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#to the attention of people involved in the canon
penvisions · 19 hours
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by the grit of sandpaper {chapter 3}
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Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader
Chapter Summary: With the overnight patrol behind you, it's now time for your annual leave from the roster altogether. But Joel doesn't know that and you're hesitant to tell him, feeling like it would be the best for you two to get some distance. But as with all things involving the man, it was hard to keep the distance.
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, illusions to past death, illusions to past trauma, blood, hurtful language, town gossip, rumors, negative feelings, pining, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, lots of feelings, slight angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, two (2} instances of joel miller gently touching reader, intentional flirting, unintentional flirting, talk of pregnancy, casual intimacy, urges to kiss joel miller get their own warning, sexual content, masturbation (f and m), yearning, protective joel, tommy is a scheming lil brother and we love him for it, fluff, this is so unbelievably soft, reader is described as smaller than joel (bc c'mon), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, joel and reader pov
A/N: i'm not really back in wake of some bad comments and confrontational haters, but love y'all ♡
ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi
A knock on your door the next morning caught you bundled up and out in the backyard, the sound echoing throughout your empty house. It was small: a simple one with a larger than average kitchen, a living room, one bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, and a laundry / mudroom with a deep utility sink and a few cabinets of storage. It’s where you kept the tools for the garden, where you washed and prepped everything you managed to grow before moving it into the kitchen space. But you were on the modest back porch, a cup of steaming coffee cooling in the early morning air as you looked out at the trees that took up a good chunk of the large area.
Dragging your eyes from the one that looked like it was about at the end of its life, a large crack running down through the trunk, you heeded the knock at the early hour. Knowing it could only be one of four people.
“Was worried I woke you for a moment, you sleep okay?” Maria greeted you as she waddled past you and moved into the kitchen. She spied the other cups worth of contents in the coffee maker and sighed in longing. The scent of it heavy in the air, mixed with cinnamon you were apt to put in with the grounds before brewing. But her sigh turned into a delighted hum as she shifted her attention to the cooling pan atop the stove and moved closer to inspect the baked goods settled on it.
“Probably not much better than you, momma. How you feelin’?” You slid a plate to her as she began to pick pieces off from one of the flaky breakfast hand pies you had made. She placed the one she had begun eating along with another before following you to the large table that ran through the middle of the room. Setting it down and pulling out the chair for her, you helped her to lower into it. With a caressing touch to her swollen belly, permission given from her months ago, you began to set up a kettle for some tea.
“Big.” She stuffed a large bite into her mouth, eyes fluttering at the taste of the filling. Crumbs of the flaky crust sticking to the front of her shirt, jacket having been shrugged off. “Olive, these are fantastic. Is there anything in here I shouldn’t be eating?”
“I wouldn’t have let ya get your hands on it if that were the case. Just bacon and onion jam, eggs, a little bit of milk, and a whole bunch of thyme. Nothing too bad.”
“Nothing too bad, my ass. You should totally make these for the mess hall on your next shift.”
Another knock on the front door stole the words from your mouth and you looked to the woman who all of a sudden had great interest in picking the crumbs from where they had fallen.
“Maria, what is this?”
“Can’t I call on a fellow morning bird without ulterior motives?”
“You could, but you didn’t this time around. I don’t get many visitors so I wonder who you- Oh! Good mor-morning, Joel.” Surprise overtook you as you were suddenly face to face with the man over the threshold of your front door. He was bundled up as well, though his hair was wet, slicked back and shining in the early morning sun peeking over the mountains.
“I just figured we could all chat about the Teton route.” Maria’s voice carried from the kitchen. But it didn’t break the stare you could feel as Joel’s eyes took in the apron you had thrown on earlier.
“Mornin’.” He rumbled, a hand reaching out from within his jacket pocket to swipe at your cheek. His touch burned, but you were frozen in place at such a forward action so early in the day. Lips parting as you tried to pull in a breath but you were sure all you managed to do was huff out what air was already in your lungs. “You got a lil flour or somethin’.”
“O-oh, um, thank you.” His hand lingered, the back of his knuckle dragged down your cheek and then the finger curled around the neckline, tugging slightly. Nerves sparkling as you felt the warmth from his hand so close to your neck, you could only swallow as his eyes finally met yours with a playful grin displaying that damned, endearing dimple normally hidden in his scruff.
“Never seen you so homey before, it’s a good look on you.” His voice was tipped low, just for you and you felt your stomach lurch.  When you didn’t say anything, just continued to stand there caught like a fly in his trap, he chuckled and asked if you were going to let him inside. It was then you realized he had inched closer, crowding you in the doorway, with his hand still around the strap of fabric over your neck.
“Oh! Of cour-course, I’m so sorry. It must be the early hour taking my manners.” But you knew he wouldn’t believe that for a second, he knew you were a morning person. Something you had revealed to him on patrol. Just like he had revealed to you that he took any opportunity to sleep in, apt to hit snooze an embarrassing about of times if the sound even reached him. You had both laughed at the polarizing tendencies, ribbing each other about it throughout the day. It had been a good one, free of the underlying…tension of whatever had shifted when you had pressed your lips to his injuries. Something you would take back if it meant cutting the undercurrent of whatever had befallen your interactions.
“There’s, um, breakfast hand pies and one last serving of coffee,” You spoke as you turned your back on him and went to retrieve your own mug from the porch.
After the shuffle of greetings, of ushering Joel to take a seat at the table. You plated up two of the hand pies and poured the last of the coffee for him, setting it down in front of him with a small smile before fetching the whistling kettle and preparing a cup of tea for Maria who was already a bite into her second pastry.
“Now, the horse you two lost.”
Joel made a surprised sound, mouth biting into one of the pastries on his plate.
“It was my fault.” You rushed out before Joel could even respond around his mouthful. His eyes flicked to you across the table where you had finally taken a seat, watching as you willingly took the blame for the unfortunate event. “I wasn’t quick enough taking down the Infected that were coming at us. Two of them had set their sights on her, with all the noise she was making while another went after Joel on the ground.”
“And there was no use of anything other than the shotgun?”
“That’s correct.”
“Joel, do you agree with her synopsis?”
“Yes. She acted fast, but there was no way Kiana was gonna make it back, she had been freaking out the second they came outta the tree line, most likely would’ve run off.”
“She always was easy to spook, that’s why she was designated as your horse, calmed her down and got her to focus.” It made sense, Joel was a very level headed person, capable of gently focusing someone should their minds or attention wander.
“I wish every incident discussion was this lovely. No arguing, good food, people who don’t want to go around in circles. You two are truly one of the best pairs we have on the roster.” Maria stirred in a bit more honey into her tea, taking a sip as she looked you both over.
A nervous laugh bubbled up from you as you dug into your own pastry, unaware of them sharing a look.
“This is amazing,” Joel offered, reaching for the kitchen towel folded atop the table to clean his hands off. “You should make these your next shift at the mess hall.”
“I just told her that, imagine the buzz they would cause.”
“They’re not all that special.” You muttered, shoulders rising as you felt rather put on the spot.
“This filling, these onions? It had to have taken a lot of concentration to reduce them down so soft but not mushy. Take the credit where it’s due.” Joel hummed his agreement as he reached for his mug.
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“You’re off patrol this week and next, to do your annual thing.” Tommy announced as he sat beside you, his tray thudding against the top of the table, laden down with food from this mornings offerings.
“I can still patrol and get what I have to done.” You didn’t look up from the notebook you were writing in, trying to map out the way you were going to turn the harvest of the olive trees in your backyard into. If you were being honest, patrol twice a week wasn’t so bad with the added allure of Joel Miller. But it would be hard to juggle it paired with the time of year. Every autumn you took out your dirtiest, most ratty pair of overalls and got to work picking the fruit from the trees. Taking your time to sort them, wash them, turn them into oil and pickle some of the others. It was just you, hands aching at the end of the day from spending it all at your kitchen table with various tools. But you wouldn’t trade it for the world.
The kitchen was your happy place. Even after the end of the world. Or maybe in spite of it.
But this year, you didn’t want to miss out on patrol, normally taking the two weeks off to sort everything out and give all your attention to the gift of fruiting trees. Even if…you felt like it would be good for you to get some space from the man you felt in every other thought. The past two weeks had yielded quiet patrols, just the passing of a thermos between hands. You were sure you had overstepped a line by pressing your lips to his face, lost in the moment of adrenaline and want after those Infected had tried to turn you both.
His eyes were heavy on you when he thought you weren’t looking, but searching for what you didn’t have the faintest clue. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to bring it up and let you down gently. Tell you that he hadn’t appreciated your affections that way. Whatever went on behind that handsome, rugged face you hadn’t a clue.
“We both know that’s a mighty lie,” He stuffed an overfull spoon of grits into his mouth, humming around it as he pointed the utensil at you. “Didn’t you say this would be the last year for one of them?”
Sighing, you set the pencil you had been writing with down. Trading it for the cup of coffee in front of you.
“Unfortunately, the trunk spilt when we had those winds come through in February. I’m surprised it bloomed any fruit to be honest.”
“It’s a fighter, like it’s caretaker.”
“Oh hush, tryna flatter me.”
“Don’t you know it.” He winked, cheeky smile growing wider underneath his mustache as his eyes caught sight of something over your shoulder. You were about to turn to see what had him so delighted when a pair of hands placed a tray right next to you. The burly form of Joel huffed as he settled into the seat beside you.
“Mornin’.” He greeted, placing plate of toast in front of you, his hand momentarily brushing against yours before he dug into his own food. You felt heat bloom up your neck and across your cheeks as Tommy feigned a cough to cover up a snicker. Joel leveled an unimpressed stare at the man, an eyebrow cocked and a warning in his eyes. You pretended not to see it, busy slathering a piece of the gifted toast with some butter left out on the tables for the breakfast service.
“Good mornin’, brother.” Tommy lilted, face lit up with something you were hesitant of. Scheming, the man was scheming, up to absolutely no good. And you had a hunch it involved not only you but the man beside you. Taking a bite of the toast, you noticed the way his face twitched before he started whatever he was up to. “How are you today?”
“Fuck off, Tommy.” The older man didn’t even look up from his plate, knowing from years of experience that his brother was aiming a mischievous look his way. “I gotta list a mile long of stuff to do this week and next, don’t have time for whatever else you’ve taken on.”
“That’s a shame,” He took another heaping bite, chewing it thoughtfully as he looked between you both, taking in the way neither of you were willing to look at the other. “Sorry, Olive. Looks like you’ve gotta fell that tree on your own.”
“That’s okay. I’m a big girl, did it the year before last and I’ll do it again this time around.” You downed the last two gulps of your coffee. Gathering up your notebook, you shoved out of your chair and stood, preparing to walk away. But he scrambled, quick on his feet and determined. Joel glanced at you, a parting nod the only indication from him.
“Well, seeing as you’ll be off patrol the next two weeks, that should give you enough time to take care of it.”
“Tommy!” You whirled around on your heel, eyes wide. You hadn’t wanted Joel find out this way, from his trouble making little brother with you right beside him.
“What’s he talkin’ about?” Joel turned with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth. Forgotten in wake of the sudden news. He looked taken off guard, shock coloring his features as he looked to you for answers.
“Didn’t she tell you, brother?” Tommy set his own fork down, tray nearly empty now. “Olive always takes this time of year off to tend to the trees. Harvest and make that lovely oil you see everywhere around town.”
“That’s yours?” His eyes danced around the mess hall, taking in the incriminating glass jars atop every other table. The light green contents revealing the literal fruits of your labor. The hours you would spend hunched over your own kitchen table working away on ensuring everything was perfect. He looked down to the warm plate of food in front of him, the roasted potato hash and scrambled eggs. “You’re the reason the town has cooking oil?”
“Yes, it is.” Feeling pleasure flutter at his impressed tone, you knew your voice had taken on a breathy quality. If Tommy’s growing grin was any indication, his teeth sparkling as he watched the two of you across from him. Joel had turned completely in his chair to face you, while you had pivoted your body in his direction. Both of you undoubtedly drawn to each other even in the most casual of ways.
“What are you gonna do with the wood? Didn’t you burn it and mix the ashes into the soil last time?”
“Yes, I did.” You gripped the notebook tight, fingers aching from the pressure. “It helped to reduce the acidity of the soil and ward off slugs from targeting the blooms once spring came around.”
“Well, uh, I can come by and lend a hand. If you needed it, but I don’t want to intrude if you’ve got it all under control.” Joel ran a wide palm over the back of his head, fingers brushing through the curls as he offered his help in a round about way. Something you suspected Tommy had anticipated. It took you a second to process his words, remembering the feel of his hair tangled around your own fingers. It had been soft despite a days’ worth of travel and an overnight stint atop a dusty mattress. You wondered how he cared for it, what it looked like slicked back fresh from the shower, water dripping from the ends of it and-
“Oh, that’s okay!” You shuffled on your feet, shaking the rather intrusive thoughts and not wanting to burden the man with another task. “You just said you’ve got a lot to do, don’t want to add to it.”
“I could shuffle a few things around, clear up an afternoon to come help ya out.” He insisted, something smoldering in his dark eyes. His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he regarded you carefully, as if he had noticed the lingering gaze on his movement. He shifted to pull that damned little note pad of his own from his back pocket and flipped it open. Looking over the long list penciled on the page.
“No, no, it’s okay, really. You don’t have to do that, Joel.” You waved your own notebook at him, hoping he realized you kind of wanted the space from him. Kind of needed it, actually. To get the image of his softened face out of your head and the ability to look at him without feeling a jolt of desire strike through your body. Space would probably be good, would allow you to reign everything in and be better equipped to ride alongside him once again. The lines had begun to blur and they needed to be defined.
“It’s no problem, I can-“
“It’s really okay, I can handle it. But uh- th-thanks for the offer.” You scurried away before he could add your name to the list among his other tasks. “More important stuff to tend to than a me-measly tree.”
“I really don’t’-“
“I’ve got it.” You called over your shoulder, leaving the two men to their breakfast.
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The second you were walking through the door, Joel rounded on the younger man. The shit-eating smirk was securely in place among his brother’s features across the table. Irking Joel further.
“Shut up.”
“Oh brother, you got it bad.”
“Shut up, Tommy.”
“C’mon, she could really use the help. It’s just her.”
“No one offers to pitch in? The other women with personal gardens all help each other out.”
“It’s the age gap. Olive’s about a decade or so younger than them.”
Joel contemplated his brother’s words, thinking back on the thinly veiled disdain Marsha had voiced to him the last time he had been tending to the woman’s home. He knew you were younger, but he hadn’t anticipated it causing any problems with the rest of the settlements occupants just how it wasn’t the cause of any between you and him. At least, not any real problems. Age was just a number nowadays, if you were alive, you were alive. If you weren’t well, you weren’t. Friendships and connections blooming between people regardless of age and backgrounds in abundance as people clung to what they could in order to survive.
“Does anybody ever…talk about her to you?”
Shifting from annoying little brother to something more serious, Tommy looked over his brother as he chewed the bite he had just taken.
“What do you mean?”
“Marsha seemed to insinuate that Olive is common topic of discussion.”
“Marsha doesn’t like Olive. Never has.” Tommy scowled, stabbing at a chunk of potato rather harshly.
“Does it have to do with the patrol you won’t tell me about?”
“…yeah.” Tommy was suddenly very interested in the rest of his food, ignoring the look he could feel Joel pinning him with from across the table.
“Tommy.”
“Her old patrol partner was someone she showed up with, when we first brought her here. He and Marsha’s daughter got on quickly, were engaged within a year and planning on havin’ a kid or two.”
Joel was silent as he picked at his food. Marsha’s daughter, Millie, didn’t have any kids or a husband that he knew of. The two women sharing a home close to his.
“They blame her for what happened.”
“What did happen?”
“Joel, you’ve gotta ask your girl that. It’s not my place to give details.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“But you want her to be, c’mon, I can see it plain as day.”
“We are not talking about this.”
“I think she likes you back. But it’s hard to tell since she doesn’t get a lot of interaction around town aside from when she’s trading or cookin’.”
“She don’t like me like that. We’re just…friendly.”
It wasn’t friendly the way Joel took advantage of any reason to touch you. From soothing minor injuries, to brushing his fingers over yours as he passed you something, to brushing things you tended to smear along your cheek. Just to hear the hitch of your breath and to witness the way your eyes widened. It wasn’t friendly the way you were the last thing he thought of at night and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It wasn’t friendly the way his gaze lingered on you while out on patrol or when he caught sight of you around town.
It wasn’t friendly the way he spent hours in his workspace sketching out designs and carving into wood in the hopes that you would enjoy what he was creating.
It wasn’t friendly the way he didn’t engage with you for worry of making you nervous, like he noticed he had begun to do. Stuttering every other word around him and others in a habit he couldn’t figure out was his fault or something you were just prone to do. It wasn’t friendly how he wanted to see if it was just him that caused it, wanted to see how quickly words would fail you completely if he were to focus his attention on you in a more than friendly way…
But his brother didn’t know anything about that.
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Never one to miss out on the chance for a slow morning, you allowed yourself to wake up naturally.
The sun was just beginning its descent from the highest point in the sky, peeking in through the drawn blinds of your bedroom.
Your body was warm underneath the covers, sleep making your mind take the sensation and let it influence your dreams.
A large body hovered over you, looming like the mountains around the settlement. Protective, a sight to behold at any time of day, as steady as the day turns to night. But the body was so much closer, pressing your back down into the mattress, making your head spin with the heady feel of it.
Thump, thump, thump.
Heart beating hard as pleasure coursed through your veins, brought to life by the feeling of fingers smoothing over your skin. Trailing down over your belly button and through course hair to find your slick folds. Delving between them, parting them, caressing over your fluttering core and then in, producing an obscene sound as they filled you up. Another set of fingers gentle nudging that little bundle of nerves to light your body up even further, heat encompassing you, suffocating you as they quickened their pace.
Thump, thump, thump.
Your heartbeat was harsh in your ears, roaring loud and with a jolt, you realized it wasn’t your heart. It was the sound of someone knocking on your front door.
Eyes flying open, the phantom sensations of being pinned down, of thick fingers caressing the most intimate parts of your body, of the rasped-out nickname in a voice that wasn’t real were ripped from you. You were alone in your bed, your hands the only ones bringing you pleasure.
“Olive?” The faint call of that deep voice your mind had tried to convince you was whispering sweet nothings in your ear was down the hall and on the other side of your front door.
What was Joel Miller doing calling on you in the middle of the day, effectively splashing a bucket of cold water over you as you realized you had been fantasizing about him as you touched yourself.
Embarrassment and guilt squashed the pleasure that had been consuming you, lingering tingles making it hard to clear the fog of your sleep hazed mind. Throwing on the robe hanging on the back of your bedroom door, you took a deep breath to steady yourself before approaching the door he knocked on again.
He must’ve been preparing to walk off when you swung your door open, his back to you and a hand on rubbing on the back of his neck. He turned back at the sound, eyes taking in the disheveled form you were sure you made in your doorway. It was the afternoon, and here you were in a robe and hardly anything else, being pulled from your bed.
“Oh, hey- you were sleeping.” His eyes quickly averted, a hand waving at you as a blush crept up along the apples of his cheeks. You wondered what had him so flustered, his hands clenching and unclenching just below the sleeves of his jacket.
“I should’ve been up already, it’s okay.” You said quietly, taking in the bulk of him on your small stoop. It was a little disorienting, mind imagining him and now being faced with him so close. “D-did you need-“
“Was coming by to see if you needed any help with taking down that tree Tommy mentioned.”
You fell silent at the way he cut you off, his words low like your own, as if he was frustrated.
“Cause if you did all you had to do was ask.”
“I-I didn’t want to add to your list, that little notepad is always so full of-“
“I offered too and you said no. But you’re not even doing what you took the time off for.”
“Excuse me?” You leaned back from him, worry and your own annoyance flaring. Just because you took one morning to yourself didn’t mean you were shirking your responsibilities. His words hitting too close to the wound that everyone else’s had dug close to your heart.
“You take the time off every year, which you didn’t tell me about. Tommy blurted it out to get some sort of satisfaction out of your miscommunication and you’re not even taking care of the trees.”
“Joel-“
“You know what, just, never mind. I’m heading around back to take care of it for you. Go back to bed.”
And then he was stomping down the steps and rounding the side of your house. The gate creaking open to signal his entrance to your backyard.
“Well, excuse the fuck outta me, Mr. Miller.” You mumbled as you shut the front door and moved back to the bedroom. Dressing in a ratty pair of jeans and a long-stained t-shirt in a rush. Putting up your hair as you walked into the back room to retrieve the axe he would need for the work he took it upon himself to do.
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It was hard not to stare, your eyes glued to the man as he expertly wielded the axe and chopped down the damaged olive tree. He had shrugged off his flannel after trimming it of the few branches that stretched from the trunk, leaving him in just the t-shirt he donned underneath. A crisp white that displayed the sweat on the small of his back and between his broad shoulders. A crisp white that displayed the bulge of his biceps as he worked. A crisp white that fell just over his waist and billowed up to catch on the spiral top of his notepad peeking out from his back pocket. A crip white that now displayed his rather toned backside to you free from obstruction…
Shaking your head, you continued to pick the fruit from the others. There were three rows of about ten trees, the one you were worried about in the middle of it all. Your movements made you feel like you were slowly circling around him, honing in on the man taking out whatever frustrations he had on the plant. Until everything was gathered, and you retired back inside as the sun beat down what little warmth it still had this late in the season.
The fruit was already washed in the utility sink, resting in strainers set over ratty towels to dry atop the long table in the middle of the room. A record played in the living room, soft guitar and brass filling the space.
Sighing, you poured yourself a few fingers of whisky and then a few into a second glass as you heard the thud of the axe being set against the wall in the back room and steps heading your way.
“Joel, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how.” You offered one of the glasses to him, taking in the way he swiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his arm.
“I know…I’m-I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I’m sorry too.” His fingers brushed yours as he took the peace offering. But he didn’t drink until you lifted your own glass and clinked it to his. “Just…wanted there to be a reason why you weren’t by my side for a little bit.”
Stepping forward to run a hand down from his shoulder to elbow in a comforting move, you motioned him to follow you.
Through the hours of the afternoon and into the evening, you explained the difference between the colors of the fruit. The flavor profiles of each, of how you always sorted even portions of the harvest out for oil, for pickling, for the raw fruit to be shared with the town. You walked him through the process of turning a small batch into a paste, straining it over and over again to produce the oil. Two pairs of hands slick with it as he helped you after he had asked how you managed to do it.
He had asked of your knowledge, prompting you to admit that it was all learned since arriving here and being assigned to the house with the trees in the backyard. That it hadn’t been something you carried with you beforehand. You asked after his woodworking, how it had turned into crafting small figurines.
And he answered much the same as you. Learned skills to help deal with and adapt to the slower way of life Jackson allowed you both to lead.
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“You left one on the table.” His voice was right behind you, having followed you into the backroom. You turned to look at him over your shoulder before going back to placing the jars in your hand into a battered plastic crate. One was for the pickled and general olives, while another was for the oil you would make once the distraction of Joel Miller was gone from your kitchen. The only evidence of such from today’s activities in his hand.
“Oh, that one’s for you.”
“I couldn’t, you need it for trade. Everythin’ helps.”
“I insist, it’ll be good to have in your kitchen.”
“It’s just gonna sit there on the counter beside the stove.”
“Well, take it. Just in case.” You whispered. Noticing how close he had gotten in an attempt to hand the jar to you. He was close enough to smell the way the olive leaves had permeated his clothing. The perfume of the freshly chopped wood stained his skin in a heady way. You felt the counter dig into your hips, having unconsciously backed into it beside the deep sink.
“In case of what, sweetheart?” He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, tongue peeking between his lips as he took in the way you had a smudge of dirt under your eye in the warm light of your kitchen bleeding into the backroom. His gaze snapped to his hand as you bravely tangled your fingers with his own. Feeling your lips curl into a playful smile, you leaned up and whispered into his ear. 
“The food critic decides to play personal chef.”
Oh, he liked that. If the widening of his pupils was any indication, the way his breath caught in his throat and he swallowed as he pulled back a little to look over your face.
He leaned in to press a cautious kiss to your cheek, knowing there was no bruise or cut to disguise his move as anything other than the blatant want for it. The soft scratch of his mustache lighting you up.
Your breath fanned out across his face, skin prickling along his body at the warmth of it bouncing back to you. A small huff the only noise coming from you. His eyes flicked up to capture yours, and you felt your heart lurch. He was so handsome, his lips looked so plush and pink this close. There was no way he could’ve missed the way you had glanced down at them, how you were thinking of feeling them pressed to your skin in other places, of the way you pulled your own bottom one between your teeth at the thought.
He leaned in, sharing breath with you, his nose brushing against yours before-
The needle of the record player scratching across vinyl startled you both, jolting in response to the harsh noise breaking the bubble of tension surrounding you both. Your hands had flown up to grip his shoulders tight while his arms had wrapped around your back and pulled you to him. Heart thundering for a completely different reason now, you cast your eyes over his shoulder toward to the record player.
With nervous laughter you stepped away from the man and set about lifting it from the still spinning record. His eyes are on you as you replace the record with another, setting it up to play and then turning back around to him. Your heart still thumping in your chest as you watch him hold tight to the jar in his hand and dip his head to you in a departing bow.
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He made sure it was well into the evening before enlisting Tommy’s help. The forlorn way you had looked at the pieces of the tree once it was no longer standing proud among the others had stirred an idea in his mind. He was going to take the thickest part of the trunk, because he wasn’t stealing it away. No. He was going to return it to you once he had cut it into slabs and let it dry. He was going to return it to you in the form of a cutting board, crafted from the beloved trees in your care and in honor of the namesake you’d adapted.
But it had to be perfect. He would practice on other planks and cuts of wood until he was able to craft one that would be good enough for you. Setting his mind and heart on the endeavor.
Once he was back home with the trunk set in room set up as his workspace, stepping out of the shower and collapsing into the bed, he let a lazy smile overtake him.
He may be tired, exhausted beyond his limits. But he wouldn’t have traded his afternoon with you for all the restful sleep in the world.
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He couldn’t get the feeling of your lips against his skin out of his mind. The gentle pressure of them grazing over his injuries, the gentle pressure against the patch in his beard he had never been fond of until that moment.
“Fuck,” He groaned out, palm tight around his aching cock. He had woken up thinking of your lips on more of his body, trailing over his skin in sucking kisses, tongue laving at every inch. He had been leaking and hard, his hand around himself before he had even come to complete consciousness.
The very real image of you stood in your doorway clad in nothing but your robe, the way the swell of your breasts was visible with the way you must’ve thrown it on to answer his knocking. The way your eyes were cloudy, slowly clearing and your face slightly flushed, as if you had just been- he groaned deep from within his chest. It had looked like you had just been deep in the throes of pleasure, body overwhelmed with it and torn away by his calling on you. Hair mused and breath a little too quick, he wondered what you sounded like. Would you whimper softly or moan out loudly, would you be shy and cover your face with your arms or would you scramble for any purchase as it raced through your body, swelling up to consume you.
He pumped his hand slowly now, reveling in the feeling stirring low in his gut. The strikes of pleasure moving through him as he recalled the way you had felt against him as you both rode back on your horse.
The way your hip had felt in his hands as he had tried to steady himself. His mind taking the thought and running with it, the imagining the way he would grip you from behind. You down on your hands and knees, legs parted to make room for him to fit between them, thrust against you as deep as he could, your keening-
He choked on his own breath as the sheer force of his release hit him, sudden and overwhelming. Spurts of pearlescent cum coating his hand and dripping over his knuckles.
Euphoria filling him up with satisfaction, his body humming with it until the guilt slammed into him.
He just fucked his fist to the thought of you. His patrol partner. His…friend. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind even if his life depended on it.
Catching his breath, he looked out the window across from his bed. Stars glittering at him through the curtains as if they know all the dirty things that had just run through his mind, sharing in his secrets.
The only small blessing of his complete lack of self-control and oversight is that he doesn’t have to ride alongside you today on patrol.
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“I’ve got the first batch of the season,” You announced as you walked through the doors of the small makeshift market. It was right along the main street, a few fronts down from the mess hall and the Tipsy Bison.
“Oh, lovely!” The man at the back counter praised, clearing a space atop it for you to put down the delivery.
“Marsha.” You nodded toward her in greeting, uncomfortable with the way her eyes had followed you through the few aisles after letting the man go over the contents of the crate. Another nod to her daughter, standing right beside her with a small wicker basket full of root vegetables. “I’ve got a jar in there for you, with the garlic you managed to salvage from the garden.”
She didn’t say anything, looking for all the world like her voice had been stolen from her. A small nudge from her daughter jostled her and she seemed to find it.
“Thank you, Olive. That was…very sweet of you to think of me.”
“Of course, anything to be of help.”
“Yes, of course.” She repeated your words, trailing off as she noticed a figure across the street. Her eyes tracked their movement but when you turned to see what had caught her attention there was no one there. Suddenly she was speaking your actual name and it roused your nerves to life. “You…do so much for the town, I just wanted you to know that we all appreciate the time you take each year to handle the harvest.”
“O-oh, well, um, thank you, Marsha. That’s very k-kind of you to say.”
“Momma,” Millie whispered, taking ahold of the older woman’s arm. Something in her voice you couldn’t quite get a read on. Taking that as your queue to cut off the rather awkward interaction, you waved at them and began to head back up to the counter to collect the items you had requested in exchange for the crate of jars. Your ears were strained, trying to catch the hushed words the women shared behind your back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I realized how…unfairly we speak about her. Someone convinced me to apologize to her.”
“She doesn’t deserve apologies, she’s the reason-“
“Millie, we need to work on moving past that. It’s been five years now. We can all live alongside each other with the understanding of what happened.”
“No, momma, you may be ready to forgive her but I’m not. She got my Aiden and I’m not going to let her drag down Joel too.”
“He was the one who told me to be nicer to her, just trying to appease the lovely man.”
Any good feelings of a successful harvest and two weeks of working countless hours to jar, pickle, and transform the fruit from your trees vanished. The awkward yet positive sentiment from one of your more…complicated social connections going down with it at Millie’s angered words. You tried to muster up a smile for the man at the counter, taking the crate back from him with the trade items but you weren’t sure if you were able to. Not turning to look at the women, you exited the shop and made your way straight back home despite the list of errands in your pocket.
Of course Joel had caught wind of the way people spoke of you.
Heard it from Marsha herself, the source of all your troubles despite having done everything in your power to counteract the bad you had brought down on the town with your incompetence. He had put his own reputation at stake by sticking up for you and you only hoped it didn’t affect the way he was received. He was so important to the town, achieving far more than you in what he provided and brought in his skill set.
You didn’t want him to feel even a fraction of what you did as you navigated life here in the settlement. The pitying looks cast your way, the whispered words of what people felt entitled enough to voice, the way you seemed to only be good for one thing and it was the crop in the backyard of the house you had been assigned by pure circumstance.
The crate thudded atop the table where you thrust it harshly, frustration controlling your movements as you moved through the small house back to your room. Shucking off and resisting the urge to hurl your boots toward the closet you sighed as you felt tears prickle your eyes. They rolled hot down your cheeks as you curled up in the covers and gave up on what was supposed to be a good day.
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ghostbite0 · 3 days
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With the 21 trio turning into babies, I can see Rengoku just re-living his older brother experiences with them
oh absolutely. especially with Obanai, since they grew up together (idc what canon says)...
if Gyomei isn't around and the three babies are screaming their heads off, Rengoku will cheer them up and give them lots of love!!! (even if Gyomei is there, Rengoku loves being involved). He regularly checks up on them and makes sure they're all eating... he really fusses over Obanai more often than not because of the guy's eating habits, and he's one of the only people who can actually get Obanai to eat
meanwhile he's usually keeping Sanemi entertained and giving Giyuu his full attention. he really cares about all of them!!!
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wizardnuke · 2 years
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head in hands thinking about how the mighty nein saved the world or at least countless lives from lucien and cognouza and no one is ever going to know. so very few people knew what they were up against and less helped and they're not going to tell the story themselves. they don't want the attention they just wanted to go home or to make a home. they just wanted to save their friend. ohhh my god
#even in a post canon world where members of tmn become well-known#I'm thinking jes/fjord/king become fun campy (in)famous pirates and beau and caleb become important figures in the empire yknow#they wouldn't talk about that fight. they would talk about how they took down ikithon and how they helped the dynasty#and their fight against ukatoa/avantika and thsthsir adventures in darktow and of course jes would talk about travelercon but#how do you begin to explain aeor and cognouza. and why would they. aeor is incredibly dangerous and full of powerful magic they wouldn't#want to call attention to and cognouza is gone so what's the point in discussing it. how do you talk about a dead man when his body is#still alive and houses someone who isn't him. I think they keep that secret and safe and guarded just for them and they deserve to be able#to do that. and so people are never going to know the lengths they went to save the world. but. once again#they weren't particularly trying to save the world they were trying to save molly#and there are parts of their story that they just can't tell if they want essek to be safe which is. jfkfjfkfnkfngkgm#they can't talk about that night in nicodranas and they can't talk about why he went to eiselcross or why he went to cognouza with them#without people wondering what the dynasty wanted with All That and the answer is that the dynasty was just not involved. it was all essek#and that can't be explained unless other things are explained#for safety and for the sake of old wounds and privacy and so that aeor doesn't become any more of a wizard hotspot than it already is and#for king's sake and for the simple fact that none of tmn probably want that incredibly traumatizing experience to be known.#no one ever tells that story. it dies with them#maybe essek tells it centuries down the line. hm.
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nellasbookplanet · 2 years
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To your post on people finding the M9 campaign disappointing, as someone who hated the ending I agree with almost all your points. I really did want to end with having seen them all settle into their places. However your point of a continuation after fighting Lucian feeling cheap is the exact opposite of how I feel. To me, as it stands the ending feels cheap. Molly as a character was only around for 26 of 141 episodes. I fundamentally don’t believe that he had as strong of an affect on 1/2
the M9 as he did on the fandom. Yes he helped shape who they are as people at the beginning, but then they all (and the narrative) grew on from that and developed on their own, so for him to be forced back into the narrative as the big bad of the campaign felt cheap. If they would have continued on for a bit more and had time to show individual characters on their paths of the journey I would have been satisfied with the ending. 2/2
Well, anon, I simply don't agree.
Back when Molly first died, when I was very new to the show and only just dipping my toes into the tag, I vaguely remember coming across this post jokingly saying how bad it is when your group is made up of people only in it for themselves with only a chaotic asshole as your moral compass, and then that chaotic asshole dies (trying to save you, no less).
Molly’s death, and the Iron Shepherd's arc as a whole, fundamentally changed t9's outlook. Before then they did the occassional good deed when the opportunity presented itself (saving Kiri, helping that family in Hupperdook), but mainly they were mercenaries working for whoever paid them while secretly having their own agendas. There wasn't much real loyalty, and frequent inter-group clashes due to lack of trust (Fjord holding a sword to Caleb, Nott attempting to steal from the group, Molly charming people left and right and only divulging his past when put under zone of truth, Beau forcing the truth out of Caleb, I could go on). Molly was no exception; he was an asshole with a poor understanding of boundaries and no qualms about scamming people, but he still had a very clear moral sense that a lot of the group lacked. He doesn’t leave people behind. He leaves things better than he found them. He’s here to have a good time but not to cause harm.
The Iron Shepherd's was a turning point. It was when they stopped being colleagues and decided to risk their lives for each other, learned the very real consequences of said risks in losing Molly, and then decided to keep going anyway. We saw this very clearly in Caleb, who nearly bolted when the going got rough, but once he'd made the desicion to stay there was devotion. After this, most of what they do is for each other. They go to the ocean for Fjord. Travel to Xhorhas for Veth. Fight Obann for Yasha. Stop the war for Caleb and Beau, because the Empire is their home. Hold travelercon for Jester. Save Caduceus' home. Fight Trent for Caleb and their families. They are no longer just mercenaries, they are family. And Molly as a person might not have caused this, but the circumstamces of his death combined with his personal philosophies certainly kickstarted it.
It is true they all grew and developed on their own, anon, but Molly was the jumping off point. He was the one who told Beau leave things better than you found them, which she only realized the truth of post his death and made her own. As she mentioned after t9 disasterously stole their first pirate ship (and isn't hilarious that they’ve had multiple pirate ships), one moment of clarity isn't enough. It was their own choice and their own work to grow and develop.
But they were all very clearly aware of the influence Molly had on them. Beau getting a tattoo in his honor (and keeping a piece of his clothing, which she then uses to beat up Lucien in the finale). Jester keeping his tarot cards, finishing them with her own illustrations and teaching herself to use them and then turning them against Lucien. Caleb designing the tower with Molly as a clear visual inspiration (turning also that against Lucien), and kissing Essek on the forehead and urging him to be better as a clear callback to Molly. Yasha keeping the clover he gave her, only to gift it to Lucien in hope of seeing a glimpse of her friend. Veth saying that the only choice they’ve ever consistenetly made is to take care of their friends. Molly’s ghost hangs over them till the end, when he is finally released in the awakening of Kingsley.
I also think there’s a point to be made of fandom reaction to Molly, especially as you brought up thinking he made a larger impression on fandom than on t9, anon. As with many popular characters, I’ve seen a consistent thread of bitterness toward Molly from certain corners of fandom (I have noticed the same thing with Caleb). People thought he was taking up too much space in the tag compared to their faves, who they considered more "deserving" of the attention. They wanted everyone else to stop talking about him and making things about him now that he was dead and, supposedly, irrelevant. When he then ended up not only coming back but taking center stage in the culminating arc, said people got upset that everyone who had refused to forget him had been vindicated. I believe they tried so hard to convince themselves that Molly didn’t matter and that everyone should move on that they turned a blind eye to the actual long term influences he had on t9 and the campaign as a whole.
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avatar-aaang · 4 months
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eugh
#personal#so i try to never involve myself in Fandom stuff much#aside from the occasional art piece or fanfic#but like... i like this one ship. its 'het'. and easily one of the most hated ships lmao#and like. theyre doing that thing again of shoving the girl aside bc they want their uwu gays to be canon instead#which like i get it you want gay rep thats fine and completely understandable#but this character has just as much chemistry with the main girl who is a real character and i think people just hate it bc#if (and probably when) it goes canon itll make the main straight#which like first off thats not how it works in the real world lol im in a straight passing relationship but im not straight#and i know they wouldn't make him queer officially but its still there in the subtext#but its okay if he ends up with this girl bc it still works. and it might not even be for romantic reasons they get together lmao#anyway im not against the gay ship but people fr need to remember what genre we're in lmao#and being upset about it maybe going canon is fine but like. tbh the ending of the story has much bigger fish to fry like pls pay attention#him possibly getting with a girl isnt the end of the world#but the stupid shit theyre doing might be. good god. what a weird direction theyre going in. but ill see what happens#ANYWAY. im gonna continue to like this ship bc i think it's cute and just block people who dont like it lol#like not to be petty or whatever but im curating my experiences bitch!
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whereistheonepiece · 7 months
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Me: Can you come up with an idea that more than one other person besides me will want to read?
My brain: That's gonna be a no from me, babe.
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lilywastaken · 1 year
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⇝ refuge .
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!AFAB!Reader.
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PART FOUR OF MÉNAGE.
SUMMARY: After a mission goes wrong, the 141 seek shelter in Ghost's so-called "safe house".
WARNINGS: Canon typical violence, blood, wounds, stitching of wounds, mentions of abuse, first fluff in a while.
A/N: My fingers hurt I'm actually going to pass out now goodbye <3 (PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED IT HELPS A LOT!!!)
WORD COUNT: 11.2k.
MASTERLIST.
If you want to be tagged in future works, please follow and activate notifications on this account - @lilynottaken !
Also on Ao3!
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Ghost’s hands were covered in blood. 
Although this was nothing out of the ordinary for a trained soldier like him, as he’d washed away many gallons of blood off of him in the time where he’d been on the field, this was different. 
It wasn’t the enemy’s blood that covered him, no. It wasn’t even his soldiers’ blood. 
It was civilian's. People that had been going about their day. Casualties in the mess that had erupted with a single missed bullet. 
It was his fault. 
If he hadn’t let himself grow distracted with the banter that erupted from his ear piece, if he had paid more attention to the target Laswell had given him, he would’ve been able to game end them right there and then like he had many before, instead, the bullet lodged right in his chest above the heart, enough time to stun the man but not enough to stop his other hand from clicking the detonator. 
The chaos that had followed was indescribable. He could still feel his ears ringing from the explosion that had occurred, the screams of the people he could have saved, the panicked shouts and roars from Price as he ordered them about. 
Ghost followed the order mindlessly, his body on some type of autopilot that had been turned on after the shock, taking out the other targets that had been lingering around until the bomb had gone off, his emotion-fueled mind taking out it’s anger on them by tearing them apart in the most gruesome ways possible. 
But he knew that covering himself in as much enemy blood as he could wouldn’t wash away the innocent’s. 
It wouldn’t wipe away the countless deaths he’d caused. 
But as he watched his final victim bleed out on the ground, ignoring their screams of pain and the insults that were being hurled at, Soap’s voice came through his earpiece. 
“Bastard’s gone. Cannae find him anywhere.”
Ghost’s blood boiled, combat boot slamming down onto the man’s head to finally shut him up, a last act of mercy and a way to express the anger rushing through his veins.
Even after they’d retreated back to the base they’d made theirs in the outskirts of Berlin during their mission there, Ghost couldn’t shake his disgusting feelings off his shoulders.
He’d never been the one to cause such a massacre like this. It was always some rookie or other, never a seasoned Lieutenant like him. 
Soap and Gaz’s conversation was just static to his ears, his mind spiralling as he thought about all the people around the city who had lost a family member today because of him. 
It wasn’t the first time in a mission where there’d been casualties. But never as many as this. And never had it affected him like this. 
The empathy he’d lacked almost all his life had suddenly made itself known in his mind, the little voice gnawing at the back of his head as it fed him scenarios linked to the mission they’d just failed, impossible if he were to think about them clearly, but right then, he couldn’t stop his heart from beating as fast as it could against his ribcage as he thought about the possibility of you or Tommy being involved in something like that, of having to carry the guilt that would no doubt haunt him all his life if that were to happen. 
He fucking hated it. 
He’d been deep in thought when they finally arrived at the base, the humvie’s doors opening as the other three stepped out, Price the only to take note of Ghost’s dishevelled state. 
“Lieutenant.”
“Ghost.”
“Simon!” Along with the bellow of his real name, the captain’s hand came down to slam onto one of the leather seats, finally pulling Ghost out of his stupor. “We’re here.”
“Copy.” He grunted, pushing himself out of the car and following his captain and the other two back to base mindlessly, almost like a zombie. 
It didn’t get better from there. Even as Laswell reassured him that it hadn’t been anyone's fault, that they hadn’t planned on the man wearing a gun vest, that even if he had succeeded in shooting him down, he wouldn’t be the only one with a detonator as found in one of the man’s lackey’s front pocket, that the explosion would have happened either way… He couldn’t help but still feel horrible. 
“Any idea where he is, then?” Price asked, looking through some of the files they’d been given on their runaway. 
“Probably went back home.” Gaz suggested, pointing out the address for a flat he had somewhere in the outskirts of Manchester.
“Called the airport, they told us a man with similar build and looks boarded a plane for Liverpool over two hours ago. He’s probably already out of the airport.”
Soap clicked his tongue, looking down at the address Gaz had mentioned before. “That’s his maw’s flat. Reckon he’d put ‘er in danger?”
“Doubt he’d care. He was happy to kill countless people for his cause, including his men and himself, what’s one more?” Ghost grunted, throwing the file down and leaning back in his chair, sharp gaze focused on the digital map Laswell had brought up, looking at the location of the terrorist’s house. 
“It’s not near any major buildings and isn’t close enough to the city to cause a commotion.” Laswell noted as she looked over the hills and lakes that surrounded the small house. “Good hiding place.”
“And if he’s not there?” Gaz asked, handing all the files back to Laswell, who gave him a solemn look. 
“We keep trying. Go get ready, I’ll call for a heli to take you all back to England. Try and get him, preferably alive, but be wary of any more guards or lackeys he might have brought with him. You’re all dismissed.”
Everyone was armed to their teeth by the time they’d made it back to English territory, night vision goggles pulled above their head as they had realised the trip took a bit longer than expected due to the cargo they had been asked to bring back to England in the process, the sky darkening even further with every second they spent on the helicopter. 
“Ghost, how copy?” Price shouted over the sound, elbowing Ghost in the side when he didn’t seem to hear him.
“What?!” Ghost shouted back, forcing out the pressure that clogged up his ears in order to hear properly. 
“How are you?! Never seen you this melancholic!” 
Ghost huffed out a laugh, tightening the straps of the seatbelts around his chest, as if they were the one putting pressure on his lungs. 
“Fine, captain!” He snapped, turning to look out of the small window row behind them. “Just ready to kill this fucking bugger!”
“Copy that!” Price slammed one of his burly hands onto Ghost’s shoulder, an act of encouragement the captain found himself giving to each of his members every time they went on a mission. 
After that, the helicopter went quiet, focusing on the mission ahead of them. 
Which in foresight, was expected to be relatively easy, a copy of many before them where they’d all come out victorious. 
But this one differed. 
The target wasn’t even that dangerous in itself, he was just some bloke who had had the brilliant idea to make an organisation that had somehow ended up planting bombs in almost every major city under the government and army’s radar. It hadn’t been up to now where they had finally learned who was behind it and where their next target was, but even then, they’d failed in protecting the civilians. 
Something they had spent almost a year investigating, fighting, taking down so many factions across the world to get to the top of the pyramid, the man behind it all. 
And fuck, if Ghost wasn’t going to make all the time he’d spent stressed and infuriated out of his mind on a wild goose chase for this fucking guy worth it. If he’d never fucking existed, the task force wouldn’t have gone through all that just to lose him, he wouldn’t have ruined the relationship he’d began with you, he would’ve had a proper go at being Tommy’s dad from the get-go. 
But a group of people that had afforded to build and plant so many bombs across so many countries, were to have enough money to hire bodyguards en par with the skill the 141 had. 
And that’s just what they had. 
Just like them, they were well-equipped with as many guns and weapons that the group’s money could buy, and while normally most men like these were just random guys picked off the street who had had guns shoved into their hands, these weren’t. They were trained, skilled enough to almost knock Soap’s gun out of his hands, and although that wasn’t what had happened, it had given them enough time for one of their bullets to graze his leg, not enough to fully bury itself into the flesh but enough to make him bleed and buckle to the ground. 
Ghost grabbed Soap by the scruff of his jacket, quickly disposing of the man that had shot him and pulling him up, letting the scot lean on him for balance. 
“Captain, Soap’s been hit!” Ghost roared into his radio, letting Soap lean on the wall while he grabbed some bandages they were always advised to bring and helped Soap in stopping the bleeding that the graze had caused. “Can you walk, Johnny?”
“Feckin’ adrenaline’s runnin’ through me, LT., could carry a horse if ye told me to.”
“Atta boy.” He handed him his gun so he could defend himself while they got out of the top floor. “Sir, the first floor’s clear. Taking the sergeant back to the car.”
“Roger. Be careful, fucker’s nowhere to be found down h- Fuck, Gaz!”
The sound of a gun going off and the roar from their captain made both men freeze in place, the dying grunts of someone coming through the radio before Gaz finally spoke, voice wheezy and hurt. 
“‘M fine, just- Fuck, that cunt stabbed me!” 
They made their way to the bottom of the stairs, where unfortunately, one of the men was waiting for them, stabbing their tactile knife right into Ghost’s shoulder thanks to the fact that he’d switched off his night vision goggles moments before, and wouldn't have seen them in the dark.
“Fuck, where do they keep comin’ from!?”
“Captain!”
“I see ya! Ghost, Soap, meet us outside, there’s not enough of us to take these fuckers out!” Price commanded, all of them responding with a “Roger!” before barreling their way out of the house, shooting a few more men in the process until they both shoved themselves into the car, Ghost immediately grabbing at the keys and pushing them in, getting everything ready while they waited for the other two, that quickly retreated into the back and slammed the doors shut, the captain slamming his fist into the back of GHost’s seat and ordering him to drive.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Gaz cried out as he held onto his wound, planting his feet on the floor as he realised who was driving, both him and soap squeezing their eyes shut as the blond slammed onto the accelerator, bringing the car out of the rocky driveway of the house and back out into one of the main roads. 
As the adrenaline started to fade from all of them, Price lazily raised a hand to grab at Soap’s shoulder, looking down at the bullet wound. “Still in one piece?”
“Yeah… Don’ think Lt. can say the same.” He pointed over to the stab wound in Ghost’s shoulder, that luckily had been right over his tactical gear, so it hadn’t caused as much damage as the perpetrator clearly intended. 
“‘M fine, Johnny. Worry about yourself.” He grunted, trying to ignore the pain that came with taking a turn with the steering wheel, every single time he moved his arm striking pain into the wound, the adrenaline from before having done a good job at keeping him from realising the amount of pain he had been currently in. 
“What about you, Gaz?” Soap called out, turning his head to look at the other as Price got his radio out, planning on informing Laswell on the second failure of the day. 
“Not dead.” He joked, tightening the bandage around the cut on his arm. “Gonna need stitches or something.”
Everyone went silent as Laswel’s voice came through the radio, broken and incomplete, but they could slightly understand what she was saying. 
Of course, the terrorists had also managed to hack into their servers while the task force was on their way and had made preparations for when they had inevitably barged into their house to arrest the man. 
The base back in London was almost a four hour drive away, and they doubted that their wounds would be in perfect condition after that long of a time, they needed to be disinfected and treated as soon as possible. 
“Any safe houses ‘round here that we might have access to?” Price called out, listening to what he assumed was Laswell looking through files.
“None that they don’t have access to.”
“Hospital?”
“Too far.”
All of them collectively sweared, Ghost’s grip tightening around the wheel as he took a right into one of the roads leading towards Manchester, the same road he took every time he came back from base to see you. 
You…
“Don’t you live in Manchester?” Gaz called out, kicking Ghost’s seat like a kid asking if they were there yet. 
“Not safe. If they have the locations of our safe houses, they have the locations of our own.” Price called out. “Unless one of you has a secret house off the grid or some James Bond mansion.”
Silence filled the car. 
Now, it had passed through Ghost’s head when they first started talking about safe houses, but it wasn’t really his house, after all. It was yours, Your space, your flat, your building. Not his. He was nothing but some sort of weird tennant. 
And his flat would have been the first place to take them to if it hadn’t been compromised, but now that he knew that that idea was out of the picture, he couldn’t help but continue thinking about your flat. With the safety kit he’d given you once after Tommy had gotten a scratch; with the pullout sofa he used every time he was over; with all the warmth and comfort he wished for every time he finished a mission. 
And he knew it wasn’t fair on you, it was extremely late compared to the times he came back in the night, you were probably fast asleep curled in your bed like you always where when he checked up on you; and it wasn’t fair to suddenly just shove three more men into your personal space, but as he took another turn and his shoulder throbbed, as he heard Gaz hiss whenever the car bumped a little, as he watched Soap try his best to stop the bleeding occurring from his wound, he knew that the worries Simon had couldn’t overcome the panic and danger Ghost was in. This was an emergency. 
“Know somewhere, sir.” Ghost spoke out, his voice hoarse, as if he’d been keeping the secret deep inside of him for longer than a minute. “Safe house, I mean.”
“You’re certain it’s safe?” Price questioned, Laswell going silent on the other side of the radio as well. 
“Positive.”
That’s how he found himself copying the exact route he always took to your place, passing the same pubs, the same shops, the same flats… Up until he parked a few blocks away from yours like he always made sure he did. 
“This it?” Gaz asked concerned as he gazed upon a closed Greggs, Ghost letting out a huff of amusement. 
“No, a bit further up.”
Since Ghost and Price were the only ones who were able to walk without limping, they took it upon themselves to be the ones to help the other two reach the building, Ghost’s hand inexplicably shaky as he stuck the key in like he’d done over a dozen times before, shoving them all into the elevator. 
“Quiet.” He hissed to them as Gaz let out a small pained cry, not wanting to wake up the ever-so irritable neighbours or cause you any alarm if you were still awake. 
He felt bad as he slotted the second key into the door, thinking about how scared you could be if you heard him coming, pushing it open with his healthy arm and letting it creek open. “Don’t open any doors. Find a place to sit. Don’t move, don’t make a sound, don’t interact with anything.” 
The three nodded at his warning, Gaz and Soap slumping onto the sofa as soon as they could and Price taking a seat at the island as Ghost slowly closed the door and turned on the light, dimming it down so it wouldn’t alert you nor Tommy. 
As Gaz and Soap whispered between themselves, wondering how the hell Ghost kept a house in such a tidy and pretty state (“Reminds me of my maw’s.” Soap had commented, making Gaz nod and laugh.), Simon pushed open Tommy’s door, listening in to the telltale sound of his son’s breaths to make sure that he was okay, turning around to find Price looking at a small stuffed animal sitting on the counter along with a dummy, his eyes wide in realisation as he turned to his lieutenant.
“Simon-” 
“Yeah.” He brushed past, tapping on the back of Soap���s head to catch his attention. “Up, I’ll deal with you first.”
“Oh, I’m honoured!” He said in a faux-british accent, lifting himself off the sofa with his help and leaning against one of the walls Simon had placed him against. 
“You’ve got a really nice gaf, didn’ expect this from ya.” Gaz commented as Ghost looked through some of the drawers around your flat, trying to remember where the hell he’d seen you put the medkit last. 
“Yeah, you're a classy one aren’t ya, Lt.? Place’s better than mine, I mean, have ya seen your sofa?” He chuckled, signalling towards the plush pillows Gaz was leaning against now, the cute crocheted blanket hanging on the back. 
Ghost ignored all of their remarks, slamming one of the drawers shut and pulling himself up, nodding towards your bedroom door. “Shut up. I’m going to check the bathroom. Not a word.”
Soap seemingly assumed that the door Ghost had gestured towards was the direct entrance into the bathroom, so in order to help his lieutenant out a bit, his hand moved towards the doorknob while Ghost started pulling off his combat boots, not wanting to make a sound when he went into your room. 
But, apparently, the small sounds they’d been making should have been his main priority, by the way you were almost waiting at your bedroom door with a gun raised to Soap’s forehead, ready to shoot just like he’d taught you in a situation like this one. 
“Steamin’ fuckin’-”
Ghost couldn’t rid himself of his boots fast enough before Soap’s hand was instinctively around your neck, the adrenaline that was rushing through both of your veins making it easier for him to ignore the pain shooting through his leg to defend himself and for yourself to scratch and pull at the hand around your throat. 
“Soap!” Price shouted as he pushed himself off his seat, noting the panic that had filled Ghost’s normally stoic eyes at the mere sight of you in pain, slowly putting two and two together. 
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” Ghost roared, abandoning his shoes as soon as he saw your eyes roll back into your skull, a telltale sign that you were about to pass out due to the scot’s strong grip on your neck, while normally it would’ve taken way longer for someone to pass out. 
The sight of your legs going limp in Soap's grasp was enough for Ghost to see red, moving like he did on the battlefield to reach Soap, grabbing him by the neck and throwing him onto the ground like a ragdoll, secretly hoping the grip he’d grabbed him with was strong enough to cause him the same pain you were undoubtedly in, arms immediately rushing towards your flailing body and pulling you into his chest, one of his gloved hands holding the back of your head as the other pulled your shaking legs up. 
He didn’t really care that he might’ve seriously hurt Soap, gaze and attention fixed on the tears running down your cheeks and the paleness to your normally warm skin, the wheezing breath leaving you as your body tried its best to regain the breath Soap had just stolen from you, your hands clinging to his tact gear instinctively as you coughed with every attempt to breathe.
Once he made sure you were definitely still awake and breathing, he brought you closer to him, the hold on you similar to some desperate attempt at the bridal style, almost like a mutt protecting its territory.
“What the fuck, were you thinking, Saergant!?” He shouted, glaring down at the man, who was rubbing at his neck looking up at you both in confusion. 
“Well, I’m sorry for protectin’ myself against someone who was armed, Lt.!” He shouted back, being helped back up by his captain, who seemed torn between who was in the right and who was in the wrong. 
“Did you even stop to think-”
“Oh, because you feckin’ warned me about the armed woman who’d be waitin’ for us!” Soap interrupted, coughing out.
Ghost clenched his jaw, turning to make eye contact with Price, who just shook his head at him, imploring him to just let go. 
“We’re all stressed. It slipped Ghost’s mind to tell us about her and you shouldn’t've had reacted like that. You’re both in the wrong.” 
Neither of them spoke, knowing that the Captain, as always, was right. 
“Go take care of her.” 
He didn’t have to tell Ghost twice. He and Soap shared one final glance, one that only they knew what meant, full of words neither of them would dare to share out loud, but they understood. 
The gun luckily hadn’t gone off during the whole kerfuffle, letting Ghost lean down and pick it up carefully, clicking on the safety before sliding it into one the spare holsters, not trusting himself enough to carry a loaded gun while you were still in his arms. 
He pushed the door open, your coughs continuing as your eyes started fluttering open, trying to drive away the flurry of tears that were still streaming down your cheeks and wetting your clothes, a broken croak of his name leaving you. 
“It’s me, don’t worry. Just me, love. Just me.” He reassured you the whole way back to the bed, propping you up onto the soft mattress and letting you fall back, kneeling onto the carpeted floor and letting his head rest against the sweet-smelling covers, lifting his head as one of your hands pawed at his mask. 
He tried ignoring you for a few moments as he took the gun back out and expelled the mag, squeezing his eyes shut as another one of your sobs reached his ears, shoving the gun and mag back into the drawer it had been in before finally turning to look at you properly.
“Simon…” You managed to get out, cringing at the sound of your voice, still slightly delirious from the lack of air in your brain. “What… It- It hurts…”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He whispered, grabbing at your hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Just breathe f’me. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”
He didn’t even know what he was saying at this point, just reacting to every single thing he usually told himself when he was in the midst of a panic attack ever since he was young.
“Who…”
Your eyes darted over to the door, where both of you could still hear the other talk, flinching as one of them spoke a bit too loud. 
“They’re with me. Soap, he was the one to… I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you before coming, we were in the middle of a mission and-”
“Oh my god, Simon!” You cried out, startling the both of you. You propped yourself up, shaking a bit due to the dizziness but grabbing onto his non-wounded shoulder all the same. “You’re bleeding!”
In the midst of everything that had just happened, he seemed to have forgotten the stab wound, his free hand coming up to touch at the now drying blood with a hiss. 
“It’s fine. Listen, you-”
“No! It’s not fine, oh my god!” You felt a bit queasy as you noticed the blood that also stained his hands and tact vest, hoping to god that it was his even though deep down you knew that it wasn’t. “What- How are you so okay with this!?”
He grabbed both of your hands before they reached to grab at his wounded shoulder, staring deep into your foggy eyes. “Don’t worry about me.”
Don’t worry about him? 
He was fucking freebleeding in the middle of your bedroom like it was a goddamn hobby! How could you not worry about him!?
“I’m fine. How’s your throat?” He let go of one of your hands to bring it up to your neck, fingers softly grazing against a few darkening spots adorning your skin, reminders of what had happened before. 
“It… It still hurts to speak. Kind of.” You closed your eyes as the tough material of his gloves brushed against you so gently, surprised that such items that had been used to rip countless people apart were capable of a touch so sweet, so soft, so caring…
You swallowed, the movement of your throat beneath his hand quickly alerting himself of what he was currently touching, holding, and making him let go, going back to search for your other abandoned hand, making it easier for him by raising it and meeting his halfway.
“I’m sorry. For not telling you we were coming.” The apology seemed to slip from his lips oh so easily, compared to when you’d first let him in to explain himself, when he’d clearly physically struggled to speak those two damned words…
“‘We’?” You repeated, feeling his hands tighten around yours. 
“Soap’s not the only one. Price and Gaz are also here.” He explained, his eyes motioning towards the door. “We were compromised, in a way. Needed somewhere to go, and I just…”
You looked away, already knowing the ending of the short recap of the night, looking down at your linked hands, gaze darting back up to the blood staining his arm. 
“It’s… Fine.”
It really wasn't. You knew you had every right to be angry with him and the three other men he’d brought along, this was your flat! Your home, your building, your living room they had no doubt made their own in the small time you’d been in the bedroom with Simon, and without even thinking about the bruises forming at the base of your neck you already had enough reasons to let your anger boil over. 
But you stayed silent as he waited for you to snap, to scream at him, to add even more salt in the wound that had formed both mentally and physically tonight; silent as he took your hands and helped you climb out of bed and cling onto him for balance as you regained the feeling in your legs (that were being invaded by the stabbing feeling of pins and needles); silent as he pushed the door open and walked out with you concealed behind him like some tactical weapon. 
You were pleasantly surprised to see that unlike your fears the men had seemingly not touched a single thing in your living room, standing next to the kitchen island despite one of them clearly having problems with standing. 
He made eye contact with you, your blood running cold as you realised that he had been the one to cause the soreness that now racked your throat, immediately moving to tear your gaze away from him but stopped as he did it first, looking down at his shoes as if ashamed, and by the way he stayed silent while the other introduced themselves, he was. 
The captain was nice enough, he clasped your hand in a firm handshake, one that you assumed he’d been practising for longer than you were alive, and he had a very kind face despite the work you knew the four men did, but you couldn’t help but feel at ease in his presence, an effect you assumed he had on everyone by the way they seemed so lax instead of freaking out over the wounds littering their bodies like you would. 
Gaz gave you a smile and a nod, not even attempting to outstretch either of his hands to you due to the tear up his arm and the other hand pressing a bloody piece of cloth to the wound in hopes of keeping himself from losing too much blood. 
“Soap.” Ghost’s voice came out low and gruff, a tone of voice you’d never heard from him, and you thanked whatever god was up there that you’d never heard it directed to you, because clearly you weren’t as strong as the Sergeant in front of you and would’ve immediately crumbled into fear.
“I’m sorry.” He immediately spoke out, his accent thick around each word as he outstretched his arm, poised out for a handshake. “I hope I didn’ hurt you t’much.”
Although the burn from his hand was still there, a constant reminder for the rest of the night of what had happened, and though it would take a bit of while for you to let go of it, you still raised your hand up to his, clasping it in a much weaker handshake than his Captain’s, but it was firm nonetheless, confirming your “acceptance” to his apology for now. 
“I would have done the same if I had your strength, don’t worry.” You tried lightening up the mood, despite the anxiety that still tugged at your mind, letting go of his hand and going back to standing next to Simon, your arm pressed right against his, hoping that his massive frame would do something to help hide you. 
A warm hand came up to your waist, the hairs on your body standing on end as Ghost’s breath hit the shell of your ear. “Go check on Tommy.”
Tommy.
Your stomach dropped at the realisation that you hadn’t even thought about your poor son in the whole time you were awake, too focused on yourself to even think about what fear he could be going through after hearing more than the two voices he was used to in the small apartment, your breath hitching as the hand slowly pushed you towards the nursery door, like you were a dog in need of direction.
“Tommy?” Gaz breathed out as Ghost led him to the kitchen sink, letting the man run his arm under the stream of cold water, washing away any of the crusty blood that stuck to the skin, while Ghost continued his search for the medkit.
The man stayed quiet, not even bothering to even think of beginning to explain Tommy, and by association you and whatever relationship you had, already having had struggled enough when deciding to open up to Price about it, not needing to do it two more times. 
“His son.” Price answered for him when he saw that Ghost was making no move to answer, the skull-faced man turning to send a quick glare in his captain’s direction before being shot down with one of the same calibre. “Don’t ask more, though. Bugger still likes keeping his secrets.”
Both Soap and Gaz turned to Ghost with matching expressions, dumbfounded by the information they had just been fed, unbelieving that the man they knew as Ghost, the Ghost that they had watched kill people with a single hand, the Ghost that seemingly felt no emotions towards any of them or anyone, the Ghost they’d worked so hard to even get a sliver of information out of him was indeed a father. An actual father, with a real son who had a mother who lived in a nice and cute-looking flat taking care of said son. 
After the confrontation between you and Soap, they had quickly assumed that Ghost harboured some type of feelings towards you, whether they were romantic or platonic was still yet to be known (though by the way he had held you so protectively against his chest, they assumed that they already knew the answer to that small conundrum), but they would’ve never guessed that you were the fucking mother of his son, a son he’d kept pretty well hidden from everyone, except Price, like many of the details of his oh-so mysterious life.
“That’s… Nice.” Gaz croaked out, throat having gone dry by the absolute shock that had filled the two Sergeants, gulping as Ghost stood back up to his full height, suddenly intimidated by the man more than usual. 
“Yeah. Stay.” Once again, not even bothering to say it in a nicer way, commanding all of them like dogs before entering the room you’d just retreated to and slamming the door closed. 
He immediately regretted it, though, by the way you snapped your head around like the girl from the ring furiously, clutching a fussing Tommy to your chest, reminiscent of the first night he’d spent in your flat.
“Sorry.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, taking a few long strides until he was at your side, gazing down at your sweet boy, who was moving around in your arms like he was actively trying to escape you. “How’s he?”
“Fussy. I mean, he’s been sleeping all day, no surprises there. Probably wants to watch some telly.”
“Can’t really do that lying down now, can he?” A gloved finger came down to tickle his tummy, causing him to move around more as he burst into a fit of giggles, seemingly not caring about his father's sudden change of appearance, hopefully assimilating in his tiny brain that all skull patterns equaled dad. 
At his response, you sucked air through your teeth, causing him to snap his head towards you in fear he’d said something wrong, taking a step back as he watched you place your hands underneath Tommy’s armpits and slowly take him to the ground, his little duck printed socks touching the floor and causing Ghost’s eyes to widen, mind racing with thoughts that your son might actually be some type of prodigy if he was standing up at this age, but let out a humoured breath as his little bum hit the floor, and instead of falling back like he always did, he instead stayed there sitting, moving his arms around in order to shake your grip off. 
“He’s sitting.”
“You don’t sound very impressed.” You said, looking up at him with a bright smile, not being able to help the immense pride you felt as your son ticked off another milestone off the list, sitting down on the carpet behind him and handing him one of the toys littered on the ground, wanting to enjoy this little moment of peace within the confusing and terrifying night you’d had, trying your best to focus simply on Tommy and not with what would come with having four military trained men in your flat. 
“No, it’s… Yeah.” You rolled his eyes at the inexpressive tone his voice took, watching him take a seat in front of you and raise his uninjured arm up to click his fingers in front of Tommy’s chubby face, like you normally did when wanting to catch his attention. “Good job, duck.”
You couldn’t help the way your smile widened as you heard him use the little nickname you’d given him, placing your hands on his chubby tummy and tickling his sides, enticing another few happy giggles. 
But through them, you heard the sharp hiss that came from Simon as he moved to put his weight onto the other arm, eyes going wide as you realised you’d completely neglected the wound you’d fussed about so much earlier, one of your hands moving to grasp his hands. 
“Why haven’t you treated it yet?” You whispered, keeping your distress to a minimum in front of Tommy, but Ghost could still feel the worry that emanated from you, shrugging (as best he could) and looking away. 
“I couldn’t find the medkit.” You raised a brow at his apprehensive words, lifting yourself off the floor along with Tommy and adjusting your hold on him. 
“It’s where it always is.” You started moving, giving him little to no time to react before he had jolted up and started following, almost crashing into you as you stopped in your tracks once you’d opened the door, seemingly forgetting about the company you’d been thinking about mere moments before. “Oh.”
“Is that him?” Soap said with a smile before anyone spoke, gesturing towards the small boy fidgeting in your arms. 
“No. Just some other random kid, Johnny.” Ghost’s hands once again found their rightful place on your hips and pushed you slightly to urge you to continue your walk, a huff leaving your lips at his impatience (although you couldn’t really blame him, you too would be impatient if there were a literal hole in your shoulder), as you made your way back in to the bedroom, feeling Ghost move around behind you as if he were shielding you from the prying eyes of his Sergeants and Captain, who simply wanted to catch a glimpse of the small boy. 
“Here.” You called out as you handed Tommy over to his father, opening up the mirror in the bathroom and pulling out the small yet quite big medkit he’d gifted you. 
Ghost tried his best to ignore the small bottles of pills he spied along the shelves of the little cupboard as you opened up the medkit, looking through all the items. 
“I… I don’t know how to use most of these.” You mumbled, taking it over to him so he could look through it. 
“Don’t worry, we do.” Tommy was handed back off to you, no doubt giving the small boy whiplash from how fast he was being moved from one parent to another like a hot potato. “Might need some help with the stitches.”
Stitches. 
You willed away the look of discomfort that would no doubt try to show on your face at the mere thought of it. 
Now, you weren’t the most horrible person at stitching clothes, you’d fixed a few items for both Tommy and you, and maybe the odd time you’d found a hole in Simon’s hoodie and couldn’t just leave it like that, but the thought of using a needle and string to stitch up a wound instead of the normal cloth made shivers rack your body. 
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” You breathed out, instead of letting out the worries that swirled about your brain. I mean, these men were dealing with blood and gore almost daily, surely you could manage to deal with a little wound, right?
“Hey. We’ve been treated by worse. Won’t be any worse than doin’ it ourselves.” He murmured, opening the door for you. 
And that filled you with some reassurance at first, but as you disinfected your hands and were given the needle and string, you couldn’t help but feel sick, turning your head over to the little playpen you’d purchased a few days ago where Soap was sitting next to looking down at Tommy play. Ghost right at his side glaring down at them, as if Tommy’s personal bodyguard. 
“You don’t have to, really. I can try and do it myself.” Gaz assured you with a smile, starting to move his arm away from you. 
“With one hand?”
“You’d be surprised what I can do with one hand, ma’am.” He grinned, getting a furious look from Ghost. 
You breathed out a laugh, shakily taking his arm into yours and bringing it back to where he had it before, angling the needle to his wound before taking one last look of reassurance up at the man, who only nodded in response. 
It wasn’t as disgusting as you had expected, but the sounds and feelings were still uncomfortable.
You finally finished the final stitch, shakily tying the knot before cutting the thread, disposing yourself of the latex gloves you’d put on. 
“Is- Is that okay?” 
“It’s perfect, love, don’t you worry. Did it better than I ever could.” Gaz encouraged, getting some bandages and helping you to wrap it around his now sanitised wound. “Could easily get a job as a nurse if you ever wanted to, eh? Think Ghost would love to have you on base.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant.” Ghost snapped, pushing himself off the wall and nodding down at Johnny. “Get a move on.”
You shared a smile with Gaz before Soap took his spot, albeit a bit more awkward, and raised his leg up to the sofa (you almost had a heart attack before you realised he’d kindly discarded his shoes before doing so). 
“Oh, do I-.” 
“No need f’stitches. I just need a bit o’help disinfecting it.” He mumbled, always the careful one when it came to cleaning. 
“Yeah, okay.” You did just as he had told you to, carefully pouring the alcohol onto the gauze before wiping away any dirt and dry blood from the graze before sticking a clean one over the wound with the help of a few bandages. 
You couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of your handiwork as you watched him get up, his limp a bit better now that he definitely knew that he hadn’t contracted any types of diseases thanks to the wound, taking back his spot back next to Gaz and Tommy, the other sergeant moving a little toy around in hopes of attracting Tommy’s attention. 
“I’ll help with this one, Lieu-” 
“No need.” Ghost interrupted the captain, sitting down on the sofa and immediately sinking it, the piece of furniture still not used to his weight even after all the time he’d been using it. “I’ll help her.”
You nodded with a smile, although it quickly flipped upside down as you realised what dealing with Ghost’s wound entailed, watching him slowly take off most of his tactical gear before leaving him in one of those damn tight shirts, moving the sleeve off the wounded shoulder and letting you see what you were dealing with in full detail. 
“Clean and stitch it up. Not that hard, lovie.” He mumbled, his words just for your ears, one warm hand landing on one of the thighs you had curled beneath you on the sofa you were kneeling on. “Just going to be a bit more difficult to heal.” 
“Okay.” You swallowed, tugging on another pair of gloves before balancing yourself with one hand on the part of his uninjured shoulder, somehow still feeling the body warmth through the latex. 
This was different from Gaz’s wound. While the other man had been looking away the whole time, you could feel Ghost’s sharp gaze on you even as you thread the needle, your body squirming beneath the uncomfortable stare. 
“C’mon.” He urged, settling himself further into the sofa to make the next part easier for you, letting yourself take a deep breath before starting without a second though, pleasantly surprised as he didn’t even move an inch with every stitch you made, although you could feel his thumb rubbing over the warm skin of your thigh with every second, your hand giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze every time you tightened a stitch, despite knowing he probably didn’t need the same reassurance you did. “It’s okay.”
It almost felt like you were the one getting stitched up, not him. 
You finished with shaky hands, dropping the gloves and needles and patching it up, jolting away when his hand grabbed at the bandages, finishing the job himself. 
“Thank you.” He mumbled, the hairs on your body standing up as you realised finally how close you’d been to him the whole time, slowly letting go of his arm and letting them fall back onto your lap. 
“It’s fine.” You watched him get up, once again not showing a single ounce of pain or discomfort despite the pain you knew a person who wasn’t desensitised to this type of wounds would be in, your eyes following him across the room until he reached the two Sergeants, who were still trying to gain Tommy’s affection.
When you saw them like that, they hardly looked like the type of men whose job consisted on fighting and killing for a living, they just looked like two blokes you’d find at the pub on a random sunday night, despite the tactical gear they still wore, having fun with watching a kid roll around with his toys. 
“Thank you.” Price rumbled from behind you, a hand landing on the headrest of the sofa. “For letting us stay. Feels like no one’s said that yet.”
You shrugged, running your hands up and down your thighs in order to cure the chill that had just run through your body. “It’s okay. I mean… Simon’s done a lot for us, guess I could just repay the favour one way or another.”
Although maybe you would’ve thought of a more traditional way of doing that, one that wasn’t stitching up his men and him in the middle of the night. 
“Hmph. Well, considering what good a job you’ve done, I’d say you’ve paid it back pretty well.”
You smiled up at him, not catching the look Ghost sent to you from the other side of the room, looking down at the small boy he was cradling and then up at the time, not having missed the eyebags that adorned your normally bright eyes. 
He called your name as he came near, his heart missing a beat as you instantly outstretched your arms out at him, stomach sinking as he quickly realised you were gesturing towards Tommy and not him, carefully bringing him down to latch onto your chest. 
“Think we’ll be leavin’ now.” He said, catching both your and Price’s attention. 
“Leaving?”
“Where else are you going to stay?” You prodded for an answer, pressing Tommy further into the jumper you’d pulled on. 
“We’ll find somewhere.” He looked up at Price for reassurance, but got a not so on board look back. 
You looked between the two, who stayed silent enough for you to make a quick inventory check in your head, looking down at the pull out sofa you were currently sitting on and thinking back to the possible inflatable mattress you had stored in your room. 
“Simon.” You said, almost like a child tugging on their parent’s sleeve to ask for something. “You can just stay for the night. I’ve got a few blankets and a small mattress along with the sofa. I don’t mind.”
You always felt like you could drown in his eyes when he looked at you like that, glassy eyes filled with concern and apprehensiveness at your words, as if he was assessing the true nature behind them only to find that you were only speaking the truth.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
And maybe, in the heat of the moment, you’d under planned a bit, since you realised mid unfolding some blankets that both the sofa and the small mattress would not fit four people, even if one decided to sleep on the floor, they’d be far from comfortable curling into some random nook or cranny of the flat. 
You fluffed up some of the pillows, listening to some parts of the conversation Gaz and Soap were having from inside the bathroom, jumping out of your skin as one of Ghost’s hands appeared on your back. 
“I'm going to let Soap and Gaz take the sofa. Price’s alright with taking the mattress.” He explained, hand continuing to rest on the small of your back even as you leaned back up, working on shoving a cushion into its cover. 
“And you?” You asked, almost dreading the answer. 
He looked away, a faraway gaze on the visible part of his face as if he wasn’t really there with you, as if you were just talking to a shell of a man who someone else was controlling. 
“I don’t need to sleep. I’m fine with staying in Tom’s room.” He responded, taking the pillow from your hands and placing it down on the inflatable mattress that lay next to the sofa. 
“What? You’re hurt, Simon, you should be resting!”
Silence. 
“You’re not fucking superhuman, you know that, right?!” You snapped, grabbing at his sleeve and forcing him to look your way. “You need rest like anyone else. Just because you cover your face and act like you don’t care about anything does not mean you’re special.”
God, shut up! Your brain was shouting at you, unbelieving that you were getting so worked up over a man you’d convinced yourself that you wouldn’t let in no matter what, but there you were, horrified that he had such little care for his well-being that he would rather stay awake all night than find somewhere else to sleep. 
“Just take my bed!”
The words were out of your mouth before you even realised it. 
And clearly, you weren’t the only one who was surprised by them. 
Simon was staring down at you with what you could only assume was a dumbfounded look, his eyes swirling with confusion. 
“Your bed?”
“My bed.” You breathed out, horrified with yourself. “It's queen sized, you know that. You’ll fit.”
Silence engulfed the room, a pattern that seemed to follow every single one of your conversations you had in this exact spot of the living room, gazes interlocked together. 
“No-”
“Yes. Get into your pyjamas and come to bed.” You said almost robotically, finishing the final cushion before pushing yourself off, quickly walking back into your room before the man could protest. You placed a hand against the wall in order to balance yourself as soon as you were out of his line of view, a shaky hand coming up to cover your mouth in shock of what you’d just asked, no, insisted him to do.
Soap and Gaz apologised for taking so long in the bathroom, letting you take their place so you could calm down a bit alone and in silence, sitting on the closed toilet with a shaking leg, biting your nails as you stared down at the white tiles. 
You were so fucking stupid. 
What was wrong with you!?
Why couldn’t you just stick to your initial feelings for him!?
Why couldn’t you just have let him do what he wanted!?
Why did you care so much about someone you’d insisted was nothing to you!?
You rested your face against the open palms of your hands, running them up and down until you rid yourself of the urge to want to cry, the opening of your bedroom door immediately catching your attention. 
Ghost knocked at the door, making you jump for what seemed like the nth time tonight, calling out your name. 
“I need to get changed.”
Your heart soared at the implication behind his hushed words. 
Now, you don’t really know what you were expecting for his pyjamas to be, but the black shirt and cargo sweatpants he sported were definitely on brand for a man like Simon.
It’d been a really long time since you’d caught a peak at his arms, since even in the warmest weather possible, Simon always insisted on wearing at least a long sleeved shirt, leaving the rest of his body up to the imagination (which, thanks to that night, you didn’t really need), but thanks to the shirt he was currently wearing, it allowed you to gaze upon his muscular arms and the tattoo that ran the whole way up one of them, remembering faintly the moment he’d let you look at them for a moment before tugging you closer into his chest. 
It also didn’t surprise you that he was still wearing the balaclava, although this one was different to the skulled one he normally wore, silver lines running over his chin, like the bottom set of teeth of the plastic skull he’d now discarded, leaving him almost naked in a way, after having gotten so used to him all covered up. 
“Are you sure?” He asked one final time, standing at the edge of the bed. 
“Yes, Simon.”
His gaze darted away from you as you called out his name, something you’d noticed he’d done the whole night every time you spoke his real name out, despite him never reacting this way when you were both alone. 
“Lie down.” He did as you said, getting into the bed and pulling some of the covers up to cover his lap, turning to watch you as you leaned over to turn off the small lamp on your nightstand, the room instantly being filled with darkness after the click. 
“You know…” Your voice came out hushed, further down than before, letting him assume that you’d just rested your face against your pillow. “Your skull mask looks silly.”
“Silly?” He whispered back, mock offended, like you’d just killed his entire family in front of him (which would be largely upsetting considering you were his family…).
“Silly.” You parroted, thinking back to the hard plastic skull. “You look like a little kid on halloween.” 
“That was the goal.” He lazily joked, moving down so he too was lying on his own pillow, staring up at the darkness that used to be the ceiling, his hair scratchy against his nape and skull due to it being pressed against the material of his balaclava. “...my brother wore a mask like that. Used to scare the shit out of me.”
You let out a huff, impossible of even imagining a little version of your Simon being scared by his brother. “Isn’t he younger than you?”
“...”
“Oh my god, Simon.”
“I was easily frightened.” He said, knowing that if there were any source of light near you, you’d instantly be able to see the blush that no doubt was dusting his pale cheeks. “I was frail as a kid.”
Why was he telling you this?
“Frail?” You mumbled, moving yourself closer to him in order to hear him clearer. 
“My dad wasn’t the nicest person.” 
He should stop. 
“You mean… He hurt you?”
“In more ways than one.”
You shouldn’t know this about him. 
“That’s… Horrible. I’m sorry, Simon…”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. 
“It’s not… You don’t have to act like it is.”
“...”
“Simon.”
Your sweet voice called out to him, your hand brushing against his arm and causing a ripple effect on it, all of his hairs standing on edge at the soft touch. 
“Simon…”
“I’m sorry.” He breathed out, turning around, forcing your hand away from him in doing so, leaving you staring at his back in the dark. 
Silence engulfed the room once again, your hand frozen in place from where it had been pressed against before, clenching it closed and bringing it back, turning around yourself and snuggling into the nice-smelling covers.
You didn’t even bother trying to continue the conversation or bid him a goodnight like you wish you could, instead keeping the silence going until the inevitable grasp of Hypnos would pull you under. 
But you couldn’t seem to fall asleep, even after only having slept two hours that day, even as no sound came through the baby monitor on your bedside table, even if everything was perfectly scripted for you to close your eyes and finally get some rest…
You turned around, feeling around the cold space of the bed that laid between Simon and your sleeping bodies, squeezing your eyes closed before taking a shaking breath. 
It was cold. That was it. It was cold, and you felt bad for him.
There was no other reason for why you wrapped your arms around his chest from behind, curling into the shape of his body and pressing your face right against his warm back, feeling him tense beneath your hands. 
You stayed there, waiting for the unavoidable moment where he’d try and shake you off like you were some kind of leech, but he didn’t. 
Instead, one of his hands came up to rest over the one you had above his heart, squeezing it slightly, his way of telling you that this was okay without openly speaking out. 
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes and pulling yourself closer into his warmth, feeling his heart beat slowly grow steady beneath your palm as time went past. 
Simon hoped that the tear streaks down his balaclava wouldn’t be noticeable in the morning. 
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This time, when you woke up, he wasn’t gone. 
Although a bit dishevelled compared to the normal composure he kept, he was there. 
The mask had ridden up to his cupid’s bow in the middle of the night, exposing the not very well-kept beard he’d started growing under there, along with tufts of blond hair that peaked out from around his nape.  
It was clear you’d both moved a lot across the course of the night, by the way you’d both ended in a completely different position than the one you'd started in, with you on the other side of the bed wrapped up in his arms, your face pressed into his chest instead of his back.
His warm hands were covering your lower back, brushing lightly against the elastic band of your pyjama bottoms, one leg draped over his waist while the other was between his.
You tentatively raised your hand to run your fingers against the hair at the base of his head, curling a slightly long strand around one of your fingers and letting out an amused huff at the curl that formed there. 
“Ow.” Simon rasped, although his voice was as monotonous as could be, pulling his head away from your hand. “Ticklish.”
“You’re ticklish?” You mumbled, watching him open his eyes before craning his head away from you, a pop coming from the bone as he stretched, moving onto his back and pulling you with him, letting you curl into his side. 
Not one word was spoken during the entire morning about what was going on, about your sudden change of heart (although you knew it wasn’t sudden), about what this night would mean for the two of you moving forward. 
Neither of you said a word, afraid that the conversation that would follow would be the one to ruin whatever had happened, 
You wandered out of your bedroom an hour after you’d officially woken up, wanting to indulge in the warmth Simon had provided all throughout the night, surprised and a bit shocked (you’d honestly forgotten what was waiting for you outside), Tommy fidgeting around in Soap’s arms as he held him with surprising care and ability. 
“Are you some type of expert?” You said with a careful smile, not missing the way his eyes darted down to the bruises around your neck, still feeling bad for what he had done. 
“Uh, kinda’? Got four sisters, each of ‘em with their own set of bairns.” He shrugged, the movement making Tommy let out a giggle through his dummy. “Lad was cryin’, couldn’t just leave him there.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.” You felt a bit embarrassed for not having woken up at your baby’s crying, but you were glad that he seemed perfectly happy, clearly enjoying the attention he’d been receiving the past hours. “He’s starting to teeth, that’s probably why he was crying, my poor-”
The slamming down of a mug interrupted you, staring dumbfounded at Gaz, who’d been the one to cause the noise. 
“Fuck! Sorry, sorry, ma’am, just-” He wiped away some of the spilt tea (you were even more confused as to where he’d gotten the cuppa until you noticed the captain standing next to the stove with your kettle), looking up at you with darkening cheeks. “Sorry, my arm’s still a bit fucked-”
“Clean it up.” Ghost ordered gruffly as he walked out of the bedroom, clad in most of the clothing he’d worn yesterday, hiding once again all the skin and muscles you’d ran your hands over that morning. 
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not a prick, man.” Gaz grumbled. 
Ghost leaned down to you, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden closeness, in front of his teammates no less, but ended up pressing a finger to Tommy's nose, your cheeks going warm out of embarrassment. 
“You made tea?” He grunted at his Captain, who shrugged, taking a sip of the warm brew. 
“I’ll pay it back.”
“Y-”
“It’s not necessary, it’s just tea.” You elbowed Ghost before he could say anything rude, placing Tommy down onto his highchair before moving to get some of his food and get yourself a cup in the meantime. 
“Can’t thank her enough.” Price grumbled to Ghost as you and the other two started a conversation, watching the masked man pour himself a cup before swigging it all down quickly like it was some type of liquor. “For letting us stay.”
“Yeah. I’m going to have to make it up for her.” Ghost answered, watching you try to coerce Tommy to open his mouth for a spoonful of baby food with Soap’s help. 
“Seems like you already did, she looks real happy.” Price nudged Ghost, like a father teasing his son for getting his first girlfriend, his moustache twitching as Ghost turned away from him, further pushing the thought that it was just like that type of scenario. 
“We should get going. I can’t risk it further.” Ghost responded instead of continuing the banter, pushing himself off the counter and turning to you, Price immediately dropping the funny act and nodding, moving to get some of their things they’d tried to place neatly in one of the corners. 
“We’re going.” He announced, heart sinking into his stomach at the disappointment that washed over your face, placing down the baby food on the table and leaning back up to your full height. 
“Now?”
“Yes. Soap, go start the car.” Ghost ordered, the scot doing just as his captain had and dropping the smile that had been previously adorning his face, getting up and taking his jacket from Price, not forgetting to say a proper goodbye to you and give you a firm handshake that he hoped transmitted the apology for everything he did, and as you received it with a small smile, he hoped it meant that you forgave him. 
“Where are you going?” You asked, watching Gaz and Price reload some of the guns from the other side of the flat. 
“Base. Hopefully, Laswell will have backup and we’ll be able to finish what we started.” He said, gloved fingers running over Tommy's soft head, messing up some of the curls that had started to form. “I’ll call you once we’ve finished.”
The look you gave him spoke a million words. 
“I promise. I’ll be back, you know that.”
You felt embarrassed at how quickly he’d managed to discern what your look had meant, but nodded nonetheless, saying goodbye to the other two (Gaz giving you a bright smile and Price clasping your hand in his once again, his presence washing away any worry you might have just like last time), leaving the three of you alone in your apartment. 
“Duck, daddy’s going now.” You whispered to your son, the small boy clearly having no idea of what you were saying, but giggling up at you as you pressed a kiss to his chubby cheek. “Say bye-bye, now.”
You moved his little hand in a goodbye motion, Ghost’s mask moving over his lips as he smiled, raising one of his hands to wave goodbye back. 
Despite having done this same song and dance for almost four months now, it still didn’t get rid of the bittersweet feeling that bloomed in Simon’s chest, already knowing the drill as you led him to the front door with a solemn look tugging at your pretty features. 
“We’ll talk once I get back, okay? I promise.” He spoke softly as he stood by the opened door, a gloved hand coming up to cup at your face and tilt you upwards so you were both making eye contact. “‘Bout everything.”
“Okay.” You whispered, fighting the urge to lean further into his touch. “I’ll be here.”
He nodded, but his hand still didn’t move. 
You waited, for what, you didn’t know. You were slowly getting lost in his eyes when his other hand came up to pull his mask up over his lips, leaning down and softly tugging you upwards until they met your forehead, the kiss short and sweet despite all the pain and darkness that you knew followed him, always a surprise when it came to how quickly he could change from the personality he showed to you and Tommy to the personality you’d witnessed him show to his teammates not long ago. 
You blinked up at him owlishly, watching him pull the mask back down and let go of your face (though his touch still lingered) before taking a step back. 
“Stay safe.” You repeated like all the other times. 
“I always do.” He replied, and like always, he disappeared down the hall. 
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“No.”
“Oh, come on. He’ll like it!” 
“He won’t.” Ghost snapped, taking one last look at the small toy Gaz was waving around, like Ghost was a child to be entertained and he was just being fussy, which really wasn’t that off track. 
“How’d you know?”
“‘Cause I’m his dad!” He looked away, already regretting having brought his teammates back to your place and therefore letting them meet Tommy. Maybe he should’ve just let them bleed out back then. 
“And you’re honestly telling me that a child will not like this?” Gaz moved it around a bit more, almost tantalising his lieutenant. 
Ghost peaked back at the small teddy bear, its fur fluffy and inviting and its black button eyes adorning its little face. 
“Just take it, mate. It’ll make me really happy!”
“I don’t care about your happiness, Sergeant.” Ghost snapped, snatching the toy from his grasp and shoving it into one of his pockets, ignoring the bright smile Gaz sent him and the punch to his shoulder. 
“God, you’re the best, Ghost. Text me if he likes it, eh?”
He never did text Gaz back, but Gaz had apparently ran his mouth to Soap about Ghost’s reluctant acceptance of the gift, since the next time he saw Soap, the scot had kindly brought a little teddy bear with a tiny Scottish flag in its paw. 
And although Ghost wanted nothing more than to rip it up in front of him, he found himself passing them on to Tommy the day he came back to you, “reluctantly” sending each of the Sergeants a picture of the small boy curled up to the two bears.
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cupcakeinat0r · 10 days
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A Nerdy Middle-aged loser Miguel with a dad bod who teaches your genetics class
Head Canons!
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Professor O’Hara was an intimidating man, to say the least. Despite his menacing exterior, he came highly recommended and sought after as a professor due to his ability to clearly get the material across. At times, it felt cutthroat, but he only meant well. He was just very passionate about his job and wanted everyone to learn.
You didn’t think he was scary at all. In fact, that first day of lecture, you new you were doomed. All you saw was a poor, misunderstood, teddy bear of a man. You thought it was so endearing how his glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, or how he filled out his button ups and vests: equal parts of muscle and squish <3
n you totally stared at his huge butt and dick print oops what I didn’t say that what-
Professor O’Hara who’s scowl would melt away when you’d hurry into class, completely dismissing that fact that you were late. People who had him previously would be so confused that the Miguel O’Hara is stumbling on his own words during a lecture. Little did they know that it was because you, his very pretty and very eager student, was sitting front row and center. You’d fix your hair or apply lip gloss hoping you’d get his attention, and you succeeded.
Professor O’Hara thought you were so cute. He loved the way you dressed, the way you’d raise your hand and ask such good questions, the way you took notes, making them look equally as adorable as you. It didn’t help that you were a total ace in his class. Your brains n beauty were going straight to both of his heads……..
Professor O’Hara who although was naturally pretty distant and quiet with students, was trying very hard to be vocal with you, making sure to let you know when you were doing good. “Good job today, Mama.” “Thank you for being so involved in class today, mama, I appreciate it.” “Aye, Mama, make sure you get some sleep before the quiz tomorrow, mkay?” “Have a safe weekend, mama, and please, if you need anything, you have my email. It doesn’t matter what time it is.” and if he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, he’d definitely leave notes for you when handing back your work <3
Professor O’Hara who now wakes up earlier and takes longer to get ready in the morning. For you. He would put on his most expensive cologne knowing you liked to ask for help. You’d smell it every time he bent over your desk behind you, enough so that the timbre of his low voice tickled your ear and his belly just barely grazing your back.
Professor O’Hara who was developing his own crush on you, even though it was definitely wrong. Besides, you were a model. He was convinced that even if he were a student, he wouldn’t have a chance with you.
Professor O’Hara who always felt his eyes gravitating toward you in the mass of seats when lecturing, as if he forgot what you looked like and needed to see your face again. You’d tilt your head n give him a smile each time he did, as if telling him you’re following along, and this rattled him. He’d smile back right before shying away from your gaze, clearing his throat and starting wherever he left off on in his lesson. You thought that was cute.
Professor O’Hara who was always there for you when you were troubled, his office becoming a place you frequented for comfort. He was a great ear, elbows on his knees and brows furrowed as he listened to your trials and tribulations. Pobrecita preciosa. He hated seeing you this way. His bear hugs always seemed to make the troubles go away.
Professor O’Hara who would praise you after seeing all the work you put into his class. Anytime you were stressed, he’d take you some place other than his office to relax, maybe buy you some tea or your favorite pastry. He’d take those opportunities to learn more about you, asking you in a gentle, sweet tone about your other studies, your goals, your life etc. he’d hopelessly fall for you even more when watching you speak about things you were passionate about, seeing how your eyes sparkled. He’d try to keep his composure by maintaining a stoic expression, but a small smile would crack every time. He was a melting mess.
Professor O’Hara who would keep all your assignments and reread them at home since you liked to leave him little notes like, “ So lucky to have you as a professor” “Amazing class today!” “Looking forward to our tutoring sesh tmw<3”, the curvy letters of your pretty hand writing feeding into his desires for you, those same desires going from wholesome to more lustful.
Professor O’Hara, who’s walls you break down with your kindness, intelligence, humility, and beauty. He’d play with your hair during tutoring sessions, buy you things that reminded him of you, call you ‘mama’ when no one else was around. He loved the way you knit your brows together telling him he shouldn’t be spending money on you as he’s already doing so much for you already, to which he replies, “You deserve it, and more, mama”.
Professor O’Hara who, when you stay after class to help him clean (because you volunteered to, otherwise, Miguel would never let you lift even a finger because you’re a princess), instead of picking up stray mechanical pencils, he would imagine you picking up stranded toys in the living room. He’d imagine what it’s like living life with you, having a life with you, then immediately shoo those absurd thoughts away after realizing he’s falling for you after only months of knowing you.
Professor O’Hara who genuinely cares about your well-being, wants to see you succeed and get everything you want and deserve. Who wants the absolute best for you.
A/n: Just some hcs before I continue the story…. I won’t edge y’all for long so just bear w meeeeee <3333
Tags <3
@safixiovi @mukeovernetflix @mochikisses @miguels-cock-piercings @miranexx @bunnibitez @deepdiveintothedeephive @faretheeoscar @sillygardeneggperson @librababe99 @sariespi @little-lovelace @monstersimp @oharasfilipinawife @obi-mom-kenobi @maomaimao @pomakori @rxckstarss @mochimoqa @princesatracionera @queerponcho @froggygal @yaysposts @koko-1025 @kikaaauu @lauraolar14 @anotherprettyprincess @ce3stvu @m4dyy @kaidxra
Want more DadBod!Miguel? Here’s my master list, bae!!!
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vampyrsm · 11 months
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ꕤ 𝐀𝐥𝐥'𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐚𝐫
ꕤ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ares!Bakugou x Aphrodite!Reader
ꕤ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k
ꕤ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Female Reader, MDNI, 18+ content, reader is married, unprotected sex, no prep, reader is cheating on her husband (with Bakugou), implied soulmates, Bakugou is much bigger than you, pet names used (my love, sweetness, etc.), back-to-back orgasms, squirting, creampie, Bakugou is deeply in love (he's a sap), praise, breeding, talks of having a child.
ꕤ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: So I decided to stray slightly away from the Greek Mythology we know, as in I didn't make them all related lol, that's just very complex and something I didn't want to think too much about. I do keep it somewhat 'canon' to what we know of Ares/Aphrodite's love affair and the outcome of the affair. When the reader refers to Enji as father, they are not related in my story - it's just how the other Gods often talked to Zeus as he was the Allfather. A quick rundown of the people involved: Zeus (Enji), Ares (Bakugou), Aphrodite (You), Hephaestus (Touya), and Hermes (Hawks/Keigo). If you're confused as to what Bakugou is wearing, it's this. Anyway, enjoy! Sorry for any mistakes, I tried to proof read but I'm only human.
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Golden chalices filled to the brim with the finest of red wines clinked together, sloshing the crimson liquid onto the hand-carved marble table. It was always a grandiose event whenever the Gods were gathered, everyone in Olympus knew when they were in attendance. Mount Olympus was buzzing with anticipation for days and nights leading up to the event when the Gods would arrive to greet their King.
Though with all the theatrics, it was never a pleasant experience for some Gods. 
One of them was Bakugou, the God of War, who remained poised by the marble columns wrapped in ivy. His own wine had been long forgotten the moment it was given to him, he was never one to drink when such an event happened. He couldn’t trust the King as far as he could throw him – and Bakugou had quite the throwing arm. 
He was unusually angry tonight, his arms crossed tightly over his scarcely clad chest and he wore a deep-set frown as he glowered at the table. It was loud, as expected, with laughter and boisterous shouting whenever someone got a little too excited. But it wasn’t just the noise that was driving the God of War to madness, but rather it was you.
You, sitting at the table with your own chalice that was dainty and filled with a finer wine. You had always had a taste for the finer things, and Bakugou was no stranger to such things. You smiled and spoke when you had to, but everyone at the table knew you were amongst the strongest there – no one dared to make a comment on just what you got up to behind closed doors. 
Everyone knew about your lustrous adventures, perhaps it was just a side effect of being the Goddess of Love and Beauty – forever doomed to yearn and want more. You attracted far too much attention to yourself, yet you always revelled in the way people would worship you and beg. 
It drove Bakugou crazy. You had the ability to wrap people around your little finger with a bat of your eyelashes and a coy smile.
And he was tightly coiled around your finger like a snake, refusing to let go. He couldn’t quite remember just when it had happened, but Bakugou knew that he was very much in love with you and he assumed he may always be in love with you until the end of time itself. 
But the world was cruel, even to the Gods. Bakugou may not remember when he had first laid eyes on you but he does remember the day he laid eyes on you when you were forced into a marriage arranged by the King. Enji had forced you into marrying his son, Touya – the God of Fire. Whilst that was surely a powerful title, Touya was neglectful to you and was often rageful when he discovered just what you had been up to. 
Touya was indeed in attendance tonight, and sat directly next to you with a distasteful look on his face as he glared at the other Gods who surrounded the table. His own chalices were empty consistently, and yet the effects of the rich wine hadn’t quite taken a toll on the God.
As soon as Bakugou had entered and seen Touya, he had wanted to turn around and leave immediately. But it was you who called out for him, much to the annoyance of your husband who grunted at you standing up hastily, leaning against the table and calling his name.
He could never resist the way you said his name, nor could he ignore the way you plead for him. 
So that’s how he had ended up brooding on his own, overseeing the event taking place whilst lamenting on how he could be working on war plans.
“And tell me, are you still meddling with the mortals?” Enji’s voice was naturally louder than the rest, demanding attention and he always got it. Everyone turned to look at Enji before they all settled their eyes on who was on the receiving end of such a question; you.
Not many people recognised anger in someone's eyes; a burning desire to turn to violence but Bakugou did. He lived off of that feeling, that desire to destroy was something that burned deep in his stomach daily. And he could see it in your eyes when you turned your gaze away from the mirror sitting in front of you.
“And do tell me, dear Father, are you still tricking women into giving you illegitimate children?”
There were a couple of gasps and a muffled snort of laughter from someone further down the table which you assume came from Natsuo. Everyone waited to see just how Enji would react, to see if he would bring down the weight of the world on you with just a flick of his wrist or if perhaps you’d be the one to strike first. 
Bakugou felt his muscles tense, shifting into a prime position to protect you, if it came to that. His eyes were locked directly on Enji. He watched as the wave of anger contorted his face, his scar unsightly in the light that filtered through the open windows and made him look more like his exiled brother than anything. 
“Perhaps it’d be wise for us to calm ourselves before another war is afoot,” Hawks spoke from his own seat, eyes shifting uncomfortably between the other Gods before settling finally on you. The God of Speed silently communicates with you to back down from a fight that surely will turn out ugly, Bakugou is of two minds when he practically sees the fire inside of you burn brighter. He wishes to see the wounds you’d inflict on Enji if you were to truly speak your mind, but he fears what is to come of it.
But it seems you have made up your own mind, and you rise from your seat. You level Enji with one long stare before turning away, ignoring the protests of your husband. Bakugou knows he’s not the only one who watches you as you leave, the sheer fabric on your body leaves nothing to the imagination yet you always hold yourself with a sense of dignity. 
The laughter and talking resume shortly after your departure, and no one is aware of when Bakugou slips out of the room in pursuit of you. Except for Touya, whose hand curls into a fist against his lap and pulls the scars taut until they threaten to rip. 
He traverses the long halls as if they were his own; he had spent many years in the place that the King calls his home, often talking of war plans. The red cloak he wears billows in his large strides, and the metal armour on his shoulders and shins clink loudly. He knows exactly where you would’ve wandered to, you always had a habit of returning to the one place where you felt in tune with nature.
Bakugou turns numerous corners until he’s met with the archway that leads out into the hidden garden. One would consider it overgrown with flowers and greenery, ivy clings to the cracked marble arch that Bakugou ducks under to avoid hitting his head. He follows the obscured path just as he had many times before, careful steps to avoid the thorn bushes that lay in wait for their next victim. 
He follows the sound of running water until he comes to a stop. There you are. Sat amongst the bed of flowers beside the running waterfall that falls off the side of Mount Olympus. Your back is to him, yet he knows you well enough to know that you’re very aware someone is watching you. 
Your hands still on the flowers you had been chaining together, though you don’t turn to face him just yet. You remain in place whilst he approaches slowly – like he was approaching a wild animal.
“Have you come to give me a lecture on why I shouldn’t start wars without consulting you first?” You speak finally, and Bakugou recognises the tone in your voice. You’re exhausted. 
“It had crossed my mind.” He says simply, settling down into the spot next to you which earns him a glare when he crushes one of the roses with the heel of his foot as he stretches his legs out. He shifts the iconic helmet that he often wears off to the side, the red feathered strip blowing softly in the wind. 
“Then tell me, my love, why have you followed me? You know that it’ll only anger him further.” One would think you were referring to Enji as him, but Bakugou knows you’re speaking about Touya. 
“I’ll show him the true meaning of anger, he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on you or me.”
You hum in response to his words, not entirely believing him yet he doesn’t feel hurt that you don’t jump to his side in agreement. 
“Answer my question, Katsuki. Why did you follow me out here?” 
“Why did you return to our spot?” He always did this, answered you with a question until you huffed in annoyance and turned to look at him. He knew you could see the way his eyes lit up with your attention finally on him, and he bathes in the way you smile so delicately at him. 
“Because I knew you’d come. You always come.” 
His fingers brush along your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before the same fingers that have murdered thousands of men brush down along your jaw. He takes the time to admire your beauty, much to your delight, he traces the hollow of your throat with his thumb when his hand hooks around the back of your neck.
“I will always find you, my love.” Bakugou breathes the words simply before he’s surging forward to press his lips to your own. The feeling of butterflies exploding in his stomach, an odd feeling when he’s so used to the eternal lust for violence that boils his blood. 
His lips move in time with your own, a dance between the two of you that had been practised for hundreds of years. You lean further into him, your hands brushing against the golden skin of his chest and the strap that holds his armour and clock in place. His own hand curls further against the back of your neck, holding you in place as he has his fill of you. The taste of the wine on your lips is still present, and even more so on your tongue. It has him dizzy with the sweetness of it, the way it blends so perfectly with the natural essence that oozes from you. You always had a talent for stuffing his head with soft cotton and filling every one of his senses with you.
You were like the sweetest fruit he had ever tasted, perhaps it made you sweeter that you were considered forbidden and he couldn’t help but sink his teeth further into you.
You all but moan when he does in fact bite the plumpness of your bottom lip, and it’s enough to surge him on. He’s laying you in the bed of flowers, your hair sprawling out behind you in a way that even the most talented of artists would only be able to capture just a fraction of your beauty. 
His body is huge over your own, caging you in from the outside world and capturing you in the world the two of you had built for each other. You both had always felt so enamoured with one another, true soulmates you had once said. He can’t deny the fact that you were very much correct with that comment, his soul had always been tied to your own from the moment you had first met him. 
Bakugou is the one to break first from the kiss (as always), yet he doesn’t move far. His lips still brush against your own when he pants, leaning onto one forearm beside your head whilst the other freely explores along your throat, down along your collar bones before he lays a hand over your breasts.
The sheer material doesn’t do much to protect you from his feel, his callouses catch on the silky material as he brushes the tip of his finger over your budding nipples. He can feel the way your heart hammers away beneath your skin like a tiny hummingbird, you’re excited he knows but this type of excitement was adrenaline induced. It was intoxicating. 
“You’re as beautiful as ever,” and the way he breathes your name is unlike any of the followers who say your name in prayer, it’s invigorating that you can get a man of destruction and bloodlust to whisper your name in such a tone. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of your beauty.”
“And I’ll never tire of yours,” your fingers this time brush along his jaw, touching the scars that show just how dedicated he is to his role as the God of War. You follow along his jaw, his cheekbones and the crooked bump of his nose before you trace over his eyebrows with your thumbs. “I could admire you for all of eternity, and never grow bored of your comeliness.”
Bakugou chuckles, quiet yet you feel the rumble of it when your hand presses to the side of his neck. “You speak too much.” 
“Then perhaps you should change that.”
And he just grunts in return, before he’s diving back in to kiss you. This time with renewed vigour, a need to swallow you whole and devour the love you pour for him and only him. His fingers move to trace over your body once again, following invisible lines he had mapped out over the years of exploring your body so freely. It’s like second nature for him to drag his fingers over the fullness of your breasts before they dip down along your waist, your hips and across your stomach.
All the whilst you writhe beneath him, always one to submit to the lust first. Bakugou however wasn’t far behind you, his head span with the heavy scent that filled the air. Sweet like the richest of apples, delicate like the pink and white flowers that bend beneath the weight of your bodies tangling together. Yet there was always a tang underlying beneath the sweetness of it all, one that Bakugou had come to realise years ago was your arousal. So pure and so very intoxicating, it drove him forward once again.
Your legs all but part for him when he pushes forward, your knees bending to press into his sides whilst his hips settle against your own. He’s unsurprised to be met with the warmth, and wetness, that lies between your legs. You had never been one to adorn material that restricted you in ways, and he is thankful to have attended in his full attire for the party. His Pteruges does nothing to stop you from feeling just how hard he was already.
Bakugou continues to dominate the situation, just as he does with any task. Your hands paw uselessly at the metallic belt holding his pteruges in place, whilst your calves brush against the bareness of his thick thighs. He chuckles against your mouth, breathing in for the first time in what feels like an eternity. His eyes crack open just enough to see the look on your face; needy and wanting.
“Anyone could find us here.” Yet Bakugou makes no move to leave, his hips roll against your own to elicit the most beautiful of sounds from your throat.
“That’s never stopped us before, I need you Katsuki–.. Please.” You whine, finally getting your fingers to hook against the metal before it falls loose between the two of you. All he can do is smirk down at you, using his free hand to push the skirt-like attire down his thighs before kicking it off to the side to join his helmet.
Then he sits up on his knees, watching as your eyes immediately drop to stare unashamedly at his length. It droops against his thigh, thick and leaking precum profusely. He makes a show of unbuckling the large leather strap across his chest, shouldering off the heavy shoulder pads before his cloak flutters down with it. 
Bakugou remains on his knees as he watches you draw the sheer material covering your shoulders down until it falls apart around you, falling behind you like a sheet for the both of you to lay on. You’ve always been open to displaying your body before the God of War, dragging your fingers along your own breasts to toy with your nipples before you grow bored and move further down. 
Bakugou can’t draw his eyes away, following the invisible lines you trace down… and down… until they rest between the apex of your thighs. You spread yourself lewdly, uncaring for the squelch that tells him just how aroused you are at this very moment. It has him groaning deep in the back of his throat, his blood boiling just like it did before a fight. You’re another thing he must conquer, put you back in your place beneath him.
“You’ll drive me to madness,” Bakugou whispers, not intending for you to hear but you apparently do. You smile, yet you do not reply, clearly determined now to see just how quickly you can drive the man known for his courage and valour into the depths of chaos. 
Your fingers dance between your legs for a moment, brushing up and down along your soaked lips before they swirl and circle against your clit. The level of just how wet you are helps with the easy glide, easing you further into your delirious state of lust. 
Bakugou feels like he’s bewitched, eyes unable to blink away from the sight of you toying with yourself. It was nothing new, he had in the past made you masturbate in front of him for his own enjoyment. It was something that filled his chest with a sense of power, that you were doing all of this for him — it made him greedy for more.
“But perhaps madness would not be so bad, if you were by my side.” 
“I will forever be by your side, my sweetness.”
Sweetness – a name only you could use on a God like Bakugou Katsuki. Only you could call him something so gentle when he had witnessed enough bloodshed and war to fill four lifetimes. Only you could make the otherwise stoic man smile, and crumble like the weakest defences. His heart thunders in his chest when he dives back down into your space, the warmth of his bare chest against yours is all-consuming. 
He feels himself lose himself to the rhythm of your bodies, his hips rolling against your own once again but this time his cock is free. It catches against your lightly sensitive clit, drawing out a breathy sigh from between your bitten lips.
“Give yourself to me,” you mumble against his lips, your fingers moving from their previous position to thread themselves through his golden wheat-coloured hair, holding softly at the roots to keep his face just in front of yours. “All of you. I want all of you.” 
“Then you shall have me.” 
His lips press into yours as an effort to stop the volume of your voice when he breeches you with the thick head of his cock, whilst he would’ve loved to divulge in foreplay and excite you further he knows it’s too much of a risk to spend that much time alone with you. He already suspects soon someone will come seeking you, and that will only lead to more unfortunate events unfolding.
You don’t protest however to the way he splits you in half, your thighs fall apart further to accommodate him the best you can despite the sharp pain that fills your pelvis. Bakugou openly groans against your panting mouth, a low rumble that sounds like he’s in great pain when he finally bottoms out in you. 
It had been far too long since he had last fucked you. You had been sent away from Mount Olympus more and more often until it was once in a blue moon that he’d lay eyes on you. His soul yearned for you every single day, and the only way he had been coping with that loneliness was to become more ruthless with the men he commanded and the mortals who worshipped him. 
The two of you remain there, encapsulated in the little world the two of you build for each other when you come together. His forearms lay on either side of your head, his thumbs brushing delicately against your temples whilst he admires your features so close. Your own hand plays gently with the hairs at the nape of his neck, whilst the other strokes along the broad expanse of his scar-ridden shoulders.
“I’m in love with you,” it’s you who whispers it, and he wonders if you plucked that thought directly from his brain. It has him smiling once again, a rare occasion to happen so often in quick succession.
Bakugou leans down the short distance, his thumbs brushing into your hairline before he presses his lips to yours in a short yet fulfilling kiss, “I know.”
He so desperately wishes to declare his love for you but it would be no different to declaring war. It hurts his heart to not tell you just how much he loves you, yet he knows you understand this much. You don’t frown or get upset with his choice of words, not when he lays another kiss that lingers against your forehead before his hips roll once again.
It’s a slow pace at the start, sensual and it’s enough to convey his true feelings for you. A man who could crush another man’s skull in his bare hand holds you with such a delicate embrace, his hips don’t hammer into your own with the strength you know he harbours. He always took his time at the start, savouring the tightness of your walls when you clench around him as the tuft of the hair nestled just above his cock brushes against your clit.
He continues with this pace until one of his hands wanders down along your body again, retracing the same path until he finds your thigh. He takes a gentle hold of it, and the largeness of his hand squeezes as much of your thigh as he can before he’s hooking the same thigh over his forearm. 
It’s the only warning you get before he’s leaning back from you, it leaves him open to your eyes as you watch his muscles work with the new pace he sets. It’s more aggressive, more like the God of War that you know. It has your tits bouncing harshly with each rut of his hips, the slapping of skin against skin is loud in the otherwise silent garden.
His golden skin glistens in the sunlight, the sweat that gathers in the hollow of his throat expands all the way down to his adonis’ belt. His biceps bulge and tense when he rolls his head back in ecstasy, exposing the bobbing of his Adam’s apple when he swallows hard before his lips part in the most beautiful of moans. 
It wasn’t often he was so vocal in his pleasure, only reserving that right for you. It doesn’t go unnoticed either, you squeeze around him deliciously to pull another note from his throat that sounds a little more strangled. You giggle beneath him, only to be cut off by a particularly harsh slam of his hips against yours. The tip of his cock bullies its way through your walls, ramming against that one spot that only he seems to be able to reach. 
“You dare laugh at me?” He bares his teeth, quite the vision of the fearless God yet he shows no true malice behind his words. If you were to put a word to it, you’d say he was being playful.
“Never,” you manage to breathe between your moans, eyes fluttering in an attempt to stay open as you watch the man above you work as hard as he can to push you closer and closer to completion. “I-I would…” you trail off, and this time it’s Bakugou who laughs at you but it’s broken into a low groan. 
“Hah, drunk off of my cock already, my love?” He’s always been crude with his words, it makes your stomach do flips along with the added term of endearment. “How long has it been since you were treated like the Goddess you are?”
His words sting, unintentionally digging into wounds that grow old, tearing them apart for his prying eyes. You meet his gaze, eyebrows furrowing to show just how much his words hurt – the truth had always hurt the most.
“Too long,” you moan when he hoists your hips up just a little higher, both of your legs now wrapped around his waist whilst his hands grip harshly at your hips. He fucks into you harder at this angle, impossibly reaching deeper and deeper into you until you swear he’s going to touch your very soul; though perhaps that is his goal.
Bakugou doesn’t offer a reply, but rather a grunt. His thumb rolls down over your stomach before he reaches your clit, and he plays with it cruelly. The pressure is harsh, and he’s unrelenting in the speed at which he toys with you. He only has one thing on his mind right now, and that is to make you cum for him in a way only he can make you cum. 
“Give it to me,” he grits his teeth, jaw working as he tries to fend off the urge to fill you with his cum. “Cum for me.” 
He commands you, and you wordlessly obey. It feels like you’re freefalling from the top of the mountain you’re all perched upon, your head falls back into the plush bed of flowers and your mouth opens up in a scream of pleasure. Your eyes roll back until you see nothing but white, and Bakugou doesn’t let up in the way he’s fucking you.
He fucks you harder in fact, inflicting a tingling-like pain between your thighs. He not only works you through your orgasm but forces you right into a more intense one, it has your legs tensing and shaking. Your hands curl uselessly into the grass beside your head, tugging at your hair when you moan his name loudly. Perhaps he should’ve worried about how loud you were becoming, but a deep part inside of him wanted everyone to know just who you were devoted to. 
His thumb is replaced by two fingers, he swipes aggressively against your clit until you’re struggling to catch your breath. Your chest expands with the effort, whilst your knees try to crush into his sides fruitlessly. Bakugou has never shied away from the fact you were more of a generous lover when it came to orgasms, he beamed with pride whenever you blessed him with one such as this. He’s uncaring for the way your juices squirt against his pelvis and drips down his muscled thighs, if anything it encourages him to fuck more out of you.
“That’s it, such a good girl.” He praises effortlessly, fucking you through the intensity of your orgasm until his hips roll to a gentle stop. His hands that were once in a vice grip on your waist gently massage against your thighs, soothing the tensed muscles until you finally relax as best you can in the position he still holds you in. 
He lowers you carefully down until you’re flat again on the floor, and his hands effortlessly roll you over onto your stomach. Those same hands smooth over the expanse of your back, pressing into your lower back to ease the ache he knows often builds there whenever he bends your body to his will. 
Bakugou carefully raises your hips once again, positioning himself over you and you don’t protest when he pushes himself back inside of you. You rest your head on folded arms, angling your head just so that you can see over your shoulder at the mountain of a man who fucks into you slowly once again. He bends easily at the waist, pressing a delicate kiss to your shoulder.
“I’m not done with you yet,” is all he offers before he’s fucking into you again in earnest. You moan into the crook of your arm, eyes still narrowed in his direction to watch the way his mouth falls open and his eyebrows crumple together. The angle he holds your body in is sinful – your thighs squeeze together to make it impossibly tighter around the thickness of his cock. 
In this position, with your hips raised and head in the flowers, Bakugou can’t help but feel the rush of power that fills his body. To have such a powerful Goddess such as yourself bending under just a flat palm to your spine is driving him to fuck into you hard. Too hard perhaps, as he knows he’ll be leaving bruises on the back of your thighs and ass by the time he’s done. But he can’t help himself, this need to cover you in marks – his marks – was growing to be too much. 
You were his, and only his. He didn’t care what the fuck Enji nor Touya said. You were designed to be with him, you were his opposite, his other half. He’d die before he gave up on you. He’d do anything to ensure you were his, forever.
The idea hits him in the gut like a spear, it makes him grunt deep in his chest and fingers flex against the fat of your hips before he squeezes hard. He knows of one way he could secure you to him for the rest of your lives. 
“I should fuck a child into you.” He groans, the words pour from his mouth untapered whilst his mind runs haywire on the idea of you being round with his child – a child born from two Gods such as yourselves surely would be enough to kick Enji from his throne. “A son. Fit for the throne.” 
You watch him over your shoulder, and he meets your gaze easily. His eyes hold nothing but love and adoration for you, you know a child would definitely bring the two of you together forever. The idea alone has you nearly crushing him between your thighs, enough to cause him to grunt and come to a stop buried to the hilt.
“I take that as a yes, my love?” 
“Yes, Katsuki. Please.” You plead, and the ash-blonde God doesn’t have to be told twice.
He fucks you now with a new purpose, to breed you. His hips slap against the roundness of your ass, his fingers reaching to grasp and grope at you. Bakugou is unashamed in the way he marvels at your body, pulling your cheeks apart with his hands to watch the way your pussy swallows him whole despite the size of him.
His balls ache with the need to cum, he yearns for it every single time he’s with you. Yet he was never granted permission to do so; given you were the Goddess of Reproduction, he knew his seed would take to you – which would’ve caused many problems in the past. But now, he’s uncaring for the problems that may arise. He knows he would wage a thousand-year war for you as long as it meant he got to call you his. 
“Katsuki, cum for me, my love.” You moan, panting hotly into your arm in a futile attempt to muffle your whining. 
Bakugou has always been unable to ignore your pleas.
He cums, and hard. His hips stutter at first, fingers curling harshly against the skin of your ass. His hips rut down into your own, hard enough to make you yelp and bite at your arm. You can feel the way his cock jumps and throbs in the depths of your walls, the white seed he spills is molten hot, just like the fire that courses through his blood. 
Bakugou doesn’t stop the roll of his hips until he’s truly spent, both of his hands come to slam into the ground on either side of your head. His panting breath brushes against the sticky sweat on your bare shoulder before he lays kiss after kiss on you. 
“I love you.” He whispers against your ear, pressing his nose into your hair just enough to smell the delicate soaps you use to bathe in. 
“And I love you, more than anything.” You reply just as easily, turning just enough to let his lips brush against your own. The kiss you have now is just as it was at the start; it’s filled with adoring love and underlying longing.
He slips from you easily, but not without hoisting your hips up once again just enough to ensure none of his cum leaks from you. You laugh, but don’t stop him. 
“You truly wish to have a child with me?” You ask once he lays down in the grass next to you, tugging his red cloak from somewhere to the side over the naked expanse of his lower half. 
“Have I ever lied about something I want? Of course I want this.” 
You hum in response to his words, eyes finally fluttering shut to bask in the warmth of the sun and the tranquil feeling that slowly settles over the two of you. Bakugou continues to lay next to you, an arm behind his head whilst his free hand strokes through your hair to play with the various flowers embedded there.
“Then I hope you’re ready for everything that comes with a child.” You smile when Bakugou laughs, opening an eye to look at how he practically glows in the sun. 
“Woman. I have commanded armies of thousands of men, I have killed Gods with my bare hands. You think a child would bring down the almighty God of War?” 
“Maybe that’s your weakness.” 
“Madness,” he rolls over onto his side, brushing away the hair that’s fallen into your eyes before he kisses your eyebrow gently. “You are my weakness, my love.”
And all the whilst, neither of you is privy to the set of burning blue eyes that watch from the archway of the door. And neither of you are aware that Touya leaves to talk to his father – but not to demand you be humiliated for your adultery but rather for a divorce.
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kurtenshi · 1 year
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Hewwo! Hope ur day is goin’ well!
Saw u needed drabble requests so here I am: the moment the demon slayer characters’ realize they’re in love with the reader
WHEN THE DEMON SLAYERS (HASHIRAS + KAMABOKO SQUAD) REALIZE THEY'VE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH YOU (1.5k)
→ Fluff slight angst in Shinobu's | a/n: hello crow! I've been doing well, thank you for sending this! 14 characters are involved in this post so, hope you'll like it <3
→ Warnings; possible canon typical violence? Minor to mild manga spoilers in Shinobu's headcanon (nothing major though)
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• TANJIRO realizes he's fallen for you when you save Nezuko from another demon. You aren't acquainted that much with her, yet, you went out of your own way, risking your own life just to spare her from some mild injuries she could have perfectly healed within a few milliseconds. You didn't even hesitate either; you dived right in, shielding his sister from blows with your blade, summoning a special form of your breathing style. Why? That's just how you are — a caring, protective, and understanding person, and that's precisely why Tanjiro fell for you harder that day.
• ZENITSU realizes he's fallen for you when you stay despite his constant wailings. He knows all too well every day, at least once, he'll hysterically sob about something — anything — but you? You thoroughly endure it AND assist him in winding down. The only ones currently capable of doing so while withstanding their annoyance and frustration are you and Tanjiro, which is thus rare but makes it twice more important. In the end, Zenitsu can't help but fall in love with you because of how patient, helpful, and loving you are.
• INOSUKE realizes he's fallen for you when you play along to his “god of the mountains” game. Many find that ridiculous or dumb (e.g. tengen or giyu), but you respect AND intensify his enthusiasm. My lord, you'd say, a playful grin hanging onto your lips, I believe you have been called to get rid of this demon. He'd laugh loudly and proudly, smirking under his boar mask as he charged toward the creature, my minion! Great job on letting the grand Inosuke-sama deal with this! You're playful and spontaneous, but still collected, and Insouke loves you for it.
• GENYA realizes he's fallen for you when you don't judge him regardless of how he's chosen to eradicate demons. The sole option to protect his brother as he wanted was to become a demon himself. He wasn't fond of it at all, and nor was he fond of the look of disgust his transformation earned him; he just didn't have a choice. However, you offered him your consideration and compassion, caring very little about what other people thought of him, indicating you accepted him wholly. You're compassionate, attentive, and kind-hearted — you're perfect for Genya.
• KANAO realizes she's fallen for you when you push her out of her comfort zone. Quite contradictorily enough, she's grateful you do so because how else would her heart make decisions if you don't guide her first? Emotions and listening to her soul are still something very new to her, so by coaxing her into gradually trying out new things, she slowly but surely discovers many things, including what she likes and dislikes; Kanao's now found out she likes and wants you, who's such a friendly, supportive, and thoughtful person.
• SANEMI realizes he's fallen for you when you stop him from self-harming during battles. I'll injure myself. It's not like anyone's gonna care anyway, is what he used to tell himself when he'd encounter demons after losing every last loved one of his — yet, one day, to his biggest surprise, you had scolded him: what the hell were you thinking? Your marechi blood isn't your only asset; you know that better than anyone else, so don't even think of cutting yourself again. Even in a world infected with demons, you stayed strong, rational, and affectionate. Sanemi can't help but admire and love you for it.
• GYOMEI realizes he's fallen for you when you treat him normally. The blind hashira, the strongest member of the demon slayer corps, the man whose training is hell... He had had enough of that special attention; it didn't help he was a very humble person. Nevertheless, when you came into his life, you still addressed him with respect, but you didn't go as far as others would. I am but a mere human being, I am not deserving of such manners, he'd voice. You deserve such manners, maybe just not that emphasized, I believe that's what you wish? you'd add. He would smile lightly, saying, yes. Gyomei thanks Buddha Amitabah for having you, a selfless, reflective, and well-intended person.
• MUICHIRO realizes he's fallen for you when he never forgets you. Your face, your name, and your presence are all engraved in his memory (which is rare for him) — that's how he becomes aware of the importance you hold in his heart. After all, if you meant nothing, why would his heart register you as a priority? Starting from that moment, he just knows he loves you, no matter what his mind or anyone else says. And while Muichiro's occupation is dangerous, the mere thought of the intelligent, caring, and creative person you are keeps him going as he slays demons repeatedly, continuing for the sole motive of keeping others safe, but mostly you.
• MITSURI realizes she's fallen for you when you wait for her during meals. She perfectly knows she'll take way more time than ordinary people to finish her food, but she wasn't expecting you to stay with her until the end, at least at the beginning of your relationship. Most people (aside from Obanai Iguro) don't bother offering her some of their time, but you do. The only rare occurrences where you must leave before are if you ought to attend an appointment/meeting — elsewise, you don't. It means the absolute world to her because she knows she's not alone and that you welcome and adore her the way she is. Mitsuri couldn't have wished for someone more loving, generous, and determined than you.
• OBANAI realizes he's fallen for you when you strived to get to know how he really was. Despite his cold and distant demeanor, you didn't stop. Despite his introverted and reserved nature, you kept trying. And you succeeded. You reached the essence of his soul, the heart-wrenching story hidden behind his self-isolation, and what fueled his rage and self-loath. But why? Because you cared and because you wanted to get to know him, intrigued to discover how others were and why. That attention had Obanai weak to his knees, unwilling to believe someone as considerate, amiable, and hard-working as you had done so much just for him.
• KYOJURO realizes he's fallen for you when you take the time to tend to his and Senjuro's needs. The last time he and his beloved little brother had been taken care of was such a long time ago, likely when their mother was still alive and healthy. After their mother's passing, their father left them both on their own, drowning himself in some cheap sake he thought could help him. Well, it didn't, and it only made the Rengoku household more... tense. So, the day you randomly decide to check up on the Rengoku brothers, their hearts melt. Especially Kyojuro's, since you had also offered his brother some time and care. You're passionate, devoted, and altruistic — everything Kyojuro wants.
• TENGEN realizes he's fallen for you when your presence (let alone your name) can brighten up the entire Uzui household. To perceive even his wives have grown very fond of you, he can't help but smirk and proudly claim you as theirs, victorious of all the other suitors who had hoped to be with you. The four resemble teenagers in love, somehow always blushing and giggling giddily when you're around or when they hear about you. Let's just say you have quite the effect on them and that your fun-loving, ambitious, and big-hearted person has gotten the heart(s) of Tengen (and his wives).
• GIYU realizes he's fallen for you when he has the sudden urge to protect you from everything and anything. He knows how cruel and merciless this world is, and he most definitely knows he can't afford to lose you. He honestly doesn't remember when you earned all of his love and care, but he's more than willing to let you have it, knowing you hold his heart in your palm. After loads of determination and effort, he let you in. It was far from being an easy task, but what he deems harder now is letting you go. Giyu keeps on telling himself he's not enough for you — but your hard-working, brave, and reassuring self never fails to remind him how perfect he is, and that never fails to warm his heart.
• SHINOBU realizes she's fallen for you when you accept her revenge plan on upper moon two. Her method is quite radical, and as her lover, she would have expected you to be fully against it. You were and are, but ended up tolerating it in the end, accepting her desire for revenge she's been longing for. Chances are high you'll mourn and miss her tremendously — however, is it better to spend the last remaining moments you have with her fighting or loving? Shinobu herself prefers to relish your presence peacefully, knowing she'll never find such an empathetic, mature, and trustworthy person as yourself again.
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bonefall · 4 months
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⭕️Hey Bones! Is it ok if you explain and/or elaborate how Crowfeather is abusive to Breezepelt if please?⭕️
I do KNOW that crowfeather is indeed, abusive to Breezepelt, due to the fact that he emotionally and/or physically neglected him - with child neglect being known to BE a form of child abuse - and I also heard that he slashed and/or hit him within one of the books, which I believe is in the book Outcast, in chapter 16.
But I also wish people would talk and be informed about it more within the fandom, because in the parts of the fandom I’ve known portrayed Crowfeather’s neglect on Breezepelt as negative and bad, but not in a way that made me think and/or feel: “Wow, that’s pretty bad. That’s…actually abusive.” I suppose? So I hope more people will talk about it more in that type of way.
Also, please be aware that I have NOT read PoT, OoTS, etc. or barely any warrior cats books, since the majority of the information I got from the series is from the wiki and the fandom, so that probably explains why I didn’t know this part of Crowfeather’s character is as bad as it actually is until now. Also, feel free to talk about Crowfeather’s abuse on Breezepelt I haven’t mentioned and/or don’t know right now as well if you want.
I’m SO sorry that if this ask is unintentionally quite long, and feel free to make sure to take all the time you need to answer it. Thank you!
OH LET'S GOOOO
Breezepelt is both physically and emotionally abused by Crowfeather. I'm not talking about only child neglect; he is screamed at, belittled, and even once hit on-screen.
The fact that Crowfeather both neglected and abused him is very important to the canonical story of Breezepaw. There's actually a lot more to this character than people remember! Even from his first appearances he displays good qualities, a strained relationship with his father and adult clanmates, and is clearly shown to be troubled before we understand why.
As many problems as I have with the direction of Breezepelt's arc (especially Crowfeather's Trial), his setup is legitimately a praiseworthy bit of writing from Po3 which carries over into OotS. To say that Breezepelt was not abused is to completely miss two arcs worth of books SCREAMING it.
BIG POST. Glossary;
INTRO TO BREEZEPELT: The Sight and Dark River
ABUSE: Outcast, Social Alienation, the Tribe Journey.
DARK FOREST: How these factors push him towards radicalization.
For "brevity," I'm not getting into anything post-OotS. I'm just showing that Breezepelt was abused, the narrative wants you to know that he was abused, and that his status as a victim of child abuse is CENTRAL to understanding why he is training in the Dark Forest.
INTRO TO BREEZEPELT: The Sight and Dark River
Our very first introduction to Breeze is when Jaypaw walks off a cliff in the first book of Po3 and is rescued by a WindClan patrol. He's making snarky remarks, and Whitetail and Crowfeather are not happy about it. Whitetail snaps for Crow to teach his son some manners, and Crow growls for Breezepaw to be quiet.
But our proper introduction to him is at his announcement gathering, when Heatherpaw playfully introduces him as a friend,
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From the offset something's not entirely right here between Breezepaw and his father. He's cut off by Heatherpaw here, but he's touchy whenever his father is involved, and we're not entirely sure why.
Throughout Book 1, he's just rude, with a notable xenophobic streak. He's a bit of a mean rival character for Lionpaw, as they're both interested in the affections of Heatherpaw and make bids to get her attention, but nothing particularly violent yet.
He participates in the beloved Kitty Olympics and gets buried in liquid dirt with Lionpaw, basically a rite of passage for any arc.
(And Nightcloud has a cute moment where she watches over them until they fall asleep)
As the books progress, the relationship between Crow and Breeze visibly deteriorates. They start from being simply tense with each other in The Sight, to the open shouting and hitting we see in Outcast.
In the very first chapter of Dark River, we learn where his behavioral issues are really coming from;
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Crowfeather.
Breezepelt is getting xenophobia from his father. Occasionally he says something bigoted and his dad will agree and chime in, and those are the only positive moments they have together.
(Note: In contrast, Nightcloud explicitly pushes back against xenophobia, chiding Breezepelt for his rudeness to Lionpaw in back in The Sight, Chapter 21. The Sight is the book where a lot of "evidence" that the Evil Overbearing Woman is actually responsible for the rift between father and son but. No. She's not. Though she can be overprotective; Crow and Breeze have a bad relationship when she's not even around in Breeze's first appearance and even his Crowfeather's Trial Epiphany refutes it. Anyway this post isn't about Nightcloud.)
So he starts acting on his bigotry, accusing cats in other Clans of stealing, running really close to the border. What's interesting though, is that this is not entirely his doing. The first time we get physical trouble from Breezepaw, DUSTPELT aggressed it. Breezepaw and Harepaw were just chasing a squirrel and hadn't yet gone over the border at all.
We learn that WindClan is teaching its apprentices how to hunt in woodland, and tensions between the two Clans is starting to escalate as ThunderClan isn't entirely trusting of their intentions.
The second time, fighting breaks out over him and Harepaw actually crossing the border and catching a squirrel. WindClan is adamant that because it came from their land, it's their squirrel. So it's as if Breezepaw is modelling the aggression around him, learning how to behave from the older warriors and his father.
When he joins Heatherpaw and The Three to go find Gorsetail's kits in the tunnels, he's grouchy towards the ThunderClan cats, but very gentle with the kittens. Notably so. When Thistlekit is dangerously cold, he cuddles up next to her, and even assures Swallowkit when she's scared,
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Through this entire excursion, he's the one in the comforting roles for the kittens. Breezepaw is the one who is taking time to tell the kits they'll be okay, that he'll protect them, and physically supporting them when they're weak, even when he's terrified.
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And it's always contrasted to Heatherpaw who's way more 'disciplined,' as a side note. It's a detail I'm just fond of.
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All this to point out,
Breezepelt displays his best qualities when he's away from the older warriors of WindClan, and he's at his worst whenever he's near Crowfeather. Even while he's essentially just a bully character for The Three to deal with. He's gruff but cooperative when it's just him and Heatherpaw interacting with The Three, but mean when there is an adult to please.
We're getting to the on-screen abuse now, but Po3 actually sets up Breezepaw's troubles and dynamics well before it's finally confirmed that he is a victim of child abuse.
ABUSE: Outcast, the Tribe Journey.
In Outcast, Breezepaw's problems have escalated into open aggression towards cats of other Clans, and is now a legitimate concern for his own safety. Yet, he's spoken over by older warriors, and reprimanded at nearly every opportunity, right in front of the warrior of another Clan.
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Squilf just asked the poor kid how his training was going, and then Whitetail JUMPS to talk over him so she can complain, RIGHT in front of his face.
They can't even wait until they're alone to grumble something rude about Breezepaw, who is still just a teenager here;
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They taught him already that a bit of prey that runs off their own territory still belongs to WindClan, encourage him to blow past borders in pursuit, and started a battle with ThunderClan over this. And then they're pissed off at him for being aggressive, thinking it's deserved to scold him in public.
When Onestar announces that he wants Breezepaw to go on the Tribe Journey, he's devastated by it...
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Because he thinks WindClan doesn't like him, and he's right. He's gossiped about, torn into in front of a ThunderClan warrior, and even his own dad doesn't want to be around him. It's clear that Breezepaw's impulsive "codebreaking" behaviors are a desire to prove himself, and once you realize that, the way that he's being alienated is heartbreaking.
But Wait!! Hold on a minute! Where did he get a "patrol of apprentices" from to confront the dogs with, exactly?
Simple. Breezepaw CAN make friends! He actually values them a lot! So much that it's the first thing Crowfeather snaps at him over, out of frustration that his son is also being forced on this journey with him. It's an angry response to his child having emotional and physical needs, resentment that will continue all journey long.
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Note that it's plural, friends. Breezepelt has multiple friends, at least one who is not Heatherpaw, and she promises to say goodbye to them.
Up next, they state over and over, Crowfeather and Breezepaw do not like each other. Crowfeather resents being around him and dealing with his rudeness, embarrassed and angry, and Breezepaw is absolutely miserable being sent on a journey to the mountains with a man who hates his guts.
The whole while, Crowfeather is brooding longingly about Feathertail, already thinking about her as soon as he kitty-kisses Nightcloud goodbye, his eyes looking somewhere distant. He makes a jab about loyalty when Breezepaw doesn't understand why they're helping the Tribe.
Breezepaw gets smacked after he's "shoved" at Purdy and acts rude to him, while the other three manage to be polite (while still having internal dialogue about how stinky he is).
Without so much as a, "cut that out," Crowfeather raises his paw and hits him. Breeze is quiet after that.
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I don't give a shit how rude your teenager is being. Do not hit kids. Being throttled on the head is not okay.
In spite of the Three not liking Breezepaw, or even Crowfeather, they're constantly noting that their arguments are not normal, and that Crow is a cold, unsupportive father who digs into his kid constantly, and the only time he ever DOES "discipline" his child it's through immediately smacking him.
At one point, the apprentices get hungry, and decide to foolishly hunt in a barn that they know has dogs in it against Purdy's warnings. Once again, JUST like the first two books, Breezepaw is more friendly when Crowfeather is not around.
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EVERY time he is alone with cats his own age, he's grumpy but cooperative. Even enthusiastic at times! The minute Crowfeather is in the picture, he's nasty.
Naturally, the dogs show up, but Purdy rescues them. Though Brambleclaw also chews his kids out (and i have strong opinions about bramble's parenting style for another time), Hollypaw is taken aback by the contrast of what a scolding from Brambleclaw looks like vs how Crowfeather reacts.
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The narrative is desperately trying to tell you that the way Crowfeather treats his son is not normal.
And then Crowfeather is pissed off that Breezepaw is exhausted from running for his life from hungry dogs,
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And he's constantly losing his shit whenever Breezepaw says something as innocuous as "dad im hungry"
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Then, Breezepaw is made to watch his dad pine over the grave of a woman who died long before Crowfeather was even considering his mother for a mate. What he feels is jealousy, because he knows his own father doesn't love him anywhere near as much as he loves the memory of Feathertail.
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This really goes on and on and on. The ENTIRE trip is like this, with Crowfeather treating Breezepelt poorly, giving him a smack before even verbally warning him, pushing him past his limits and blowing up on him when he asks simple questions about eating or resting.
It all comes to a head in this one exchange, towards the end. Hollypaw ends up snapping at Breezepaw for his rudeness, before having an epiphany.
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It's explicit. Crowfeather's emotional abuse, his "scorn" for Breezepelt, is what is driving a wedge between him and all of his older Clanmates. Between EVERYONE in Breezepelt's life who wasn't already his friend. This awful treatment is only making him worse and worse.
Realizing this, she has more sympathy for him, but it's too late. He continues to be rude to her because he feels insulted, and her patience completely runs out. She's just a kid. They're both just kids. She's not responsible for fixing him when he's pushing everyone away at this point.
That's the end of Breezepelt in Outcast. It can't be helped anymore. Any spark of friendship they had together in the barn, or in the tunnels, is gone.
As the series progresses, Crowfeather continues to refuse any personal responsibility for the mistreatment of his son, even pinning all of Breezepelt's behavioral problems on Nightcloud. He is a cold, selfish father who only ever thinks about his own pain and reputation.
DARK FOREST: How these factors push him towards radicalization.
Everyone talks about the Attack on Poppyfrost, which happens in the first book of OotS, in oversimplified terms. YES he is going after a nun and a pregnant woman. I've never said that's not Bad.
But no one talks about "WHY", and that reason is NOT just that he desires power like so many other WC villains. Breezepelt makes his motivation very clear on the page.
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Escalating to violence was about making Jayfeather feel the way that he does.
When Breezepelt says that he wants Jay to be surrounded by "lies, hatred, and things that should never have happened," he's talking about the way HE grew up, knowing his father never wanted him, and that his Clan HATES him as a result. Killing Poppyfrost is about trying to frame Jayfeather for her murder, so ThunderClan won't trust him anymore.
When Jayfeather points out the simple truth that what Breezepelt is saying doesn't make any goddamn sense, his hatred "falters." He's blaming his half-clan half-brother for his own treatment because of the reveal, but totally failed to consider that JAYFEATHER'S ALREADY GOING THROUGH IT... so his response is just this pitiful, "s-shut up, man."
Then the ghost of Brokenstar and Breezepelt bounce him back and forth between them like a beach ball for a bit until Honeyfern's spirit shows up.
Breezepelt's childhood abuse and social alienation was a hook that the Dark Forest latched onto, to reel him in. His anger at his half-brother is so obviously misplaced that its absurdity was something Jayfeather pointed out.
We soon learn that it's the Dark Forest who's planting that ridiculous idea in his head;
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The narration is SCREAMING, "The Dark Forest is validating the anger he feels towards his father, and redirecting it towards The Three." He's described as 'kitlike,' Tigerstar's eyes are compared to a hypnotizing snake.
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This prose could not make it more obvious if it drove to your house, beat you with it, and then spoon fed you the point while you were hospitalized.
At the end of this scene, Tigerstar sends Hawkfrost to recruit Ivypaw. This scene where Breezepelt is being lovebombed, and the command to start grooming Ivypaw, ARE LINKED. That was a choice.
A VERY GOOD choice! Again, as many issues as I have with OotS, its handling of indoctrination is unironically fantastic, and it owes a good amount of that to the outstanding setup of Breezepelt that was done back in Po3. And that setup doesn't work if Crowfeather was merely distant.
Breezepelt was abused by his father, both verbally and physically. It drove him to be more aggressive to prove himself, modeling the battle culture around him. The adults of WindClan judged him based off Crowfeather's responses, shunning and belittling the 'problem' teenager, which eventually drove Breezepelt to the only group that he felt "understood" him.
In a book series that is RIFE with abuse apologia, this is one of the few times that there's any behavioral consequences for abuse and the narrative holds the perpetrator accountable for it.
But people hear Crowfeather's deflective excuse in The Last Hope where he says he never hated him, blames Nightcloud for everything, and just lick it up uncritically.
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Gee whiz, I wonder why the guy who never blames himself for any of his problems would suddenly say it was his ex-wife's fault. Real headscratcher!
(Crowfeather's Trial then goes onto, for all my own problems with it, also hold Crow accountable as the reason why Breezepelt turned out like he did. But that's a topic for another day.)
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randomshyperson · 2 months
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One For The Road - Heart Shaped Series
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Chapter Summary: Wanda's first mission as an Avenger was also marked by the first time she met you.
Warnings: typical canon violence, fluff and Avengers working together but nothing major | Words: 2.501k
A/N-> This is an extra chapter (can be read separately and doesn't impact the current plot of the fic). It's just about delving a little deeper into what happened before the main story and I plan three of them in total (the other two will be their first kiss and their first time). Good reading!
General Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3 | Series Masterlist
-&-
Before.
They were there to observe. After all, what criminal in their right mind would let the Avengers attend an event where half the guests were wanted by Shield?
But even on the outside, and accompanied by Barton, Steve and Natasha who were basically the most protective members over her, Wanda was nervous.
It was her first official Avengers mission. Not only that, but she had what they called a perfect disguise consisting of an old American football team cap and sunglasses, and Wanda was having a hard time thinking that it would work. Maybe so, because she had only appeared a few times on television, and wasn't exactly the most popular Avenger among them. 
But there was also Captain America in all of his glory of an enchanted big body wearing the same outfit. So ignoring Steve's warning about keeping it on the down low, she was forced to use her skills when she noticed that the waitresses were whispering about him - One peek and Wanda could read their suspicion. The blonde among them was sure of who he was, but a little influence from the witch and that certainty vanished. She could go back to serving coffee without further doubts.
Steve could thank her later for that.
Wanda's first mission was simple. To observe, to provide support. It was more about seeing Steve in action than anything else. Learning how the more experienced ones acted or something. She knew that Clint was somewhere high up, perhaps in one of the buildings away from the main square. 
In any case, they were all surrounding the large Italian-style mansion on the edge of the island. And Tony in his iron armor was taking care of the offshore area, in case the targets escaped by water.
Everything was going well, and almost tedious to be honest, for hours on end. The gala party was happening loud and clear into the night, but Wanda and the others had the excuse of dinner time to stay at the tables in the cheap corner restaurant. 
"We have our first celebrity guest, Captain." Clint's warning over the communicator almost took her by surprise - but Wanda was paying attention to the mansion's large iron door, where she could see the movement in and out of the party. The equally bored security guards finally got something to do - Opening the door to the visually drunk man heading towards the limo waiting for him.
Steve left some cash on the table, standing up before the drunk man had even finished insulting the staff for taking so long to open the door for him. She knew the captain was heading towards the parked motorcycle to follow the car since that was the plan. But she noticed - felt - something different.
The target was an Italian mobster who had attracted Shield's attention by being quoted in a human experimentation scheme. All those involved in the Hydra project, which created people like her and Pietro, were being hunted down one by one. It was an Avengers-level operation because little was known about how far Hydra had managed to go. How many superhumans they manage to create? It wouldn't be smart to send ordinary agents who would probably be up against people as powerful as Wanda.
And well, there was another detail about the target; he had two daughters. According to the files, the girls didn't take part in their father's work. They just enjoyed the money from a crime like two foolish socialites.
Although the two figures were identical to the photographs in the files, something in Wanda clicked when she looked at what was supposed to be the mobster's youngest daughter.
"Steve, there's something wrong." She gasped into the communicator. The waiter looked surprised - he thought she was talking to him.
"Mi dispiace, signorina, cosa ha detto? (Excuse me, what did you say, miss?)" But Wanda muttered excuse me in a very bad accent and got up. At her warning, Steve hesitated and instead of going to the motorcycle, he stopped at the bar. 
The mobster didn't leave the scene either, confirming Wanda's suspicions that things were very wrong. 
From inside the mansion, two security guards ran out - they shouted that something had been stolen from the sale. And the gate was closed again.
The man, drunk and confused, was searched. The presence of a pearl necklace hidden in his jacket was enough for him to be dragged back by the thugs, who ignored the foaming protests of him and his eldest daughter, who ran inside after her father.
"What's the saying again, thief who steals thief...?" Clint joked over the communicator, clearly from wherever he was, he had witnessed the whole scene.
Although he laughed, Steve began to move forward. "Change of plans, guys. Let's break up the party." He announced, and it was no surprise that the positions of the remaining team members quickly began to reveal themselves.
Everyone left their hiding place to invade the party - Tony's armor was the first to act to hack open the iron gates. Most of the security corps surrendered on seeing the Avengers there, but there was still conflict. Steve just wanted to act quickly before the mobster they had come to capture was executed for stealing a pearl necklace.
And Wanda, well, she followed her instincts.
The mobster's daughter fled the scene - She was supposed to go after her father, but she snuck into the parking lot. Wanda had to run a little to avoid losing sight of her.
The confusion of the party invaded by the Avengers was loud enough to drown out her footsteps, and Wanda managed to hide behind some pillars when the figure reached a parked car. She thought she was about to discover that the mobster's daughter was actually more aware of her father's business than she let on when something much more shocking happened.
Before her eyes, Wanda watched the figure change completely. From the original appearance, only the coat and expensive dress remained.
A shapeshifter? What an incredible thing to witness, Wanda thought. She had only heard stories about Loki and had never seen anything other than Natasha's tools of disguise. This here was truly remarkable.
You hummed low, pulling out a closed suitcase from your coat. The Italian mafia symbol made Wanda understand the whole thing quickly - The necklace was just a distraction. The real theft was what you were carrying.
The coat was discarded on the pavement in the parking lot, but before you could stow it in the trunk, you froze. Wanda had half a second to hide behind the pillar, holding her breath and hoping you hadn't seen her.
Well, worst case scenario, she'd use magic on you.
She risked a peek, but you were no longer near the car. Gone, like the suitcase.
Wanda sighed in defeat, feeling pathetic. Her first mission would be marked with the escape of an enemy. How embarrassing.
But then she was suddenly grabbed and restrained. Wanda gasped in shock, imagining that it was one of the building's security guards. Her magic acted faster than the panic in her system - it went through her body and hit the attacker in the chest, who was thrown to the ground.
"Wow, how did you do that?" The voice that came out was definitely not that of a brute like the party security guards. Wanda turned around panting, ready for another attack, but you were sitting on the floor, back to your original appearance, looking at her as if you had just seen the most incredible creature in the world.
Wanda opened her mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. She was sure she had been grabbed by a security guard, but then she understood: You had changed to look like one. But her magic forced you to return to your real appearance, and Wanda had to convince herself that the way her heart raced and her stomach did two flips was because of the fright, and nothing more.
Her lack of reaction didn't intimidate you. You tilted your head gently. "You're the new one."
You started to get up, Wanda swallowed dryly, taking another step away.  Her hands glowed as red as her eyes. "Stay back."
But you looked at her carefully, as if you were studying her. And you didn't seem afraid of your powers, even though a minute ago you'd been thrown to the ground for it.
"Oh, I remember you from television." You suddenly declare, a glint of recognition in your eyes. "The girl from the country who fell from the sky."
Wanda tried to steady her trembling hands. "I'll take you into custody. I know you stole something."
But you didn't pay any attention to the statement - You advanced against her and she backed away instinctively until Wanda was pressed to the pillar again. One hand against your stomach and the other on your shoulder, keeping you at a safe distance.
She could have just hit you with the magic, but she didn't. Just like you, she didn't attack.
"What... are you doing?" She gasped in a mixture of curiosity and fear, both hands controlling your distance were expelling her power. One of your hands moved up and grabbed her face gently - Wanda had to bite the inside of her cheek at the way her skin burned at your touch. Was it attraction she was feeling? No, it couldn't be. You were a complete stranger. She had to convince herself that this was fear.
You turned her face to one side and then the other, your eyes so focused that you seemed to be trying to memorize every aspect of her appearance.
"I've never met another one of us before." You say, and Wanda frowns in confusion. Your hand remains on her chin, and she swallows dryly before taking a chance:
"Us? Like... another Baron Strucker experiment?" She deduces, and you nod softly before letting go of her face.
You move your hand down and hold the one she has against your stomach. "It's so warm. What is it?" You ask tenderly about her magic. 
Wanda can feel her cheeks burning but she managed to stammer: "Hm... it’s a form of energy, I think." Jesus, Wanda pull yourself together. Well, who could really blame her for feeling out of place about the whole thing? She was literally on her first mission, being pinned against a pillar in the parking lot of a mafia party by some random thief, blushing under the worshipful gaze of that same shape-shifter while her team blew stuff up in the background. It was too much for anyone. 
She tries to gain a little control when she evades your touch, slipping to the side and putting distance between your bodies again. She also ignores how her hand is tingling, as if she was missing your touch from seconds ago.
"How did the Baron manage to give you energy?" You asked curiously but frowned in a worried way.
Wanda sighed. She really was having a conversation with a jewelry thief.
"It was a stone... um, a special kind. It may sound ridiculous, but it was a magic one. It came from outer space, the Avengers actually have a lot of work protecting them. And well, it now sits on the head of one of us and-"
But you suddenly moved - You lifted the hem of your dress just above your thigh, and pulled out a small, hidden pistol. Wanda's heart leaped to her throat. She barely had time to think about reacting, and you had already pulled the trigger.
There was still an arc of magic protecting her when she risked opening her eyes again. You were both out of breath, staring at each other before you lowered the gun.
The shot wasn't aimed at her, as Wanda realized the next second. But behind her, to one of the party guests who was trying to escape the Avengers by running into the parking lot. And well, catching one of them, off guard was quite an opportunity. The man now was writhing in pain on the ground, bleeding from the shot to the neck that you had hit him with. His own gun, loaded to shoot Wanda, rolled off his hand to the grass next to his body. 
Wanda should move. Criminal or not, trying to murder her or not, he needed help.
You raised an eyebrow at the magical protection disappearing around her. "You’re full of tricks aren’t, you?” You teased while hiding your gun again, now on your belt. “This was fun, Wanda Maximoff. Unfortunately, I must leave."
She shallows, knowing she really should move her feet. "You can't go... I have- I should arrest you."
You glance towards the man on the ground, practically unconscious now before looking at the girl again. "But he needs your help, and what kind of superhero doesn't help a bleeding victim?"
Her body reacts to your sarcastic words; she rushes to reach the assaulter and stop the bleeding. You don’t miss the opportunity to walk away to your motorcycle.
Wanda is too busy with the guest to notice you are escaping - Her magic do the hard part to patch up the bleeding and she’s stuck there with this man, at least for the necessary time for you to escape.
Wanda bites her tongue when she sees your motorcycle flee out the back exit, hoping none of her colleagues saw her letting you escape.
It doesn't even take five minutes for Natasha to find her, worried about where she was hiding during the shooting.
“What the hell happened here?” Asked the widow but as soon as she saw the gun on the floor, she assumed that Wanda was defending herself. She sighs before the witch can come up with an explanation. “Fuck, I’m just glad you’re okay, Maximoff. Pretty hardcore for your first mission, huh?” Nat jokes, and somehow, she manages a little chuckle from Wanda. The redhead gives her shoulder a soft tug. "Come on, witchy, i’ll take care of this one. Go find the others."
Natasha offered her a hand to help her up, but Wanda didn't want to take it. Her own were stained with blood.
"I think I'll go back to the quinjet." Said the brunette with a sour stomach. A lot had happened in a very short period of time. Natasha nodded quickly.
"Yeah, sure, go ahead." Said the widow, forcing a smile when she noticed the way the witch was shaking with adrenaline. "And Wanda. You did alright, okay? More than that, to be honest. You caught the hint that something was wrong very quickly. I’m proud of you.”
Wanda just nodded, taking the opposite path from all the confusion.  Completely unaware that a few kilometers away, at high speed, a shapeshifter left the motorcycle's handlebars to press against their own chest. Trying to understand why their heart was racing so much and the feeling of doing something wrong if the robbery had been a success.
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bamdelune · 5 months
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tears of the condemned .𖥔 ݁ ˖ neuvillette x reader
summary ➜ The Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale rarely ever made errors in its judgement, suitable persecution befalling those on the other side of the law. The Iudex of Fontaine was well-aware and familiar with that fact but the Oratrice's final verdict cause his judgement to go sideways, because it involved you.
warnings/tags/notes ➜ the summary is a warning in itself, angst [i never payed much attention to neuvillette but seeing a few fics about him got me to write this heheuehe + info and events might be canon-divergent because i haven't unlocked fontaine yet but hey, i tried my best 🤓☝️]
Neuvillette truly did not understand why so many people sought out Fontanian hearings, as if watching the accused and the persecution go back and forth was an amusing routine incorporated in their daily lives. To the citizens, it seemed like hearings were an elaborate play that they could watch for entertainment instead of a catalyst to serve righteousness. The Chief Justice certainly did not have a taste for it, especially when the audience was filled with hushed chatter about the case today: your case; surprise, you do not play the part of the persecution but you are the accused.
Murder, both you and Neuvillette found it impossible to believe you could committ such an act but as the Iudex, he must learn not to let this cloud his judgement; Neuvillette must not his doubts pass the verdict instead of rationality.
"The evidence presented by the plaintiff shows us that there is no concrete reason to convict the defendant," His eyes catch your form relax, even by just a bit from his statement. "However, as practice, the final verdict will be determined by the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale." Silence fills the Opera Epiclese as the mechanism moves between the scales.
Neuvillette's skin goes cold when the Oratrice has decided your fate.
Guilty.
Gasps erupt inside the opera and your expression is filled with dumbfoundedness. This was not the first time this happened but he's learned to trust the Oratrice's judgement over his own.
But can he truly put aside his bias if it meant getting you out of this predicament? Can he truly cross the law, the one aspect that founded everything that he has done so far.
Your voice rips out from the silence, riddled with desperation as you plead out to him.
"That's—that's not true at all! Monsieur Neuvillette, there must be some kind of mistake!"
Neuvillette clenches his fists, head straining from the thoughts that ran through his mind. He knew there was a mistake, he knew that the Oratrice can go against his own verdict but he's conflicted. Should he let you off scot-free or send you to the depths of Fortress of Merop—
"The judgement of the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale is the final verdict of the court. We have no choice but to follow through with it. Please take the suspect into custody," his mouth opens before he could even think about anything else. Neuvillette swallows thickly, seeing the defeated look on your face—as if the stale silence of the courthouse gave way to the sounds of your heart shattering into tiny pieces; the heart that he had promised to take care of so sincerely every day and the heart he swore to never toss away.
The Fortress is a place meant for solitude, for the convicted to reflect on their actions but all you could think of was how dark and scary it was in your cell. It was clean for the most part, that you were thankful for but other than that, all sense of time seemed to blur. It was lonely, but being falsely arrested like this by your beloved helped you feel lonelier. You felt empty, almost numb like a hollow glass that threatened to break with a push that was enough to break and Neuvillette crossing your trust like that was the trigger.
Footsteps resound through the corridor outside your place, your head lifts to see him.
"Why are you here?" Neuvillette seems to almost wince at how your voice sounded so... colorless, deprived of the life he's grown to love. You never intended it to come out that way but being in here rarely gave you the privilege of human interactions, "Are you going to set me free, monsieur?"
The Chief Justice opens and closes his mouth, clearly conflicted on what he was going to say next, because what could you say to your (assumingly former) lover whom you just convicted of a murder in front of the public?
"No," he replies, like he's still in court. You dryly chuckle at his response. "Have you come to reprimand me then? That must be it right? The lover of the Iudex of Fontaine, condemned to a life behind bars at the hands of her own beloved, thst must sound terrible to you, yes? Does a number to your honorable image to the people," Your tone gradually turned more bitter at each word knowing the fact that he could've saved you, or at the very least kept you anywhere but here until the evidence and verdict lined up in agreement.
"I care less about my own image, mon chéri—"
Another gasp of a laugh falls from your lips, "Don't. Don't you dare call me that if you will spit such lies in the same breath."
"Would you rather me threaten the sanctity of my title as Iudex?" Neuvillete responds right after, his tone stern and almost to a level of a scream. You would've flinched if you weren't so agitated.
"I wish you would," you mutter under your breath. You were so desperate for authentic justice to be served. Knowing the citizens of Fontaine, this incident would leave a stain on your image. No matter where you'll go, you aren't free from the scrutinizing eyes of the people. Your life will never be the same.
Neuvillette scoffs, "Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you are asking of me?" He was angry now. See, when he gets irritated, Neuvillette is never the type to aggressively express such a feeling but rather, he emits a silent aura that just unsettles you to an extent. But you have to stand your ground.
"Such a selfish request for your circumstances."
Now it's your turn to huff an exhale, hurt gnawing at your chest at every word he spoke.
"Selfish? I'm selfish for asking for justice for a horrendous act of violence both you and I know I never committed?"
Your voice almost gave out under the weight of the sting of your chest, nearly cracking as you raise your voice at him, "You know the Oratrice can make mistakes, Neuvillette—"
"The Oratrice's judgement is absolute, it does not make errors," the man interjects. A beat of silence stays.
"You never believed my words, even for a moment, didn't you?"
Neuvillette swallows, eyes somehow on your face but never on your eyes. He's hyper-aware of the fact that he's hurt you more than enough times he promised not to, never. He always promised that he wouldn't be the one to shatter your heart into tiny pieces and crush them under the soles of his feet. He was the one that vowed to stay by your side amidst the intimidating whispers that talk, talk, and talk about how you would murder an innocent citizen in cold blood. And now he knew.
He had gone back on his word.
It doesn't take him a reply before you started again. "You lied to me," you muttered.
"You're correct, I never believed you for one second," Neuvillette responds, voice low. His mouth opens before he could even think about it.
No. He always would. Over anyone and anything else.
He cringes slightly at this. The Iudex of Fontaine behind closed doors was a complex man. He is built of layers upon layers of emotional concealing, it was never a good thing for him to blatantly open up to someone—but of course, that changed because of you.
"You're foolish to think you could've slipped past the Oratrice's verdict,"
You didn't. He knew that, you did nothing wrong.
"The time has come for you to pay your dues." Neuvillette fronts.
Let me get you out of here. Neuvillette pleads
You fall silent by the tail of his words, barely getting enough courage to look him in the eye. Too much, it was all too much.
"Just—just leave, I don't want to see you," you mumble, defeated. Your eyes catch the way salty tears softly drip onto your clenched fists, wiping your face with the back of your hand. If you were alone in a lonely cell, so be it.
You hear his footsteps hesitate for a moment before they clack away, getting softer and farther with each step.
Heavy rain littered the streets of Fontaine that day.
Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, wipe the tears from your face. Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry.
© bamdelune 2023. do not repost, translate, plagiarize any of my works without permission, thank you so much! reblogs, notes, and comments are always appreciated!
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undercovercameron · 1 year
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a domesticated rafe cameron
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summary: a bf headcanon for sir rafe m.f. cameron
notes: *NSFW NEAR THE END* i have been seeing so many headcanons for rafe as a bf recently and i used to do these all the time for other fandoms and people and holy fuck i miss and love them.. allow me to indulge myself. also a lot of these are not simply him being touchy or super cute positive ones bc he’s canonically a murderer and drug addict and felon sooo akdjdjd we all of course romanticize him but i just thought i’d say that. lemme know what you think !
tags: rafe cameron x reader
i think rafe is a very complicated kind of lover
he’s a complex ass dude as it is, so that obviously reflects in your relationships
your relationship probably started unconventionally, either because of a fuck up or drunken mistake or maybe even meeting him randomly on a golf course or on the beach and just immediately being drawn to each other
he wants someone that challenges him a Little bit but really just wants someone to go with the flow and let him take the lead
he already gets enough direction and bossy shit from his family
(probably a couple arguments have sparked because of that; he sees too much of rose or ward in you. it’s also something that draws him to you, though, so take it with a grain of salt)
on the topic of arguments, you two are no stranger to them
he always ends up apologizing though, even if you started it—he’d just much rather have your mouth on his than have it yelling at him and knows there’s always a way to get you back on his side
he’s a proud man, so his apologies are usually in the form of him complimenting you or giving entirely hypothetical situations in which he Possibly Might Be Sorry
you take it because it’s probably the best you’re gonna get
he shows his love and affection in a little different ways that other people you’ve dated
of course he’s no stranger to PDA
in fact it only puffs his chest that you want to be seen with him and touch him
he’ll never admit it, but he loves when you kiss his face
like duh,
but not just his lips, he really likes when you kiss him on the temple or just press your face to his cheek or peck at his jaw
he also likes when you hold onto his belt when getting his attention or trying to move him
a lot of your dates involve watching a movie or TV show, because truth be told he is a home body
maybe not his home, but def a home body
your house is a reminder that he is apart of your life; he sees the pictures, the movie tickets, his favorite chips (salt and vinegar, ew i know), or spares of toothbrushes and his clothes in your closet
in any social situation he is either looking at you, thinking of looking at you, touching you, or asking people where you are
he cannot stand to make small talk without his emotional support girlfriend at his side
you’re just so much funnier than all these other people
he prides himself on his ability to make you blush, and does it any chance he gets
he doesn’t really get to laugh a lot, as he is either in distress or about to get punched or reprimanded, so you’re always whispering some joke into his ear to get him to laugh. your success rate is much better than anyone else’s in his life
he knew he loved you when you grabbed his hand during a dinner you were at and some politician walked in with a very apparent and badly concealed nose job. you just mouth “oh my god” and he had to snort to cover up his laugh
you were also all dolled up and cute and sexy that night so that may have had something to do with him knowing he loved you
he is also a great communicator
it’s not in his nature to hide his feelings because they’re so fucking obvious on that expressive face of his
and he never knew he could have so much fun texting until you came along
now he’s a regular emoticon user
weird, right?
now onto spicy things,
you’ve never known a partner to ask you how you feel more than Rafe
it’s a praise thing, you think
he wants to hear that he feels good, that right there, that he fucks you so good, that he’s perfect for you
the nonverbal sign that all those are true is when you throw your head back and a gasp is caught in your throat
the very idea that your breath is stolen every time he does something good makes his heart skip a beat
his cheeks get very red while you’re having sex, so your cool fingers are usually petting them or pressed near them
you have a thing for his legs
i mean come on
he just walks around like that all day
he walks around with a dick like that in his pants all day, and you’re supposed to just ignore it?!
absolutely not
you especially like when he wears those hoochie daddy 5 inch inseam swim trunks, because you get to see where his skin gets a little paler and softer and it makes you get goosebumps at the thought of where it leads
those trunks are a treat usually, saved for a special occasion where he doesn’t have to be around his family and he can have you in his lap, hand trapped between your legs
let’s just say you two fuck like rabbits
two beautiful young adults, what else occupies your time?
it gets a little annoying for other people when you’re apart of their dinner party, because you’re always late, but then learn to just deal with it
it’s better to not have a sexually frustrated rafe cameron that accidentally stabs through his plate of rice and vegetables like that one time at the island club with your parents when you licked up a drop of lemon sauce from your chin and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head
decidedly not a great time or place to act like that
anyways,
i just think while yours’ and rafe’s relationship def has its ups and downs like all other relationships, your recovery period after an argument is remarkably high
you both know you’re not mad anymore, so it’s not worth it to be bad communicators and make it worse
at the end of the day, there’s always space for you in his bed, and he always welcomes you with a slap on the ass and a whisper of “we’re totally fucking in the shower tomorrow”
(and yes. you do)
notes: i hope this doesn’t seem to scatterbrained, i may or may not end up adjusting or editing this later to be closer to what i think would be him
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Text
Making Arrangements Part One
Masterlist | Part Two
Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting will be blocked.
Length: 6.1K
Notes: It's a two-shot! Part two will have explicit content.
No beta, we die like Billy Kimber
Warnings: Arranged marriage; mentions of prostitution; canon-typical attitudes toward sex; slow burn; enemies to allies to lovers; Reader has a brother and an aunt; no physical descriptions of non-canon characters; Reader gets drunk
Summary: If you’d been involved with anyone, if there’d ever been a hint or a whisper of a beau recently, you might’ve been able to plead differently for your future. 
But you knew as well as your family that this was your best move, and with no great love waiting in the wings, there was nothing to be done but to marry the man. You secured your interests, the interests of your family. You gained a powerful ally—but you also gained powerful enemies. 
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“D’you think you could bother to give them a smile?” 
On the face of it, it seemed a fair question, but all things considered, it made you want to punch Thomas Michael Shelby squarely in the jaw. You didn’t, of course—that conduct would be unbecoming of a bride in front of her new family. 
You’d been getting knowing looks from the women all night—pursed lips from Ada and Polly, and a wide smile from Esme. It was almost wolf-like, the way she watched you—welcome to the pack. 
“I could,” You conceded, nodding, casting your gaze around the party. The revels had only just begun. It was early enough that nearly everyone was coherent, on their feet, but you knew that in just a couple of hours, the party would likely turn to shit. These people would be drunk, coked out of their minds, dancing, and flirting…Probably fucking. You had no doubt that you would be expected to do your wifely chore that evening. 
Maybe that was why a permanent frown had been fixed on your lips from the time you’d put on your wedding dress, as you’d walked down the aisle, all the way through the fucking I Dos. 
“You’re still frowning.” 
You didn’t bother to hide your eye roll before you turned your head fully to look at him. He didn’t give you the same courtesy. He watched the revelers with the same bored speculation as you’d given them just moments ago. 
“And this is what your fucking grin looks like?” You snipped. He raised his cigarette to his lips, drawing in a deep drag that sank his cheeks. He managed to cast you a knowing glance, his brow raising. 
“It’s the most that you’ll get of me tonight.” 
“And of me. Don’t ask me to stoop to something that you won’t bother with. I’m your wife now. At least pretend to respect me in front of them,” You insisted, nodding toward the others. It took him a moment, but Tommy nodded. 
“And behind closed doors?” He asked. 
“That’ll be none of their concern. And you’ll have to take it up with me later.” 
“I intend to.” 
--  
You sat on the edge of the bed, and watched. All Tommy did was light up another damn cigarette. You weren’t sure if you married a man or a chimney. 
You could hardly believe that you had married the man at all. 
Your family had never been a big player in Birmingham, or Camden. You’d kept your head down, stayed out of the way, operated cleanly. When the Shelbys had come to you with a proposition, it hadn’t been for your minor operations in the UK—it had been for your connections in America. They were looking to expand, offered you a good deal, and a union between the two households. 
When it had first been brought to your attention, you’d thought that it was a pretty good idea. But when it came down the line that Thomas Shelby had specified an interest in marrying you, well—the thought had become less and less appealing. If you’d cared less for your family, or known less about the mounting tensions that they were facing overseas, you would’ve laughed the idea off. If you’d been involved with anyone, if there’d ever been a hint or a whisper of a beau recently, you might’ve been able to plead differently for your future. 
But you knew as well as your family that this was your best move, and with no great love waiting in the wings, there was nothing to be done but to marry the man. 
You secured your interests, the interests of your family. You gained a powerful ally—but you also gained powerful enemies. 
Tommy had spoken to you only once before your wedding day. The meeting had been brief, and he’d done all of the talking. He’d promised to protect you, sworn to never raise a hand against you. 
“You know as well as I do,” He’d insisted, “That this is the best way forward for our families. And I know,” He’d leaned in a touch, “That you want what’s best for your people.” He’d reached into his pocket and drawn out a small velvet box, setting it on the table before he stood, straightening his waistcoat. 
“You have until tomorrow night. I need an answer.” 
You’d sent him your reply—a single slip of paper sent with your brother Lewis that simply read: Yes 
“...It was a nice party,” You offered now, unable to stand the silence any longer. 
“You didn’t seem to particularly enjoy it.” 
“No one left with a bullet wound. In my family, we consider that a successful bash.” 
Tommy’s lips quirked just a touch as he nodded. 
“Our brothers seemed to get on,” You hedged, desperate to draw this out. You worried that once you stopped speaking, he may…Want to consummate the marriage. You weren’t sure how you felt about that. You’d heard rumors, whispers that Tommy was a good lover, but you weren’t sure that you were ready to find that out yourself. 
“They did,” Tommy nodded again. “Lewis and John already seem thick as thieves.” 
“Yes.” 
The two of you fell into quiet again, and it was a harrowing few moments before Tommy pushed himself off of the dresser. Your hands dropped instinctively to the bed, grasping at the sheets—but Tommy turned and went for the door. 
“G’night, then.” 
Your brow furrowed as you glanced around. Goodnight? But—
“Where will you sleep?” 
Tommy stopped in the open doorway, nodding behind himself. “I’ve a room down the hall.” He turned away, adding, “Shout if you need something.” 
You hesitated a few moments longer before you sprung up, darting forward and shoving the door closed before locking it. You drew in a deep breath, closing your eyes and letting your forehead rest against the dark, cool wood grain. 
He didn’t take. 
You had gone into the room expecting shoving hands and a quick coupling, but Tommy kept his distance. You weren’t sure if you were more relieved or insulted. You turned away from the door, leaning back against it and peering around your dim new living quarters. 
Relieved, you decided. 
--  
Insulted, you decided. 
Tommy had the gall to lean in and peck your cheek when he’d come down to breakfast that morning. 
It took everything in you not to shove him away.
Polly made no comment on how wane you looked the next morning, nor did Ada or Esme cast you knowing grins or teases. They all watched Tommy, and the little slip of a shadow that you’d met last night—a birch-pale, dark-haired woman named Lizzie. 
You didn’t think that the news had made it back to your family—the fact that your husband had just spent his first night as a newly-married man with a prostitute-turned-secretary while you slept alone in an unfamiliar room wearing the lacy nightie that you’d bought specifically for your honeymoon. 
Esme and Ada excused themselves as quickly as they could, but Polly lingered, and offered,
“He’s a prickly sort, and these things take time. Men have their needs and urges.”
“...Right,” You pronounced crisply as you stirred some sugar into your tea, “And I’m a novice in a nunnery.” 
--  
“You should’a seen the girls at the party last night,” Lewis groaned.
For all of your irritation during the last few days, you’d been happy, truly happy to see your family enjoying themselves. Carving out your space in the literary scene of London and running a few underground print shops wasn’t exactly a serene existence. You constantly had to move operations, vet workers, stop-up leaks in production cycles and deal with snitches. Your entire family was dedicated to the business, but your brother was the most determined of the lot. Lewis had become the man of the house at a young age, after your father had been hauled into prison for treason. 
So to see him let loose a little—well, more than a little, truth be told—was a heartening sight. 
“I don’t think I would’ve quite enjoyed them the way you did,” You raised a brow, smile widening as he ducked his head bashfully, “But I’m glad you had a good time.” 
“And you?”
The pointed question came from just behind you. You didn’t dare turn to look at your Aunt Pearl. She knew you far too well. You could hide your feelings and concerns well enough from Lew—you had plenty of practice. But Pearl had been a motherly figure, a guiding hand in what would’ve been an otherwise rudderless life. She learned to read you like an open book when you were young, and you had been powerless to change the way that she understood you, even as the seasons of your life had passed. 
You turned your head back toward her just a touch, biting the inside of your cheek as you waited for her to go on. It was a few moments of quiet before she urged: “Lewis, go get some air.” 
You drew a deep breath in through your nose, fighting to steady yourself, and giving Lewis an encouraging smile and nod before he stood, pushing away from the kitchen table and heading outside. You saw him tipping his head back toward you, trying to catch on the line of questions that Pearl was about to level—as if neither of you knew any better to wait until he was fully out of earshot. 
“Who’s Lizzie?” She finally asked. You weren’t sure how to answer at first. You scrubbed your hand over the back of your neck, making sure that you heard the door shutting behind Lewis. 
“It’s just…Growing pains,” You finally offered, gaze set stalwartly on the table. “Every couple has them.” 
“Where was he last night?” 
“How should I know?” “He’s your husband. You’re supposed to know.” 
You didn’t have a chance to argue before she strode closer, her hand resting on your shoulder. You didn’t flinch, or draw away. You were used to her hand on your shoulder, her nails digging into your skin. She didn’t dig her nails in just now—she merely rested and waited. 
“Growing pains,” You finally offered again as you looked straight ahead. It was as if Polly had her hand on your other shoulder, and was staring you down in warning. 
“Pains?” Pearl repeated. “Physical?” 
You don’t want to answer, but—
“Emotional,” You blurted. It was another moment of quiet before she hummed. You stopped yourself from turning to look at Pearl—to catch the no doubt heavy judgment in her dark eyes, and the twist of displeasure to her small mouth. 
“I see.” 
“It’s early,” You insisted. She hummed again, stepping around you to walk toward the window. It didn’t take much to glance over, to see where Lewis was playfully fighting with John and Finn. 
“Do they know?” Pearl asked. 
“About where he was?” You shook your head. “I’m sure his brothers do.” 
“And?” 
“And what?” You scoffed. “It’s no business of theirs. Our marriage is between myself and Thomas.” 
Pearl turned to face you with a crisp smoothness, her eyes narrowed as she cocked a hip.
“And that’s all you have to say about it?” She asked. You pursed your lips. You had plenty to say about it, but it would land on deaf ears. Any of Pearl’s meddling would spell trouble, and you weren’t about to sic the dogs less than twenty-four hours into wedded bliss. 
“Yes,” You nodded firmly. Pearl’s eyes narrowed further before she hummed, turning back toward the window. 
“...This is good for us, Pearl,” You reminded her. “The Shelby’s are strong, they know what they’re doing. I just have to hold up my end.” 
“And what end is that?” 
“That of a doting wife.” 
“And mother?” 
Doubtful. Thomas couldn’t even be bothered to touch you as it was. But it was early, you reminded yourself. Things could still change. Things would change. They had to. 
“Perhaps,” You leveled evenly. “Someday. Time will tell.” 
“Time,” Peal repeated, nodding as she rounded you. “Well, if we’re going on time, so far, you’re not managing it particularly well.” 
You slid down in your seat a little as Pearl finally left the dining room. Your interest in the day’s paper had been sapped; your tea had gone cold. You didn’t want anything to do with Thomas Shelby, or with his family, not anymore. If you were going to make it through at least one year of marriage, you needed to nip this in the bud. 
-- 
“I need to talk to you.” 
Tommy didn’t so much as glance at you, his gaze trained steadily on a horse. You waited a moment, shifting from foot to foot, but perhaps you shouldn’t have waited. You’d spent nearly two weeks waiting. Maybe he hadn't heard you? You stepped a little closer and raised a hand to touch him. You couldn’t bring yourself to make contact, and your hand curled in on itself just before it could brush his waistcoat. 
“Thomas?” You pressed. 
“I’m busy.” 
“When can we speak, then?” 
“Tonight.” 
Certain that he meant it earnestly, you turned away and left.
But the evening came and went, and you found yourself sitting alone, stewing in front of your uneaten dinner and eyeing his empty plate. The house was too quiet, and your thoughts were far too loud. You needed to clear your buzzing head—you wanted a drink, and some fun. 
-- 
“You can’t let them push you around.”
The warning was spoken knowingly. You knew that she was right, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet Esme’s eye. Her gaze was so heavy, so all-knowing—nothing like the bright, uninterested gaze that Thomas often offered you. But Esme was having none of it. She dipped her head into your field of vision and clapped her hand over yours where it rested on the table beside your drink. You shook her hand away lightly, reaching for your drink instead. Maybe coming to the office to nip out of the bottle Polly kept in her desk had been a bad idea. But you couldn’t bring yourself to just sit in that house and rot in your anger. 
“No one is pushing me anywhere,” You grumbled.
Esme let out a soft, cruel chuckle. 
“I know what it is,” She insisted, “To come into this family and feel on the outside, feel that you don’t have a voice. Becomin’ a Shelby doesn’t erase who you were before.” She reached out again, taking up your drink and drawing in a deep pull before you could argue. As annoyed as you were, you knew that she was right. You nodded slowly, topping the glass up when she set it back down. 
“...Should I not bother replacing Polly’s alcohol, then?” 
Esme’s smile grew as yours did, and the two descended into quiet giggles. 
-- 
“We need to talk.” 
It was steely when it left you this time. Despite that, Thomas still paid you no mind. In fact, he went out of his way to take his time drawing on his cigarette before fishing into his waistcoat. He pointedly drew out his pocket watch, flipping it open and eyeing the time. The tick tick tick of the second hand passed for several long moments before he flipped it shut again, lifting his gaze to the hustle and bustle of the office around him. 
“Later,” He offered. 
Later, always later. Weeks of later, of hearing Lizzie’s footsteps and the creaking across the floor as she left the house before you were up and about for the morning. Weeks of sitting alone in that empty house, putting on a brave face for Pearl and Lewis. Weeks of anger and shame eating through your gut. 
“Now,” You spat.
He turned his head toward you, brows ticking up. You could feel the pace of the others in the shop around you slow just a bit, and speeding up again as Thomas shot them a glance.
“Alright,” He murmured, resting his hand on your lower back. You let him steer you toward his office, resolute in your irritation. He opened the door for you, waving you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you. 
“What is so urgent that you pulled me away from my work?” 
“Your work of watching other people count your money?” You quipped in irritation. 
“...What is it that you want to discuss.” 
“You need to keep your whoring private.” 
Thomas’s brows jumped with intrigue, his chin tipping down toward you.
“Explain.” 
“I understand that we went into this with our eyes open and a mutual understanding that the actions that we were taking were for the good of our families, but to the rest of the world, we are husband and wife. I will not ask you to stop your carrying on, as I can't imagine that you’d abide by it if I did, but keep it private. I will not step out on you publicly, and I expect to be given that same respect.” 
Thomas blinked before he straightened, pushing away from the door and stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. He muttered something that you couldn’t hear, and you frowned. 
“Pardon me?” 
“Publicly,” He repeated firmly. “You said that you wouldn’t step out on me publicly.” 
“I did,” You nodded. 
“Do I get to know the lucky man’s name?”
Your face went hot with indignation. Was he trying to embarrass you? Whether he was or not, it was working. You folded your arms across your chest. 
“You’re missing my point.” 
“I take your point. You want me to treat you as my partner, and as my wife, you have that right.” 
“And will you?” 
“You can trust me to be discreet.” 
“I don’t trust you to do anything.” 
Thomas’ expression closed off, his eyes narrowing a touch, and your stomach twisted with nerves. 
“And might I ask why.” 
“What have you done to earn it? In our, what, two weeks of marriage, I have hardly seen you. You’ve made no point to acquaint me with your family or your business, and you’ve spent your nights down the hall with another woman. I’m not your wife, I’m a boarder.” 
Thomas considered for a moment before he gave a short nod. 
“I understand. I will make changes.” “Thomas—” 
“I will.” 
You pursed your lips together, pushing a sigh out through your nose before you gave a small nod of concession. 
“Alright.” 
“Anything else?” 
“...No.” And, just to seal the deal, “Thank you for your time. And for listening.” 
Thomas nodded, straightening up and opening the door for you. You strode toward it, and were nearly through before he rested a hand on your shoulder. You went still, turning your head toward him just a touch. Before you could get a good look at him, Thomas leaned in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. It was the most that he’d touched you since he’d kissed you the morning after your wedding. You thought that he may be making a show of affection for the office, but Thomas turned his head, brushing his lips against your ear.
“If I ever find out that another man has touched you,” He murmured, “I’ll take off the bastard’s hands and give them to you as an anniversary present.” 
You balked, shock wracking your chest as he placed a final kiss to your temple before he gave your ass a pat, spurring you into action and sending your scurrying back into the office, and out of his reach. 
--  
“It’ll be nice for you to fix up the place and make it your own,” Polly commented. 
“She was always going to get around to it of course,” Pearl insisted. You didn’t dare look away from the row of dressers. The one that you had in your bedroom was fine, but it was a bit small. You’d ordered several new pieces of clothing on Tommy’s account—well, on your joint account. Giving the name Mrs. Shelby had incited stunned, wide eyes from the shop keeper’s assistant and prompted fawning and a healthy discount. 
Still, as much as you were trying to bring your families together, you realized belatedly that in this case, it was an awful idea. Polly and Pearl had taken every opportunity to take digs at one another, leveling backhanded compliments with smug smiles and drags of their respective cigarettes. The two of them were so painfully similar, and perhaps that was why they seemed to hate one another so much. 
“Of course,” Polly echoed placidly.
“I want this one,” You pointed to the one in front of you.
“I’ll find the assistant,” Polly offered, brushing past you. You sighed heavily, shaking your head. 
“Please pull it together,” You muttered.
“I’ve nothing to pull together,” Pearl pronounced.
“Please,” You bit out again. “I can’t make any of this work if you and the others don’t, either.” 
You heard a deep sigh, chased by the tapping of her cigarette ash beside you. 
“I will be myself.” 
“I don’t need you to be yourself, Pearl. I need you to be pleasant.” 
A little knot of tension unwound as Pearl chuckled. 
“Becoming a missus really has given you fangs.” 
“I’d rather not use them, if possible.” 
“I understand.” 
“Thank you.” 
“...Are you going to give Miss Sourpuss the same talking-to when she gets back?” 
“Lord above.” 
--  
“You look like you’ve had a marvelous time.” 
Bringing Pearl and Polly to a somewhat peaceful place had been shock enough for that evening, but this took the absolute biscuit.
You might’ve yelped in fear at the sound of his voice if you hadn’t spotted the burning cigarette in the ashtray mere seconds before he spoke. As it was, you didn’t answer right away. You plastered yourself against the backdoor, your hands curled around your key and your purse. Thomas just arched a brow, expectant and silent. He wasn’t supposed to be there. You’d been told that he had business, and you had figured that once that had concluded, he would take care of other…Matters. You'd thought you’d have the house to yourself and have a nice cuppa before going to bed. 
You finally managed to push yourself forward, away from the door, your face hot with drink and embarrassment. 
“I didn’t think you’d be in,” You admitted. 
“You didn’t think I would be spending the evening in my own house?” 
“Esme told me there was a family meeting. She said that they can run late.” 
“You were misinformed.” 
“Clearly.” 
You watched Thomas warily as he drifted closer, going tense as he stepped around behind you. You hardly dared breathe for a moment, then let it out as you felt him slide your coat from your shoulders. 
“Thank you,” You mumbled as he stepped away with it.
“Were you with Esme?” He asked, tossing your coat over the back of a chair. 
“Mhm,” You nodded, taking a few steps deeper into the kitchen. “And Ada, Polly…And Pearl.” 
“Where were you?” 
“Polly’s house.” 
“Mm.” 
You watched Tommy round the counter, taking up a clean glass and a bottle of whiskey. You nodded, stepping closer. “Please.” 
He poured a good amount before setting the glass on the table. You sat down, watching him do the same. The light in the kitchen was low, casting an orange glow about the room. You felt almost like you were being interrogated as Tommy tucked his cigarette between his lips for another drag. You took your drink up in turn, giving your hands something to do. Besides, finding your husband at home had harshly staunched your blissfully tipsy mood, and you were desperate to get it back. Tommy made no comment as you took a deep swig, and you fought away a wince at the taste and burned as you gulped it down greedily. 
“How was the meeting?” You asked.
“Fine…Would you like to know what it’s about?” 
“If you’d like to tell me.” 
You figured he would let it go there, but he gave a short nod, offering: “We’ve reached a trade agreement with your man in New York.” 
“I’m glad to hear it.” 
“Lewis can fill you in on the particulars later.” 
Your brows jumped. “Lewis was there?” 
“The business concerned him, I made sure he was in attendance.” 
“I’m sure he appreciated it.” 
He hummed, leaning back in his seat. You took another deep swig from your glass, but you couldn’t bring yourself to draw your gaze away from Tommy’s. He seemed so relaxed—though, maybe it was absurd to find a man relaxed simply because he had removed his suit jacket. Still, he looked irritatingly dashing in his waistcoat. 
“Tell me about yourself,” He ordered as you lowered your glass to the table. You cleared your throat, shaking your swimming head to try and clear that, too.
“Pardon me?” 
“Well,” Tommy plucked up the bottle again, topping your glass up. “As you have reminded me, you are my wife. I ought to know something about you.” 
“...Are you drunk?”
His lips quirked with a small smile. “No. But if you keep on like that, you will be.”
“I’ll be fine.” 
“If you say so.” 
“I do say so, thank you.”
“I have to be drunk to want to learn about my wife?”
My wife. It made you feel oddly warm as he said it…Though perhaps that was the whiskey. 
“We didn’t exactly have the most conventional courtship, or wedding,” You reminded him.  
“All the more reason for me to learn about you now.” 
“I don’t know where to start.” 
“How about with the things you like.” 
“I will tell you,” You nod slowly, “But only if you tell me about yourself in turn.” 
Thomas seemed to purse his lips before he sat up in his seat. He held his hand out, the gold of his wedding ring glinting in the light. 
“You have a deal.” 
You hesitated for a few moments, certain that he was putting you on. But when he didn’t draw it back, you raised your hand in turn, grasping his and giving it a shake. 
--  
The first hint of light made you wince and turn away. Your mouth was obscenely dry; your head was pounding harshly. You groaned, rolling away from the window. Oh…You did not feel good. Your head felt like it was going to burst; your stomach rolled like you were taking a rocky transatlantic crossing. Oh, god…Were you going to be sick?
You peeked an eye open, then squeezed it shut again. Oh, no. You weren’t sure which was worse, having your eyes open or keeping them closed. You hesitantly opened both eyes, then groaned more loudly, tucking your head beneath your pillow. No. Having your eyes open was definitely worse. 
You heard a harsh thudding, as if a giant has managed to get into your room. What on earth—
The pillow lifted away, and you tipped your head up into the cool brush of fingertips against your forehead. 
“How’s our Sleeping Beauty?” 
You weren’t sure what flustered you more: the teasing tone of Tommy’s voice, or the way the word beauty sounded coming out of his mouth. 
“Right as rain,” You mumbled. “Or I will be, once you stop yelling.”
His chuckle brushed your forehead. 
“Pearl is on her way to look in on you. Apparently Esme is doing just as well as you are this morning.” 
“I don’t wish this on my worst enemy.” 
“Rest up.” 
“I wasn't planning on doing anything else.” 
“Good girl.” 
Before you could ask, or argue, or throw a hand out to slap him on the shoulder, he brushed a kiss to your forehead, then drew away fully. You listened to the retreat of his footsteps, a pause, the scraping of the curtains being drawn closed, and the gentle scruuuuuuh—thump of him shutting your bedroom door behind himself. You only dared look around after a few minutes, when you were certain he was gone. You rolled onto your back, sighing and trying to ignore the thud-thud-thud behind your eyes. 
You feel like hell, but last night was sort of…Nice. 
Drinking with the girls and breaking down some of the barriers before your families had been a success, but coming home to Thomas was…New. It wasn’t unpleasant, as you would’ve previously thought. You scrubbed your hand gently across your eyes, trying to recall your conversation. You had it in bits and pieces—his love of horses, his devotion to his family, his worries for Arthur and John. You wondered if he told you those things because you’d been spifflicated that he didn’t think you’d remember a damn thing. But you remembered. 
You remembered the almost kind way that he’d smiled at you a couple of times. You remembered the way he’d taken your hand and led you up the stairs, steadying you when you’d wobbled and taken uneasy steps. You remembered him turning his back as you’d gotten undressed, waiting for you to get into bed before bidding you a goodnight. 
A knocking on the door drew you up from your recollection, and you winced at the sound. 
“Yes?” You croaked. The door opened, and to your surprise, two heads poked through. 
“You’re in a state,” Polly chuckled before Pearl opened your door the rest of the way. The two entered your room, each eyeing the furnishings that were soon to be replaced. You pushed yourself up, wincing as your head spun. 
“Had a night, did you?” Pearl settled onto the bed beside you. 
“Could you lower your voice, please,” You grumbled. 
“Did you go right to bed when you came home?” 
“I meant to.” 
“But you didn’t?” Polly chimed in. 
“No.” You winced as you raised your voice just a touch. “I…I had a conversation with my husband.” 
Polly and Pearl cast one another curious glances, so unlike the cutting looks they’d leveled at one another just a couple of days ago. 
“It was fine,” You added. “It was…” Nice? Enlightening? Something you would be happy to have again? “Cordial.” 
“Was he drinking?” Polly plied.
“We both were.” 
Polly and Pearl each hissed, chased by sympathetic tuts.
“You should’ve quit while you were ahead,” Pearl admonished. 
“I certainly know that now.” 
Polly took another look at you before she patted Pearl’s shoulder, offering, “I’ll put the kettle on.” 
“You’re a saint,” Pearl smiled. You sagged back against the headboard, scrubbing a hand over your brow as Polly disappeared.
“Since when are the two of you so friendly?” You asked. Pearl shrugged. 
“We’ve come to an understanding…As you have with your husband, apparently.” 
“I think it may be a very different kind of understanding.” 
“D’you mind if I smoke?” 
“...I don’t mean to sound harsh, but if you smoke, Pearl, I will be sick.”
“Better out than in.” 
“Please, no.” 
-- 
It wasn’t every night—it wasn’t even most nights, but you began to spend time with Thomas. It started with him coming home just as you finished dinner, and progressed to Thomas making it home just in time for dinner. Conversation wasn’t always freely flowing, and a few of those first dinners were a little quiet, and awkward. But as you spent more and more time together, those silences became more and more rare, and when conversation wilted, the quiet was comfortable. 
You still slept apart, but for the life of you, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d heard Lizzie creeping out of the house as you awoke. Maybe she’d managed to work out which floorboards didn’t creak; maybe Thomas had stopped having her in the house…Or having her at all. 
You were certain that the second possibility was the most likely. It still wasn’t the ideal situation, but you appreciated it all the same. Not only had Thomas kept his promise and been discreet, but he was taking the pains to distance you from his romantic liaisons. It was…Almost sweet, all things considered. 
--  
“...What are you reading?” 
You jolted at the question, sucking in a gasp and dropping the manuscript that had been in your hand. Thomas’ brows rose as he walked deeper into the sitting room. 
“You scared me,” You grumbled. “How long have you been here?” 
“A few minutes. I called out twice when I came in.” 
“Oh,” You frowned. “I’m sorry, I must not have heard you.” 
“Clearly.” 
He walked deeper into the room, taking up the fallen manuscript and sitting on the green velvet settee beside you. You let your gaze linger, sweeping over him. His jacket had always been removed, though his waistcoat was still intact. His cool eyes swept over the page, brow furrowing a touch as he took in the content. His head began to turn toward you, and you hurriedly stood, rounding to the bar cart. 
“Would you like a drink?” You asked. 
“Sure.” 
You plucked up the bottle of whiskey, uncapping it and pouring a good amount. You rounded back to him, holding the glass out. He crossed his legs, resting the manuscript against it before he took the drink with one hand, patting the seat beside him with the other. You lowered yourself back down hesitantly, acutely aware of the way your thighs brushed. 
“What is this?” He asked, nodding toward the pages. 
“A book that was sent to us.” 
“Topside?” 
You smiled a little. Topside was how your family had always referred to the legitimate side of your publishing operations. You were certain that you and the others had said it around Tommy and his family before, but you were surprised he remembered. 
“Yes,” You nodded. 
“D’you like it?” 
“Ah…” You considered before you blew softly between your lips. “I’ve read worse.” 
“I’m not sure if that’s an indictment or praise.” 
You chuckled. “It’s got a good frame, but the writing is unpolished. Could be good, with a little bit of work.” 
“Will you work on it yourself?” 
“I may. Need something to do with my time.” It felt like the wrong thing to say as soon as you said it—but Thomas simply hummed, turning the page as he lifted his drink to his lips. 
“Redecorating hasn’t been enough of a challenge?” He asked after a moment. 
“Well it was, but I’m nearly through. The only room in the house that I haven’t touched is yours.”
“And why is that?” His eyes slid toward you, and the sudden shock of blue made your stomach flip. You shrugged a little, shaking your head. 
“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” 
Thomas nodded before he turned back to the pages. The two of you fell into silence, and you leaned in a little, reading over his shoulder.  
“...Dinner’ll be ready soon,” You told him after a few moments. He nodded, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, away from you. 
“What’re we having?” 
“Roast chicken.” 
“Vegetables?” 
“Potatoes and carrots.” 
“Gravy?” 
“Of course. I’m not an animal.” 
Thomas huffed a soft laugh through his nose. He turned his head toward you a little, his lips brushing your temple. The touch made your eyes slide closed, your stomach fluttering at the sensation. You were so caught up that you nearly missed what he said next:
“We’re going to London tomorrow.” 
You frowned, glancing up toward him. “Why?” 
“I’ve a meeting.” 
“A meeting that involves me?” 
“I want you with me.” He turned his head a little more, nuzzling lightly against your hair. “Besides, it’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a bit.” 
“I get out enough.” 
“I think you could do with a bit more.” 
You hummed thoughtfully before you leaned away, patting his thigh lightly. 
“I’ll go check on the bird.” 
You only managed to get up and take a single step before Thomas caught hold of your hand. You glanced back as he raised it to his lips, brushing a tender kiss to your knuckles. The action was so small, yet so intimate that it made your breath catch in your throat. He gave your hand a squeeze before letting go of it, letting his arm drift up to rest on the settee. You turned away, hurrying toward the kitchen. 
Once you were alone, you braced your hands on the counter, drawing in a deep breath and pushing it out again. Your skin seemed to tingle where he kissed it, and you glanced down, as if you could see some discernible change. You shook your head, shaking your hand before you turned to the oven. 
Dinner, get dinner together. You could worry about Thomas’ touch and the trip to London later. 
Next Part
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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month
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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, jealous / protective / possessive Simon, rough kissing, arguments, angst, TF141 shenanigans
Word Count: 5.3k
A/N: Part Ten of Ink & Needle
Soap, Gaz, and Price come for a visit. At a local pub, Simon notices you are sitting with a stranger. An argument ensues. Things get heated.
Chapter Nine // Chapter Eleven
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist
Simon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing heavily. The rolling chair groans a protest. The thing is so old it’s a miracle that it hasn’t collapsed under Simon’s weight. He’s been meaning to replace it—it’s not like he doesn’t have the money—but there are so many other things going on in Simon’s life that he keeps putting it off.
His work laptop is open on the desk in front of him, the bright glow of the screen showing him the thousands of emails sitting in his inbox. Being on the cover of UK Ink is a tremendous honor, but it’s also becoming its own sort of creeping horror. Figuring out which inquiries are genuine, and which are just people seeking attention, is taking a tremendous toll on his personal time.
Every day, more and more emails clog his inbox. It’s likely that as he starts deleting them, more will suddenly appear, popping forth from the hidden depths of whatever server it’s connected to. Plenty of the emails are straight spam with a few consisting of people sending unsolicited nudes. Those go straight into the trash folder. The only naked body Simon wants to see is yours.
Many of the emails are people seeking to book appointments with him for tattoos and piercings. While a good chunk of the emails come from citizens of England, plenty more are from people all over the world. International inquires are a good thing, but those appointments have to be booked around flights and trips. There is also no guarantee that those people will actually show, which is why Simon has started to double-book in some places, or set forth a non-refundable fee for securing a time and date.
He's only one person, and the pressure of that is starting to creep up on him. Simon is going to have to hire more people. At least one additional person at minimum. Even if all they do is answer emails all day and book appointments, Simon will take it. Sitting on this fucking chair in between clients is exhausting.
Through all of that, there are also publications (both large and small) seeking their own interviews with the masked tattoo artist knows as ‘Ghost.’ Some are local to the region while others are international, reaching an even wider audience. For each inquiry, Simon is grateful. To see his work—his art—be appreciated to such a large degree is a great point of accomplishment for him.
It's not like Simon’s work during his time with the military. That is different. That was work. That was blood and metal and dirt. Tattooing doesn’t feel like work to Simon. It is freeing. It is creative. It is the release of a muscle after a long tension.
Tattooing is a distinctive sort of freedom. A place for Simon to lose himself in, to enjoy life again, to find comfort in a craft that doesn’t involve destruction.
But Simon is also distracted. Not because he’s stressed or anxious or concerned or even from the number of emails piling in. Simon is distracted because you were in his arms last night. You were sitting at his kitchen table. You ate the food he made. He distinctly remembers your soft smile as you gazed at his sketches.
Sure, Simon was making dinner, but he was keeping an eye on you the whole time. He noticed every expression on your face as your gaze admired each sketch. He noticed the way you held every piece of paper with tenderness, as if all of them were sacred and special to you. It was after, when the two of you talked, that Simon sensed hesitation.
He questioned you about Cambridge and Evie. You were not entirely honest, not that Simon believes that you lied, but he knows there is more you haven’t told him. Whether you don’t want to tell him or are hesitant to do so is still uncertain. What Simon wants, more than anything, is for you to feel safe enough with him to tell him everything. Simon desires your sharp edges. He wants to know how he can help smooth them, to ease all the worries in your head, to remove some of those burdens.
Which is why he asked you to come to bed with him. He thought that maybe if he kissed you for a bit, you might soften, and that is all he wanted. But then he had you under him, opening for him, and Simon’s control was close to shattering like thin glass under pressure. Your fingers found him, and Simon would have given anything to stay in that bed and make you understand just how much he desires you.
The glowing screen of the laptop and the sight of you sighing in pleasure beneath him keeps colliding with each other. It keeps melding, melting together only to break apart before meeting again.
The current email opened on the laptop screen is gibberish. No matter how many times Simon attempts to read it, your face appears there instead. Then, Simon’s mind drifts off to dream of your seeking fingers, and how perfectly they wrapped around him.
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needs to fucking focus. He will see you again, and when he does, he is going to fucking enjoy it. The two of you are taking that date. The two of you are going to get away for a while. When that happens, Simon will make you his in all ways.
Exhaling loudly, Simon drops his hand from his face to rub at the back of his neck. He rolls it slightly, popping some of the tension out of the joints. He leans forward a bit and manages to focus on the email.
Spam. Fucking spam.
Simon hits the little rubbish icon and watches the email blink out of existence. His gaze returns to the little blue number next to ‘Inbox’ and immediately shudders.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wanting nothing more than to shut the laptop and pretend they don’t exist for a while.
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spies the front door of the shop opening. He turns his head to the left to see if it’s his final customer. Instead, he’s greeted by an annoyingly overenthusiastic Scotsman.
“Lt!”
“Gotta stop calling me that, Johnny,” sighs Simon loudly, as if getting out of his chair is a major hassle. Simon comes to his full height, hands on his hips as John MacTavish bursts through the door.
On his heels are Captain John Price and Kyle Garrick.
“Simon,” nods Price in greeting.
Kyle gives Simon a little playful salute before immediately heading for Bravo. The German Shepard goes up on his back legs. Kyle seizes the dog’s front paws in his hands, the two of them doing a little dance in the middle of the shop.
The moment Simon steps away from the chair, MacTavish is on him, throwing his massive arms around Simon’s middle in a hug.
“You’re bloody crushing me, Johnny.”
MacTavish squeezes him a bit tighter in response. When he let’s go, he grabs hold of Simon’s shoulders, shaking them slightly. “Fucking look at this place.” MacTavish glances around like he’s never seen it before.
“You’ve been here,” deadpans Simon. “Hasn’t changed.”
“But it has, Lt. You’re on the cover of a magazine.” MacTavish smirks and drops his hands from Simon’s shoulders. He then promptly punches Simon lightly in his upper arm. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity.”
“Hardly,” mutters Simon, but he’s smiling behind the balaclava.
Price presents his hand, and he and Simon grasp forearms. “Good to see you, Simon. Been a while.”
“It has,” replies Simon.
Johnny leans toward Simon and cups the side of his mouth like he’s an old hen about to drop a piece of juicy gossip. When he speaks, it’s just a projected whisper that everyone can hear clearly. “Captain bought up a bunch of magazines and handed them out to everyone on base.”
“Soap,” barks Price.
MacTavish holds up his hands, and then points at Price with one finger, jabbing it in the captain’s direction. “Just proud of you,” whispers MacTavish.
Simon simply nods but he’s grinning like an idiot behind the balaclava. Price glances in Simon’s direction and shrugs apathetically, not denying or confirming.
Glancing over Price’s shoulder, Simon frowns slightly. Bravo has his front paws on Kyle’s shoulders as he aggressively scratches the dog’s sides. Bravo’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, hanging down toward the floor as the dog pants happily.
“Get down, Bravo,” sighs Simon, indicating with a quick nod of his head.
Bravo sucks his tongue back into his mouth, ears drooping slightly with disappointment. Kyle pats Bravo’s side and removes the dog’s massive paws from his shoulders, gently guiding the German Shepard back down to all fours.
On the phone, Johnny said they’d stop by on Saturday. It’s Saturday. Fairly late on a Saturday, with a final customer still expected to walk through the door, but they are here, just as promised.
Kyle strides up and clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Place looks good.”
“Hasn’t changed,” remarks Simon for a second time.
“Saw you on the cover of UK Ink,” continues Kyle. “Didn’t know until this guy started handing them out on base.” He tips his head in Price’s direction.
Price sighs heavily but says nothing.
“Big deal,” finishes Kyle.
“Congrats, Lt.” MacTavish grins and Simon cannot help but feed into their praise.
It is a big deal. This one interview, this one award, is pushing him beyond the scope of his vision. In forced retirement, Simon expected to fly under the radar, to enjoy himself while he created art. He never expected his work to be recognized internationally.
“Sign my copy yet?” asks Johnny.
Simon backtracks to his desk, picking up the copy MacTavish sent him in the post. Lifting it up, Simon brings it over to Soap, smacking him in the chest with it. Johnny whistles and holds it with both hands in reverence.
“She’s a fucking beauty, Simon.” Johnny places one hand over his heart. “You’ve honored me.”
“Piss off,” mutters Simon as Kyle expertly snatches the magazine from Johnny’s hand. He opens it up, flipping through the pages, side-stepping every attempt by Johnny to seize it back.
“Did we come at a good time?” asks Price as he and Simon watch the two idiots playfully bicker over the magazine.
Simon shrugs. “I have one more customer. Free after that.”
Price nods and grips Simon’s shoulder. “We have lots to talk about.”
There is a slight twitch in Price’s clenched jaw that puts Simon on edge. He isn’t sure if he should press Price and try to wrangle an answer out of him, or let it go and see what happens.
“Shit,” says MacTavish, drawing Price and Simon’s attention to him. “Nearly forgot.” He extends an arm to Kyle, making a “give it to me” gesture with his hand. Kyle, with a sly smirk, unzips the front of his windbreaker. Reaching inside, he presents a manila envelope.
Johnny takes it and then offers it to Simon. “Thought I’d give this to you in person. You know, instead of over the phone. Or email.”
Simon takes it, instantly feeling the heft and thickness to it. Opening the tab, Simon slides his hand inside, removing the thick stack of papers.
“It’s everything I could find on her,” continues Johnny. “Where she went to school. Social medias. Every person she’s possibly dated.”
Tucking the manila envelope under his arm, Simon starts sorting through the information. A copy of your birth certificate, school records from elementary to high school, recent phone records. There is even a list of every restaurant or fast-food place you ordered from over the last five years with a credit card.
Simon flips past another page and freezes. His head snaps up, a growl sitting in the back of his throat. “You included her fucking banking information, Johnny.”
MacTavish shrugs dismissively. “I was thorough.”
“Thorough?” mimics Simon. “Fucking hell.” Simon returns everything to the envelope and places it on his desk next to his laptop.
Simon will have to shred it all after he looks through it. But only after he takes a look. He did ask Johnny to find what out what he could. While it is a major invasion of privacy, a more primal part of Simon reassures him that he’s doing the right thing. He needs to be able to protect you, and these are just tools in his arsenal to maintain your safety.
“She’s pretty, Simon,” says Price.
“You told them?” asks Simon, turning his attention to Johnny.
The Scotsman’s cheeks redden slightly. “He bullied the information out of me.”
Kyle leans in and drapes his arm over Soap’s shoulders. “Price told him he’d put him on inventory for a month if he didn’t spill.”
“Wanted to see this beauty for myself,” grumbles Price, glancing at Simon. “Give you a hard time.” He winks. “She yours yet?”
She yours yet?
There is a double-meaning there. While Simon’s instinct is to say “yes,” he also knows that that isn’t entirely true. The two of you haven’t verbally confirmed what this thing is. Simon has only just now asked you on a proper date.
Can Simon call you his?
The possessive, protective part of him shakes its ownership of you in its fist. But Simon isn’t impulsive, at least not all the time. With you, the need to react is strong, but Simon also understands that Price is asking in a more traditional way.
Licking his lips, Simon forms an answer. “She will be.”
Price nods. “Good man.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Johnny before returning his gaze to Simon. “Mind if we stick around?”
Simon shakes his head.
“We’ll help you clean,” adds Johnny.
“Will we?” asks Kyle slowly, eyebrows rising slightly as he turns on Soap.
Johnny blatantly ignores him and keeps his gaze locked on Simon. “You call the shots. Isn’t that right, Lt?”
That’s when Simon’s final client of the evening finally walks through the door. Simon doesn’t have a chance to answer. The customer is a bit bewildered by the small crowd, but the guys know to make themselves scarce. They head over to the couch, lingering in the waiting area with Bravo, chatting quietly as Simon escorts the newcomer into the tattoo chair.
Bravo moves from Johnny to Kyle to Price to Johnny again, seeking attention as Simon sets to work. The tattoo isn’t complicated, and Simon completes in about forty-five minutes. The guy is in and out in an hour.
When the four of them are standing outside in front of the shop, Simon pushes up his balaclava and lights a cigarette. It’s warm for autumn, the leather jacket he wears already making him run a little hot.
“We’ve got an upcoming mission we want your thoughts on,” says Price. “Need somewhere quiet we can go and talk.”
An upcoming mission? That’s not entirely unusual. Price has reached out to Simon on multiple occasions post-retirement to ask him for advice or to dig around in his head. But never—never—has Price and the rest of the team showed up to talk to him a group or in person.
There’s something else going on.
Clutching the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Simon opens his mouth, exhaling smoke, intending to suggest a few places.
But before anything comes out of his mouth, Price shots him a look. “Not that fucking pub with the old folks.”
“No one will bother us,” replies Simon dryly. It’s true. It’s why he goes to Dancing Faun every Sunday. And Ben will close up for the public but stay open for just the four them. They won’t be bothered, and they will have as much time as they need.
“You might be an old man at heart, Simon, but I’m not getting harassed by older women whose husbands have been dead for years.”
Kyle bursts out laughing before promptly covering his mouth.
“Don’t like the attention, Captain?” teases Johnny.
Price points at each of them individually. “Fuck off. All of you.”
There are only a few places they could go on a Saturday night where they won’t be disturbed. Sighing, Simon rattles off a couple within walking distance. The four of them debate until Price becomes so annoyed with their continuous back-and-forth that he abruptly selects for all of them.
The walk over is quick, and the four of them enter the dimly lit pub. It’s one of only a handful of places that serves food late. It’s also on a side street away from the main road. Traffic is light, and the interior isn’t crowded. Simon is starving, and he’d appreciate a full belly with a whiskey or two before he starts talking about things he’d rather forget.
Finding a dark corner, they settle in at a four top. Kyle and Simon settle in the booth, facing the pub while Price and Johnny take the seats across from them. Simon settles into the cushioned seat, contentment sliding into his bones. He’s at peace, even if the coming conversation might be messy. He’s with people he cares about, and tomorrow, he’s off.
Tomorrow, he can go see you. Maybe. If you’re not busy. The two of you can talk about that date, maybe go for a walk and then lunch? Simon just wants to spend time with you, and tomorrow is the perfect day to do it.
Simon shifts in his seat, leaning his crossed arms on the edge of the table, glancing out across the pub. His gaze travels over every person, his old habits from the military coming to the surface. Recognizing exits and looking for suspicious behavior is as natural as breathing. But everyone around them is minding their own business. They’re either sitting by themselves or with others, not glancing Simon’s way at all.
He does one finally sweep, and that is when his gaze falls upon two people sitting at a high top together near the very back of the pub. Of the two, Simon notices the man first. He has dark hair, possibly brown but it’s difficult to say with the low light. Slightly older than Simon by a few years, and the bloke is wearing an impeccably made suit. It’s odd for a place like this. It stands out.
Simon doesn’t like the man’s demeanor either. It’s…smarmy. Pretentious. Like he not only believes that he’s better than everyone else in this establishment, but that they should all know it. The way he sits in the high-backed stool is off too. It’s relaxed and yet completely on edge.
Simon frowns, gaze panning to the woman the man is talking to.
Everything suddenly goes cold within him. Arctic. The room has become a meat freezer and Simon is just a piece of dangling meat.
Because that is you, and you’re sitting next to a man Simon doesn’t recognize.
You are here, alone with a man Simon doesn’t know.
A bright, blindingly hot sensation roars to life in Simon’s chest. It wraps around and between his ribs, seizing him in a vice-grip. Against this heat, the iciness melts off of him, dripping to the ground to pool under his boots.
“Simon?” asks Soap, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “What are you—fuck. Is that her?”
It doesn’t fucking matter who this guy might be or what he might mean to you. Simon is going to crack his fucking skull open.
“That’s her,” murmurs Simon, the low growl previously lodged in his throat coming up suddenly.
Price leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the top, glancing to where everyone else is looking. “Want me to take him out to the alley? Give him some fresh bruises?”
Simon’s hands form into fists. He starts to stand but Kyle and Soap grab onto him, shoving him back down into the booth. “Relax, Lt,” soothes Johnny. “Might be nothing.”
You haven’t noticed Simon yet. You’re too busy looking at this man—this stranger. Turned slightly to the side, your gaze wouldn’t fall across Simon unless you purposefully scanned the room. The worst part is that Simon has no idea if you’re enjoying yourself or not. There is a blankness on your face that Simon loathes.
Do want to be here? Do want to be talking to this man that Simon doesn’t know? And why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you say anything? Is there someone else Simon needs to worry about? Does he have competition?
Silently, Simon begs for you to turn in his direction, even if it’s only a bit.
This unknown variable, this stain of a man, reaches out. With red-drenched horror, Simon watches as he places that very hand on the top of your thigh.
All Simon sees is blood.
This bastard is going to lose that fucking hand. And then he’ll lose his goddamn head.
Simon bolts up out of his seat again but Kyle and Johnny are right there, grabbing onto him, wrangling him back down into his seat.
“Let me go,” snarls Simon through clenched teeth.
“You’re gonna cause a fucking scene if we do that,” hisses Kyle, shoving downward on Simon’s shoulders.
Why are you letting him touch you? Why, when just yesterday you were beneath Simon, seeking him with your fingers, begging for him, are you allowing this?
But you’re not allowing it. You didn’t give this man permission.
Within seconds of the man’s hand connecting with your thigh, your gaze turns downward, lips curling back into a disgusted snarl. You twist your body enough for his hand to fall away, and a flare of pride swells in Simon’s chest.
You didn’t want this man’s touch. Which makes Simon momentarily happy before it all comes crashing down. This man touched you. Without your consent. And that makes Simon angrier than if you had wanted it.
Simon craves blood. He needs his knuckles drenched with it. For it to sit between his teeth. To taste it on his tongue.
“Who the fuck is that?” asks Kyle.
“I don’t know,” growls Simon, wanting to take off and punch the guy right out of his fucking chair.
With the removal of his hand, the guy’s smug smile drops. He bares his teeth, starts speaking to you in a way that Simon immediately dislikes. Sure, Simon cannot hear what the man is saying to you, but from the look on his face and body language, it’s nothing nice. He is angry, and you’re clearly upset. Simon wants this to end, to go up to the guy and throttle him, to whisk you off and make you forget all this unpleasantness.
But Kyle and Johnny keep him seated. They won’t let go, which means Simon will have to literally fight them to get to you.
Small pieces of the conversation start to make its way over to the table.
“Archie.”
“Estate.”
Simon frowns, hears something that sounds like “pregnancy” and immediately rethinks everything. Does this have something to do with your friend? The husband is dead, but is this someone the husband knew? Is it a relative?
And does that matter to Simon?
No. He still plans on knocking the man’s teeth out.
Simon only catches a few additional words here and there, but then he hears three that make his blood boil.
“You fucking whore.”
Simon knows that Johnny, Kyle, and Price all hear it too because their gazes move away from Simon and to the man at the table. Soap and Kyle’s hands fall away from Simon’s arms, giving him permission.
Pushing up from his seat, Simon steps around Johnny and strides toward the high-top table. Your back is to Simon from this position, but that doesn’t matter. Simon has his sights set on this wanker who needs to learn some proper fucking manners.
The man notices Simon first, his angered expression turning away from you and switching to Simon. It slips slightly, the faintest bit of fear sliding across the man’s features as he realizes Simon is aiming for him. Simon inhales, falling effortlessly into Ghost, allowing the phantom inside himself to seek out its need for blood.
But with his removed attention comes your own turning. A wanting to know what it is he’s looking at. When your gaze falls upon Simon, Ghost deflates, softens, giving way to confusion. All the emotions passing over your face nearly stop Simon’s forward momentum.
Your own anger gives way to sudden panic, then switches quickly to irritation, further compounded by confusion. It’s likely that you didn’t expect Simon to be at the same place. And while Simon wants to turn to you and give you reassurance, he’s too fucking focused on this asshole you’re sitting with.
Simon decides not to address you. Instead, Simon turns on this thickheaded prat. “What did you fucking call her?”
The man’s lip curls. “Mind your own business.” Immediately, Simon notes the man’s accent. It speaks to social status and aristocracy.
Simon steps closer. “Repeat what you said. Out loud. Want to make sure I heard you right.”
“Simon,” you hiss, desperation leaking into your tone.
Your guest turns on you, anger flaring anew in his gaze. “You know this…man?” He says man like he wants to say animal.
“He’s—” you begin, but Simon interrupts.
“Direct your questions to me,” growls Simon, placing himself between you and this stranger.
“Simon. Please.” You tug on Simon’s leather jacket but he shrugs you off. His attention is completely on this asshole.
“Are you with him?” The man’s gaze flicks from Simon to you.
“Adam—”
“I thought we could have a civil conversation—”
“What’s civil about calling her a whore.” Simon’s voice rises slightly as the raging tide of fury boils within him like a thunderstorm.
Adam’s face grows bright red. He turns on Simon. “Do you know who I am?”
Simon could give a fuck. He could be the fucking King and Simon would still punch the piss out of him for speaking to you that way.
Price shoves himself between Simon and Adam, keeping his back to Simon, creating a barrier. “Let me help you to your car.”
Price isn’t doing this to be nice. He’s doing this so the police aren’t called.
Adam stands but isn’t nearly as tall as Price. “If you put your hands on me—”
“Deal with me or him. Your choice.”
Adam straightens his shoulders and tugs on the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.
Fucking prick.
He glances over Price’s shoulder at you. “This isn’t over. You’ll hear from the family solicitor.”
“Let’s go,” mutters Soap, caging the guy in, forcing him to move away from Simon. Kyle trails after them.
Price turns around, facing Simon directly. “We’ll stop by another day. You deal with your woman.” He squeezes Simon’s shoulder before following out after them.
Simon watches Price leave, and then he’s seeking you out, expecting you to be thankful.
But you’re not. Your anger is palpable.
Simon needs to fucking fix this. “You’re coming home with me,” is the first thing out of his mouth. It’s a command. Not an ask. And his tone is rough, nearly raspy.
Your eyes widen slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper.
Simon draws back, startled. “You okay with him speaking to you like that?”
You huff, and get up from your chair, collecting your coat and purse. “You don’t know anything, Simon. You have no idea who that is and why we were even talking in the first place.” Shoving past him, you start for the door.
“Fuck,” mutters Simon, following after you.
His legs are longer, and he catches up to you easily. Before you make it to the pub’s exit, Simon inserts himself in your path, blocking your attempt to flee.
“Move.”
“No.”
“You’re making a scene, Simon.”
He glances up, notices everyone looking on with varying degrees of interest. Some confused. Others concerned. Sighing, Simon reaches back and pushes open the door, stepping aside for you to exit.
Once the two of you are outside on the street, Simom grabs you by the forearm, pulling you in the opposite direction.
“Let me go,” you snap.
“We’re going to talk.”
“Fuck off, Simon.” You yank your arm out of his grip. Something is forming on the tip of your tongue. Simon sees it in the way your lip quivers. But you don’t. Instead, you sigh heavily and wave him off like you’re tired of it all.
Turning, you try to cross the street, but Simon is already snagging your arm again, yanking you away as a car zooms by.
“Get out of my way.”
“No.”
“Then give me some fucking space.”
“No.”
You release an exasperated breath and try to circumvent him. Again, Simon steps into your path. The two of you keep moving like this down the street. Every attempt you make only puts you closer to him.
Simon is herding you on purpose, pushing you closer and closer to his flat. He wants some goddamn answers, no matter how mad you are with him. And he doesn’t understand why you’re upset in the first place.
When the two of you are outside his shop, Simon indicates the exterior door that leads to his flat.
“Get inside,” he demands.
“Don’t order me around.”
“Inside,” repeats Simon, shoving the key into the lock, opening the door, revealing the hallway that connects the shop to his flat.
You stare between him and the open doorway. Your chest is heaving, and fuck—you look so beautiful right now even though Simon can tell you’d really love to hit him.
The tips of his fingers itch to just push you inside and shut the door, but he doesn’t need to. You make the decision for him, heading inside. Simon follows, and as the door shuts, you’re already moving like a bolt of lightning, walking fast enough to create a significant amount of distance.
No. Fuck that.
With a few massive steps, Simon is on you. He grabs the front of your throat, yanks you back against his chest, pushing your face toward his. The balaclava is already up, already in place, and his lips connect with yours.
At first, Simon can sense the tension but then you melt into him as his other hand slides to your front, pressing low on your belly, pushing your ass into his groin. Your own arm slides up, drapes over his neck in such a loving way that Simon momentarily forgets all his anger.
The two of you hang like this, suspending, but you come back to reality, yanking yourself out of his grip, almost violently.
“You can’t distract me with kisses, Simon.”
“Want to test that?” asks Simon, reflexively reaching for your waist.
You allow him to touch you, to draw you back into him, but your arms are crossed over your chest defensively. “You don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s—it’s too much and you don’t know. You don’t understand, Simon.”
“Then help me understand,” he says softly.
You shake your head and there are real tears there in your eyes. Simon hates it. He wants to take them all away.
“You’re not my husband, Simon. You’re not even my boyfriend. I shouldn’t burden you with any of this.”
You will not push him away. Simon won’t allow it. The two of you are in this together, and he needs to know.
“I care about you.” Now Simon is the one shaking his head. “Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.” His hands draw upward, cradling the sides of your face. “We’re going up to my flat. You’re going to talk. I’m going to listen. Okay?”
One tear rolls off the corner of your eye, trailing downward to kiss his palm.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Okay,” you reply.
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