your wrist.
"Not you." He said, those blue eyes piercing into you. "I- how long was I out?"
"2 weeks." You replied.
Baldwin let out small gasp as he let go of your hand and slowly walked towards the mirror in his room. It was quiet for a minute.
"What... happened?" He asked, looking at his reflection.
"Well, after you fainted, I called in the physicians and they took you to your chambers. They had prepared some medication but were hesitant to apply it on you, fearing they'd contract your disease. So, I convinced them to let me do it since I had already touched you. When I was done, your sister, princess Sibylla and Guy came. Guy asked the physicians when you would be dying, and the physicians said a few days and that this time- you may not wake up from your fever. While your sister broke down, and honestly I'm not trying to create problems for you guys, but you could ask anyone and they'd tell you just how much Guy beamed at the news. Anyways, they both left soon after that. Things were quite for a week, with the physicians coming in to give me the medication to apply on you. Then-" you paused trying not to show your frustration in your voice. "In the second week, Guy started fussing around and throwing tantrums since you didn't die yet. I mean, I was in your room but I could still hear him yelling at the physicians outside about how his coronation was being delayed because you were still here. It pissed me off, but you know me- I'm not one to get into family matters. So I didn't do anything. Then today-! Ugh, he came in while I was in your bathroom and I saw him grabbing a pillow and bringing it near your face. He stopped when I chucked your bible at him- so sorry about that but it was nearest thing next to me- and I just asked what he was doing. And do you know what he said? He had the nerve- THE NERVE to say 'I'm just trying to end his suffering, in fact you should do it. I can't risk contracting leprosy, I'm the future king!' And then I chucked your golden cross at him- again very sorry for that. And then we got into an argument and well- that's what you woke up to."
It was quiet again. You looked at Baldwin staring at his reflection, and for a moment, you thought he wasn't listening to you.
Baldwin nodded. "Okay. Thank you, Y/n. You may go to your room now. I will send in some physicians to check if you've contracted leprosy."
You frowned. "I havent-" but you stopped. How were you supposed to explain to him that you're "vaccinated".
In the mirror, his eyes shifted to you. "I know, but I'd like to know for sure. For my peace of mind."
You nodded. "Look, I'll go apologise to Guy right now-"
"No. There's no need. I'll talk to him myself. You've done enough. Please go to your room and wait for me." Baldwin gave you a small smile and watched you leave.
Moments later, he had a guard fetch the head physician in, who confirmed your story.
"Its true, your Majesty. Y/n risked her life to be with you for the past 2 weeks. She didn't leave the room and would apply medication on you herself, changed your clothes, wiped your sweat and even fed you some soup herself. She seemed very determined- almost as if she knew you'd recover. I'm ashamed to admit that I... I did not think you would." The physician even confirmed all the shit Guy had been doing, but Baldwin didn't need anyone's testimony to know that Guy was planning his downfall- and celebrating it. He wasn't surprised by that.
He was surprised by 2 things:
1. You hadn't contracted leprosy.
2. He was recovering from his disease.
"Its true. As you'd asked, I had done a check up on Y/n and I did not find any signs of leprosy... or any disease. She's as fit as can be!" The physician said in awe.
Baldwin smiled at that, looking at the mirror again. His own skin had begun healing. Many of his sores had already disappeared, and his complexion was returning to normal. And physical appearance was one thing, but Baldwin could even feel himself healthy on the inside. That constant ache in his bones was gone, the fatigue was gone, the suffering was gone.
But how? How could it just go away like that?
It's been 2 days since he woke up, and his health only seems to be improving at an exponential rate. And he's still trying to figure out how he got well out of nowhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the events of that night.
All he remembers is falling down, fever enveloping his body so quickly, he felt like he was burning up, and then you were there and you helped him drink-
Baldwin eyes snapped open. It made sense.
He called in the guard and had him fetch his senior council members in his court room.
"I have 2 surprises for you." Baldwin said as he sat on his throne, looking over the members (Sibylla and Guy were also present), all staring and perhaps gawking at how well he looked now. "My disease is cured. I no longer suffer from leprosy." The court immeadiately fell into whispers and mutterings before going silent when he raised a hand. "I know it sounds impossible, but as you can all see, my health has not only improved but in fact I have become stronger. My body is no longer ridden with sores and boils. I no longer wear a mask, neither do I require assistance in walking. In fact, I am even able to use both of my hands to not only use a sword but also-" He pulled out a dagger and aimed it an apple he threw in the air, piercing right through it. "- I am no longer blind in one eye."
The court erupted in cheer, congratulating the king and praising God for saving Baldwin and the kingdom. From his throne, he could see Sibylla clapping in joy and wiping tears from her eyes as she smiled at him, while Guy looked at him in shock.
"Your majesty! What's the other surprise?" One of the members asked.
Baldwin smiled as he stood up.
"I have found a wife. She's the one who healed me."
He looked at the court that had once again erupted into cheer.
"Jerusalem has a new Queen."
-
"What do you mean I can't leave?" You asked the guard who was stationed outside your door.
"Ma'am, as I said before, the king has asked you to wait for him and ordered us to not let you leave until he comes." He said before closing the door again.
You scoffed. Can't leave? Why the hell not?
It's probably because I insulted Guy. He wants to punish me because of that. Will he throw me in the dungeons? Or will he just have my head chopped off?
You pulled out your time machine, the small box in your hands.
Well, I'm not sticking around to find out. Time to leave-
Just then, you heard the door open, making you hide the machine again. Is he finally here?
"Princess Sibylla." You bowed.
She chuckled, grabbing your shoulders. "Now, now. There's no need for that. In fact, I have to be the one bowing to you now." She said before kissing your cheeks. She's always been very humble and kind, and over the past few months, you've developed a good friendship with her.
You gave her a quizzical look. "What do you mean?" She laughed again. "Oh come on. You don't have to hide it anymore. Tell me, how did you persuade Baldwin to marry?"
"The king is getting married? To who?"
Sibylla raised a brow at you. "To-"
"Sibylla." A voice cut her off.
Baldwin was standing at your door. You bowed quickly, he looked at you before shaking his head at his sister.
"Will you leave? I have to talk to Y/n."
Sibylla nodded as she walked towards the door, but not before giving him a hug and congratulating him.
You two were alone now.
Baldwin had his hands clasped behind him as he walked closer to you.
"How are you feeling?" You asked him, eyes shifting to his hands. Is he holding a knife? To punish you for insulting Guy?
"I'm well, all thanks to you." He replied.
"Huh?" You looked at him confused, but your mind was still occupied with his hands. What is he hiding?
I need to delay this and find an escape route to use my time machine. You thought.
"Um- I uh- I heard you're getting married." You gulped, eyes still fixed on his hands, trying to anticipate any sudden movements.
"I am."
"Oh um, congratulations."
"Thank you." Baldwin said, tilting his head slightly at your wide eyes fixed on his hidden hands.
Cute.
"Y/n." He called out to you.
"Look, if you- if you're still mad at me about what I said to Guy, I apologise. But- but just so you know, I- I DONT THINKS ITS GOOD OMEN TO MURDER ME BEFORE YOU GET MARRIED!"
"Y/n."
"I WILL HAUNT YOU-! IM SORRY BUT I WILL AND I WILL HAUNT YOUR WIFE AND YOUR KIDS-"
"Y/n!" You looked at him as he stared at you with amusement. "You're being ridiculous."
"Huh?"
With one hand, he cupped your cheek as he brought himself closer.
"Why would I kill my soon-to-be wife?"
What? Wait-
"What?!" You shrieked backing away. "What kind of joke is that?!"
Baldwin looked insulted. "I wouldn't joke about this. You're very important to me."
"No- I- what?!"
He sighed as he sat on your bed. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? You saved me from an incurable disease, clearly you're the Chosen One, sent to me by God, and now I'll marry you."
You looked at him perplexed. "What are you talking about?! Saved you? All I did was help you drink water, apply your medication and-" you paused.
Helped him drink water... from my chalice... the one with... the medicinal vial.
"No." You covered your mouth in shock. What have I done?! This would change history completely! Shit. Shit. shit shit shit-
"Yes. You dont have to be so worried. The council is actually quiet happy that Im marrying someone, and they agree that there is no better match than the woman who saved my life-"
"I did not save your life!"
"Of course, you did. You gave your chalice-" "How is that even possible?! It only had water!" "Water that touched your lips first. Of course, it mustve been your essence, your saliva that healed me-" "Ew, no. Do you even yourself?! This is all unbelievable!"
Baldwin furrowed his brows slightly. "Its... not. I mean, look at you. You spent weeks taking care of me, you touched me, and yet did not even show signs of any illness, let alone leprosy! Of course, youre the chosen one!"
"I am not the chosen one!" You yelled as you pulled at your hair frustratedly. How could you fuck up so bad? If Baldwin really is cured, then history will be changed- and it will have disastrous impacts on future-
Baldwin pulled your hands away from your hair, tutting at you. "Dont do that. Youre the Queen, you cant hurt yourself."
"I am not the Queen."
He nodded. "Yet. But you are a princess now." Baldwin said as he pulled out the box hed been hiding behind his back all this time. Before you could even react, he'd already pulled out the big gold ring with a sapphire that had tiny diamonds around it and he slipped the ring onto your finger. You gawked at the ring making him chuckle.
Baldwin bent down to kiss your forehead sweetly before tapping your cheek admonishingly.
"Now, no hurting yourself princess. I want my queen in perfect health." Your cheeks reddened at how close he was, making him laugh even more as he pecked your forehead again and turned to leave.
You couldn't even say anything, he'd left you speechless. He looked back once, a lazy smile on his face.
"I should leave you to rest now, before Sibylla returns and starts pestering you with wedding preparations. She told me that shed been looking forward to this day for a very long time."
so this is part 1. thoughts????
PART 2 here!
Settle
A commission for my lovely 🐦anon 💕thank you for indulging me with this one!
Oikawa Tooru x female reader
TW non-con, nsfw, daddy kink, breeding kink, smut, drugged reader
Part 2: Sea Change
It’s a little after seven thirty when you hear the telltale click of the front door announcing your employer’s return.
“Sorry I’m late,” Oikawa calls, slipping his shoes off and dropping his bag by the door. A hand comes to rest on your shoulder and you turn, bouncing the baby on your hip as he leans over to press a kiss against Hatori’s head. “How’s my boy?”
You smile, “He’s been good today. I was just about to put him down for the night. Unless… you want to?”
Despite his earlier apology, he’s actually home earlier than he usually is. Most days you have Hatori fed, bathed, tucked in and fast asleep in his crib long before Oikawa walks through the door. It’s part of your job, and you’re more than happy to do it but you’re mindful that with the demands of his career as a professional athlete he doesn’t get to spend an awful lot of time with his son.
Really, outside of Mondays - his one ‘official’ day off - he’s barely home. It’s not as bad in the off season, or so he’s told you, but you don’t want to intrude on the little time he does get with Hatori.
But Oikawa just shakes his head with a soft laugh, “No, he always cries when I do it, I think the little traitor likes you more than me.”
Keep reading
I got news for you baby, you're looking at the man!
pairing: john price x fem!reader
wc: 7.2k...sorry lmao plz read…
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, oral (m. receiving), road head, porn w so much plot, hair pulling, angst, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, dysfunctional family, i.e., ongoing conflict, reader having familial issues (mostly maternal), age-gap, secret relationship & marriage, & john being a protector.
author's note: this was brought to fruition by a singular barry sloan edit that had me salivating and @sai-int's fic 'a ticket to play', which single-handedly re-sparked my love for price! so, yeah, anyways, enjoy this horny mess!
dividers by @/saradikagraphics!
John Price is a man...
“John, you didn’t,” you hiss, eyes wide as you set down the groceries on the counter, your wrists aching from the heavy load.
“Didn’t know it was your mother, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone sincere. He quickly grabs the bags and begins unpacking the groceries.
You glance at the house phone positioned beside the fridge, then peel off the old sticky note attached there. You read it aloud, “Don’t answer calls from the 406 area code. I’m talking to you, John,” before pausing to think, lips pursed in contemplation.
He opens the fridge, sliding the milk jug inside before carefully shutting the door. When he turns back to see your knowing smile, his eyebrows lift in a silent acknowledgment, a quiet ‘ah’ escaping his lips.
“Well,” you urge, grabbing the aromatics from the counter to put up. “What did she say when you picked up?” You ask, attempting to sound as casual and disinterested as possible.
“Oh. Nothin’ you’d find interestin,’” he hums with a knowing smile as he tears open a pack of paper towels.
You press your lips together. “Well…yeah,” you mutter, picking up a few grapefruits. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me,” you defend, emphasizing the ‘doesn’t.’ “I just want to know what she thought,” you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.
“Mhm,” he hums thoughtfully as he gathers the now-empty reusable bags, hanging them on the hook next to the cabinet.
“I’m serious,” you say, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “I really don’t care.”
"I know you don't, hon." He turns to wash the fresh berries in a colander, the water splashing against the metal steadily.
"You don't believe me," you exasperate.
He lets out a low laugh as he washes the berries. "Didn't say that."
You lean against the kitchen island, your body language betraying your frustration. "You were thinking it," you accuse, with a dramatic sigh.
He sets the berries back into the colander and turns his head toward you, a playful half-smile on his lips. “No, I wasn't,” he replies, clearly amused.
You poke your tongue into your cheek, mentally cursing yourself for marrying someone so adept at reading your emotions, your inner conflict laid bare.
“But,” he says, tearing a paper towel to dry his hands. “Now, I’m starting to feel that you do care.”
You don’t respond, trying to avert your gaze as heat creeps into your cheeks like he’s caught you sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.
“Baby,” he moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. “It’s okay to care,” he whispers softly into your hair, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
You gently shut your eyes, pressing your face into his warm abdomen, finding comfort in his presence.
“Damn it,” you mumble, your words muffled against him. He chuckles softly in response. “Alright, fine,” you pull back slightly, locking your eyes onto his as his hands cradle your cheeks. “I do care. Now, spill the juicy details.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, she started by checkin’ in on you.”
You release a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. She always has ulterior motives," you grumble. "I swear that woman is always up to—"
"Shh," he squishes your cheeks together as both thumbs rest over your lips to silence you. "Will you let me finish?" He prompts, quipping a brow.
"Sorry, yeah," you apologize, your voice coming out muffled and nasal.
He nods with a smile, moves his thumbs off your mouth, and drops his hands to massage your shoulders. "Said your sister is gettin' married, and she thought it would be nice if you came down for her engagement party this weekend," he supplies.
Correction remarried.
She's on her fifth? No, her sixth husband now.
Guess she thinks six will be the lucky number.
Who’s gonna tell her?
However, that’s beside the point; you care about something much more…pathetic.
You feel frustrated because all you really want is to know how your mother reacted to the deep, gruff voice of the Englishman who answered the phone.
You wait with a bated breath, eyes wide with anticipation, but his expression remains flat, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What else?" You finally question, unable to contain your curiosity.
"That's all," he plainly says, his words hanging in the air.
You scoff. "She didn't ask about the random guy answering my phone?" You voice with disbelief.
Your mother is a shallow woman, but surely you getting what she’s constantly pressured you into getting would have her jumping for joy.
A sly smirk grows on his lips. "Am I just some random guy?" He jokes.
You smile yourself before pressing a kiss to his lips, arms coming to wrap around his torso. "You’re my husband, so not to me," you begin. "But to her, yes," your hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down to peck his lips again. "You know that," you say matter-of-factly.
His hands drift to your waist. "Mhm, I'm your dirty little secret," he hums softly.
"John," you frown, guilt flooding your brain. "You know I would, but—"
"Just jokes, baby," he interjects, pressing a light kiss on your temple as his eyes light up. "I love you in any way you’ll have me," he murmurs softly.
"God, you’re perfect," you reply with a smile.
"She did question who I was," he starts. "Had no idea she was so southern," he remarks casually before continuing. "She thought I was the plumber," he quips, trying to lighten the mood slightly.
He tried, but he could feel the tension in the air.
Sees the disappointment and anger in your eyes.
In your posture.
You're fucking pissed.
"Typical," you remark, stepping away from him, arms flailing around. "She—she thinks I'm so incapable of finding someone that she would resort to thinking you're a person I pay before actually thinking you're with me." Your voice is filled with frustration.
"Hon—" John begins, voice soft as his hand reaches for you.
"And she wonders why I never visit," you release a dry laugh. "Never reach out."
"Come ere,'" he coos, hand pulling you by your wrist, so he can engulf you in a hug.
"It's not fair," your voice is once again muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but he can hear the tightness in it and the sniffle against him, a clear sign of your emotional distress.
"No, it's not," he affirms, fingers easing through your hair.
"Nothing is ever good enough for her," you exhale into his abdomen, fueled more by anger than by despair.
John gently kisses your hair while his fingers soothe your back with a gentle massage.
"I’ll never be good enough for her," you mumble absentmindedly, your voice lacking emotion.
"Sweetheart," he begins, his voice low as your hair muffles the sound. "Don't take offense, but you're mother is a real nasty woman. You're fuckin' perfect, and if she can't see that, it's her God-damn loss," his tone rough yet sincere.
You chuckled, a smile spreading across your face as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I love you."
"Love you so much," he whispers, gently planting another kiss on your head.
He leans back slightly to look into your eyes. "Want me to run you a hot bath?" He asks, gently massaging your shoulders.
"That sounds really nice," you reply, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."
"Course. That's what I'm here for," he says effortlessly, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. "I'll let you know when it's ready."
You nod quietly as he moves to draw the warm bath.
The thought of sinking into steamy water and enveloping bubbles soothes your mind.
Honestly, to hell with your mother's opinions.
They just weren't worth the headache.
And there was no way you were going back to that house.
The promise of the bath, with its comforting warmth and enticing bubbles, would wash away your worries and quiet the thoughts swirling in your head.
Visions of your mother and that place would fade, never to resurface again.
"Can't believe she thought I would actually come down," you sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of your husband, John, as he works shampoo through your hair, creating rich suds.
So much for the visions of your mother fading.
It had been a whole day since your mother's call, and the weight of her words still lingered, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions within you.
"Still on your mind?" John asks, eyes hyperfocusing on ensuring the shampoo coats every strand of your hair.
"I just—I don't understand why she thought I would come," you suspire, turning to massage the loofah against John's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tension in his muscles.
"Must have gone mad, I suppose," he jests, his fingers massaging the shampoo into your scalp, adding a touch of humor to the heavy conversation.
Your lip quips at his joke, eyes lighting at the sight of him taking such good care of you, ensuring your scalp is tantalizingly clean. "Maybe," you murmur. "Because all she ever does is ridicule me and constantly ask if I've found a man.” You gently move the loofah over his chest to ensure he is squeaky clean.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his hands coming to massage your facial cleanser into your face before returning to the issue at hand.
"Wouldn't let tryin' to examine your mother's psyche take your day, hon," his hands move with familiar ease as he massages the liquid into your cheeks. "You'll never know why. Can't change that,” he says.
"I hate how logical you are," you sigh, finding yourself relaxing at his touch.
He lets out a gruff laugh. "Would you rather me be some git?"
Your eyebrow quips, eyes remaining closed. "What does that mean?"
His lip quips. "Sweetheart, how long have you lived with me here, in England?" He enunciates the last word as he moves you under the faucet to wash away the cleanser's remnants.
"Not long enough, I guess," you smile cheekily, wiping your eyes free of water to open them. "Honestly, forever isn't even long enough," you add, trying to shift the focus, though it's true; you can't quite remember how long you've been living together
"Oh," he tuts softly. "Nice save. Can't argue with that," he replies, smirking before leaning in to kiss your lips.
After a stretch of silence, you turn around so he can wash your back with the loofah. Your mind is still swirling with thoughts. "I kind of miss seeing my niece," you find yourself reminiscing.
"Even though my sister and I don't get along too well, her daughter and I have always had a special bond," you say with a sigh.
"What else do you miss?" Since you never really talk about where you grew up, John prods, he's curious.
"Well, in the spring, my cousins and I would go flower picking in the field behind my grandfather's house," you find yourself getting more excited.
"He also had an old peach tree, Mindy, he called it, that we would pick dozens of peaches from and just lay in the shade under the tree and eat them till he thought we might become peaches ourselves," you snicker, turning around to face him, eyes light.
"They were fucking good peaches."
"Sounds like you miss it," he grins.
Your hand turns the lever off, and the water stops, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin. "I do," you confess, stepping out of the shower to grab you and him fresh towels.
"But, my mother knows how to ruin the best of memories," your voice is monotone. "I want those great ones to stay intact, you know?" You shrug, wrapping the towel around yourself, offering comfort.
He wraps the towel low around his waist. "Course I get it, sweetheart," his voice soft yet gruff. "Let's get you all nice and dry, and we'll order some takeout. Yeah?" He asks, reaching for your hand to lead you into your shared bedroom to get dressed.
"Sounds perfect," you voice, the thoughts of going home almost completely absolving.
A few misses wouldn't make you completely switch gears and go.
It just wasn't worth it.
Only your mother could figure out how to make the enjoyment and amazing things crumble up and burn.
But you won't let her.
So, you've made up your mind.
You will not be going.
That's final.
It's two days to Saturday.
You've been manically counting down the days.
And so, naturally, instead of basking in the serene morning, with birds chirping and the gentle glow of the sun filtering through your kitchen window, you're perched on a barstool, computer propped up, as your breakfast grows cold, hand hesitating over a plane ticket that will whisk you away tomorrow morning to your hometown.
Just one click, and you'll have solidified yourself as going.
You're only feeling so impulsive because your impulse control, aka your husband, is at work.
Your finger hovers over the 'confirm' button for about twenty minutes.
You know what's holding you back.
The anxieties claw up about your mother and what ifs that could happen.
And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it all becomes clear.
'Could.'
It's not a promise, just a possibility.
You had spontaneously decided that you wouldn't let the could control your decisions.
Yes, one thing was holding you back, but what about the multitude of things that you wanted to see or the many people who loved and cared about and desperately wanted to see after so long?
You were not going to let the 'could' control your decisions.
You were going to overcome this worry and take the leap.
You sit up tall in your chair, turning your head with a wince as you click "confirm."
"Oh," you murmur. "That was dramatic for no reason," you say monotonously.
But, now you can't help but feel a surge of excitement.
You would get to see your niece after so long.
And the flower field and, of course, Mindy the peach tree.
Who could forget your childhood room full of posters and knick-knacks you collected throughout your teenage years.
You find yourself smiling as you get that familiar chime from your email confirming your flight ticket.
Can't get cold feet now.
You take a swig of your tea, which has long since gone cold, but your throat is parched from the anxiety that grips you, a knot tightening in your stomach.
The mug was a gift from your husband for your birthday last year.
It featured your favorite flowers made into it and even had your birthday engraved on the bottom.
John was always so thoughtful.
You pause your movements, lips hovering over the clay mug, a moment of hesitation freezing your actions.
John.
Your husband.
Of course, he didn't care that you bought the ticket or wanted to go, but he would be pissed if you just left.
Sure, you could wait until he returned home, but the urgency to communicate your decision gnaws at you, compelling you to act now.
You hurriedly reach for your phone, fidgeting to press his number.
He's at the top of your contacts.
You tap your fingers against the cool granite countertop, waiting until he picks up.
It rings.
And rings.
...and rings again.
Until the line picks up, you sit up, ready to unload on him, only for it to be his voicemail line.
"Shit," you curse, hanging up as your foot bounces on the metal footstep on the barstool.
As you sit there, unable to wait until he gets home, you can't help but feel a surge of dramatic emotion. This internal conflict, this emotional turmoil, is what drives you to act impulsively.
But this is a big deal.
You never go home.
Rarely mention it.
So your next actions feel rationalized to you.
Without a second thought, you spring up, grab your keys from the hook by the door, slip your shoes and coat on, and speed to your car, most likely looking like a mad woman.
But at this moment, who cares about appearances?
The urgency of the situation overrides any concern for normalcy.
Normalcy is overrated, anyway.
You throw the car into gear, and though you are in a rush, you don't speed there.
Carefully, you make your way, chewing on your lips nearly the entire drive.
Despite your earlier determination not to return, you find yourself on the way, a plane ticket already in your possession.
The anticipation of what your husband has to say fills you with a slight unease.
He wouldn't be mad.
More surprised than anything.
And honestly, you shamelessly loved seeing him at work.
His professional demeanor, always in control, never fails to impress you.
You can't help but oogle him.
It secretly really got you going.
But, this time, it was a purely innocent visit, of course.
You find a parking spot, ease into the front part, giving the officer guarding the gate your name.
She quickly lets you through.
You are the captain's wife, after all.
Walking, you head straight through a door and through another one.
So many God-damn doors in this place.
Until you reach the middle portion of the base, grass surrounds you, and various equipment is placed orderly around.
Sandbags, wooden ladders, and weights are among the items you see.
Your eyes sweep the area until they land on the man you're looking for.
He stands tall, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform, a few strands of hair escaping his signature hat.
His eyes are focused on the recruits, his expression a mix of determination and frustration.
From the looks of it, he's training new recruits, something he doesn't often do, but it's a real treat when he does.
His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms.
His arms, usually strong and steady, now appear more veiny than usual, a sign of his apparent frustration with the recruits. His jaw is set, and you can see the tension in his muscles as he barks orders.
"Runnin' like a fuckin' slug," he reprimands. "Pick up the pace."
You hate how hearing that makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.
"Get your head out of your ass," he grunts outs, clearly annoyed. "The hell are you lookin' at," he asks a recruit who, along with a few others, seems to be on another planet, eyes wandering behind him.
John turns to his side to see you in a cute dress, waving to him sweetly. "Course," he lets out a dry laugh, giving you a small wave.
He turns back to the recruits, his authority palpable.
"Eyes off my wife, or you'll be doin' extra laps," he scolds, his tone low but intimidating, before yelling to move to the ladders with Soap.
He makes his way over to you, a warm smile on his face. "Nice surprise, hon," he greets, kissing your cheek.
"I'm gonna go," you murmur.
His brows furrow in confusion. "Go where?"
You raise a brow at his confusion. "To...see my family."
His eyes bore into your intently. "By yourself?"
"I didn't think you'd want to go," you say honestly.
"I'm going with you," his tone final, with no room to argue. "You bought a plane ticket?" He questions.
"I did...sorry, I just thought—" you begin before he cuts in, his hand pressing against your cheek.
"No worries," he says. "I'll get the ticket when I get back to my office," his tone casual. "You're sure about this?"
"I think so," you say. "Plus, if I cancel the ticket, we'll be out six hundred dollars," you laugh out.
"Screw the money, okay? You tell me if you don't want to go," he tells you, face serious.
"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know," you lean up, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "Also, you should always wear your shirt like that."
His eyes narrow as he lets out a laugh. "You like it?"
"Looks sexy," you purr quietly, teeth coming to bite your lip.
His face warms slightly. "Should see what it looks like off."
"Are you flirting with me, captain?" You say, hand coming to your heart in false surprise.
"Just givin' you a preview for later," his tone is husky.
"I'll be waiting," you begin, beckoning him to lower his head so your lips can hover over his ear. "Already so wet just thinking about it."
He releases a low grunt as you press a kiss to his cheek.
"See you at home," you say sweetly as if you didn't just give him a hard-on at the thought of you all wet and needy for him.
"See you, sweetheart," he almost chokes out as you turn to go away, your ass swaying in the dress you wear.
He's going to make you pay later.
And honestly, you can't wait.
You need something to take your mind off tomorrow's morning flight.
Though it was going to take a lot more than sex to ease your mind.
A horse tranquilizer may help.
No. Too dangerous.
Whatever, you'll take your chances with John's hand all over and in you to have you sleeping and at ease.
Maybe you'll get lucky, and you two can sneak off to the airport bathroom and finally join the mile-high club.
That would definitely keep your mind off things.
For now, you’ll wear a smile, and excitement will radiate from your being.
Everything will be fine.
Nothing bad will happen.
Even so, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?
Statement retracted.
Your trip thus far has been a shitshow, and you haven't even seen your family yet.
Your flight got delayed three hours because of fog.
That was understandable, annoying, but understandable.
What wasn't was the lady who insisted on sitting between you and John on your flight in the seat you paid for.
An older lady, maybe in her late forties or so, with a determined look in her eyes and a set to her jaw that said she wasn't going to let a little thing like a seat assignment get in her way.
She was nice at first.
She became insufferable rather quickly.
Very persistent.
You deduce she did that so she could sit next to your man.
It didn't bother you so much, plus you knew if you showed it did, John would make a scene, and you just wanted to close your eyes and sleep, so you let her have your seat and sat by the window instead.
But every time you got settled, eyes closing gently, the soft lull of the plane helping you drift off.
"Going off to college?" She piped next to you, oblivious or noncaring about your eyes shut.
Your eyes open rapidly, and you look at her, awaiting a response. "Uh, no. I graduated a couple of years ago," your voice is drowsy.
"Oh. You two must be going on a father-daughter trip, then?" She poses.
Your wide eyes drift to John's; a smile etched on his face. "Such a kind father you are," she compliments without missing a beat.
The sheer absurdity of her assumption leaves you speechless, and John can't help but let out a quiet laugh.
"Thas' actually my wife," he says, trying to contain another laugh.
"Oh," her eyes widen in shock and apparent envy. "Well, aren't you a lucky one," her tone is dry as she eyes you.
That was funny.
But not when she did it about five hundred times on the eight hour flight.
It was like a broken record, playing the same tune over and over again, and you were the unwilling participant.
Over and over again like clockwork.
Drove you bat shit crazy.
Sure, maybe you could have just told her to shut the hell up, but you kept telling yourself it wasn't worth the fight, and you didn't have the energy to make the effort.
Also, since the lady was sitting in the seat between you, formally yours, you didn't feel comfortable asking John about the bathroom sex.
She would have most likely dropped dead or asked to join.
You didn't want either.
So, it is safe to say that when the plane landed, you sat up excitedly to escape the stuffy plane.
The lady tried to follow you and John out, but you grabbed John by the wrist, dragging him behind you as your legs gained more momentum to try and escape her.
It was like a horror movie.
"Oh my God. She was so weird," you laugh out to John as you manage to get away from her, stepping out of the airport to collect your rental truck.
"I know. Kept lookin' at me the whole flight," he says with unease as he places your suitcases into the backseat of the truck, shooing away your hands from the bags so he could lift them himself.
"Do we need to get you a counselor?" You half-joke as he opens the car door for you to get in as he moves to the driver's seat.
"Think so," he gruffs before his eyes fixate on you. "You okay?"
You had put the address into the truck's maps system, settling back into the leather seat, eyes now on his. "I'm nervous," you confess.
"Nothin' to be nervous about. I'm here for you, okay? If you need to leave, just tell me," his voice is soft as his hand caresses your thigh in comfort.
You give him a nod, turning to look out the window at the passing buildings, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.
You had already texted your niece you were coming, so you're sure your mother and sister know.
It's not like you'd be staying with them.
That's too much too soon.
Plus, you and John could have sex anytime in the hotel with no fears of your estranged mother walking and seeing John balls-deep in you.
It was really better for all parties.
Once you pull up to the house, you swear you could hurl.
"Was this a bad idea?" You ask John nervously as he pulls your suitcases out of the backseat.
He gently sets them on the dirt. "It's just nerves," he says, locking the truck. "Let's scope it out, and if you want to leave, we'll go. No questions," his hand rests gently on your shoulder.
"Promise?" You prod, tilting your head towards him.
He smiles at you. "You have my word, sweetheart."
You release a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pass out."
He chuckles deeply, hand snaking around your waist to lead you to the front door. "I'll catch you if you do."
You feel your nerves subside with John by your side as you flip up the familiar peach-shaped doorbell cover to ring the bell.
Stomping feet approach, the voice growing nearer and nearer until the front door pulls open to reveal your sister.
Flawless as ever.
Her eyes light up. "Thought my daughter was tellin' fibs," she jokes, pulling you into a warm, tight hug. "Missed you." Her genuine affection wraps around you like a comforting blanket.
You reciprocate the hug with equal tightness.
Although you may not have gotten along well, she was still your sister, and you could feel the love a million miles away.
She pulls away, eyes falling onto the mysterious, hot, stoic man to your side. "Who's this good-lookin' hunk?" She coos, smacking her gun.
"This is my, um, my husband, John," you say, fumbling your words a little.
"Nice to meet you," his voice is low and most shockingly British, as he sticks his hand out.
Cordial as ever.
"Oh, come on. That's just not even fair, sis," she jests, taking his hand fast and tight.
Her playful banter adds a lightness to the moment that almost absolves your nerves entirely.
"Where's...mom?" You ask, your heart pounding in your chest, the unease apparent in your tone.
She looks back at you. "Kitchen," she says before offering a reason. "She's makin' peach cobbler. Come on in," she steps aside so you and John can enter the door.
The familiar scent of the old wooden floors, the sound of the creaking stairs, and the sight of the family photos on the wall all bring back a flood of memories.
Warm smiles and familiar voices greet you as you step inside.
Cousins, aunts, uncles.
They approach you one by one, their surprise at your arrival evident, but even more so at hearing that you're married to the burly man at your side.
Your aunts keep him occupied as you wander into the kitchen.
They keep him engaged in their lively banter, shamelessly flirting with him while their husbands sit in the living room, engrossed in their own discussions.
You feel a little bad for leaving him to fend with the wolves, but he assured you he was alright and all but pushed you into the kitchen.
Sure enough, your mother was busy rolling out some dough on the countertop for the crust for the top of the peach cobbler.
"Mom," your voice is quiet as you move around the island to where she is.
She turns. "Well, I'll be," she begins, eyes wide and full of surprises. "Ya came."
"I did," you amend with a smile. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."
"Some city guy?" Her head moves back to the dough, no longer on you.
"He, yes, he's from the city," your voice is outwardly confused.
"Thought so," her tone is snarky as she delicately lays the dough over the cobbler filling.
"What is that supposed to mean?" It comes out more defensive than you intend.
"Nothin,'" she says flatly. "Enjoyen' your fancy life in the city?"
You roll your eyes, already anticipating the direction this conversation is about to take. "Mom," you urge, your frustration palpable.
"No, hon. I get it," she looks up at you, shrugging. "Honestly, surprised you came. Wouldn't wanna dim your new sparkly life," her tone is condescending. "That is why it's been so long, right?"
"It's not like that," you try to justify, but you know it will do no good.
She completely disregards that, instead changing the subject. "Supper's ready," she bussies herself with stirring the gravy. "Better snag yourself a seat quick," her tone is dry. "Table hasn't grown none."
You release a shallow breath, turning around to escape this stupid God-damned kitchen and moving to find John.
It's a familiar feeling, this resignation.
Guess some things never change.
You approach him, and before you say a word, his eyes are already locked on you, body language now stiff. "What's the matter?" His hands are on you in an instant.
You should have known.
He can read you like one of those mission reports he reads daily.
"Nothing," you mutter, forcing a smile, but the words feel heavy with the things you're hiding.
His eyes narrow. "Can't lie to me," he voices.
You'd just about rather crawl in a hole and die than re-account.
What was supposed to be a happy recount turned sour rather quickly.
"Tell me," he urges, sensing your inner turmoil.
"Drop it," your tone is more icey than usual. "Please."
He gives you a light nod, eyes full of concern.
"Let's go eat, okay?" Your hand moves to his, intertwining your fingers, and guilt claws up your throat.
He gives you a nod as you drag him into the dining room to snag a seat at the main table.
Mom was right. The table is still too small to accommodate a family of this size, so another table sits outside and another in the living room.
Others crowd around the breakfast nook and sit on barstool at the kitchen island.
This house has never known loneliness.
Your mother, father, sister, sister's daughter, and your sister's fiance are at the table with you and John.
Your niece opts to sit next to you, gushing about her new boyfriend, the son of the florist downtown, and asking questions about the city.
"Hush now, darlin.' She gets all fussy about that," your mother chides your niece, referring to your early conversation about you living in the city.
"Mom," you quip, eyes wide at her sheer audacity.
She hadn't even addressed John, just jumping straight into a fight.
Typical.
"I'm just sayin.' Ya jumped all over me for talkin' about it," she says, trying to sound innocent.
Seems her memory is slipping.
"That's not why I got upset," your tone is teetering between desperation and frustration, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.
She plops some mashed potatoes on her plate before passing the bowl along. "Then what was it ya were so hurt about earlier, huh?"
You're sure steam is rolling out of your ears.
"You hold a, a vendetta against me for leaving," you spew without much thought, anger taking over. "Because you never got to leave, you take it out on me," you finish, and you're sure you're shaking.
If all eyes weren't on you before, they are now.
John is leaning back in his chair, eyes wide.
He's kind of scared if he touches you, you'll punch him, so he instead crosses his arm over his chest.
"I think the city is cool," your niece randomly chimes in, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Would love to visit someday."
You give her a smile before your mother starts up again.
"Didn't your mother teach ya about city girls," she snaps to your niece. "Nothin' good ever came from any of em.'"
You can taste the metallic taste of blood on your tongue; you had bitten your cheek so hard you bled.
"Ain't that right," your mother says, eyes shifting to your sister.
Your sister is great.
Just not in the presence of your mother.
She takes on her personality and thoughts.
Agreeing with her without a second thought
That includes her fights.
"It's true," she snickers. "City girls can't tell a pencil from a pecker."
You find yourself standing abruptly, and your sister matches your action, spewing more garbage.
And for some reason, her fiance stands up, which makes John stand up, matching his movements.
He's easily a foot taller than her fiance, and he's much more muscular, too.
"Enough," John's low, commanding voice is fitting for a military captain. It splices through the room, the commotion dying as he speaks. "I will not sit here and let you treat my wife like this," his head tilts towards your sister and then to your mother. "Now or ever."
He doesn't even need to yell to get any attention.
His voice just demands attention already.
Your sister, usually so quick with a retort, is silent.
The fear in her eyes is unmistakable, adding to the intensity of the confrontation.
She’s scared.
Hell, everyone is.
Well, except your niece, whose lip quips secretly, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the room.
"Your daughter came down on her own merit to see you," he points to your mother. "Could have done so many other things, but she wanted to see you," he enunciates the last word.
"Well, she—" Your mother begins, her face bright red with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Tired of hearin' the excuses," his voice cuts through hers. She quickly shuts up, a surprising silence falling over her. "Can't even believe your daughter turned out as amazing as she did growing up with this," he gestures towards you.
He stands with his hands on his hips, disappointment is evident on his face.
"My wife is a God-damn saint," his voice is rough.
You find your lip quipping at the praise and how much he appreciates you.
He worships the ground you walk on.
That was made abundantly clear.
His hands reach to rest on your lower back. "Appreciate the food, but we'll be leavin' now," he mutters, stepping back to push his chair in.
You don't argue with him.
Hell, how could you?
He said everything you couldn't
Laid all your thoughts on the table and even added some extra.
He did what he was born to do: protect.
You step away, push your chair in, and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye as you walk to the front door.
You'll text your niece later.
The chill in the air, carrying the scent of magnolia trees and damp earth, hits you like a slap to the face.
John's hand is still on your lower back, guiding you back to the truck.
He opens the door so you can slip inside as he makes his way around the driver's seat.
The heater is blasting as he shoves the key into the keyhole, and the engine is stirring alive as he easily backs out and pulls onto the road.
The silence is heavy as he drives down a straight, desolate road.
It's silent for a moment before he starts to comment, apologizing profusely about how he overstepped and saying sorry that this trip turned out bad.
You're tuning him out and instead focusing on how he stood up for you.
He was just such a man.
He always knew how to be what you needed him to be.
Protector.
Listener.
Talker.
He always knew which role to take on to support you, to be your anchor in the storm of emotions.
Just that thought alone made you incredibly wet.
You don't know why.
You should be crying from the way things unfolded with your family.
But you're not sad, not even remotely.
Just incredibly horny.
You find yourself slipping the rubberband off your wrist and quickly tying your hair in a messy ponytail.
"Hon," John says, noting your unusual silence. "I'm so sorry," he quickly glances your way before looking back at the road.
You don't speak, opting to brush your hand against his cargo pants as your fingers fumble with his zipper.
He makes a noise of surprise. "What're you doin?'" He asks, his voice breathy.
"You took care of me," you mumble, shimming your fingers under the waistband of his boxers to release his erect cock, to which he grunts. "Want to do the same," your voice is lazy, as your lips brush against the sensitive head.
"Me yellin' at your mother got you all hot?" He jokes though it dies halfway on his tongue as your lips spread open to accommodate his size.
His knuckles are white as he tightly grips the steering wheel so as not to crash.
Your mouth makes a pop noise before you speak. "You're just so sexy. All manly like that," you mutter against his cock, the tingle of your words sending goosebumps throughout his entire body.
"Am I?" He chokes out as your lips move back to encase his cock.
"So hot," your voice is muffled as you take in more of his cock.
"Oh—Christ, thas' it, hon," he groans as you bob your head up and down.
His mind has gone fuzzy at the feeling of your tight throat, taking him so good, even swerving a little, before quickly straightening the wheels.
"So fuckin' good," he grunts, as one hand moves to gather your ponytail in a loose fist.
Your tongue works in tandem, rubbing against the underside of his cock, sending more pleasure through him. "Such a good girl, babe," he praises, and you just know that your underwear will be soaked.
"So good." Your moan against him at the next praise, making him sputter his hips up, his cock slipping in your mouth entirely.
He chokes out some incoherent words you can't make out; taking note of his body going taut, you can presume he's close.
"Gonna," he strains out as you continue bobbing up and down, his hand tightening around the fistful of your hair. “Come."
You bring your hand to pump the base as your tongue flicks across the tip.
He groans with anguish, legs shaking as he comes in your mouth.
You pull your head up, your eyes boring into his so he can watch you swallow out every last drop, even using your fingers to clean up the residue in the corners of your mouth.
His eyes stay glued to your mouth before you yell at him to watch the road.
"Christ," he shouts, gripping the wheel tight to stay in his lane.
You laugh as you lean, pressing a sideways kiss on his lips.
He can taste himself on your lips.
He almost comes again.
But the high lasts just as short as when you look in the review to see police sirens hot on your tale, the siren invading your eardrums.
John curses but pulls off to the shoulder, sneakily grabbing his military badge in his pocket.
"You always just carry that on you?" You smile slyly, the body still warm from your escapades.
"Will come in handy," he assures, rolling his window down as the officer makes his way to his window.
"Evenin', folks. Gotta call from a concerned driver sayin' you were swervin' out of your lane," he says.
"No, sir. Not us," you answer, John glancing towards you.
"That right?" The officer prods. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, sir," his monotone voice says.
"Yes, sir," John says, slyly flashing his military badge as he "looks" for his license.
"You're military?" John nods. "Hell," the officer laughs, tucking his notepad back in his pocket. "I know you aren't some juveniles."
John laughs as he glances over to you, glancing down to see a little remnant of his come on your shirt.
He almost feels guilty.
Almost.
He lets out a cough.
"You alright, sir?" The officer asks, brows furrowed.
"Yeah. Fine," his voice is strained.
You shoot him a look before the officer starts again.
"Well, I'll let ya'll get on your way," he pats the top of the car.
You both issue a heartfelt thanks before John pulls back out onto the road, a palpable sense of relief in your voices.
"Can't believe he just let you off," you groan, hand coming to intertwine his.
"Thought you'd be happy?" He laughs. "Can get to the hotel in record time now."
You raise a knowing eyebrow. "For what?"
"Saw you squirmin' in that seat," he teases, his affectionate tone wrapping around you. "I need to take care of my girl," he adds, his voice filled with warmth and love.
You release a shallow breath.
His girl.
You.
Just you.
That's what you loved about loving him.
You didn't have to keep up with his expectations.
You could simply exist, and he would kiss the ground you walk on.
The thought lit up your brain.
John Price was your man.
And in his eyes, you'd always be his girl.
mini author's note: i'd have to be surgically removed from him...
Glitter and Rot
What better way to ring in the new year than with my favourite, degenerate twins. Happy belated new year, y'all <;33
Miya Osamu x female reader x Miya Atsumu
w.c 6.8k
tw: extreme dub-con, themes of infidelity, major character death, smut lite, slight gore/violence, somnophilia if you squint, murder, and, as always, yandere themes
The rain comes heavy, soaking the dirt beneath your bare feet.
The cotton of your nightgown, drenched, plastered to your skin, does little to keep the chill of the midnight air from seeping into your bones. Raindrops fall from the leaves of the trees above you, dripping onto your shoulder, clinging to the ends of your hair, your eyelashes.
In the mountains, away from the city lights, the night glitters with stars, streaks of soft moonlight spilling through the canopy on clear nights. Tonight, though, with the rain clouds looming ominously overhead, there’s no light beyond the sole beam of torchlight, steadily making its way closer towards you.
Your toes wriggle in the earth. Run.
He calls out your name, twigs snapping in the undergrowth behind you.
How… how did you get out here?
The wind picks up, biting at your soaked, exposed skin. You shiver, and he calls your name again. This time you can hear a note of concern – not quite panic, though. Not yet.
Run, that quiet voice urges.
You take a step. Another–
And the torchlight finds you. Squinting under the sudden bright light shining on your face, there’s only a sigh, and the beam shifts downwards.
A familiar countenance peers back at you through the rain; dark hair, grey eyes, a strong jaw. Your husband.
“You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack one’a these days, sweetheart,” Osamu says, with a wry sort of laugh. “C’mon, let’s get’cha home.”
Holding an umbrella in one hand and the torch in the other, he passes you the latter so that his arm can snake around your middle, tucking you into his side and out of the rain. Unbothered by the dampness of your skin, he presses a kiss to your temple, his thumb rubbing at your side.
“… I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t know– I don’t remember–”
He squeezes you side, offers you a crooked smile as he helps you back through the trees. Back home. “It’s fine, the Doc said this could happen, remember?”
You do, vaguely. The Doctor had said a lot that day, most of it lost to the ringing in your ears.
Neither of you say much as you make the trek back to the house. There’s a gentleness to the way he helps you peel off your sodden nightgown, letting the shower heat up before ushering you in.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him again, when he passes you the big, fluffy towel to rub yourself dry.
Sorry for causing him to worry. Sorry for making him chase after you in the rain in the middle of the night. Sorry that you can’t remember what came before, the life you built with him and all the happiness surrounding it.
You feel like a shell, hollow and useless. You don’t know why he keeps putting up with it, and somewhere in the back of your mind, a nasty voice whispers that he won’t for much longer.
But Samu just shakes his head with a snort, “Don’t be stupid. You’re my wife, ya don’t apologise for anythin’.”
You muster a weak smile in return, quickly glancing away. He’s only being polite, you remind yourself, pulling the towel tighter around yourself. Accident or not, none of this is ideal. It’s been weeks now, and you haven’t gotten better. Your memories are still gone, and no one can tell you with any degree of certainty when or if they’re going to come back, not to mention that tonight officially marks the third time you’ve wandered off in your sleep.
What if your memories don’t come back? What if you never return to the person you used to be?
Before this you had a family, friends, a history. Likes, dislikes, funny stories from your childhood and weird habits. The things that shape who you are from where you’ve been. You’re just supposed to slide back into the life you had, but how can you when you don’t know who that person was?
What kind of man would want–
“Hey,” he says, catching your jaw to coax your face back up. Grey eyes appraise you, a frown pulling at his features. “I mean it. None of this is your fault. Not the accident, or your memories, the sleepwalking, none of it. And I’m not going anywhere either, alright?”
He holds your gaze, surveying you intently until you bob your head in agreement.
“Good girl. Now are ya comin’ back to bed or are ya planning on leavin’ your poor husband high and dry for a second time tonight?”
Your cheeks heat, the heaviness between you easing somewhat as amusement dances across his face. He’s handsome, almost intimidatingly so – striking features and excellent bone structure. Something coils in your stomach as the weight of his gaze bores into you. Taking your face in his palms, his thumb brushes along the curve of your cheekbone. Slowly.
Your mouth parts then, but whatever response you have is lost as his lips descend on yours, kissing you deeply.
When he pulls away, when you’re breathless and slightly dazed, satisfaction and more than a touch of pride gleams from his expression.
“Though we might have to invest in some better locks. Don’t want ya wandering off too far on me.”
—
Sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under you.
As if you’ve woken in someone else’s life, or a dream, and it’s only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down and you’re whisked away back to reality. A handsome, devoted husband, not one but two houses – the mountainside retreat you’re staying at while you get better, and a place in the city you haven’t yet seen – even the ring on your finger, the bright, sparkling diamond that sits next to your platinum wedding band.
How can it be real?
He tells you that the two of you work together in his restaurant back home, and that too sounds sweet in an oddly domestic way.
And looks can be deceiving, you know that. Money, success, the image of a perfectly happy couple, it doesn’t mean anything. Façades can crack, rot can fester beneath the surface, slowly eating away.
Everything he tells you sounds so… good.
You’re happy. In love. Fulfilled with your job and comfortable enough financially for the both of you to take the time off while you’re still trying to fix the broken pieces of yourself.
Accident aside, no one gets everything they want. Surely no one can be this happy.
There’s a niggling sense of unease that bites and gnaws. No one can be this happy.
There’s a woman who keeps calling Osamu’s phone. You know because those are the calls he lets ring out, ignoring them until he thinks you’re asleep or busy, distracted by whatever task he’s set you on for the day.
He calls her Hikari. No, that’s not entirely true now, is it – he calls her Kari.
“Kari, you know I wanna be there, but I can’t. Things are just– it’s not a good time right now, s’all.”
And the house is quiet enough that you can hear her desperate sniffles on the other end of the line, “Samu, please, this is important. I need you back here.”
He huffs, running a hand through his sleep mussed hair, pacing the length of the living room. “I can’t,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I am, but after everythin’… it’s too much.”
She cries again, and it’s a strange thing but your heart squeezes in response. She sounds so broken, so lost and scared, a fragile, pitiable thing. “… I know… “ her voice trembles, “Despite what happened, I know you still care about her. I need you to come back. Please, Samu.”
You slip away then, unable to bear it anymore.
Sliding back beneath the covers of your bed, you let out the shuddering breath you’d been holding, trying to process the conversation you’d overheard.
There were perhaps other explanations beyond an affair, but as you lie there, mulling it over, none come to mind. If she were a friend–
‘I know you still care about her.’
No. You’re not that naive. Maybe you were before the accident, or maybe you had suspicions, hell, maybe you’d physically caught him in the act – you suppose none of that matters anymore, does it? All that matters is what you’re going to do with this new development.
And as your husband returns a few minutes later, crawling into bed beside you, an arm hooked over your waist, the warmth of his muscular frame pressed up against your back chasing away the winter chill, you wonder if he sees this as some kind of atonement.
Osamu exhales, nuzzling closer in an effort to get more comfortable, and amidst the strange heaviness in your chest, you close your eyes and will yourself back to sleep.
—
If Osamu knows that you eavesdropped on his call last night, he gives no indication come morning. Although, admittedly, that might be because of your visitor.
The day the Doctor came to the house, he’d said a lot about what was happening to you. A result of head trauma, there was no telling if or when your memories might return.
He’d spoken to Osamu, taking your concerned looking husband aside just before he’d left.
“What did he say?” you’d asked when he’d returned dutifully to your side.
He hadn’t answered straight away, choosing instead to reach out and take your hand in his. For a moment, his focus remained on your entwined fingers, and then he’d said, “To take things slow. Too many people, too much it might… might overwhelm ya. Until things are better, it’s best if it’s just you ‘n me.”
Today, apparently, marked a change to that, because his twin brother was arriving to stay for a little while.
Which, shortly after mid morning, he does.
Naturally, you’ve seen pictures, you and the twins back in highschool, posing with a friend of theirs, grinning toothily and laughing at the camera. Seeing the two of them in person, though – it’s a whole other ball game.
Next to each other, they’re a mirror image, but… not. Tiny, subtle differences that weirdly make them appear more similar than less. It doesn’t make any sense at all, and yet you have no other way of explaining it.
Osamu stands at your side, his arm slung over your shoulder as his brother pulls up front in a fancy, fast looking car. Atsumu, however, pays him no mind, eyes – a few shades browner than his brother’s – fixed solely on you, a familiar, smirking grin broadening across his handsome visage.
Osamu tells you that the three of you are close, yet with only a faint, glimmering recognition and your husband’s words to fall back on, it’s hard to know how you’re supposed to greet someone you once knew and loved.
With an arm loosely wrapped around your front, you settle for a smile.
Atsumu notes this with a raised eyebrow. “Aw, c’mon now, that ain’t no way to greet your favourite twin, is it?”
Before you can stop him he’s on you, yanking you away from Osamu so he can pick you up into a near crushing hug, spinning you around for good measure. You shriek and bury your face in his neck, clinging to him while he laughs, eventually setting you down on wobbly feet.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he says, ignoring Samu’s disapproving scowl in favour of taking you in, hands settling on your waist. And there must be some giveaway, a hesitance he notes because his demeanour turns curious, head tilting to the side, “Still nothin’, huh?”
You shake your head, shrugging. “Sorry.”
Feels like that’s all you’re capable of saying lately.
“Nah, don’t be. Not your fault.”
While you don’t necessarily agree – it’s hard not to think of any of this as some kind of moral failing, as though the only reason you can’t recover those precious memories is because you’re simply not trying hard enough – it’s… nice having someone else around to help fill in the gaps a little.
Not that you aren’t endlessly grateful to Osamu – more than you actually know how to convey to him, and you have tried. It’s just that when you woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom, being watched over by a man you didn’t recognise, and with no memories of who you were or what had happened, you hadn’t reacted well.
Being your husband (the issue of fidelity aside), he’s supposed to be the person who matters the most to you, and you assume that’s a two way street. In a sense, forgetting him is its own kind of betrayal, with that comes the heaviness of expectations and fears and awfulness.
Plus, things have been… strained between you two, lately.
So yes, having Atsumu here as a sort of buffer between you two is a relief. Having someone else to help fill in the gaps in your life, to tell you about the person you used to be – the one you’re trying to fit back into – even more so.
“That year we made it all the way to the finals before gettin’ knocked out.”
His finger draws across the picture; the volleyball team, sweaty and defeated, bowing before the roaring crowd. All these years later, now a pro playing in arguably one of the best teams in the country (according to him), a two-time Olympic medalist, and he still sounds pissed about it.
You bite back a giggle, following when he turns the page of the year book. “I dunno, second in the nation when you’re still in high school doesn't sound too bad to me.”
“You were there that day.”
Glancing up, you find Osamu considering the two of you from the kitchen, elbow deep in food prep for dinner. “I was?”
He nods. “Yeah. Ya came to all our games, right from the start.”
“There,” Atsumu taps on the next page, a picture of a younger you cheering wildly from the stands, hands cupped around your mouth to amplify your shouts, maroon ribbons in your hair. “Our cute little cheerleader.”
“We begged ya to become our manager, but ya kept turnin’ us down,” Samu adds, then smirks, “Said you couldn’t stand being around Tsumu for another ten hours a week.”
The dig reaches its mark, Atsumu sneering as he flips Samu the bird, while his other arm slides from the backrest of the couch to drape over your shoulders. You hardly notice, utterly transfixed by the book on Tsumu’s lap. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how weird it is to be seeing these pictures, like peering into some alternate universe; you, but not you. You look happy, though.
It makes your heart ache a little.
Did you like sports, or was it more of a school pride sort of thing, you wonder. Or was it them – him, really – who drew you into it? If you watched a game now, would you feel anything, some glint of recognition? Excitement?
Flipping the page, you study the various pictures until one in particular catches your eye – only after a second glance. To be fair, the photo isn’t of you – well, it is, but you’re not the focus. Rather it’s of two girls who appear to be in the same year as you, posing cutely with each other on the school’s courtyard. Behind them, though, in the background there’s a wooden picnic bench in the shade of an oak. Perched cross-legged atop it, sitting amongst piled up books and notes, there’s you – and you’re not alone.
Shoulders back, eyes closed, soaking in the rays of the sun filtering through the leaves sits another boy. Not Osamu, one of his teammates, a dark haired kid you recognise from a bunch of the old photos they’d shown you.
The image itself might not be so remarkable – you’re not doing anything all that interesting, one of a number of people captured in the background, and slightly out of focus at that– if not for the one tiny detail that has a strange feeling racing through your heart.
Barely visible but for the way you study it, your hand is curled in his.
“– listenin’?”
“Huh?”
Mid-way through scraping out his rice, Osamu fixes you with an odd expression. Atsumu, however, just snickers and flicks your forehead. “Ya always were a little spacey.”
Halfheartedly, you chuckle along with him.
The smart thing to do – perhaps the right thing – would be to leave it.
Samu told you the two of you dated right through high school, so it can’t be anything like that. There’s a possibility the two of you were just close. Good friends, judging by how often he appears in the photos with you and the twins. He’d told you your parents, the only family you had, died in an accident years ago, but Samu hasn’t really spoken much about your friends. You know why, and understand it to an extent – he doesn’t want to stress you out unnecessarily, not while you’re still so fragile.
‘The doc said we gotta take things slow, baby.’
Nevertheless, your lips part, the question burning on the tip of your tongue–
Suddenly, as has become a frequent occurrence in the past few days, Osamu’s phone blares to life, the loud vibrations against the marble countertop startling all three of you.
He doesn’t answer it, by this point you no longer expect him to.
—
You dream of fingers running through dark hair, of lips smiling lazily. Someone laughing, ‘You’re an idiot.’
There’s a warmth, a slow burning heat that ignites in your body, trailing from your jaw, down the slope of your neck, dancing along delicate collarbone, another unfurling deep within your core. You chase the pleasant sensations, a soft, pretty moan drawn from parted lips.
Only when teeth bite down, a tender nip to sensitive flesh are you roused from your dreams to find your husband straddling you, his mouth now between your breasts, dark eyes that glint in the low morning light taking in your visage as you slowly come to.
“S-Samu, wha–”
“Shh.” He chuckles, your stomach flipping at the deep rumble, “Relax. Gonna make ya feel good, baby.”
Whatever protests you might have (if you have any at all) are lost when you realise that the heat pooling in your guts is due to the two digits Osamu has curled up inside of you, slowly easing in and out.
It isn’t the first time the two of you have been intimate since the accident, and while you hadn’t fought him those times either, there’s a slight niggling sensation, nearly lost to the burgeoning pleasure, that twists and knots at the thought of what’s to come.
There’s no possible way of knowing how often you’ve had sex with each other in the years you’ve been together. For him, this must be old hat. For you though, with no frame of reference, no past partners to call to mind, there’s an edge of vulnerability you wish you could get rid of.
A hesitance you don’t give a voice to – not that Samu offers you much of an opening to do so.
Pushing up the hem of your nightdress, your husband lifts your hips enough to ease off your panties, dragging them slowly down smooth legs until they’re dangling from one ankle, and you kick them aside.
Spreading them either side of his broad frame, Osamu stands briefly to rid himself of his own underwear, crawling on all fours back between your legs – gripping one thigh to sink his teeth into soft, delectable flesh – his tongue quick to soothe the hurt when you cry out.
“A-Atsumu, he’s gonna wake up,” you murmur as he once more takes you by the waist, hefting you forward so that you lie flush against him, your legs hiked up over his hips.
The very last thing you want right now is an audience.
With one hand, he strokes his cock with the fingers that had been buried inside your pussy, spreading the glistening mix of your slick and his pre over the thick member. The other’s planted near your shoulder, keeping him stable while he rolls his hips forward, slowly bullying his cock into your warm, tight little cunt. Osamu grins roguishly, lowering his top half down to hover above you as you fist at the sheets, your spine arcing, ankles locking over his back.
“Maybe–” he grunts, relishing in the sounds of your sweet cries and gasps as he inches his way into stuffing you full. “Maybe I want him to hear.”
—
A heavy weight drops onto the couch beside you. “Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”
You fiddle with the rings on your left hand. How many times now have you caught yourself toying with them, completely lost in contemplation, their weight on your finger almost foreign?
A few times now you’ve taken them off to wash up and forgotten about them entirely, not noticing their absence until Samu himself comes to take your hand in his and slide them back on.
Did you used to do that before the accident?
No… no, you probably spent days marvelling at them, wiggling your fingers to make the diamond sparkle in the light. You were probably enthralled by the pretty thing. Blissfully in love.
Happy.
“I think Osamu’s cheating on me.”
You don’t dare raise your eyeline when you say it, afraid of what you’ll see. You might be his wife, however poor a job you’re currently doing, yet the one person Osamu’s closest to is undeniably his brother.
Since Tsumu arrived three days ago, all they’ve done is bicker between themselves, and yet without either of them saying as much, the writing’s on the wall. It’s in the looks they share, full of silent conversations you’re not privy to and won’t ever have a hope of understanding. In the way they move around each other, that implicit, frankly unnerving trust they have with one another.
There are things Osamu can’t share with you – or won’t, maybe – but there’s not a doubt in your mind that if Samu were sleeping with somebody else, if he loved them as he claimed to love you, Atsumu knows about it.
It’s not confirmation that you’re searching for, though. You doubt he’d admit it to begin with – between you and Samu, there’s no question of which side his loyalty falls. This isn’t about that.
For days now, weeks, you’ve had this gnawing pit in your stomach that keeps getting worse, and worse and worse.
With each day that passes, you should be making some kind of progress towards regaining your memories or, if not that, then at the very least becoming more comfortable around him. Yet you still feel like a stranger inhabiting this body, and to make matters worse, your marriage might be failing before you can try to adjust yourself to it.
Atsumu’s really the last person you should be saying this to. It’s the sort of thing you accidentally let slip to a friend after one too many glasses of wine, letting them comfort you and offer advice, commiserate, even.
Yet Samu won’t so much as bring up the friends you had before for fear of making things worse – because you’re fragile and weak, and you haven’t shown any signs of getting better. From the complete and utter radio silence on their ends, you can only assume none of them bothered to fight him on it.
Again, rationally speaking you can understand it – that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting in its own bitter way.
Beside you, Atsumu laughs. Actually laughs.
Indignation – hurt – burns, heating your cheeks as your hands curl into pathetic little fists in your lap and shake. Much to your dismay, tears prickly uncomfortably at your waterline. You go to say something, only for a lump to settle in your throat, blocking all noise. You didn’t think he’d spill the truth just like that, but to laugh at you?
In a split second decision you start to rise, planning on stalking off to go lick your wounds alone in your bedroom until Samu comes home, when a hand on your shoulder stops you.
He chuckles again when he’s met with your poisonous glare, “Hey, c’mon. Don’t run away, I wasn’t laughin’ atcha.”
Raising an eyebrow, you scoff. His lips curl into a smirk, hands coming up in a peaceful gesture. “Okay, okay, I was but… s’just funny to me that you think Samu’d ever look twice at another girl. He’s been in love with ya pretty much from day one.”
The words should be more of a reassurance than they are. Your shoulders rise and fall, a tight shrug as your gaze dips once more to your lap, to the rings that shine mockingly on your left hand.
Atsumu, however, isn’t so willing to drop the subject.
“Nah, you don’t get to say some wild shit like that ‘n then go all quiet on me. Explain.”
If you got up and left, would he follow you? Probably, you muse. If anything, Atsumu’s proven over the past few days that he’s nothing if not persistent. He’s clearly amused, at your expense, mind you, yet the way he scrutinises you now, the slight narrowing of his eyes, that reminds you of a dog with a bone.
No, he won’t let this go.
Nibbling at your bottom lip, you shrug again, “There’s this girl– woman, I guess. She keeps calling him… Samu won’t talk to her if I’m around.” You swallow tightly, “I–I overheard them, the last time she rang, and…”
“What’d ya hear?”
You fiddle with the hem of your skirt as that tell tale prickle stings at your tear ducts. After your early morning tumble in the sheets, you’d thought that things might’ve been different between you two. But Samu still left, some hollow excuse about running errands, and all you can think is that he’s with her now, that whatever you gave wasn’t enough and–
“Look at me.” Atsumu’s no longer laughing. If anything, he actually looks mildly pissed off by the whole thing, his jaw tightening even as he tries for a reassuring smile, scooching closer and touching your shoulder again, “What did she say to him?”
“She told him she needed him, begged him to come home.” Your voice breaks, just as the dam to your tears do, tumbling down your cheeks as your shoulders shake and crumple inwards.
Atsumu runs his tongue over his teeth before muttering a quiet curse, and you suppose that that’s confirmation enough. Without a word he pulls you into his arms, your face held to his chest while he strokes your back and you cling to him in turn, letting all the frustration and grief and confusion of the past few weeks spill out of you in horrid, trembling cries.
You don’t know how long you sit there, half cradled in Atsumu’s lap before he finally speaks, “I don’t care what ya heard. Samu loves you more than anythin’, we both do. He ain’t gonna throw that away for nobody.”
Drawing back, he takes your cheek in one hand, cupping it in his palm, the broad pad of his thumb sweeping away the remnants of your tears with a tenderness that near breaks your heart.
“I mean it,” he says. You’re close enough that the warmth of his breath tickles your skin, that you can count every last one of his eyelashes. Your stomach flutters. “You mean everything to us. Nothin’s gonna get in the way of that.”
And before you can stop him, before you can blink, Atsumu’s closing the gap between you, his lips meeting yours.
Like a computer short circuiting, there’s nothing you can do but freeze and falter as he kisses you, wholly unbothered by your lack of participation. His lips are surprisingly soft, warm as they move against yours, and while his tongue brushes along your lower lip, he makes no real effort to deepen it, seemingly content with the contact he has.
Your heart pounds against your ribcage so violently that it drowns out all other noise. Your stomach twists, flips, churning as he moans softly into your mouth, but for the life of you, you can’t move, can’t stop this. You’re frozen. Shellshocked. Only when Atsumu breaks away, pupils dilated, eyes slightly glazed over, wearing a stupid, self satisfied little grin do you finally gain control over your body again.
By that point, he’s already shifting to settle you back on the couch, rising himself. “Samu and I love ya. We aren’t goin’ anywhere, stop worrying your pretty little head about it, yeah?”
And then he’s walking away, whistling as he goes.
—
A little while later, Atsumu calls out that he’s going for a run. You don’t acknowledge it.
The front door opens. Closes. The sun moves across the sky, minutes tick by, and eventually he returns, sweaty and panting, popping his head in the door to make sure you’re right where he left you.
The whole time you sit stationary on your bed, staring vacantly out the window to the forest that lies beyond. Numb, just numb.
“Gonna go have a shower, then I think you ‘n me should talk before Samu gets back.” He waits and you don’t acknowledge him. Shrugging off his shirt, something wicked enters his expression, “Unless ya wanna come join me?”
That, finally, gets a reaction; your head jerking back to regard him with wide, scandalised eyes, “What?”
He winks, snickers when your gaze drops briefly below his shoulders, eyeing his muscular chest, the well defined planes of his stomach. A bead of sweat rolls from his neck, you track its path with a rapt focus, down to his navel, the smattering of hair there, the cut of the V shaped muscles that draw your attention towards–
Abruptly, you force your attention upwards, cheeks burning as blood rushes to your face.
Atsumu, grinning smugly, missed none of it. “Next time, then.”
And with that, he waltzes off, leaving the door ajar.
… What the hell?
What the actual fuck?
Head reeling, you have no idea how you’re supposed to process this sudden shift in… well, everything. Had this – you and Atsumu – happened before? Did Osamu know about it?
Were you cheating, too?
Was that what your relationship with Osamu was; two deeply unhappy people screwing countless others to avoid fixing whatever it was that festered between them.
Your mind jumps to the picture you’d seen in the year book, you and that boy on the picnic bench, your hand wrapped around his. Osamu told you that you’d been dating ever since your high school days, had you been unfaithful that whole time – spreading your legs for his friends and brother until he gave up trying to be loyal in return?
You feel sick at the thought.
What other option is there, though? What explanation? Either Atsumu’s being particularly cruel and messing with you, or he isn’t and you’re apparently more than okay fucking not only your husband but his brother as well.
‘Despite what happened, I know you still care about her.’ Hikari’s words ring mockingly in your head. All this time you’ve been so bent out of shape over the idea of Osamu with another woman, and it’s now occurring to you that maybe you might’ve been the one to drive him to it.
Despite what happened.
You draw in a shuddering breath, you bring a hand to your lips, either to stifle a sob or to keep yourself from throwing up, you’re not entirely sure which.
And as the sound of running water filters through the room, so too does a sense of calm clarity.
For weeks now you’ve been trying to make this work, trying to slip back into the person you were, a life that you don’t truly remember.
And it isn’t working.
You still don’t feel normal around Osamu. You don’t remember anything, and despite what you’d been told from the start – despite fighting it every step of the way – you have to accept the possibility that that might not change.
Your spine straightens, the grip you have on the duvet easing as you take another, calmer breath in, letting it fill your lungs and clear your head.
The answer’s been staring you in the face this whole time. If you can’t find your way back to the life you led before you got hurt, perhaps rather than clinging to a past that doesn’t truly belong to you anymore, it’s time you cut it loose and walk away.
A clean break doesn’t sound like such a bad idea when the current situation promises nothing but messiness, hurt and heartbreak for everyone involved.
Even if the thought of going it alone is a terrifying one.
Even if it means leaving the one – now two, you suppose – people who stood by your side in the aftermath behind.
And as if the universe senses the tumultuousness inside your head, the sharp, trilling sound of a ringtone shatters it, snapping you out of your thoughts and back into the moment.
You figure that it must be Atsumu’s phone and despite being startled, you’re content to let it ring out – after all, it’s not your phone, not your business.
Atsumu’s a professional athlete, an incredibly successful one at that, there could be any number of important people on the other end of the line, and if it’s critical, whoever it is can leave a message. You’re not his receptionist.
After a few seconds, the ringing stops. And begins again.
Frowning, you push yourself up from the bed, heading towards the dining room. Atsumu’s still in the shower, you can hear the faucet running, your only thought is that if it’s Samu and it’s something urgent, he won’t mind.
Except when you find it, lit up and vibrating on the kitchen bench, the caller ID isn’t his twin’s. Again, the ringing stops, and again, after a short beat, it begins anew.
The picture that fills the screen is of a pretty girl with dimples, her arms looped around a familiar looking brunet.
Not Osamu, but the boy from the yearbook. Older, of course, smiling lazily at the camera while she pokes her tongue out and throws up two peace signs.
Little Suna, the caller ID tells you, and in brackets next to a sun emoji; Hikari.
Your heart squeezes, a thick lump settling in your throat as you survey the image of the two of them. But it isn’t dismay, or the hurt you’d felt earlier when Osamu was hiding her. You can’t put a finger on what it is exactly, only that looking at that picture fills you with an incomprehensible and near overwhelming sense of grief, like someone’s clawed their way into your chest, taken your still beating heart in their hand and slowly, agonisingly, ripped it from you.
Without consciously choosing to do so, you slide the little bar across, answering the call and clicking on the speaker icon.
“H-hello?”
The silence you’re met with is heavy. Pregnant. Why did you pick up? Why the hell did you answer?! Panic and common sense sets in and you silently curse yourself for being so stupid, your finger moving to hurriedly tap the end call button.
And then you hear her gasp, a tiny, sharp little thing that spears right through you. Hikari stutters your name, “You… Wha– they… they found you?”
She starts to laugh then, or maybe she’s sobbing, it’s difficult to tell exactly.
“You’re okay?” she asks, the sound muffled by choked, ragged noises. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re okay! A-after they found Rin, I-I thought–”
White noise drowns her out.
… Rin.
Rin…taro.
Suna.
Your knees go weak, giving way beneath you. Pain sings through your kneecaps as they collide with the wooden floorboards, but it’s nothing compared to the agony that overtakes your chest, spreading with every beat of your frantic heart until it’s the only thing you can feel, and you cling to it. Desperate. Gasping.
There’s a frantic noise somewhere, Hikari calling your name; it’s lost to the pounding haze. Nothing more than the buzz of a gnat flittering around your head.
Every thought eddies from your head, only him. Only that name; Suna Rintaro.
And suddenly–
“You’re an idiot, you know?”
You laugh, throwing an arm around his shoulder as you wriggle your fingers in front of his face, admiring the sparkling ring. “But it’s so pretty, don’t you think? It suits me.”
He raises an unimpressed eyebrow when you turn to cheekily grin at him, “Considering I was the one who picked it, yeah, that was kind of the idea.”
Giggling, you stretch up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his cheek.
………
“Gin can’t make it. Somethin’ about his girlfriend and the baby,” Rin mutters, appearing in the doorway of your bedroom. “So it’ll just be us and the twins, I guess.”
“Well geez, no need to sound too excited about it,” you say, eyeing your boyfriend – fiancé now, you have to keep reminding yourself – from the mirror as you battle with the clasp of your necklace. “It’s fine, we’ll see him when we see Kita and the others next month.”
A few seconds pass with no sign of victory, and Rin rolls his eyes, “Let me.”
He comes up behind you, taking the delicate gold chain from your fingers and nimbly clasping it shut in what feels like a mockery of your struggles. Adjusting the pendant so that it falls better, he exhales, letting his arms fold loosely around you, his chin coming to a rest atop your head.
The faint crease between his brows, the set of his jaw – to anyone else he might appear bored, annoyed even. You aren’t so easily fooled. You know Rin, know better than to push. It’s not hard to guess what’s bothering him, though. “You think it’ll be weird?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shrugs, “I think it’ll be weirder without Gin.”
“It was years ago, they’ve both moved on – a long, long time ago. They’re our friends, Rin. The only thing they’re gonna be is happy for us.”
………
A hand covering your mouth, another roughly shaking your shoulder, rousing you from sleep. “Shh, shh, it’s just me. There’s someone in the house,” Rin’s voice whispers in your ear. “Get under the bed and don’t make a sound, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“Rin–”
“Not a fucking sound!” he hisses, and quietly slips from the bed. As if on cue, a loud shattering noise cuts through the room, and terror, absolute terror, grips you. You do as he bids, limbs shaking and clumsy, the sound of every breath enhanced in the quiet stillness Rintaro leaves behind. You clamp a hand over your mouth to try and muffle it.
You wait, and wait, trembling in the darkness.
And then a crash, heavier than the last one. Rintaro’s yelling, more voices raised, more muted thumps, grunting and howling bellows of agony that have every hair on your body standing on end, and abruptly–
Silence.
It rings in your ear, echoing.
Your pulse thunders, every beat of your heart pumping a paralysing mix of fear and panic through your body. You’re shaking like a leaf, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try – try so desperately – not to make a noise like Rin told you to.
The footsteps that approach have your blood running cold, and you squeeze your eyes shut, wheezing terrified breaths as you choke back sobs and pray that they won’t find you.
You aren’t that lucky.
You aren’t that quiet.
They stop at the foot of the bed. Two of them. One bends down, a hand finding your ankle and with a snickering laugh, yanks you out into the open.
You scream and fight against the figures clad head to toe in black, thrashing like a wild thing for all the good that it does you. You’re determined not to go easy – at least, not until they carry you out past the living room, the mess they left there.
Rin, but not Rin. Not with his face brutalised like that, his skull all caved in, limbs broken and splayed out all wrong.
No.
No, no, no, no.
One eye, empty and lifeless, staring back–
It’s too much.
You blink, jerking back to the present with a heaving gasp. Glancing up, your gut tightens into a knot as two things become starkly apparent.
One; Osamu’s finally returned, standing half frozen in the doorway, appraising you with an uncharacteristically cold expression.
Two; it’s deathly quiet. Turning your head, you find that the call with Kari’s gone silent, a shirtless Atsumu, hair damp, a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips, gripping his phone, jaw tightly clenched.
It twists into an awful sort of forced grin when he notices you’ve come back to them.
“I really, really wish ya hadn’t done that, baby.”
Lover
Simon Riley x Wife!Reader
I cannot stop thinking about Ghost and being a cute domestic wife for him
Tw: Intense gender roles, kinda stalker Simon, smut if you squint
(Note: I am not a tradwife nor do I condone forcing gender roles and societal pressures onto anyone, I just wanna be a cutesy wife for Simon Riley)
Simon prefers you call him Simon over Ghost. He thinks that since he's literally married to you, there's no reason for you to call him by his call sign. Calling him Simon is much more intimate for him and he likes separating you from everything he endures as Ghost. He just wants to be your Simon.
He knows he's gone for long periods of time. Time you spend not talking to him or doing couple things. He makes up for it, though, by doing anything you want when he's at home. If you're tired of planning, he's got you. Simon has a whole list of random things to suggest when you just want to be taken care of without worry.
He LOVES spoiling you. In his line of work, he gets down and dirty. He loves knowing you don't have to do anything of the sort (unless you want to). He pays for your nails to keep them pretty, unlike his dirty, battered ones. He will get you monthly subscriptions to whatever you want, beauty boxes, gaming passes, entertainment, etc. All luxuries he can't experience while at work. Simon knowing you're the opposite of him, clean, spoiled, safe, is enough to keep him working forever. Giving you everything he can't have. His love isn't all monetary, but a lot of it is when he's away.
Simon loves watching you. He gets major anxiety about you when he's away. To help with this, he installed security cameras in and around the house. When he gets the luxury of a WiFi signal, he'll check in on you. If you happen to see a little green light flash on while eating, relaxing, cooking, or any other mundane task, you'll offer him a smile and a wave. Sometimes you'll blow him a kiss (or give him a private show).
We all know Simon is physically fit, but that doesn't mean he has any type of expectation for you. He loves whatever you have to offer him, as long as you're in good mental and physical health (remember, being physically healthy comes in different shapes and sizes!) Simon is completely enamored with you. He believes he was blessed to be the only man on earth to be married to a real goddess. He would build a statue of you by hand (if he wasn't so bad at any type of art). If you want to go to the gym, he'll buy you the best membership he can. If you don't, he'll buy you something else that occupies your time.
Simon loves feeding into your hobbies, whatever they may be. Coming home and seeing something new you created or hearing about something you've learned makes his day 10x brighter.
You love cooking for him. It took a lot to break down his walls and food is one of them. He appreciates the time and effort it takes to plan and execute a meal as well as the skill needed to cook as well as you do. The best brands and foods for his wife only! Nothing makes him feel more full of you and your love than when he's eating something you've made for him, other than when he praises you and you get a little twinkle in your eyes and a smile on your face.
You also happen to love keeping the house nice for him. You clean fairly often, though it's not hard to keep up after one person (and any pets you may have). You like knowing he's trusted you with one of his largest assets, his home. It gives you a sense of power knowing you're the only person who controls what kind of house he comes home to. Messy, clean, minimal, tacky, bright, dark, etc. Simon appreciates anything and everything you do for the house. Knowing you've gotten everything taken care of and decorated in a way you both like is like heaven to him and lifts a huge weight off his shoulders. He loves smelling a clean house after smelling nothing but dirt, blood, gun powder, and stinky men for days. (He couldn't care less if the house was a cardboard box, as long as you were there and you still loved him.)
If you want to work, go to school, learn a trade, or be a stay at home, he supports you. You don't even have to explain yourself to him, Simon trusts you so much that even if you were to say "I don't know" he would hear trumpets because an angel just spoke to him.
Nsfw: Despite what people may think, Simon typically isn't a dom. He spend a majority of his time directing people and being an authoritative figure at work. That isn't even mentioning how tolling it can be knowing you took a life and the physical exhaustion his work takes. He likes being taken care of, however you see fit. Sometimes he'll be a dom, but only if he's been away from work and needs to let off some steam.
The sweetest ever. Cuddles, words of affirmation, snacks, whatever you need. He feels as though his sole purpose since he met you is to make you feel like nothing less than a deity. Sometimes he'll get insecure over his ability to take care of you or not being around, but one kiss from you, perfect you, and the perfect life you maintain for you both and it fades away.
Overall, Simon Riley is the hottest, most doting husband to exist, ever.
you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu
wc: 2.9k
summary: it’s not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like this—in fact, he loves it. just not when you're fighting. not when he can't even call you "baby".
contains: post-timeskip atsumu, arguments and atsumu feeling really sorry, flashbacks, uses the nickname “baby” & “my love”, reader is described as “pretty” and wears heels, hurt/comfort.
a/n: atsumu isn’t a sucky boyfriend he just gets carried away sometimes. song inspo: can you blame me? - kehlani, lucky daye.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)
sponsored by @itskilau and @tasoyoru for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please check it out and support if you can!
“Bab—”
Atsumu lingers by your bathroom door, eyes drooping lower and sadder than they ever have. The steam makes the bleached strands of his hair cling to his forehead, his thick eyebrows now damp and flattened.
You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.
He stares.
That’s his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower.
His lip trembles, eyes watery.
“Not now, Atsumu.”
You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. It’s a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years you’ve been together, but he feels it like it’s the first time you ever touched him—and in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least.
The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking.
“Atsumu,” your voice rings.
Who the hell is “Atsumu”?
He’s not supposed to be “Atsumu” to you. He’s “Tsum.” He’s “baby.” He’s “my love.”
Anything but “Atsumu.”
When you close the door of your walk-in closet to change, the metaphorical volleyball of hope floating right into the palm of his hand misses and drops straight to the floor.
It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do.
You’d met him at the rise of his career, just a few years of him being pro. You were friends first, but if you ask anyone around Atsumu, they’d tell you you were never just a friend to him; he’d invited you to all his games and practice matches, spent a bit more time in the locker rooms before going out for dinner with you and the rest of the team.
Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you.
Your first ‘date’ was Atsumu treading the very fine line between teaching you how to play volleyball and teaching himself self-control. Keeping an eye on the ball is hard enough, what more when he has to resist staring at you in very cute volleyball shorts too?
As MSBY’s success skyrocketed, so did Atsumu’s—brand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasn’t training, he was either traveling or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving.
And he knew you understood, knew you knew him and his tendencies to overwork; knew him, and his habit of getting stuck inside his own world. You’d driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and you’d packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.
You’ve managed his lifestyle better than anyone could.
But, Atsumu has a bad habit of promising more than he should, of serving white lies just as easily as he does volleyballs behind the service line.
“Won’t take long, baby. Swear it,” he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. “Pick ya up at 6:00?”
He’d winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.
What he’d give to be able to do that right now.
“Okay,” you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, “better hurry then, you might be late.”
When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way you’d agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe you’re right—
“Would it hurt for you to just be honest?”
—Atsumu has no excuse standing you up on the date he promised you weeks ago all because he lost track of time in some brand event, listening to a potential collaboration on volleyball shoes. Atsumu has no excuse agreeing to “some drinks” right after just to meet the executives of the company.
There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that don’t compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you.
“I know you’re busy and I understand,” you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, “you know I do.”
He stands before you a quarter past 11:00 p.m., cologne long faded and the smell of alcohol spilled on his sleeve. The kitchen island stands like a net on the court, the ball being sent over to his side.
“Baby, I—”
He passes it back.
You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at him—how could he have ever stood this–you–up?
You take the ball, “Can I finish what I have to say first?”
He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.
“I’m happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,” you reach for the cupboard above head to grab a mug. The box of tea bags sits to your right, a mix of Lemon Balm and Chamomile that Atsumu swears keeps his anxieties at bay during the night. “But at least tell me if you can’t make it.”
You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike.
“Please don’t keep my hopes up every time.”
You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug.
“Baby, I swear, they just–they started talkin’ ‘bout these shoes, ‘n I thought t’was cool, ‘n the execs–they said the execs’d be there in the afterparty, and—” he breathes, “won’t happen next time, baby. ‘M so—”
“Can I really believe you next time?”
You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him.
Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea.
You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.
It is now that Atsumu knows, he’s fucked up.
The ball lands on his side of the court.
And so, he’s spent this entire day trying to make it up to you—breakfast in the morning, right before training (which he absolutely tanked because all he could think about was how sad you looked the night before); flowers that he brought home after lunch time, just to find the apartment empty. It’s only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.
“Nail appointment. Going out tonight,” is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds).
Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. It’s just—he hasn’t even said sorry yet, can’t even call you “baby”, can’t even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to.
And now, with you closing the door on him while you’re changing—there’s nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space.
He shifts his feet, dragging them lightly against the wooden floors of your bedroom.
The moment he hears the door of your walk-in closet slide open, he hurriedly sits down on the edge of your bed, acting as if he wasn’t just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out.
He feels like shit, if he’s being honest—like how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse.
You look good. Make-up done to only emphasize the features he loves (which is your entire face, really), and your outfit perfectly accentuating the dips and curves of your body.
He follows you as you exit the room, tailing after you like a lost puppy. When you stop by your entryway, all he can do is watch as you bend down to put on the straps of your heels. And it sucks, because if you weren’t fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldn’t have to.
It’s pathetic and a little helpless of him to just stand and stare in the middle of your living room. He should say something at least, but, you just look so good, and his throat feels dry; his heart all achy and stomach twisty.
He doesn’t want to be away from you.
And it’s not that he doesn’t like you going out looking like this—he loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft “don’t wait up for me” mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you.
He couldn’t even give you a goodbye kiss.
The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter.
“Don’t wait up for me,” you said. As if he can even sleep without you around.
.
.
.
The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumu’s done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasn’t breached 11:00 p.m.. He’s cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those ‘stock up my fridge with me’ tiktoks he’s seen on Sakusa’s phone. The clothes on his side of the closet have been arranged by color and length, with all the ones in his dresser refolded, Marie Kondo style. He’s also pretty sure he’s scrubbed the bathroom down enough that you can probably see your reflection on the tiles of the damn thing. The laundry baskets for both your clothes are now empty, and he’s changed the bedsheets too and—
He’s still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He can’t stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home.
Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because you’re right―he hasn’t been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too.
His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it.
Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you?
He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it.
That’s it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door.
.
.
.
Atsumu doesn’t check your location often (maybe only a few times). It’s not a trust thing, he swears; it’s just for when he wants to make sure you’re somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there.
And, you clearly don’t need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits.
Sitting at home with all his regret feels worse than seeking you out to beg for your forgiveness, whether you want him to or not.
He’s barely dressed for the venue as he steps inside the bar, a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with those fashionable Birkenstock clogs on. A few people seem to recognize him, tilting their heads and murmuring among themselves as he walks through door, but none of them approach him, thankfully, except for a server asking if he needs assistance.
His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit he’d seen you leave in earlier. The dim lights make it increasingly difficult for him to look for your properly as he squints his eyes some more, narrowing his vision to the people at the front bar this time. It’s after the fourth person he dismisses that he feels himself getting desperate, nearly turning towards the server beside him to ask for help.
Until he spots you—tucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink.
You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table.
He frowns, thanking the server on the side as he makes his way to you slowly. You barely notice him as you bring out your phone, tapping on the screen as you stare at it almost longingly―a photo of you and him some time ago after one of his games. He knows it well, can still remember that day so clearly: when he became a PR nightmare because he couldn’t help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody.
It makes his chest hurt.
Then, you swipe it open, and he’s close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of what’s on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, “Did you make it safely?”
(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didn’t reply to him then because you weren’t ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed.
It was easy to make yourself feel better by dressing up and stepping out of the apartment earlier, the promise of good drinks and good company awaiting your arrival; you couldn’t think about how you felt if you were busying yourself with others. But now that all of those feelings have died down and most of your friends have started chatting up other people they’ve found, it’s beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumu’s company more than anything else.
Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.)
He’s two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain it―
“Baby,” his voice trembles, unsteady.
Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether you’re hearing things; whether―
(“Tsum,” you mutter, eyes catching a pair of familiar warm brown staring back at you. His bottom lip quivers, the embodiment of a dam starting to crack, vibrating.
Your emotions are a mess, your breath on hold as you feel tears welling up in your lashline too. You still feel upset, still a little sad, and a tiny bit disappointed, but what coats them all is a sense of relief because—)
―he’s here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, you’re sure is exactly how things went), and you’re sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“‘M so sorry,” he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, “Don’t ever wanna make y’feel like that again.” His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, “I won’t do that anymore―”
“Tsum,” you try to call his attention.
He’ll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not.
(The interaction is causing nearby tables to look, murmurs and whispers in your periphery as you catch vague sentences here and there. He still is a public figure, after all.)
But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, “No, please hear me out first. I promise I’ll tell ‘em they can speak ‘ta―”
“Tsum,” you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up.
“Baby, please. Gimme the chance ‘ta show ya that I―”
(You look around and notice even more eyes on the two of you, fond looks on their faces as they prepare their phones for what seems like something momentous. Then it hits you, how this looks―)
“Tsum, please stand up,” you tug at his hand strongly, urging him to stand. His eyebrows furrow as he obliges, only comprehending why when you explain it to him softly, “people were starting to think you were about to propose.”
He pauses for a moment, a slight, “Oh,” as he ponders on it. “Well, if that’s what’ll prove it t’ya, then—”
You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, “Don’t joke about things like that.”
Well, it’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind, if he’s being honest.
He sighs, sitting on the stool beside you as he rubs his thumb over your hand again, bringing it close to his lips to kiss softly.
“‘M really sorry, baby,” he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. “Don’t ever want ya feelin’ like this again.”
“I know,” you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, “you didn’t have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.”
“Can ya blame me? Seein’ ya off like that?” he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. “Y’re too pretty to be sad,” he plays with your fingers, intertwining them with his.
You hit his shin again, feeling shy. You always do when Atsumu likes to sweet-talk you.
“Do ya forgive me?” he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink.
You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, “I don’t like being mad at you, you know.” He lights up, beaming, but you add on, “We still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.”
He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car.
.
.
.
(You both do talk about it properly, and the next time Atsumu promises you a date, he blocks it out of all of his calendars, sending the date to his manager even, just to be extra sure.)
a/n: this has been such a long time coming, i'm sorry to those who waited! i hope you enjoyed even though this simmered with me for way too long 😭 i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is 🥺
thank you notes: to 🍧 anon for helping me figure out "what would make you mad at atsumu?" and to @ceroseis and @mieiri for always listening to my shenanigans pre-writing!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
The Alchemy vol. II
jason todd x fem!reader
aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood
part one
warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault
It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.
“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.
He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.
You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.
He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”
“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.
He frowns at you, confusion evident.
You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.
Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.
When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.
You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.
He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”
You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”
“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.
He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”
“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”
It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”
“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”
He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”
You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.
“Mhm.”
You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.
“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs.
Your head tilts, “You live here?”
He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”
You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”
He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”
You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”
“I don’t always come to your apartment—”
You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”
You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”
“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.
That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”
“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”
“What?”
You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”
“Okay...”
“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”
He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”
You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.”
He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”
“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.
He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”
“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”
He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”
You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”
You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.
“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.
He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.
His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”
What?
“What?”
“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.
You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”
He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”
You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”
“What?”
“We can’t do this again.”
He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.
You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”
“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.
He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.
Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.
And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long.
But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.
He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.
He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.
Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.
Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.
So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.
You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.
“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?”
There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”
His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.
He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”
You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”
He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”
“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”
“Explain.”
He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”
You blink. “Explain.”
“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.
You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.
You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”
He only gives a half-hearted shrug.
You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.
He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”
You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”
He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”
“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.
You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up.
He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.
As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.
You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”
He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.
An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.
You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”
“But then where would you go?”
He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.
You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.
His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.
Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.
The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.
A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.
“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.”
He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.
You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.
What the fuck?
Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.
You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.
There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.
Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.
It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.
You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.
The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.
“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.
You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.
Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”
You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.
You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”
She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”
You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”
“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”
“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.
You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.
“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”
You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.
A second man mutters something you can’t make out.
The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.”
Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”
There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”
“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”
A sigh, “Dumbass…”
The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?”
“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”
One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.
“What the fuck?”
You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.
Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”
She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”
The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.”
“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”
He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”
Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.
“Get up.”
She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.
You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.
You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.
“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.
Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.
“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.
Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you.
The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”
Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”
“I disagree.”
All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.
The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.
Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.
“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.
He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”
Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.
Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”
“Really?”
“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”
Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.
He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.
Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.
Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”
Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”
The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”
“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.
The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”
The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”
“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you.
Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”
Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”
Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”
Boldly, Murray steps up to him.
But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”
The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.
It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it.
Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.
Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”
“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.
Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.
His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.
After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”
He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”
You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”
His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”
You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?”
Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this.
He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”
This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking.
You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”
He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”
“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.
His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”
You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”
He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”
You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…
He nods solemnly, “Okay.”
You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.
“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.
A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”
One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.
Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.
You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.
So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.
Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.
He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.
He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.
“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
You stare at him incredulously.
After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”
You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.
He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”
You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”
He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”
You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”
He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”
You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”
He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”
“Bullshit.”
He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.
You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”
“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”
You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”
“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”
He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”
He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”
Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.
“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”
That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”
He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.
And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.
The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer.
He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”
You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.
He thinks about that for a moment.
“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.
You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.
He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”
You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”
He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.
It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.
It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.
He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.
You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.
You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…
All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.
He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.
You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.
J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…
Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”
He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”
Autopsy scar. Fuck.
“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”
He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”
He nods, likely relieved.
You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.
You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”
“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”
You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”
You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”
He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”
You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..
There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.
He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.
You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”
He pauses before telling you, “A cemetery.”
You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”
He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”
“Yeah, I’d say.”
“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.
You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.
He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.
He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”
You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.
You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.
Huh.
Must be official.
🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨
Actually girlhood is being obsessed with a specific historical tragedy when you were like 9
BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
MOODBOARD · AO3
A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.
Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.
Or: the live-in masseuse au
tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings
The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly.
He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates.
It never quite goes away though.
And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag.
This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on.
It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.
But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.
There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year.
It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester.
But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.
Odd.
Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.
Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.
His key still works though. Fancy that.
He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up.
You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.
He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”
Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry.
He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat.
You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”
The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else.
“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!”
Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place.
You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run.
“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door.
When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.
“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”
On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom.
What a bloody headache.
He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”
“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite.
Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?”
“I have a knife!”
Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there.
“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again.
Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open.
You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat.
The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be.
He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”
“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”
“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod.
“Yes.”
“Show me then,” he orders.
And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.
“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable.
“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.
“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?”
His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.
“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”
“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten.
“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”
“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism.
It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you.
“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.
For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him.
Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.
“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.
“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner.
No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.
“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically.
“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.
“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”
“Me neither, birdie.”
He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in.
There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time.
The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale.
Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.
In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.
“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”
He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back.
Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for.
“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone.
The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.
His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out.
He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.
“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face.
“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”
“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling.
You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”
He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”
“Oh. ‘Til when?”
“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more.
You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”
“Your cousin live around here?”
You hesitate. “No.”
“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”
“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”
While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial.
“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says.
“Fine.”
The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year.
He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.
He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway.
What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.
Cohabitation is—
Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect.
It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy.
But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this.
You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him.
Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room.
“I’m a masseuse.”
“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes.
“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat.
“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch.
“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words.
He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”
You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin.
For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for.
A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though.
Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.
When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.
Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you.
And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone.
The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds.
His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what.
Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.
When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear.
Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done.
Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.
In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter.
Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed.
At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away.
Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.
You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot.
“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart.
“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor.
That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more.
“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket.
He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed.
In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours.
So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.
But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.
In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent.
It’s an idea, at least.
He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults.
The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you.
He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find.
“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.
“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.
“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?”
He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.
“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder.
Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”
You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.
His nose itches because the world is changing.
He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.
That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.
Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it.
“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table
“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth.
Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.
He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook.
What really ticks him off though is that—
he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices
—you keep getting away with it.
The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.
“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business.
Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”
You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”
“Well, it is.”
“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”
How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside.
“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table.
“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.
And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.
Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open.
But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely.
He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits.
“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset.
“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to.
That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.
You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”
Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else.
He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.
Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.
When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA.
Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip.
“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward.
“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”
Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.
“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?”
He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”
“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”
Ghost doesn’t answer.
Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”
“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”
“Didn’t say that.”
Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”
Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?
It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry.
In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat.
He has some nascent idea of where this is going.
As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”
In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence.
All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face.
Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face.
It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism?
Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed.
One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches.
His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch.
He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight.
“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap.
You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist.
Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?
Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base.
His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.
You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him.
“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”
He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”
“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness.
His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”
A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room.
He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.
The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off.
Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put,
“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly.
He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips.
You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back.
He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest.
“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?”
Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV.
“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says.
“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”
Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises?
He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.
One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things.
He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.
You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—”
Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable.
You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him.
Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.
Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.
When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue.
“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch.
The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means.
But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.
You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.
“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap.
“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes.
“Calling me fat, sir?”
He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”
Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey.
All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him.
The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn.
The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into.
Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.
Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either.
Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand.
“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word.
Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.
Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.
You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss.
“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open.
It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering.
Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.
“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin.
This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice.
He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way.
“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open.
“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug.
You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.
His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.
He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full.
He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected.
Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you.
“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.
His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.
“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle.
“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten.
“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms.
He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out.
You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face.
“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.
“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”
Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air.
“Simon—” you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place.
He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.
“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”
He means it too.
“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.
Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away.
He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms.
“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.
Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds.
He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.
When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom.
“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?”
The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?”
He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”
The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.
Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice.
“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”
You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”
Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive.
“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.
His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees.
Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.
Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.
In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck.
“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”
Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off.
He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices.
“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again.
And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight.
The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way.
His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always.
The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.
“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”
Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.
If he were a different man, if this was a different world—
No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does.
But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under.
The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air.
A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“Shut up.”
“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”
Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”
And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway.
It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.
You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid.
“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him.
“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”
“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?”
Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity.
Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.
“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open.
Simon doesn’t respond.
You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.
“No.”
When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying.
“It’s ours?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.
Treasure 13 Reaction To Having A Tall Girlfriend (2/2)
I wasn’t able to post both of them because my internet is way too weak so here it is! @kim-junkyuwu
Send in requests! I do reactions, mtl and scenarios for any member!
None of the gifs belong to me, so all credit goes to their rightful owners
Jaehyuk:
Someone tell me why tf there aren’t any gifs of him
Jaehyuk and you would probably model together (idk how tall he is so I’m not sure sorry) if he’s short than it doesn’t matter cause he got the face, if he’s tall then it doesn’t matter cause he still got his face. It’s the same with you -but not with your face- with your personality, he fell for your personality, he fell for who you are, he didn’t fall because of your physical appearance. If you were tall, he would love you, if you were short, he would love you. But if Jaehyuk saw people writing mean comments about you, boy would he get worked up, he would become mad at first, thinking “these people are just jealous” and then he would become sad “why would anyone say that about anyone.” Because of these comments he would be extra careful to make sure you know you’re gorgeous cause YOU ARE GORGEOUS.
Asahi:
He looks so cute in the gif uwu
I know that Asahi is on the shorter side (idk how short sorry) Now it has been mentioned before that Asahi barely has any facial expressions, Seunghun called him a handsome wall lmao, even when the jtrainees sang happy birthday he didn’t show any reaction. But he isn’t like that when he comes to you, other than his family, you are the only one that can make him smile, like if someone mentions your name this boy will go all soft. Now if he had someone come up to him and say something like “your girlfriend is too tall it’s disgusting” no one would be that ugly to say that pls bare with me he would reply back with “isn’t it disgusting that you’re so insecure, you hate on another just to feel better?” He would say it with such a emotionless face that the person who said that would end up reevaluate what the purpose of this world is WOW HIS IMPACT. So basically he wouldn’t care, he loves you, no doubt about it.
Yedam:
Head. Over. Heels. You know his song ‘Black Swan’? Yeah he was thinking of you when he wrote that. He just loves you, anyone can tell he loves you. Now Yedam is around 5’7 so he is shorter and he is the type to get flustered if you wear heels because he never actually realises how tall you actually are, he’s always been fascinated by how amazing your personality is and how you two get along so well, he has never actually even thought about your height, it’s just never crossed his mind. Y’all would sorta be like John Legend and Chrissy Teigen, you’re his gorgeous model-like girlfriend and he’s this amazing singer-songwriter, and he writes songs about you all the time, he puts some of the songs out to the public and some of the songs are so special that it’s just for your ears only.
Doyoung:
I’m only a month older than doyoung and he’s achieved so much more than me, what am I doing with my life ok moving on! Doyoung would love how tall you are, “like zamnnnn, you see that long legged creature over there? No not the giraffe, I mean my girlfriend” idk I feel like he would try and be slick and try to compliment you but it would end up like that ^ Doyoung is shy, even if y’all have been dating for years he would still be shy. You kiss his cheek? Blushing mess. You compliment him? Blushing mess. But he definitely would be the type to show off to the world, he would constantly be taking pictures of you (with and without your knowledge) most of them are full body pictures because sis you got great proportions and he probably has a whole album dedicated to you, loves it when you take his phone and spam it with selfies. Like the others he wouldn’t care that your taller than him (he’s 5’8) and he wouldn’t care if you wore heels. He’s just uwu about you.
Haruto:
Haruto is still pretty young and I feel like he’ll grow and become as tall as 180cm or even taller maybe, I just know he has a bit of growing left. So right now he’s 5’9 not much of a difference. Just like Junkyu and his gf. You and Haruto would be THAT couple, paparazzi be taking pictures of you two left and right, you too would probably get so many modelling contracts OOF THE POWER but haruto would be the type to compete with yours and his height, “I grew a centimetre, I’m the taller one now!” And then you would be like “Nope, I grew another centimetre also” y’all would be competing about your heights wow, would be the type to challenge you to a milk drinking competition (bc apparently milk makes you taller) after that competition both of you had upset stomachs for a whole week, now the older members supervise you just in case you do it again, because you and him WOULD do it again. With Haruto you wouldn’t be insecure about your height, like Haruto doesn’t even have to say anything to make sure you know he doesn’t care about your height. It’s the little things like the milk drinking competition and the constantly measure each other’s height that makes you know he doesn’t care and the thing is, is that he doesn’t even realise it himself that he’s doing these making sure you know he doesn’t care, he’s still young so he might be a bit oblivious.
Jeongwoo:
Jeongwoo is currently 5’7 and I do believe he will grow taller, just not as much as Haruto. He would be the such a cutie about your height, like “wow, that’s my girlfriend? I got lucky” when he sees a picture that you posted on your Instagram. Or if you two are gonna go on a date he’ll be like “I must’ve saved the world in my past life” he says the comments so naturally, they just flow out of his mouth, he loves you and he wants you to know he loves you. But I feel like if he read any mean comments about your height and you did aswel, he would be the type to drag himself down aswell, “if you’re ugly than I must be shreks brother” like he says it with the intention of making you laugh but he unconsciously brings himself down too :( so whoever jeongwoos girlfriend is PLEASE LET HIM KNOW HES PERFECT. Now he is young but I feel like he would notice if you were insecure, and he would always get so upset, your what makes him happy and the thing that makes him happy isn’t happy? Anyways, he ain’t afraid to show his love for you, uwu.
Junghwan:
There’s only one gif of him wtf He’s 5’8 and he’s still really really young so he has ALOT of growing to do, he’s 13 omg. Cause he’s so young I feel like he’ll grow as tall as 180cm and probably even taller. Moving on, I think he’s still too young to even focus on things like height, you two are really young so you probably started out as friends and then became best friends and then started dating each other wow I still haven’t dated yet cause you guys are so young the members would really dote on you two a lot, constantly looking after you two and buying you guys food. He’s still a kid and I don’t think he would think you would be insecure about your height, and if you were he probably wouldn’t know how to react, so he probably would go and ask the older members for some advice.
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