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eddiemunsons80sbaby · 9 months

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Easy Like Sunday Morning

Pairing: JoeQuinnXFemReader

Request: No pressure but can I request joe Quinn x reader we're it's Joe's day off and he wants to spend the day in bed with reader can it fluff maybe with some smut 🫣

18+ Only

The morning sun struck your eyes and you turned your face, burying it against the warmth next to you to avoid the offending rays. Arms came around you, pulling you in close, you gladly allowing it, melting into the comfort of your boyfriend. Your cheek rested against his skin and you were fading back into sweet oblivion with each rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, still slumbering deeply.

An hour later, you stirred again, the sun was now past the point of offensively glaring through the blinds. You made to roll away but iron arms held you tightly, refusing to let you go. Glancing up, you noticed the smirk that lifted the corner of your boyfriend’s mouth, letting you know that he was no longer asleep and was very aware of what he was doing right now.

A soft sigh fell from your lips as you soaked in the sight of him against the pillow. Soft brown curls that felt so good between your fingers, mussed and wild after a night of sleep. Long lashes rested on his cheekbones, lids concealing those beautiful eyes from you, eyes the color of a soothing cup of a tea after a long day. Full lips, damn they were so perfect, molding to yours, devouring you like a delectable dessert. You ran your finger along every feature of his face as you just laid and admired him.

A hand caught your wrist, bringing your palm to his mouth, planting a kiss in the very center, “What are you doing, love?”

“Just thinking about how goddamn beautiful you are,” you replied softly, “and wondering how I got to lucky that I get to be the one to call you mine.”

Joe’s head rolled on the pillow, sleepy eyes opened, and there they were, those brown eyes dancing with amusement as he booped your nose, “You’re absurd.”

“Nope, am not,” you insisted, resting your chin on his chest. “Trust me, I am by far not the only woman in the world who thinks you’re perfect. You’d think you’d realize that by now.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes, “Please, they’re absurd too. I am just some normal bloke from London. I’m not Brad Pitt or something.”

“No, you’re better,” you grinned, pushing off with your toes to get closer to his face. “Brad Pitt, who?”

You pressed your lips to his and his arms came around you, rolling you onto your back as he laughed, a rumble deep within his chest that you could feel vibrating through your entire body. Pressing his fists into the mattress on either side of your head, he gazed down at you with the most adoring expression. It was hard to doubt how Joe felt about you when he looked at you like that, like you were the most precious thing in the entire world to him. You cradled his face in your hands, running your thumbs over the short beard he was sporting.

“So, what should we do today?” you asked with an eager smile. “A whole Sunday to ourselves…nothing on your calendar. What would you like to do with your hours of free time, Mr. Quinn?”

Those lips curved into a mischievous grin before he ducked his head, nose running along the line of your jaw. “I want to do bugger-all, darling, but lie in this bed with you all day.” His nose followed the line of your throat. “We can watch movies, order in, and just lie around all day. But there is one thing I would like to do with my free time.” Joe’s teeth raked over your neck, his hand tracing the curves of your body, slipping under the sheet, fingers moving along your ribs. “How does that sound, beautiful?”

“Perfect,” you gasped as his fingers grazed your breasts, thumb moving over your nipple, teasing it into a hard, firm peak.

Your fingers moved through his hair, gripping as his lips traveled along your body, moving ever south, dragging the sheet down as he exposed each inch to his lips, tongue, and teeth. Everywhere they touched ignited your body, tiny fire licking at your skin, scorching you, your center aching with need.

Joe’s fingers slid your folds as his teeth nipped at flesh, leaving love bites, marks that you would marvel at later in the mirror, flushed with the confirmation that you were his. When he circled your clit, you cried out, hips rolling.

“Does that feel good, darling?” Joe asked softly, kissing his way back up your body.

“Yes,” you whispered, one hand still tangled in his hair when his tongue ran along your lower lip and you opened yourself up to him completely, allowing him to invade your body, willing to give him complete access, whatever he wanted.

Joe’s fingers expertly teased, circling, rubbing, flicking, squeezing as you gasped and writhed beneath him. His nose nuzzled over your cheek, his lips pulled your earlobe, teasing it between his teeth before he whispered, “That’s it, darling. I fucking love the noises you make.”

“Joe,” you whimpered, your hips now rocking on their own, out of your control, your body seeking the release it so desperately needed.

He reached out, grabbing your chin with his free hand, turning your face to his, “Look at me, love. I want to watch you lose control. You’re close, aren’t you darling?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m so close…I’m so…shhhiiiittt! Joe!”

Your hips bucked off the bed, back arching, your mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your body shuddered through your release. Joe was right at your ear, praising you, whispering, as if you had any control of what your body did in this moment.

“So good for me, darling. Fuck, you’re stunning when you fall apart for me.”

And then he was pulling you into his body, your back pressed against his chest, his cock pressing into you, filling you, stretching you before you’d even completely come down from your high. The sensation was ever more heightened as your walls continued to pulse, this time with something to grip around.

Your fingers grabbed onto the sheet, clawing, desperate for purchase as Joe gripped your hip, rocking up into you. He grunted, rutting deep within, hitting that space inside you that had your vision going white before your eyes.

“Fuck, love, you feel so good,” he groaned, pressing deep within and stilling, fingertips pressing hard against the flesh of your hip. “So bloody good…Jesus…”

Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, needed him to move, to do something, he did. Joe’s hips rocked again, harder and faster, his pelvis smacking audibly against your ass. His hand slid from your hip, along her stomach, coming to cup your breast, gripping it like a handhold as he thrust forcefully. You could hear his breath, ragged and raspy in your ear as he wrapped himself around you, letting you know he was close.

“Darling…shit…damn…Jesus…” he muttered, a string of curses brushing over the shell of your ear. His hips came crashing against yours once, twice, and the third time he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly against him as he filled you with his release, his body trembling around you. He gasped, brushing the hair from your neck, burying his face there. “Jesus Christ…fuck me…”

You giggled, nestling yourself into him, still buried deep inside you, thinking you wouldn’t mind staying like that for a while, just being connected at the most intimate level possible. He nuzzled against your neck, rumbling, a deep satisfied sound.

“Mmm…you hungry, darling? Want me to make us some breakfast in bed?”

“Yes please,” you nodded, turning your head to kiss his lips.

“Alright, coming right up. Got to get some sustenance and some caffeine, build that strength back up before round two, huh?”

He rose from the bed, completely naked and not caring, shooting you a wink before heading in the kitchen. You laid there, head on the pillow, admiring your boyfriend’s cute ass as he walked away, once again asking how you got so damn lucky to call that yours.

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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year

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cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 1/3

I wasn’t going to write more, but then I was like “okay what if…” and then this story was born. I’m splitting it into parts because this bitch lengthy as hell.

This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic. A spiritual part 3, if you will.

Rating: Mature (Explicit Language, violence, blood/injuries)

Fic warnings: hurt/comfort, tending to injuries, touch!starved ghost, mentions of murder/suicide (not related to main characters), unplanned pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, forced proximity (haha bitches u gotta live together), injuries/discussions of lack of mobility, canon-typical violence/consequences, reader goes feral to protect ghost, then he goes feral to protect her, mutual respect, lovers to soulmates.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

Summary: Soap’s been shot. Price makes the call to bring him to a safe house occupied by an old associate. And when Lt. Ghost crashes into your orbit again, your treasured secret is revealed, and the aftermath inspires you to ask him to follow you into the light.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Soap shouts before he collapses into the muddy marsh. Ghost whirls around to provide cover. The ricocheting gunfire and Johnny’s desperate, pained breath in his earpiece fills his head. A migraine pounds behind his eyelids. They’re exposed. They’re sitting fucking ducks out here.

Ghost yells, “get up, Johnny!”

“I’m fucking tryin’” Soap grits out. He crawls through the mud and his leg drags uselessly and heavy behind him. His temples flare. His mud-streaked face flushes red under the hot Noreth sun. A stinging pain slits across Ghosts’ shoulder. He ignores it.

Ghost returns fire, “Price, tell me we’ve got evac!” He shouts brusquely into his comm. His voice crackles like a dry log. “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

Bloody hell. Ghost crouches into the tall, swaying reeds, his pants are slick with dark earth, and his reflection ripples in the rich, cloudy water before disappearing in a plume of umber. He pulls Johnny’s arm over his shoulders and lifts him from the muck.

“On your feet, soldier.” He barks. The helicopter rains hell from above, covering their exit, as the Humvee’s tires squelch and squeal to a harsh, mud-splattering stop.

He yanks the door open, “Soap’s been hit!”

“How bad?” Price demands.

Soap’s face crumples and he turns his head away from Price’s line of sight. “I can’t feel my leg.”

Fuck.

The tires spin wetly. The truck jolts forward, jostling them, as Price’s boot slams onto the accelerator. Ghost doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. He trusts Price to get them the hell out of here and into safety. The wetland fades into dirt roads and tiny rocks rebound with sharp, tinny pings against the vehicle's undercarriage. Ghost hangs onto the handlebar above and frequently checks behind him.

“You’re bleeding.” Price observes. Shiny wetness glistens across his black sleeve. He doesn’t feel it. His body is thrumming with adrenaline. There is gunfire and grenades in his head.

Ghost glances at his arm. “Superficial.”

“Suit yourself.” The Captain murmurs under his breath. They pass farmland and wetlands. Most of Noreth is contained within these two biomes. It’s flat, and warm, and their winters are mild. Price joked that it wouldn’t be a bad place to retire.

“Still with us, MacTavish?” asks Price while glancing in the rearview toward him.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Good. We’re here.” The truck crests over a small hill and Ghost stiffens at the sight of a woman approaching their vehicle. She raises a hand. Price slows to a stop. There’s a dilapidated barn behind her, its roof caved in, but he notices the flash of a sniper’s scope in the loft. On the side of the barn, a pickup truck is parked, and an obvious metal ladder juts from the truck bed. It feels like a set up. It feels like a trap. He stiffens. His finger poises over the trigger of his pistol.

“Price…” Ghost injects a note of warning into his voice. Where are they? Who is this woman?

“At ease, Ghost.”

She approaches the driver side window. Her head is wrapped in a navy Shayla and her chestnut brown hair peeks from the scarf. The right side of her face is scarred, her brown skin bumpy and ridged.

His chest aches. A phantom pain, an old memory. He doesn’t have a heart. Not even a cold one. He said goodbye to his heart nearly three years ago in a hospital room. But, if he were to think about it, about you, he’d remember your scars. He crushes the thought. He buries it among the rest.

“You’ve gone the wrong way, traveler.” She says, neither unkindly nor kindly. Her walkie-talkie crackles suddenly at her hip.

A voice slices through the static.

“They’re clear. Over.”

The words blind him. He grips the handlebar and his knuckle joints crackle under the pressure. It can’t be. It’s impossible. He must’ve misheard. But he doesn’t make mistakes. It is your voice. It’s you. It’s you, you, you–come back to haunt him, damn him, torment him with a life he cannot have.

You said goodbye. You both did. That was meant to be the end of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You peer through the scope one last time, seeing Ghost, seeing Price, and your heart threatens to detonate your ribs and send your organs flying. You scramble on your stomach, intending to rise and join her, but Samira’s voice comes through the walkie-talkie.

“Three in the vehicle, one wounded. Over.”

You bite your tongue. Ice slithers through your veins, numbing them, and your teeth chatter in your skull. You stop yourself from asking how badly, or where, or whom. Samira is an ex-army medic, and her knowledge greatly outclasses your own. She’s needed. And you are better suited here.

“Go.” You reply, “send Agathi to cover your shift, over.”

“Copy.”

Through the scope, you watch Samira wave at them, but Ghost clambers out of the passenger side. He looks directly into the loft. You nudge and wiggle yourself deeper into the shadows. It’s pointless. Awareness ruptures across your skin in equal parts euphoria and dread. You’ve dreamed of reunions. But that’s all they ever were, all they ever could be. Dreams. Paltry. Insubstantial. They were akin to the stories you created in the cemetery. A way to cope amidst the madness and subterfuge.

You bring the radio to your lips. Below, you can hear Samira arguing with Ghost that he cannot go into the barn because it’s dangerous.

“I bet it’s dangerous alright.” He grouses. You snicker and roll your eyes.

Samira opens her arms to stop him. If the choice is between keeping you safe and helping strangers, then it is no choice at all for her. She will choose you every single time. You know this.

“It’s alright.” You announce into the walkie-talkie. “Go help the others and don’t make me pull rank. Over.”

Samira glares mutinously at the loft. She replies, “we have no rank. But I will go out of the goodness of my heart. Over and out.”

You stifle another laugh. Samira is pretending to be sarcastic and cold, but you know her better than anyone. She’s warm. She cares. You would not be here–you would not be alive–if not for her.

You set the rifle aside, though you are not unarmed as you climb down the rickety, wooden ladder into the decayed, rotting barn. You hear the truck pull away, gravel and dirt kicking up beneath its tires, and you walk toward the sliver of angelic daylight that pours between the large doors. You don’t use the barn door. It’s likely to fall off its hinges if you did. Instead, you push aside several wooden planks nearby and crawl out of the barn. You return the planks to their rightful place and kick grass with the toe of your boot to hide your tracks.

His shadow is the first thing you see. Big and imposing, stretching in the open sunlight, a dark splotch against the overgrown grass. You inhale slowly and prepare yourself.

You meet his eyes for the first time in nearly a year.

The world stops spinning. Or it spins too fast. It’s hard to say. You feel, somehow, both grounded and completely out of orbit. Your throat is painfully dry, uncooperative, and you swallow around the strange tightness before breathing sharply through your nostrils. Ghost is as you remember. You are both relieved by his consistency and saddened by it. The world will change, regimens will rise and fall, ice caps will melt, but Simon will remain immovable and unchanging.

You observe, “you’re wounded.”

“It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

You roll your eyes. You don’t doubt it, but he should know as well as anyone that an injury can get infected without proper treatment. You walk to the parked truck and open the glovebox to remove the first-aid kit. The truck barely runs, but it’s good cover and makes it seem like someone is trying to repair the barn in case any patrols pass by.

“Who else was in the truck?” You ask, setting the kit on the passenger seat and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Soap.”

Your heart freezes. You’re thankful Ghost he cannot read your expression due to your turned back. Your mind flashes with images, with memories of MacTavish. Your time was limited with him, but his kindness and earnestness made a lasting impression.

You cannot stop yourself from asking, “how bad is it?”

“Don’t know.” He replies gruffly.

“Classified?” You venture, glancing over your shoulder to him.

Ghost hooks his thumbs underneath the straps of his tactical vest and shifts his weight. You take his silence as an affirmative. He has no reason to tell you, really. You aren’t part of his task force. You aren’t anything, anymore. Not to him, not to anyone. With that thought firm in mind, you grab the scissors and approach Ghost, your expression calm and neutral.

“May I?”

Ghost nods stiffly. You lift his t-shirt sleeve with your littlest finger and snip away a section of fabric that’s caked and sticky with blood. Thankfully, the wound is little more than a graze. A bullet passed him but did not lodge itself into his skin. You click your tongue and smile archly.

“Lucky.”

“I told you it’d be fine.”

“Not if it gets infected.” You say in a singsong, wiping away blood with an alcohol pad. He doesn’t even wince. You avoid his eyes, focused on the injury, though you can feel Ghosts’ attention burning into the side of your face like an open flame. It doesn’t need stitches. You disinfect the area and tape a piece of gauze. Your touch is careful and practiced and never lingering no matter how badly you want to.

Once finished, you drag your eyes away from the glaring, white square of gauze on his skin and drift toward his skull mask.

He holds your gaze for what feels like a lifetime. You haven’t forgotten the intensity of those dark, mysterious eyes. You recall them in every variation–heavily lidded with lust, intense and serious, suspicious, or dark and narrowed, bright like coffee with sarcastic humor and bad jokes.

Beneath his gaze, Ghost makes you feel as if you are the only object in the universe.

You realize slowly that your fingertips are on his bicep. You tentatively pull your hand away and his muscle jumps reflexively at the absence of your touch.

“It’s good to see you.” You admit softly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. Agathi’s voice comes through your walkie-talkie, informing you that she’ll be there in a minute, and that she’s bringing along Kaja, so you can speak with ‘Mr. Price.’

You laugh when Agathi calls him ‘Mr.’ instead of Captain. Ghost’s breath hitches in his throat.

You respond, biting your lip to stop your smile, “copy that. Over and out.”

Your stolen moments of reunion with Simon beside the barn dwindle like dry tumbleweeds across the desert. You are grateful for whatever little time you have considering you never expected to see him again. Yet, you are selfish and wishing you could have more time.

You organize and store the first-aid supplies, tucking your bloody gloves in your back pocket to throw them away once you’re in the house. Ghost says nothing. He watches you. If it were anyone else–you’d bark at them for leering, for being creepy, but this is Ghost, it’s Simon. You are – intimately - comfortable with his gaze on you. A sudden flush of heat burns your ears.

Agathi rounds the corner with Kaja behind her. Agathi is nearly six feet tall and seeing her next to Ghost is impressive and it puts his massive height into perspective. Her hair is short and blonde, and her striking blue eyes are hidden behind her large, dark aviator sunglasses. Kaja is younger than Agathi and a foot shorter. She is olive-skinned and has dark, ruffled hair that lays across her head like a raven’s nest.

“Whoa.” Kaja says when she sees Ghost, then looks to you quizzically, “he a friend of yours?”

You nod. “Old friend.”

“You said all your friends were dead.” Agathi says. She is less welcoming than Kaja and rightfully distrustful.

You smile at her. “They are.”

Agathi scoffs and pushes her sunglasses up at her nose with two fingers. She doesn’t say anything when she walks away from you, but you can feel suspicion radiating from her. However, the task force is under your protection, and she won’t do anything to anyone beyond sneering. Kaja watches you leave with awe on her youthful face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After ten minutes of silence, you see your haven in the distance.

“Agathi has two boys. Sven and James.” You announce. “Try not to brood so much and scare them.” Ghost’s footsteps are light beside yours and you move like wraiths down the dusty road.

“That’s risky.” He intones, voice deep and scratchy.

You whip your face toward his, frowning. There is risk to everything, you think. But you know Agathi. You trust her. You care for her. You know Ghost isn’t judging her, only taking the intel he has, and drawing a pragmatic conclusion. Noreth is at war and traveling with multiple people–especially children–increases the overall danger. Still, despite knowing this, you cannot help but defend her.

“What? Was she meant to leave them behind?” You shove your curled fists into your pockets. You made a similar decision six months ago. Although, in retrospect, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

“Besides,” you continue, your tone and face hot, the sun beating down on the back of your neck like someone’s gaze. “It’s easier to think of this place as a sanctuary. A temporary place for refugees to recover before they continue onward.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“Since Al-Qunbar then.”

You wince at his steel-trap memory. Nothing slips by Ghost. Six months ago, you fled Al-Qunbar and settled into Noreth with Samira’s help. The recent conflict between East and West Noreth has torn asunder all the comfort and stability your little ragtag family found.

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“And is this what the agency has you doing?” He motions with his chin toward the house, “running a safe haven?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth, worrying flesh between your teeth, and shrug noncommittally.

The agency no longer owns you. No one does. You wish you could celebrate this with him, but you don’t know what his reaction will be. Will he call you a coward and say you are abandoning your country? Or will he be grateful that you’re no longer in the line of fire? That you're no longer puppeteering diplomats and manipulating powers beyond your ken? If you explained your reasoning, explained why, would he understand? Or would he hate you for keeping secrets?

He doesn’t press for more information, and you don’t try to fill the silence with idle chatter. You’re reminded of your long, quiet treks through the fresh snow in Russia. Your face tucked in your scarf, the air bright and sharp, the sky a delirious blue like chlorine above your heads. You’d walk for hours without saying anything.

You watch two birds’ flit across a sky of cotton ball shaped clouds. You hope the conflict and fighting will not reach you, but you know it’s a foolish dream. Your lips twist in a chagrined smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your safe haven consists of two buildings. The first is a two-story house with a front porch, bulletproof glass windows, and peeling, chipped green paint. There is laundry strung up on the line and it flaps like an elephant’s ear. The second building is smaller, the size of a studio apartment, the roof is squat and flat, and the brown paint appears baked-on from the distance. Price’s vehicle is parked outside alongside Kaja’s pet project motorcycle—still in pieces. The infirmary is sequestered and guarded from the main house. A necessary precaution for privacy and sustainability.

Despite the soundproofing and the roaring generator for electricity, you hear Price’s voice. You grimace, looking back at Simon briefly, before opening the door.

“And I’m telling you,” Samira exclaims, “I will not move him! He must not be moved!”

“I need him out of this zone in order to extract him.” Price says.

“He cannot go!” Samira’s dark brown eyes meet yours. “Talk sense into your old Captain,” She gestures impatiently with both hands. A bloody blue smock covers her clothes and a surgical mask dangled from one ear.

You ask, “what happened?”

Samira debriefs you. Soap was shot in his lower back. She managed to remove the bullet, but she suspects moderate to severe nerve damage, and he’ll need physical therapy included in his recovery plan if he wants to walk again. Price wants to remove him and return him to Scotland.

However, Samira explains he’ll need to wait a minimum of four weeks before traveling overseas, otherwise he’ll risk blood clotting and other complications. Although Price is willing to honor and uphold the secrecy of your haven and not request a direct evacuation–he wants to drive Soap to a safe zone and have him evacuated from there.

“He stays.” Samira says sternly, “or he dies.”

Price looks at Ghost and you.

“Lt, can I talk to you outside?”

You step aside to let them pass and approach Samira. You expression pinches in worry and you touch her shoulder. Your stomach binds itself into knots. In your mind, you see Soap smiling and crossing his arms after you defeated him in a card game, your heart alive with mirth for the first time in years.

You peel your words free like dried, white crafting glue, “is he going to be alright?”

“That’s mostly up to him right now.” Samira sighs, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. About two months ago, a refugee died on Samira’s operating table from an ill-fated bullet wound. You hope that Soap isn’t as unlucky. Your eyes dart to the window to Soap and Price, talking with their heads bent low, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“Can we move him to the house?”

Samira nods. “In a few hours, yes.”

“Good. I don’t like it when everyone is spread out.”

You wait until Ghost and Price are finished before offering to take them into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two blonde boys run out of the front door toward you. One has the gawkish and long-limbed awkwardness of a teenager, his pale face is dotted with pimples, his smile is wide and crinkles the skin around his clear, blue eyes. You open your arms and the smaller, younger one leaps into them. His blonde hair shines golden beneath the sun. You spin him in a circle, and he giggles, delighted. Ghost is momentarily stunned.

When was the last time he heard a child laugh? His expression stiffens. His breath shudders and fans through his mask. You set the boy down. His big, curious blue eyes look past you and toward Price and him.

“James, this is Ghost.” You gesture to him, “and this is Captain Price.”

“Like a boat captain?” asks James.

“Something like that.” Price responds warmly.

You introduce the teenager as Sven. Agathis’ boys clearly and obviously adore you. While walking to the door, James holds your hand and prattles endlessly about a ‘dragon game’ that he and his brother are playing. Your replies are warm, attentive, and genuinely curious about his make-believe game. He wonders if it’s an act. Another layer of subterfuge, to make the residents of this place feel welcome and safe, all part of your role—whatever that may be. But the moment the thought passes his mind, he dismisses it.

There is something to you that didn’t exist before. The light you carried within has changed, it has shifted, and he doesn’t know if anyone else can see it. He doubts Price notices it. The scathing, self-loathing part of him entertains the idea that you’ve fallen in love with someone. That would explain the lightness to your step and the glowing warmth of your smile. He roughly shoulders the dark thoughts to another dusty corner of his mind.

“And you, you’d be a red dragon.” James says knowingly, his voice filled with innocent wisdom.

You laugh. He wants to get drunk on that sound – your laugh. It bubbles inside his veins like dry, expensive champagne. It heats his skin like a good sunburn. He can endure any level of torture as long as he has your laughter playing on a loop within his mind.

“Why red?”

James clarifies, “because red dragons are strong! A-and they have magic fire powers.”

“Ah!” You chuckle, “that makes sense.”

James asks, “will you play with us after dinner?”

You don’t even pause to think about it. “Of course!”

The front door leads into a sitting room with overstuffed, stripey couches and black iron wood stove with a thick column that feeds into the wall. Next to it, a narrow kitchen is painted robin’s egg blue. A small, ancient white fridge is humming in the corner and the oven has several knitted washcloths dangling from its handle.

The light fixtures are barren, their sockets empty or completely removed from the walls their thin wires exposed like intestines. The file on Noreth comes to his mind. Earlier in the conflict, families blacked out their houses with dark, heavy curtains or bedsheets, or removed their lights to hide from the air raids. However, the aerial risk has since vanished now that Noreth’s only airport is smoldering ruins.

He imagines you efficiently pinning up curtains and unscrewing lightbulbs. He wonders if you said anything to the children, offered them explanations, or words of comfort. His tongue tingles like he’s pressed it to a live battery charged with a thousand questions.

Price is engaging you in conversation, and your voice is amicable, but your body language is guarded. He notices you – more than once – avoid a pointed question and maneuver around it like an Olympic figure-skater. Topics like Noreth’s political climate or the safety measures at the house are encouraged, but any personal questions about yourself or the other women living at the haven are swiftly evaded. Ghost stands near the door, watching through the window toward the road and he occasionally looks at you or the two boys building a puzzle on the living room floor.

“You’re confident then?” Price is saying, “Samira can handle Soap’s recovery?”

“I trust Samira with my life.” You say, steadfast and poised. Ghost’s molars gnash and he averts his gaze. Jealousy burns like acid reflux in his gut. “If I had any reservations whatsoever about her abilities then I would argue against her call.”

“You have everything you need for him?” Price prompts. Ghost almost wants to give him shit for being overbearing like an old, nervous mother hen. He checks out the window. All clear. Samira paces outside the infirmary, smoking. He finds that wonderfully ironic. A doctor who smokes. He scowls. Who is Samira to you? Do you trust her because of your circumstance? Or because you’re teammates? Or has something happened between you?

You respond, “yes.”

Price sighs heavily like the air inside his lungs is a physical object that he can lift and carry around.

“Samira says she’ll move him in a few hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

Price grins, “and stay for dinner?”

“It gives us a reason to take out the nice, fancy plates.” You smile easily. Ghost greedily traces the lines of your mouth from his peripheral vision. He can savor it when your smile isn’t direct at him. He wishes he could pull you aside, speak privately, but this isn’t a job where something as childish as wishes get granted.

He realizes he can’t stay in this room, listening to Price make small talk, hearing the soft murmuring and excited chatter of the children on the carpet. He needs to be useful otherwise his temper will shorten, and his mood will sour like curdled milk.

He says to Price, “I’m goin’ to check the perimeter.”

“Copy that, Lt.” Price nods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You chop onions for the soup stock and your vision blurs with tears. Through the blinking, wet haze, you see Price regard you with warm familiarity and steady, quiet gentleness.

“It’s good to see you alive, Lux.” He says softly. “Seems like I made the right call.”

Your chest warms. It’s nice to see his face and talk to him again despite the shitty circumstance.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?” You joke to hide how deeply his comment affected you. You’re happy to have the onions as an excuse for the tears strolling down your cheeks.

He laughs. His white teeth flash and his eyes are enfolded by mirthful wrinkles. “At ease, solider.”

You wipe your wet eyes and glance toward the door that Ghost exited through. Price’s eyebrow notches upward and he leans his arms on the countertop. Your scalp prickles. You suddenly feel like a teenager caught passing a note to their crush in class. His perceptive eyes narrow and the unsaid question lingers in the onion-smelling air between you.

“He’s the same.” You explain quietly, shrugging.

“He’s not,” says Price.

You occupy your hands by scooping the chopped onions into a large soup pot and avert your eyes from Price. You aren’t sure if this is a conversation you’re supposed to have or meant to have. Ghost is private. It feels wrong – no – it feels treacherous to talk about him when he’s not in the room.

“You and MacTavish.” Price continues without prompting, “you’ve changed him for the better, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, “that’s good.” You say it like you’re commenting on the weather. You shove as much nonchalance into your tone to make it boring. Ordinary. But your mind spins wildly on its axis. Ghost has changed on some level because of you. And it was noticeable enough to catch the attention of his superior officer, someone who has known him for years. You wonder if it’s the same for you. You wonder if Price can see Ghosts’ fingerprints all over your skin. Wordlessly, you tuck your moth charm necklace inside your shirt.

The necklace isn’t your only secret connection to Ghost. There is a more precious, more sacred secret. And he’s sleeping upstairs. You imagine telling Price about him, but immediately disregard the idea. There’s no guessing what Price’s reaction would be. Or Simon’s. No. It’s safer for everyone if he remains a secret. Your heart aches with foolish, idyllic longing to walk outside and talk to Simon and pour out every feeling you’ve bottled over the past six months.

You redirect the conversation away from Ghost and shelve your deep, complicated feelings aside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he returns hours later, you are peeling potatoes. He admires your skilled, careful hands and the sunset behind you frames you in butterscotch gold and hazy yellow.

A memory hits his skull like a stun grenade. In Russia, you skinned a rabbit in front of him and he called you a ‘proper boy scout’. You laughed, your head thrown back, your hands red and slimy. He thinks that might’ve been the moment his heart started to thaw.

Samira says something to you in her native tongue. You reply with a faux-serious expression but then your eyes crinkle and your smile runs the facade. Is this what you’ve been up to? Making soup and hiding in old barns?

Steam rises and billows from the pot around your face like a cloud. You tap the wooden spoon rhythmically against the rim. His heart squeezes like a fist. Price and Soap talk lowly in the sitting area, Soap in a wheelchair, Price leaning his hip against the arm of the sofa with his muscular arms crossed and his face drawn.

The domesticity of this moment should frighten him, it should fill him with self-loathing, yet all he feels is keening, sharp yearning. This could be any kitchen in the world. It hurts to look at you. It feels like heartburn. He balls his fingers into fists.

Price’s words come unbidden to his mind: “You need to stay here,” he said.

“What d’you mean?” Ghost said, scowling behind his mask.

“Noreth is a war zone. I can’t pull Soap out, so you need to stay here and look after him.”

“You’re kidding.” Ghost deadpans.

“Not counting ourselves, there are only two individuals on this farm that have combat training.” He knew Price was talking about you, so it was either Samira or Agathi who had experience, though he didn’t know which.

Price said, “There are few he’d trust with his life, Simon. But I know you’re one of them.” He couldn’t argue with that. He’d stay. Even if he didn’t have much say in the matter.

Sven shouts from the staircase, “Lukas is awake from his nap! Can I bring him down?”

“Yeah!” You reply, your words followed by an easygoing smile. His gaze flickers back to the staircase at the sound of Sven’s careful, yet loud footfalls.

Sven carries a toddler in his arms that must be his youngest brother. He guesses his age is somewhere around 2 or 3 based on size alone. You mentioned Agathi had boys. Plural. It’s hard to imagine a mother of three crossing hostile territory, but he supposes anything is possible within the right circumstance. When you defended Agathi, your voice was filled with flushed pride and indignation like you were scolding him for being uncouth. His lips press together under his mask. He missed that—your spark. No one has a bite quite like yours.

The boy’s cherubic face is more solemn than bashful Sven or inquisitive, talkative James. And his big, round brown eyes must’ve been inherited from his father (who is likely dead, Ghost assumes, since there’s no one else at the safe house).

Sven settles the child onto the carpet and passes him a red toy truck.

“Beep beep!” He proclaims. His voice deepens to rumble the car across the wooden floorboards.

You ask from the kitchen, “Lukas, what do you want for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes!” Lukas replies and his smile dimples his chin.

Samira rolls her eyes. Her lips twitch, and her sideways pose, and half-smile remind Ghost of a coyote.

“Naturally,” says Samira.

“He likes what he likes.” You say breezily.

You divide the soup into neutral toned bowls and Samira helps you hand them out. Price accepts the meal with a grateful smile. Soap complains about how little Samira has given him and she primly responds that he’s likely to throw up as a side effect to medication, so he ought to eat in small portions.

The soup bowl is between your hands like a tender, reverent offering.

He declines with a small and curt shake of his head. He ate an MRE during his walk-about of the property. He doesn’t have the stomach for anything else. He never could eat much on missions. He ate enough to keep him coherent, keep him sharp, but that was it.

“My cooking’s not that bad, is it?” You say with a teasing, familiar lilt to your voice.

He shifts his weight. His rifle, a comfortable weight, nudges between his shoulder blades. “Sod off.” He grumbles. Your eyes brighten followed by your smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He glances to the rest of the room. Everyone else is talking or eating. No one is paying attention to this corner. Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes infinitesimally. He feels his jaw unclench, the sensation miniscule yet poignant, as he regards you.

“Quit fishin’ for compliments.”

“Can’t blame a gal for seeking a little praise.” You cover your lips over your spoon, slurping, and mischief illuminates your expression. He watches you. Something low and aching and hardly forgotten comes to life and unfurls in smoldering heat. If you were alone—God help him—if you were alone…

He inclines his head ever-so-slightly, his voice deep and rumbling and dangerous, “consider it noted.”

Samira calls to you in her language. It grates at him. Is Samira trying to hide something? Does Price know what she’s saying? How much can they really trust anyone here? You’re quick to reply and you sidle over to her and Sven, though you switch the conversation to English.

His jaw tightens. You might suddenly come under fire from an ambush. He peers out the window. All clear. The walkie-talkie at your hip is silent. Price looks relaxed. You look relaxed.

However, it doesn’t mollify his sense of paranoia. The flatlands of Noreth are too exposed for his liking.

The property is filled with tall, thin reeds similar to switch or cord grass. It’s massive enough to camouflage his height if he crouches and he suspects the boy—James—can get completely lost in it. But the spongy earth makes it difficult to travel on foot and the lonely safehouse isn’t fenced in.

Thankfully, he did find an all-terrain vehicle covered by a mottled brown and green tarp which meant you had some evacuation plan if things went south. He glances sideways out the window again. All clear.

Johnny pushes on the wheels of his wheelchair toward him and he nearly knocks into Ghost’s heavy combat boots. He balances his empty soup bowl on his thighs. The heat and warm food has flushed Johnny’s neck and cheeks to a soft, dusty pink. It’s good to see some color on him. He was too pale and ashen on the drive to the safehouse.

He’s changed out of his tactical gear. He’s wearing an ill-fitting gray jumper and sweatpants. He assumes the clothes are from Samira because they didn’t bring their full kits. This mission wasn’t supposed to be overnight. Now they’d be stuck for a minimum of four weeks.

“I guess we’ll be here for a bit, Lt.”

“Looks like it.”

Following the abrupt, wheezing sound of your laughter, Soap tilts his head over his shoulder to you, then returns his gaze to Ghost.

“I know Price asked you to stay, but you don’t have to.” Soap begins, “I’ll make a quick recovery. And they need you in the field, running operations, not sitting here playing guard dog.”

Ghost shakes his head slowly.

“Orders came from Price, Johnny.”

“I know.” Soap sighs. He peeks over at you, Samira, and Sven again. Then murmurs quietly to himself, “won’t be all bad, I suppose.”

Ghost pretends like he doesn’t hear and ignores the part of him that agrees.

[ Part Two ]

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #no use of yn #reader insert #simon ghost riley smut #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfic

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a-weird-pokemon-family · 2 years

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Rewriting the Nicktoons Encanto parody I did at some point

Zim: We don’t talk about SpongeBob, no, no, no. We don’t talk about SpongeBob........... BUT! It was my premiere day......

Dib: Zim, it was OUR premiere day....

Zim: I had finished editing and I couldn’t believe my eyes!

Dib: Hey, I saw those fangirls and guys!

Zim: Surrounded by fans, but then SpongeBob walks in.....

Dib: Cancelled!

Zim: Are you going on this rant or am I?

Dib: Well, geez, princess, just go on....

Zim: SpongeBob says the fun won’t last.

Dib: What was that even fo-or?

Zim: Does he have to be an ass?

Dib: Maybe settling the sco-ore?

Zim: Soon our career’s in the past!

Dib: What a tragic day, and that’s why we say-

Zim and Dib: We don’t talk about SpongeBob, no, no, no! We don’t talk about SpongeBob!

Snap: Hey! Knew the sponge ever since I barely started out. I thought I could trust the little guy without a doubt. Now I just associate his words with death (huff, huff, huff). Never knew why his stories keep coming true. All I know is that it’s bad for me and you. Soon, our network will have nothing left, a career’s last breath.

Charlotte: Despite his cute looks, he’s just filthy scum. Even though he’s shifty, he’s only loathed by some. Yeah, he acts like your friend, but only plots your end.

Zim, Dib, Snap, and Charlotte: We don’t talk about SpongeBob, no, no, no! We don’t talk about SpongeBob!

Bessie: He said I would be replaced by ducks who sell bread! (No, no!)

Cat: He told us all about the hate that we’d get!

Ickus: Look at our fan count, then versus now! I wish I was dead! (Hey, hey!)

All: Your fate is sealed once the message has been spread!

Timmy: He told me that I would become a cult classic as the time goes by. He told me my impact would increase through all of the fans that are mine. (Would y’all shut up, he’s on his way!)

Snap: He told me that my fans would all grow up, forget me, leave me for another. I think I see him out there..... hey, guys I see him now! He’s coming now!

Ronnie-Anne: Um, SpongeBob? Yeah, about that, SpongeBob? I really need to know about SpongeBob! I need the truth, the real you, SpongeBob!

Charlotte: Hey guys! SpongeBob’s almost here!

All: Act natural!

(Voices overlapping)

All: Don’t talk about SpongeBob!

Ronnie-Anne: Why did I talk about SpongeBob?

All: Not a word about SpongeBob!

Ronnie-Anne: I never should’ve brought up SpongeBob!

(Idk I was bored)

#nicktoons #nickelodeon #encanto #encanto parody #invader zim #chalkzone #making fiends #the mighty b #catdog #aahhh real monsters #fairly oddparents #the casagrandes

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helladirections · 2 years

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Harry really said Sco Ducks

#yo #is my oregon showing?

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spiritcreekoutfitters · 3 months

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#whitetail hunts #whitetail hunting #hunt

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nonnymousehouse · 9 months

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Another annoying trend that I’ve been seeing pop up in media.

Creators/fans arrogantly saying “We’ve officially made xyz canon now” as though all media has to connect or follow one another.

I’ve seen it happen with Duck*Tales, ST: D*isco, and SNW.

When I read the artbook, Suzanne Olson made a comment akin to “Webby is now Scrooge’s daughter and just as important as Huey, Dewey, and Louie. That’s now official.”

I doubt it was the intention but there’s something so...weirdly scummy about this attitude? Sort of a “Nyeh, nyeh, we made this canon and now all media about Ducks will have to refer to this forever.” Never mind that Duck media (as in everything - the comics, TV shows, video games) is lucky when it can stay consistent on a good day. Plus, they’ve contradicted themselves so many times that it’s kind of a joke. Is Della the twin sister or cousin of Donald? Is her name Della or Thelma? Is she still alive and caring for her husband or dead?

Same goes for fans of ST and how they’ll get weirdly smarmy about ‘having to accept D*sco and SNW as canon.

Because, yes, it’s canon, but ST often goes back and forth on details. Hell, Threshhold on VOY was famously ‘decanonized’ because the episode for so bad until decades later, when people learned to embrace the episode as a funny meme.

Plus, it’s hard to say what shows and stories will be remembered and loved over time. Some may age poorly and some may age well. It’s a crapshoot.

#chu babbles #Again please don't show up in the tags.#I'll censor anything you want.

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chickenhugs · 6 years

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I know that your thing is chickens but I am thinking of getting a pet duck and wanted to know your thoughts?, any advice on birbs??

All birb good birb

#reply #duck advice needed #sco ducks

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mokonazuna · 7 years

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Well im halfway through my graduation…. hot af, and only the department ceremony left

#school stuff #college #sco ducks #zuna speaks

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uotheta · 5 years

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#ducks #uotheta #dads weekend #sco

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throughtheeye · 4 years

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#‘Sco ducks #original photography #oregon

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jilytho · 3 years

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if only in my dreams

Lily has been having some dreams about James but of course that in no way means she has any feelings for him of any kind

Read below or on AO3 or FFNT

The dreams started about a month into October of Seventh Year. They started slow at first and innocent enough, fun little dreams of the Marauders and Lily’s friends all sat near the fire playing Exploding Snap or chatting at dinner. Slowly, however, they started to shift. Instead of it being all of their friends together, they began to focus in on just her and James. Sometimes they were outlandish and artificial the way dreams could be, like the one where she was a star quidditch player and was playing his team but all of the other teammates were octopuses, or the one where Paul McCartney was their Transfiguration Professor. Fun and ridiculous and clearly too dreamlike to be of any real consequence to her but certainly notable. Yet other times they were so completely and utterly simplistic, domestic even. Calm and casual, just them sitting and laughing and holding hands. Everytime one of those occurred, Lily would wake up feeling content, at peace almost. Then the realization set in and the contentment quickly turned to horror. Those were the scariest dreams of all.

After the first few she was able to write them off as a coincidence, simply neurons firing in her brain as a way of dealing with spending so much time with him during the day as co-heads. Especially as they became friends over those first few months, it was really simple and logical, just her brain dealing with him being so present in her life and working it out as she slept. Considering it’d been years of them fighting and screaming, the sudden shift to friendship and laughing was obviously a lot to process.

The dreams didn’t occur every single night, at least not at first, more like once or twice a week at max. Just enough for her to spend some time thinking about them during a boring Ancient Runes class and processing them, but certainly not enough to cause any real worry or concern over her well being.

Even when they increased in frequency, from twice a week to six times a week plus that one time she zoned out and started daydreaming during History of Magic (which didn’t really count because he was sitting next to her and smelled so good of course it was going to leech into her dreams). It wasn’t hard to rationalize those either. It was completely logical that she’d daydream about lying on the Quidditch pitch alongside James, looking up at the stars together, hands intertwined, because after all they had stood near each other in Astronomy that day and he had pointed out Venus’s moons to her. It was natural, truly.

And it wasn’t difficult at all to make the connections between that day at lunch when she’d almost tripped but he’d caught her with a strong arm wrapped around her waist with that evening, when she had dreamt that same arm was wrapped around her tightly as she sat in front of him on the back of his broomstick as they flew over the school.

They were just dreams. Harmless imaginings of the imagination and the kind of stuff that was covered in day one of Petunia’s psychology courses at muggle Uni. Easily explainable and not in anyway shape or form telling of any real emotions she’d possibly be having.

Except that considering how simple and natural some of the dreams felt, she occasionally started mixing up what had happened between dream James and Lily and real life James and Lily. Was it real James or dream James that had brushed her hand while passing a quill in Transfiguration and set a wild blaze of electricity firing all up and down her arm? Did she actually hear real James’s breath hitch when she had brushed against him while reaching for the bottle of scalamander eyelashes during potions? Was it real James or dream James that she had stood so close to, close enough to feel his chest rising and falling against her as they hid from Filch in a cupboard?

It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise (but of course it still was) when the dreams turned a little more… intimate. When instead of dreaming of lunch in the Great Hall, the scene began to shift to lunch in the Three Broomsticks, just the two of them, followed by hand holding through the streets of Hogsmeade.

Friday night escalated things to nightmare level. Lily had been studying in the common room with Dorcas when the team returned from practice, led by James. Sweaty, grass stained, hair mussed, quidditch gear wearing, James. Lily felt her throat tighten and heart accelerate. His eyes landed on her and instantly smirked, nudging Marlene to point them out before the pair of them headed straight towards her.

“Evans, Meadows,” Lily’s mouth was too dry to respond. She nodded weakly as Marlene flopped down next to her and looked at her strangely.

That image of him haunted her, snuck deep into her subconscious, permeated her thoughts and took root there to flood her dreams. Filled them with him, sweaty and red, but for a reason far different from quidditch, leaning over her, whispering into her ear while she gripped his shoulders and left scratches in a trail down his back.

She couldn’t meet his eye the next day at breakfast.

This process seemed to repeat for the next several weeks: notice something about James during her waking hours that her subconscious would latch onto for the evening, wake up embarrassed, flushed, unsatisfied, and try her hardest to ignore him and stop the cycle. She never succeeded.

The night that really ruined her was right after they’d been partnered in defense. When she’d struggled with the incantation and he’d placed his fingers overtop of hers to show the correct positioning. When she felt how strong and flexible his hand was, how warm and long and rough his calloused fingers were. She felt shivers up and down her neck as he breathed closely to her, smelled mint on his breath, smelled the warm musk that was just so James.

All night she twisted and turned in her sleep, feeling those fingers trace up and down her arms, down her chest, twisting and lapping around the valley of her breast, circling each bud, pushing lower and lower, carving out waves of electricity as they squeezed her hips until she could just feel his fingers circling her clit. She could feel the callouses, could see him smirking at her as he’d bring his head down to meet his fingers, following the same trail of his fingers with his mouth, leaving a series of kisses across her skin.

She’d woken in a tangle of sheets sticking to the sweat on her skin, his name on the edge of her lips.

It’d taken a long, ice cold shower, to clear her head successfully. She stood in the freezing water attempting to justify the dream as just a way for her subconscious to deal with the fact that her close friend was decidedly fit. She tried desperately to cling to the idea of the dreams being a symptom of teenage hormones. However, in spite of her most sincere attempts, it was becoming shockingly clear that the dreams were much more a symptom of her real, genuine feelings for James. Romantic feelings. Spurts of butterflies and rampaging elephants that flooded her heart when he smiled. The fact that he could make her feel so on edge with excitement and anticipation when she saw him coming yet also immediately comfortable and the ability to talk to him about anything.

But she missed her chance. He’d been into her before, sure, but that was long over now. He’d essentially told her as much back in September, when he asked for a ceasefire now that they were both Heads. He’d told her he had grown up and would stop asking her out and bothering her if they could be civil, wasn’t that admitting that he’d left any possible romantic feelings for her behind him? He was over her. He was over her and it wasn’t his problem that she’d just now begun to realize how very badly she wanted him, all of him. She’d just get past it too.

How she was going to possibly get over him when his every waking action filtered through her dreams each night was the real issue. Her fingers were beginning to go numb from the frigid water, nearly shaking as she reached to turn the water off.

She wrapped her towel around her tightly, sheltering her like armour as she met her reflection in the mirror. Cheeks still flushed.

“Get over it,” she whispered to herself. She’d avoid him. That was the best solution. The only way to remove him from her dreams was to remove him from her waking moments as well. It’d be hard to avoid him forever, but at the very least she couldn’t be alone with him. Groups would be safer.

XXX

The next several days were difficult. Filled with eyes flitting away, nodding answers to his questions that had clearly been asked to engage in a conversation, ducking into bathrooms as he came down the corridor, and in a moment of absolute desperation brought on when she saw him standing there waiting for her in the doorway after potions, clearly attempting to walk with her which was essentially an ambush, and she had no choice but to strike up a conversation with Slughorn on the merits of using crushed salamander spleens verses the ever controversial chopped spleens. He’d gone on for about six minutes before James had given up and moved on to lunch, Lily counted to thirty before cutting Slughorn off and dashing away.

In the end she lasted three days of almost complete avoidance. He found her in the library. She’d done her best at hiding, choosing to study in the dusty Arithmancy section that maximum one person and one ghost seemed to visit per year and the table needed a solid Scourgify charm before she was able to sit down. She’d made it through half of her Charms essay before his hands slammed down on the table.

“Lily, I need to talk to you.”

His voice was tense and without looking up she could envision his rigid shoulders and sharp jaw looming over her. Her grip tightened on her quill as she set her shoulders and took a breath.

“Little busy right now, can it wait?”

He scoffed and pulled back the chair opposite her. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Not avoiding,” she squeaked, sneaking a glance up to see his gaze locked in on her and quickly averted her eyes back down. “Just busy, very, very busy.”

She could feel the eye roll.

He reached out across the table and closed the textbook she’d been reading from with a thump, forcing her to meet his eyeline with a glare that he unflinchingly met with his own.

“You can’t prove anything,” she crossed her arms across her chest.

“The only proof I needed I got when you suddenly, desperately had to talk to Flitwick about the best technique for forging charms which we all know you mastered three years ago. Or when you needed to discuss that stupid Salamandar debate with Slughorn that was clearly boring even you stale.”

He stated it all dryly, matter of fact, leaving no room for question or debate. They sat there silently for 93 seconds (she counted) as James leaned back in his chair, a vision of casual confidence.

“Fine!” She broke first. “I’m avoiding you. Are you happy? Are we done here now?”

He barked out a laugh, dropping his hands onto the table and folding them together. “We’ll be done when you explain whatever it is I did that made being around me so awful when we were just getting to a place where I thought we were friends, or at the very least capable of being in the same room and having a civil conversation.”

“I think it's time I go.” She pushed all her stuff into her rucksack hastily, hearing an ink well shatter as she did, and practically running to the door. One of the only benefits of the Arithmancy section is that it at least had a fast exit route, away from the main drag of tables, up the side of the aisles. She could hear James scrambling out of his chair and running to catch up with her but she refused to look back, getting as close to running as she could without risking the wrath of Madam Pince.

She was so close to the exit, the taste of freedom on the tip of her tongue. If she could just get out of the library, she could go left out of view and hide in an alcove until he passed or gave up looking. From then it’d be a simple matter of hiding away in her dorm for the next two to six days before she felt capable of facing him. She was rounding the corner to the exit, nodding tightly to Pince, when she felt his fingers wrap around her wrist and yank her into the nearest aisle.

She stared longingly over her shoulder at the exit as it disappeared as James pulled her along, weaving through aisles. Past Charms, past their table in Arithmancy, straight through Potions, all the way deep into the Divination section where the dust on the books appeared to be older than Lily and James combined.

It was there he finally stopped. Pulling her to the center of the aisle and standing strong in front of her.

It was silent for a tic as she stood there counting the seconds, mentally hoping that if she stayed quiet long enough, James would give up and leave.

Instead he cleared his throat. The noise was jarring in the otherwise silent aisle and without thinking her head turned on its own accord away from the dusty tombs to meet his eyes instead. Big mistake. His eyes were positively smoldering, a storm of hazel and gold glaring down at her. She’d always loved his eyes.

“What?” she bit out, forcing herself to break eye contact and stare somewhere around his shoulder instead.

“Start talking, Evans.”

His shoulders looked solid, no way she could charge past them. The way his shirt was pulling taut across them made her wonder if they’d feel as solid as they appeared and how’d they feel on her hands if she dug her nails into them while she-

She ripped her eyes away from his shoulders and down to his shoes instead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered, studying his laces and fidgeting slightly.

He scoffed and brought his free hand to her chin to tilt her gaze up to meet his once more. There were the eyes again.

“It’s a little late for all that, Lily.” He spoke slowly and quietly, as if she was a young deer he was worried would scamper off. “Now talk to me or I swear to god I’ll learn Occlumency just to get a peek at what you’re thinking about up there.”

Well that was a horrifying thought. Her brain reeled through all the images he’d see if he had actually taken a peek, his body pressing hot up against her, the two of them sitting in a sunlit field, picking dandelions, him wiping away a butterbeer mustache off her top lip as they laughed in the Three Broomsticks, him winning the Quidditch Cup and picking her up to spin her around in front of everyone.

“There,” he whispered accusingly, “that blush all over you right now? You’re hiding something from me, Evans, and that ends right now.” The tone was soft but the words were strong, gaze remaining level with her own, eyes searching her own as if the answer was written within them.

“I’ve been having dreams,” she blurted out, too flustered to be aware of her words and instantly regretting that they had come out. Her insides shrank as she squirmed under his gaze, shifting her weight.

He held steady, keeping his hand still tight on her wrist, not allowing her to move more than a breath away.

“What kind of dreams?” Nothing had changed in his voice, still controlled and level.

“I don’t know!” she snapped out, voice far louder than his own, “the embarrassing kind, okay? Are we done?” She twisted her wrist out of his own, somewhat surprised when he allowed her to. She was free, a part of her knew she should run right now and make her grand escape but a much larger part wanted to see what James would say, do, now that the truth was coming out.

She could practically see his wheels turning, mentally piecing together her words with her actions and the ramifications of it all. He was being too quiet, taking too long, and the words were boiling up in her now, desperate to fill the silence.

“They’re just dreams, okay? They don’t actually mean anything, it’s really not that big of a deal even,” she insisted, repeating the words she had spent the last several weeks telling herself out loud for the first time.

“If they don’t mean anything, why are you still blushing like that? And why would I be avoiding me? And what kind of dreams are the embarrassing ones exactly?” His brow was furrowed and a hand was rooted in his hair.

“They’re just stupid and random and unrealistic,” she spluttered, feeling the blush reach down to her toes.

“So tell me about one!” He demanded, “what happened in the most recent one? Did I kill you or something?”

“Oh please you don’t get it at all, you buffoon.” The embarrassment quickly was turning into rage and the words were pouring out.. “You didn’t kill me, you kissed me. Okay? More than kissed me really. You happy now?”

James was decidedly not happy. His expression turned only more incredulous with each passing second as her words took effect on him. His left hand dropped from her wrist to join his right firmly rooted in his hair, pulling and twisting.

She stared at him expectantly, waiting for a response, a realization, a reaction, anything. But instead he just stood there. Dumbfounded or disgusted or downright confused.

The seconds ticked by and her discomfort level rose as each one passed. The rage faded back to embarrassment and formed tears pricking at the back of her eyes, blinking furiously and squeezing her nails into her palms to try and stop any from leaking out.

“Are you going to say anything or just stand there ripping out your hair?”

He continued to stare, unmoving.

“Goodbye, James,” she spat out, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and pushing straight through him.

She heard him splutter something and got about six steps ahead before hearing his thundering steps behind her catching up to her. She pushed ahead until she felt his hand grip her shoulder and turn her around again

There was a scream on the tip of her tongue as she was pulled around to face him. “What, Jam-”

Her exclamations were silenced as he pushed his lips down onto hers. She hesitated for a moment in shock before throwing her arm around his neck and pulling him against her, leaning up on her tiptoes and responding enthusiastically. His hand from her shoulder pushed up to caress her cheek, other hand pressing hard and unforgiving into her hip.

“Was it like that?” The words were a whisper, hot against her face, barely a breath of space between them. “In your dream, was it like that?”

She barely nodded before pulling his lips back down to meet hers.

It was harsh and unyielding and not the kind of first kiss she had ever imagined for them but was certainly something taken right out of her dreams. She felt his hand tilting her head, adjusting their angle to fit perfect against each other as his tongue reached out to meet hers. Hot and heady and unbelievably perfect.

She didn’t notice them turning until her back was pushed up against the shelf. Corners and spines of the dusty volumes pressing up against her barely registering when there was so much of him to feel up against her. His scent surrounding her entirely, permeating the air around her until all she could think, smell, feel was just him.

He pulled back again, still barely a centimeter away and clearly reluctant to do so. “Wait, wait,” he heaved, “what exactly about a dream like that is ‘unrealistic’?”

She stammered unintelligibly for a moment, head filled with fog and fist curling tighter in the fabric of his shirt to anchor herself and him next to each other, “I just meant that we were friends now and you didn’t want to be…. you know.”

He cocked an eyebrow inquisitively, “enlighten me.”

“With me! Romantically speaking!” Her cheeks burned again, and eyes flitted down to where her hand was twisting his shirt.

Until she heard laughter. Actual laughter. One quick look at his face confirmed it, James Potter was actually laughing at her.

“Dear God, Evans,” he brought his hand to caress her cheek, thumb tracing her lower lip. “Evans, if I ever, and I mean ever, say I don’t want to be with you ‘romantically speaking’ you might as well Avada me right then and there because that is clearly an imposter.”

He didn’t give her a second to respond, crashing his lips back down onto hers.

And then he was snogging her again, harder. This instantly shut down her brain, eliminating the potential to analyze the implications of what he had just said because of course there would be time for analysis later but right now, in this moment, there was no time for that. There was no time for that because James Potter was snogging her in the depths of the library and it was so much better than any dream she’d ever had. She had no idea how long they’d stood there snogging, hands pulling hair and bruising skin and leaving her so utterly weak in the knees that she became vehemently grateful for the support of his arm around her back and the shelf she was leaning on. Minutes, hours, days, years, until she was so out of breath that she was practically sighing against his lips as they both slowed down, exhausted but so unwilling to separate, lips still brushing as they breathed in and out.

Her eyes remained closed and she pressed their heads together, lips no more than a centimeter apart.

“Hey Evans?” He sighed out, kissing her again chastely.

She hummed in response, rubbing her nose against his lightly and pushing up for one of those chaste kisses of her own, feeling his glasses press into her nose.

“Go out with me?”

#jily #jily fanfiction #mywriting #jilytho #james potter #lily evans

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