I HATE THE WAY YOU

90’s born | She/Her

[ceilidho]

a beginner's guide to nesting | MASTERLIST

John Price x Reader

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.

Or: the fertility clinic au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Fertility Clinics, Strangers to Lovers, Slow Forced Cohabitation, Breeding Kink, Pregnancy, Very Mildly Dubious Consent

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Extras

MOODBOARD · AO3

[ihatethewayyou]

Anything this person writes I am here for. I am sat and ready.

[peachesofteal]

for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?

Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):

And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.

Neon Medusa Too sweet not to share Ghost and Red Fox Alford plea The Willow Maid Exfiltration The Arrangement Civilian Asset See no evil Squeeze me I squeak MildLimerence Mine & Yours Saltwater Metanoia to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it) white flag blood on my shirt, rose in my hand totally platonic Surviving you Dog all that's said in the lowlight birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children Happiness songs that sound like sea foam down to the marrow roommate gaz Chink in the Armour Man-sized Hummingbird don't leave me locked in your heart Listening In Situationship-verse The Scottish Cabin in the Woods

Spoils of War Where Your Feet Pass Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window jigsaws pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks sirius c Spoils Cabin Fever / part one lotus flower the lies we tell Who Dares Win babytrap anthology The Hard Way Of Sea Foam and Iron bury me beneath the basswood tree Wicked Harvest Tiger balm baby blue Keeper/Kept Something Sweet Stay Away appetite

[keyfili]

THE NICE GUYS 2016 • dir. Shane Black

[peachesofteal]

KEEPSAKE / MASTERLIST

ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

One Two Three

[ihatethewayyou]

Fully consumed the first two chapters. Sat and ready for the third.

[theorist-fox]

Good Hands

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Part One of Two

CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracies

wc: 7.1k

Masterlist 🦊

When Soap gave you Simon’s address, you thought you’d end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss. 

You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sure—pathologically so, you’d like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an OR—but he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldn’t put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.

Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house you’ve ever seen.

Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.

This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.

At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.

Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.

However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.

It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.

It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.

If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.

Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.

You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.

With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet. 

There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.

You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.

Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.

Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.

He used to tell you.

They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.

Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork. 

You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.

SR: Don’t know why.

LT: they think you’re snow white

LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes

SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.

LT: in fact i said sweetest :)

SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.

LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me

SR: I’m your L.T. 

SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.

LT: technicalities

SR: You’re L.T. too

SR: L.Too

SR: L2

L2: oi

SR: Haha

L2: rude

SR: Alright, L2.

They don’t get it.

SR: Sleeping?

L2: are you keeping tabs on me?

SR: You’d be surprised.

L2: won’t ask

SR: Shouldn’t.

L2: Fancy a chat?

And your phone would ring.

“L2,” he’d greet.

“Not funny anymore.” But it was.

“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”

“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”

“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”

Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—

His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.

“Good job, L2.”

“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”

“That’s my El.”

They don’t get it.

Or maybe they do. 

Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.

Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant. 

LT and L2. Ghost and El.

On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.

Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door. 

On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks. 

Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.

The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.

Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.

You knock.

“Lieutenant.”

Nothing.

The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.

“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”

Silence.

You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.

Knock.

“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”

You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.

“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”

Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short. 

Knock knock.

“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”

Knock knock knock.

“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”

Nothing.

Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.

“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”

On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing. 

So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.

“Alright,” you slam your palm on the wood. 

“I’m gonna sleep right—” Thud. “Fucking—” Thud. “Here, then.”

There’s no sound.

You look at the groceries.

“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”

The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt. 

“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”

The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.

“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”

You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.

The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.

Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.

“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”

Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.

All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.

“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"

Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them. 

Stupid.

Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?

The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.

“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”

“Which bourbon?”

Your head snaps.

His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.

A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal. 

Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.

But he’s alive.

His chest rises. His blood runs.

You blink.

A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”

“Mh.”

His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags. 

“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”

He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”

You exchange looks.

Then, he nods his head inside.

“Help me out?” He drawls.

Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.

You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.

You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.

Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.

You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.

He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart. 

They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.

You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.

Control he lost.

When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.

Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.

“The bags are heavy,” you croak.

“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.

His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor. 

The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.

Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.

You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.

Carried worse, he said.

Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.

Six Months Earlier

Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.

Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.

Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.

A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.

It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.

Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.

With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe. 

“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”

The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.

“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”

Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.

“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.

John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Right.”

His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.

You let it slide.

“And why’s that?”

“Signed by Konni.”

You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.

“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”

“Keep us updated, yeah?”

“On it.”

You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.

“Alrigh’?”

Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting. 

It’s fucking hot in this thing.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”

“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”

You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”

Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.

“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”

Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”

You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.

“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”

“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”

Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.

Only then does Simon pitch in.

“I asked you a question.”

You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”

“I’m in good hands.”

“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”

“Thought it was too old to still be active.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.

You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.

It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.

There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own. 

“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”

Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.

“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”

You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”

“Good heart.”

“Chop chop, Riley.”

“Aye aye, El.”

With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.

You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.

“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.

“What is?” John pitches in.

You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.

“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”

John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”

“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”

“Roger that, captain.”

Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables. 

You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.

However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.

This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.

This is amateurish.

And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.

Unless—

“El? You with us?”

Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.

Relief floods through you.

You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.

Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.

Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.

“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”

Simon snorts.

“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”

You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”

But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.

“Aye aye.”

And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off. 

And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.

It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.

You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.

“It’s dead.”

John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”

But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.

Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.

He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.

“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.

You stall for a moment.

It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.

But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer. 

“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.

Your stomach lurches.

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"

John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too. 

“Get to the point.”

You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.

You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”

“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?” 

“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"

“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?” 

“Roger.”

You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts. 

“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”

“He can still hear ya.”

“Good.”

If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.

You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease. 

Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t. 

A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.

Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.

“Pass me the snake cam.”

You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance. 

Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.

“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”

In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.

Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board. 

“Got anything?” You ask Simon.

“Too dark.”

“Turn on the flash.”

The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board. 

Simon hums.

“Got something.”

You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.

“Fuck. Let’s switch.”

Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers. 

“Got it.”

Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.

As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.

Only one thing stands out.

A light.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”

You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.

“John.”

Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”

“We got something.”

“Details.”

“In a sec. Stay on.”

You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.

“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”

He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.

“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”

And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.

Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness. 

Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.

“C4.”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”

“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”

“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”

“Roger.”

The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.

Red, green. Red, green.

Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?” 

“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”

He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.

Red, green. Red, green. 

While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

You blink. 

“Stop.”

Simon falls still.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.

“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”

Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.

It ticks, ticks, ticks.

“Shit—Simon, drop it!”

And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.

“Drop that shit and run!”

Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.

You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.

“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.

“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”

An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device. 

Makarov knew it. 

He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.

He wanted John’s team there. 

He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.

Call the big guns and then call it a day.

“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears. 

Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.

Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side. 

He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.

“Fuck—faster, El!”

“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.

“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”

Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side. 

You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.

“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”

It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—

Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.

The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.

Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.

Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket. 

“What—”

The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.

Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage. 

“Are you fucking mad?!”

But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.

“Simon what the fuck!”

“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.” 

He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.

You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs. 

Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand. 

He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.

“Simon—” 

“Keep still.”

And then, he runs.

There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t. 

He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.

“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”

Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back. 

But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.

A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.

However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.

A black hole hidden underground. 

You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.

“Please Simon, please!”

His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.

He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.

Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.

Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.

At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.

[ihatethewayyou]

Banter? Scrumptious. Tension? Palpable. Dying for the second part? Hell yes.

[noarmour]

hockey player!simon 'ghost' riley x fan!reader. cw: MDNI. strong language, sexual themes. 1. mutual hunger

Sleep never comes easy to Simon, and his insomnia is always especially hungry after a match. The leftover adrenaline keeps his brain awake, running around in circles over what he could've done different, what he could've done better. It doesn't matter that he-- they-- won. It never does. Perfectionism dissects and probes at his contentment, asks is this truly enough? Are you enough?

He throws the bed sheets off of him and drags his tired but unwilling to rest body to the kitchen to brew another cup of tea. The kettle rumbles softly in the background, the room basking in the glow of the faint sunrise still climbing slowly over the horizon. Outside the large window, the sky is pink and the lake reflects it like a mirror.

Simon leans against the kitchen counter and unlocks his phone, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the sudden brightness. His notifications panel is empty, a ghost town; no one to reach out to and no one to reach back. Especially not at five in the morning. But, he knows, underneath the faux quiet of his device, an influx of private messages simmers just below the surface, kept at bay by the notification system that allows him not to see any of it.

The fans, much like his insomnia, are especially hungry after a match.

He could feel it at the ice rink, chillier than the ice itself. And he can feel it now. It follows him home like a ghost on his shoulders, claws digging into the space between his shoulder blades, asking for more, begging for any piece of himself he has to offer. It doesn't matter if it's willingly or not.

And so, he knows better than to feed the monster. His coach taught him to know better, but he still opens his social media. The DMs icon has a 99+ in bold and red on top of it. He clicks it anyways. The last message is a couple of hours old. The fans have exhausted themselves into a sleep he could only dream of.

All except for one.

Mrs.Riley: i read somewhere that you struggle with sleep.

Simon's grip on the counter turns bone white, a chill snaking down his spine. He knows he isn't, but he feels watched anyways. It's a cold, foreboding sensation that's hard to shake off when your face is plastered on every billboard and bus.

Mrs.Riley: i think you said it in an interview. something about tense muscles after a match.

Someone reaching, but he knows better than to reach back.

Mrs.Riley: i hope you're sleeping, and that your phone is on DND. It would help.

The electric kettle starts bubbling and then clicks off. Simon doesn't budge.

Mrs.Riley: i couldn't sleep either. though i suppose you're still celebrating with your teammates. fucking someone? god, i wish it was me.

Simon's breath stutters in his throat. He blinks down at the screen, reads the message, once, twice.

Mrs.Riley: is it weird if fans fantasise about you? suppose not. you're probably used to it. i fantasise about you fucking me into the bed, all my frustrations melting away with every-

Simon locks his phone and exhales sharply through his nose, heart thudding, thudding, thudding against his rib cage like a fist. It's a wondrous thing his heart is still capable of racing when all the blood rushed downwards. His cock swells against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, throbbing in desperation, in hunger.

This hunger, much like his fans, is insatiable. But Simon still tries anyways. This kind of hunger is one he can't sleep with, can't coexist with. The tea be damned, he needs a wank.

Under the sheets of his bed, Simon, naked and already panting, reaches for his hard cock and wraps his fist around it. The phone illuminates his sharp features, thick eyebrows like caterpillars reaching for each other as he frowns deeply.

His muscles contracts and flexes with each stroke.

Mrs.Riley: --i fantasise about you fucking me into the bed, all my frustrations melting away with every thrust. fuck, i can only imagine what you'd feel like Mrs.Riley: the stretch would be heavenly, painful in the best way possible. would you fit? it doesn't matter. my body will accommodate yours. ugh, i'm so turned on now. great.

Simon can feel the frustration in every word, the raw desire that licks a warm stripe up your spine, the hunger he knows all too well. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting at the image of your delicate spine resting against his broad chest as he fucks you from behind, a faceless silhouette whispering sweet, dirty words into his ear. Your body will accommodate his and take him all in, desperate, starving for that feeling of fullness.

He'd let you swallow him whole.

Fuck.

His grip tightens and a needy whimper is chocked out of his throat as he cums all over his stomach. The sheets cling to the hard ridges of his muscles, a second skin drinking up his sweat and cum.

All at once, his senses rushes back to his body. He waits for a post nut clarity that never comes. Simon never really feels guilty about indulging one of his basic needs, and he's not about to start to now. It does feel odd to rub one out to a fan. He's sure he's breaking one of the many rules his coach has enforced on him and is delusional enough to think Simon would follow. But, much to the dismay of his coach, Simon is past the point of giving a fuck about anything but winning. Well, winning and finding out more about you.

Now that his arousal is dealt with, he can think with his head instead. He lays there for a long moment, scrolling up, up, up the one sided conversation you've managed to keep alive for the last five years.

The sun inches its way up a cloudless sky.

------------------------------------------------

Simon scrolled well past the early hours of the morning, pausing twice to fuck his fist at the filthy things the safety of anonymity encouraged you to type and send to him. But, besides that, there was nothing in the messages that could clue him on your identity.

Your profile was even less helpful; a graveyard of the most obscene edits of him with background music that would make a stripper blush.

It did, however, lull him into three hours of uninterrupted sleep. Must be all the jacking off. He woke up to an edit of him still playing on the screen of his phone. The worst thing a man can wake up to.

Now he's scarfing down breakfast with a concerning amount of Earl Grey tea. The sports channel drones on and on about last night's game, bragging to the whole wide world about their sick obsession with violence as they replay, again and again and again, a shot of Simon shouldering and elbowing his way through two defenders.

Simon is still experiencing the ghost feeling of number 14's sharp elbow digging into his ribs.

"--from Sports Time. Big fan, by the way."

Simon grits his teeth. That fucking voice. Fucking hell. He could pinpoint it in a crowd. He lifts his eyes to the screen over the rim of his mug and there you are, grin too smug.

Big fan, my ass.

You hate him, and he knows that. And he knows you know that, because you always open up with that fucking line, like it's an inside joke between you and him.

"--that shot looked rough."

On the screen, Simon pushes his tongue into his cheek, eyes clouding with annoyance. "It went in, didn' it?"

"Right, but--"

"We won, that's what matters."

You smile. "Of course, Mr. Riley. Just thought a pass there would've looked better."

Simon remembers exactly what he wanted to say in that moment, though he bit his tongue because his coach would've had a fit in the locker room.

"Maybe," he said, when, in reality, he wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself.

------------------------------------------------

a/n: by popular demand (like 3 people), i am expanding my hockey player simon riley ramblings into an actual fic. let me know what you think! if you enjoy my writing, please consider supporting me here, if you'd like <3

[ihatethewayyou]

Fucken brilliant

[rose-fics]

Freshly turned Omega Reader x Older Alpha Price dubcon anyone? Being chased down in the woods during the yearly hunt by a man old enough to be your dad and getting mounted while he growls in your ear about how well you're going to take his knot? How he's going to fuck a litter into you? Just me?

(Preview below)

“Is that-” Farah squints. “Is that captain Price?”

The man closing the door to his pickup is tall, broad, with silver hair dotting at his temples and a thickness around the middle that speaks less of fat and more of weight, strong and sturdy like an aging oak. His expression is severe- focused with an intensity that’s as startling as his flinty blue stare. Everything about him screams alpha in the way of a seasoned veteran, nothing like the young upstarts in the clearing who push and shove at each other trying to impress their omega counterparts. No- Price walks forward with a quiet self-assuredness that comes with decades of experience, able to wrestle down any challenger without breaking a sweat.

“Price?” Alex asks, unable to hide his astonishment, and you blink at the name of the police captain who the local rumor mill had declared a permanent bachelor, refusing to take a mate or partake in the yearly ritual for over a decade now.

Two younger alphas break off of a group to go meet him, and you recognize them as part of the police force as well- one with a baseball cap and clever brown eyes and the other with a wide grin and mohawk that resembles more of a cockatiel than an actual hairstyle. They chat together, seemingly just as surprised as you to see the alpha who’s probably a decade older than the next oldest among the crowd.

“Wonder what’s brought him out.” Farah muses for a moment- before a low growl from a nearby alpha catches both her and Alex’s attention near a different group, and they both leave you to attend to whatever ruckus is stirring. You watch them go before turning back-

and realizing Price is looking right at you.

For a moment you cast a glance over your shoulder, thinking perhaps he spotted someone behind you. When you realize no one is there, you turn back to find that his eyes haven’t shifted, pinning you to the spot. You try not to squirm, ducking your head and glancing up through your eyelashes as he refuses to look away. Unlike Frank, Price looks at you not with a lewd sort of hunger, but more of something primal, carnal in the way that feels vaguely possessive.

Like you’re already his.

[specshroom]

Some rather unlucky investments have landed you in a tad of debt. However, you have know of a way to get out of it that requires very little work on your part.

The "Pussy Portal" company are always hiring after all.

All you have to do is have a portal directly connected to your pussy that any paying customer can use at any time. What could go wrong?

Just realized u didn't actually say it had to be monsterfucking specifically but I made it that anyway lmao.

At least you thought it was going to be very little work on your part.

But now you're not so sure as you sit on the train ride home trying to act like there isn't a monster cock reaching deep in your cunt.

You curse yourself for not reading the terms and conditions of the contract properly. You thought they were just being hyperbolic when they said "Prime Pussy Anywhere, Anytime!" Surely they would have down times right?

No. There are no down times unless you call in a sick day of which you only have few. You shoulda known that pay was too good to be true.

At least whoever's using your portal seems to only be cockwarming themselves for the time being, although that could change at any moment. Every jerk of the train makes you tense up as you try and act as nonchalant as possible. The cock sits so snug and warm inside you, it twitches every time you tense around it.

On the customer app your portal is advertised as specifically "Human pussy" so you like imagining the kinds of monsters who would pick that out specifically. You haven't figured out what monster this one might be, it's rather thick and hot with a very generous amount of precum.

When you get to your stop the train jerks more than you expected and you have to subtly cover your mouth and grab the railing to avoid making a sound. Your customer definitely felt you clench down in panic as their cock jumps in excitement.

They start grinding down slowly on the portal, their cock thrusting shallowly. You speed walk straight for the train station bathrooms and lock yourself inside a stall. Close call but you made it and just in time for their shallow thrusts to turn into full pumps into your slick pussy.

You lean your back on the wall of the stall as your cunt is now being thoroughly pounded by this stranger. You have to crouch to your knees as your orgasm builds up, rubbing your clit with one hand while the other covers your mouth.

Just as you're about to tip over the edge you feel something bigger at the base of the shaft bump against your pussy with each hard thrust. You gasp in realization but it's too late as the monster thrusts their knot past your entrance and you cum hard with a silent scream, spasming and shaking against the bathroom stall.

Their cum fills you to the brim, kept inside by their inflamed knot. They don't stop cumming for several minutes but when they do it takes you several more to compose yourself enough to step out of the bathroom on wobbly legs.

You make the slow and embarrassing walk home while the monster's knot sits snuggly inside your pussy, keeping all that warm cum inside you.

The knot inside you doesn't deflate fully until you're already home and making dinner. You have to grip the counter, shivering slightly as your customer pulls out and goes on with their day having been properly satisfied. The thought makes you feel a strange sense of pride. Just then your phone beeps with a notification from the Portal companies app.

The customer left a tip!

How nice! They also left a review on your page,

"10/10. Best stress relief. Would fuck again."

[pucksandpower]

Home Ice

Sidney Crosby x MILF!Reader

Summary: you’re at your son’s draft day when the internet decides you’re a “rocket.” Your eighteen-year-old becomes an NHL player overnight. His captain calls to congratulate him. And somehow, between protecting your kid’s dream and learning to have one of your own, you end up in Nova Scotia with calloused hands holding yours and a Hall of Famer asking if you’d like to stay. (The part where your son threatens Sidney Crosby’s career over gnocchi is just a bonus)

The air in the Sphere is thick with a manufactured chill, a feeble attempt to mimic the ice that is the entire reason for this spectacle. It smells like stale popcorn, expensive cologne, and the electric tang of a thousand frayed nerves. Your own are chief among them.

Your son, Colton, sits beside you, a mountain of quiet tension in a suit that cost more than your first car. His leg bounces, a frantic, silent drumbeat against the plush carpet of the riser. He stops only when your hand finds his knee, a gentle, anchoring pressure.

“My entire circulatory system has relocated to my kneecap,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that still sounds, to your ears, like the one that used to ask for another bedtime story.

You smooth a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “It’s attached. I checked this morning when I straightened your tie.”

“You tied my tie.”

“Details.” You offer a smile you hope looks more confident than you feel. At thirty-six, you’ve mastered the art of projecting calm in the face of absolute chaos. It’s a survival skill honed over eighteen years of single motherhood.

Colton Y/L/N. The analysts have been saying his name for months. “A generational playmaker.” “The most NHL-ready defenseman in the draft.” “A leader on and off the ice.” To you, he’s just Colton. The boy who scraped his knees on the driveway asphalt, who ate cereal for dinner more times than you’d like to admit, who held your hand in the emergency room when you broke your wrist slipping on a patch of black ice after one of his 5 a.m. practices.

On the massive, wrap-around screen, the commissioner is at the podium. “With the tenth pick in the 2025 NHL Entry Draft, the Utah Mammoth are proud to select …”

Colton sucks in a sharp breath. His hand, the one not currently being held captive by your own, clenches into a fist on his thigh. He was projected to go anywhere from eight to twelve. This is the zone. The air crackles.

You lean in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. Whatever happens, happens. You got here. That was the mountain. This is just the view from the top.”

He turns to you, his eyes — your eyes — wide with a swirling storm of hope and fear. “What if they don’t … what if I just sit here?”

“Then you sit here,” you say, your voice firm, unwavering. “You sit here with your head held high, next to your mother who is so ridiculously proud of you it feels like my heart is going to hammer its way out of my chest. And then tomorrow, you go to whatever development camp you’re invited to and you skate circles around the guys they picked instead. But that’s not going to happen.”

The kid from Utah walks across the stage, a blinding smile on his face as he pulls on a jersey in a color combination that seems scientifically engineered to be unappealing. The camera pans across the remaining prospects. It lingers on Colton for a moment. He looks impossibly young, impossibly handsome, a man-child on the precipice of his entire life.

“And now,” the commissioner’s voice booms again, “we go to the Pittsburgh Penguins, drafting from their locker room at PPG Paints Arena.”

The screen splits. On one side is the stage. On the other is a live feed of Kyle Dubas, surrounded by his staff, looking intense under the fluorescent lights of the Penguins’ inner sanctum. A hush falls over your section of the arena. This is it.

Your grip on Colton’s knee tightens. He’s stopped breathing entirely.

Dubas leans into the microphone. There’s no dramatic pause. He’s all business. “With the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from the London Knights … defenseman, Colton Y/L/N.”

The world explodes.

Or maybe it just shrinks, collapsing into a single point of brilliant, blinding light. The sound rushes in — a roar from the crowd, a shriek from Colton’s agent, Jon, on his other side, and a choked sob that you realize, with some distant part of your brain, is coming from you.

Colton jolts as if struck by lightning. He turns to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Mom?”

He says it like he’s five years old again, asking if Santa Claus is real.

You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands. He’s six-foot-three now, a solid wall of muscle, but in your arms, he is still the fifty-three pounds of boy you used to carry to bed. He lifts you off the ground in a hug that smells of nervous sweat and expensive fabric, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears streaming freely down your face now, messing up the makeup you so carefully applied. “Oh, my baby, you did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. He sets you down, his hands framing your face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and the gratitude in his eyes is a physical force. “We did it.”

Jon is clapping him on the back, pulling him towards the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Your future is waiting!”

The walk is a blur. Flashing lights from a hundred cameras create a strobing, disorienting effect. The roar of the crowd is a physical pressure against your skin. You watch him descend the stairs, shake the commissioner’s hand, and take the offered jersey.

The iconic skating penguin logo is stretched across his broad back. Y/L/N and the number 25 are printed beneath it. He pulls it on over his dress shirt and tie, and the fit is perfect. It looks like it has always belonged to him. He puts on the hat, turns to the sea of faces, and smiles.

It’s the same smile that once flashed a missing front tooth. The same smile that beamed up at you from the ice after his first goal in peewee hockey.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs, a fixed point in his swirling new universe, and you just watch. You watch him become someone else. Not just your son anymore. He’s the first-round pick of the Pittsburgh Penguins. He belongs to them now, in a way. To the city. To the fans.

The next hour is a whirlwind. He’s pulled from one media station to another. Print journalists, television crews, podcasters. You trail behind, a silent shadow, letting Jon run interference. You answer a few questions yourself when a reporter corners you.

“How does it feel, as a single mom, to see him achieve this dream?”

“It feels,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect, “like watching every single sacrifice pay off in one perfect moment.”

Eventually, the initial frenzy subsides. A team representative, a kind-faced woman named Peggy, leads you and Colton towards a quieter backstage area. “We just need to get some content for socials, and then we have a car waiting to take you to the team dinner,” she explains.

Colton nods, still dazed. He hasn’t let go of the jersey. He clutches it in his hand like a holy relic.

They lead you into a small, curtained-off room. It’s blessedly quiet. For the first time since his name was called, it’s just you, Colton, and Jon.

“Okay,” Jon says, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’m getting the contract details ironed out. Colton, your phone is going to melt. Don’t even look at it for the next hour.”

Colton just nods, sinking onto a small sofa. He looks at you, a dazed, happy smile playing on his lips. “Penguins, Mom. Pittsburgh.”

“I know, honey. It’s incredible.”

“It’s …” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s Sid’s team.”

As if on cue, Jon’s eyes go wide. He lowers his phone slightly. “Holy … Colton. You need to take this.”

He hands the phone to Colton, who looks at it, confused. The screen is blank, a private number. “Who is it?”

“Just answer it,” Jon says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Colton swipes to answer, putting it on speaker without thinking. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the speaker. It’s calm, familiar, and carries the unmistakable cadence of a Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia native.

“Hey Colton, Sid Crosby here.”

The air leaves the room.

Colton freezes. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, lock with yours. You feel your own heart skip a beat. Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby is on the phone. Your son’s childhood hero. The reason he wore number 87 through his entire minor hockey career.

Colton swallows hard, his voice coming out as a squeak. “Uh. Hi.”

You want to laugh, you want to cry, you want to tell him to say something, anything, more articulate than ‘hi’.

Sid’s voice is warm, a low chuckle on the other end. “Just wanted to be one of the first to say welcome to Pittsburgh. We’re all really excited to have ya.”

“Th-thank you,” Colton stammers, finally finding a few more words. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby. It’s … wow. It’s an honor.”

“Please, call me Sid,” he says, and the easy-going kindness in his tone is disarming. “Listen, I know your head’s probably spinning right now. Just wanted to say congratulations. You earned it. Watched some of your shifts from the OHL playoffs. You’ve got a hell of a game.”

You watch as a slow blush creeps up Colton’s neck. Praise from the captain. From a living legend. “Thank you, Sid. That … that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Enjoy the night with your family,” Sid continues. “It’s a big moment. Soak it all in. But be ready to get to work when you get to town. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, sir. I will be. I’m ready.”

“Good to hear. Alright, I’ll let you go. See ya at camp, kid.”

“See you at camp. Thank you.”

The line clicks dead.

Silence.

Colton stares at his phone as if it might spontaneously combust. He slowly lowers it, his hand trembling slightly. He looks up, first at Jon, then at you. His expression is one of pure awe.

“Sidney Crosby,” he whispers, the name a prayer. “He called me ‘kid’.”

Jon is beaming. “That’s your captain, Colton. Welcome to the show.” He claps him on the shoulder again. “I have to go take five more calls. I’ll meet you by the car in ten. Don’t go anywhere.” He strides out of the room, already barking into his phone.

The silence that descends is different this time. It’s heavy with the weight of the moment. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.

Colton turns to you, the dazed look in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by an intensity that takes your breath away. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his brand-new Penguins hat askew on his head.

“Mom.”

His voice is thick again. The phone call, the jersey, the reality of it all, it seems to have finally broken through the wall of shock.

“I’m here, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face. It feels like he’s seeing all eighteen years at once. The late nights helping with homework after you got home from your waitressing shift. The beat-up station wagon you drove for a decade, the one that always smelled faintly of hockey gear and gasoline. The Christmases where his one big gift was a new pair of skates, and yours was watching him open them. The parent-teacher conferences you attended alone. The tuition for hockey camps you paid for by taking on extra shifts, your feet aching so bad you’d have to soak them in Epsom salts for an hour every night.

He sees it all. You know he does.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice cracking, “that tournament in Sault Ste. Marie? When I was twelve?”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. You remember it perfectly. “The alternator on the car died in the middle of a blizzard, halfway there.”

“Yeah,” he says, a wet sheen in his eyes. “And we were stranded for six hours. And you used all the cash you had for the hotel room to pay the tow truck driver. And we slept in the car, in the freezing cold, so I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“You had two goals and an assist,” you say softly. “It was worth it.”

“I sat there tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “and all I could think about was that. And the hundred other things like that. You, working two jobs so I could play Triple-A. You, driving me to the rink when you were so tired you were falling asleep at red lights. You, telling me I could do this, even when I didn't believe it myself.”

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands — a hockey player’s hands — gently taking yours.

“I get to play hockey for a living. I get to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby just called my phone,” he says, his voice breaking on the last part. “And none of it, not a single second of it, happens without you.”

The tears are back, hot and fast. You try to blink them away, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re the one who put in the work, Colton. You skated until your feet bled. You studied, you trained, you did everything right.”

“Because you showed me how,” he insists, squeezing your hands. “You never quit. On anything. On us. So I knew I couldn’t either. Everything I am is because of you. We did this. Don't you ever think it was just me.”

He pulls you into another hug, and this one is different. It’s not the explosive, adrenaline-fueled hug from the stands. This one is quiet, reverent. It’s the hug of a young man who has just realized the full scope of his mother’s love and sacrifice, and the weight of that understanding is both beautiful and crushing.

You hold onto him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of his dress shirt and the faint, lingering smell of the arena. You hold onto your son, the boy you raised against all odds, the man who is about to step into a life that is bigger and brighter than anything you could have ever dreamed for him.

“I’m so proud of you, Colton,” you manage to say, your voice muffled by his suit jacket.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

Peggy peeks her head through the curtain, her smile apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. The car is ready when you are.”

Colton pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture so boyish it makes your heart ache. He gives you a watery smile, straightens his shoulders, and suddenly, he’s not just your son anymore. He’s Colton Y/L/N, property of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He holds out his arm for you. “Ready to go to dinner?”

You loop your arm through his, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the sterile backstage corridors, your heels clicking on the polished concrete, you feel the shift. The world has tilted on its axis. The quiet, predictable life you built for the two of you, a fortress of love and routine, has just been spectacularly breached. And as you step out of the arena and into the warm night air, towards the waiting black car, you can’t shake the feeling that everything — absolutely everything — is about to change.

***

The two days following the draft are a hallucinatory blend of champagne headaches, a thousand repetitive text messages, and the surreal experience of seeing your son’s face on ESPN every time you turn on the television. You fly back home to Orlando in a daze, the quiet of your house a startling contrast to the non-stop sensory assault of Las Vegas. The silence is cavernous. It’s the first time in eighteen years you’ve come home to an empty house that is going to stay empty.

Colton is in Pittsburgh for a whirlwind three-day development camp. A meet-and-greet, a tour of the facilities, a light skate. It’s a preview of the life that awaits him, and a preview of the life that awaits you.

You’re unpacking your suitcase when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Brandi.

Brandi: Have you been on Twitter?

You text back, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The internet is a place you generally try to avoid.

You: No. Why? Did someone say Colton looks bad in a Penguins hat? Because I will fight them.

A new message from Brandi pops up immediately. It’s not text. It’s a link to a tweet from an account called “Bardown Beauties.” The tweet contains a screenshot from the draft broadcast. It’s a candid shot of you, caught mid-laugh as Colton tells you a joke just before his name is called. Your head is tilted back, your eyes are crinkling at the corners, and the ridiculously expensive dress Brandi forced you to buy looks, you have to admit, pretty good under the arena lights.

The caption above the photo reads: Forget the prospects, the real first-round pick at the 2025 Draft is Colton Y/L/N’s mom. Absolute rocket. #NHLDraft #MILF

You stare at the screen. You read the word. M-I-L-F. You know what it means. You are not, despite Colton’s frequent jokes, a thousand years old. Below the tweet are thousands of likes and a cascade of replies.

She’s only 36! That’s insane.

Smokeshow. Colton got the good genes.

Suddenly I’m a huge Penguins fan.

Your face flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida humidity. It’s a bizarre cocktail of emotions. There’s a sliver of flattery — it’s certainly nicer than being called old and haggard — but it’s buried under an avalanche of indignation and a profound sense of … violation. This was your moment with your son. A moment of pure, unadulterated pride and love. And these strangers, these anonymous faces on the internet, have twisted it into something cheap. Something about you, and not him.

Your phone rings. It’s Colton. You force a lightness into your voice that you do not feel.

“Hey, superstar! How’s Pittsburgh?”

“It’s awesome, Mom. The rink is … wow. But that’s not why I’m calling.” His voice is tight, clipped. He sounds angry. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “Saw what, honey?” You lie, poorly.

“The tweet. The pictures. All of it,” he says, his voice laced with a protective fury that is so profound it makes your heart ache. “Jon sent it to me. I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s disgusting. They’re being so disrespectful. I’m going to tell the team’s PR guy to get them to take it down.”

“Colton, no,” you say, your voice firm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it a bigger deal. It’s the internet. It’s stupid and silly and it will be gone by tomorrow when they find something else to obsess over.”

“But they’re talking about my mom,” he says, the emphasis on the word making him sound about twelve years old. “It’s not right.”

“I know, sweetie. And I love you for being angry for me,” you say, your voice softening. “But honestly? I’m a 36-year-old woman. I’ve been called a lot worse than ‘smokeshow’ by men who were actually standing in front of me. I can handle a few anonymous trolls on the internet. This is your time. Don’t let this silliness taint it. Okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear the gears turning in his head, his anger warring with his instinct to listen to you.

“Okay,” he finally sighs, defeated. “But if anyone says anything at camp, I swear …”

“You will be a professional,” you interrupt gently. “You will be the bigger man, the one who doesn’t get rattled by nonsense. You are a Pittsburgh Penguin now. You hold your head high and you ignore it. Promise me.”

“… I promise,” he grumbles.

“Good. Now tell me everything. Does the locker room smell as bad as your old hockey bag?”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking. The conversation shifts to safer territory — to the intimidating size of the veteran players, the crisp, clean feel of the ice, the thrill of seeing the Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters. You talk for an hour, and by the time you hang up, the ugly incident has been pushed to the back of your mind.

It’s just the internet, you tell yourself. It will go away.

***

The summer passes in a blur of empty-nester prep. You help Colton pack. You make lists of things he’ll need for his apartment, should he make the team and get to move out of the team hotel. You have a “last supper” at his favorite hometown restaurant. You try, and fail, not to cry when you hug him goodbye as he gets into the car service that will take him to the airport, and to his new life.

“Call me every day,” you say, clutching the front of his shirt.

“Twice a day,” he promises, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

And then he’s gone. The house is silent again, but this time, it’s a permanent kind of quiet.

The daily calls become a lifeline. He tells you about the grueling two-a-day practices, the punishing off-ice workouts, the sheer, breathtaking speed of the game at the NHL level. He’s exhausted, sore, and homesick, but beneath it all is a thrum of pure joy. He is living his dream.

You, meanwhile, are living a life you don’t quite recognize. You go to work — your sensible job as an office manager for a dental supply company — and you come home. You cook dinner for one. You watch whatever you want on television without having to fight for the remote. You have friends, you have hobbies, but the central organizing principle of your life for the past eighteen years is now a thousand miles away. You are unmoored.

It’s the third week of September. Main training camp is in full swing. Colton has survived the first round of cuts, the one that sends the junior-eligible kids and long-shot prospects home. He’s now skating with the big club, a minnow in a sea of sharks.

“I shared a line with Sid in a drill today,” he tells you during your nightly FaceTime call. He’s sitting on the edge of his perfectly made hotel bed, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Really?” You ask, propping your phone up against a pillow on your own bed. “How was that?”

“Terrifying,” he says without hesitation. “He passed me the puck and my hands turned into bricks. I completely fumbled it. It was so embarrassing.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Colton says, shaking his head in disbelief. “He just circled back, picked up the puck, passed it right back to me and said, ‘Let’s try that again.’ Like it was no big deal.”

“He sounds like a good captain.”

“He’s … different,” Colton says, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t talk a lot. But when he does, everyone shuts up and listens. Even Geno. And he sees everything. It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head.”

You smile. “Well, you just keep your head down, work hard, and try not to fumble his passes.”

“That’s the plan,” he laughs. “Gotta go, Mom. Team meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your own reflection on the dark screen. You feel a pang of loneliness so sharp it takes your breath away. You are proud of him, so proud it hurts. But you miss your boy.

***

The next afternoon, in the sprawling, state-of-the-art locker room at the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and liniment. Practice was a brutal, up-tempo bag skate, designed to separate the men from the boys. The veterans unwind with the practiced ease of men who have done this a thousand times. The rookies move with a quiet, nervous energy, trying to stay out of the way.

Colton is one of the last ones off the ice, getting in extra work with one of the assistant coaches.

Sidney sits on the stool in front of his stall, methodically untaping his skates. His movements are economical, precise. He’s thirty-eight now, his hair flecked with gray at the temples, but his focus is as sharp as it was when he was a rookie. He listens to the rhythm of the room — the snap of towels, the murmur of conversations, the clatter of sticks being put away. It’s the soundtrack of his life.

A few stalls down, two of the newer prospects are talking. They’re both first-year pros, up from the AHL, cocky in the way that only twenty-year-olds who haven’t been humbled yet can be. Their names are Poulter and Davies.

“Did you see Y/L/N out there today?” Poulter says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shoulder pads. “Kid can actually skate.”

“Yeah, he’s not bad,” Davies agrees. “Hey, random, but my buddy sent me this thing from the draft. A picture of his mom. Dude …”

Sid’s hands pause in their work. His focus doesn’t shift, his eyes remain on his skate laces, but his ears are open. He’s the captain. It’s his job to know the temperature of the room.

Poulter lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. The one that was all over Twitter? She’s a total smokeshow. Unbelievable.”

“Right?” Davies says, his voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. “I saw the broadcast clip. My jaw hit the floor. Can’t believe she’s old enough to have a kid Colton’s age. She looks like she’s thirty, tops.”

“Total rocket,” Poulter confirms with a smug nod. “Y/L/N is one lucky kid. Hope she comes to the family Christmas party.”

A skate drops to the floor.

The sound is not loud, but it’s sharp, and it cuts through the chatter.

Sidney stands up. He doesn’t look angry. He looks worse. He looks disappointed. He turns his head slowly, and his gaze lands on the two young players. The room, which had been humming with low conversation, falls silent. Everyone can feel the shift in pressure.

“What was that?” Sid asks. His voice is quiet. It’s not a yell. It’s a low, cold query that carries more weight than any shout ever could.

Poulter and Davies freeze, their eyes wide. They look like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh, nothing, Sid,” Poulter stammers. “Just … talking.”

Sid takes a slow step towards them. He’s not physically intimidating in the way that some of the bigger players are, but his presence, his aura, fills the space. “No, I heard you. You were talking about Y/L/N’s mother.”

Davies swallows hard. “We were just saying …”

“I know what you were saying,” Sid cuts him off, his voice still level, but with an edge of steel. “That’s his mother you’re talking about. His family. She’s not here to be a topic of conversation for you. She’s not here for you to rank or comment on. She’s not your entertainment.”

The two prospects shrink under his gaze, their faces burning with shame. The silence in the room is absolute. The other veterans are watching, letting the captain handle his business.

“This is a place of work,” Sid continues, his voice unwavering. “And that kid in here,” he gestures vaguely towards the showers, “is trying to earn a spot. The last thing he needs is to hear guys in his own room talking about his mom like she’s some piece of meat.”

He looks from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Show some respect. For him. For her. For this room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sid,” they both mutter, their eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry, Sid.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the lesson now delivered. He turns and walks back to his stall. The moment has passed. The tension begins to dissipate.

Just then, Evgeni Malkin, who had been silently stretching his giant frame on the floor nearby, gets to his feet. He saunters past Sid’s stall, a towel around his neck and a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He claps a hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“Is captain talk,” Geno says, his Russian accent as thick as ever. “Very serious. Good captain.”

Sid just shakes his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Geno …”

Geno leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that is still audible to half the room. He looks at Sid, then glances over at the thoroughly chastened rookies, and then back to Sid. The grin widens, revealing a missing tooth.

“But …” Geno says, pausing for dramatic effect, “they are not wrong.”

He lets out a booming laugh, a genuine, infectious sound that finally shatters the remaining tension. He gives Sid’s shoulder another hearty slap and continues on his way to the showers, still chuckling to himself.

Sidney watches him go, the weary smile turning into a genuine one. He shakes his head again, a silent acknowledgment of his friend’s incorrigible nature. For over twenty years, Geno has been the one person who could always break through his captain’s intensity with a perfectly timed piece of absurdity.

He sits back down and picks up his other skate. The room slowly returns to its normal rhythm. But something has shifted for Sid. He thinks of the new kid, Y/L/N. A good kid. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut. He’d seen the photo from the draft, of course. It was hard to miss. A quick glance, an acknowledgment that, yes, she was a beautiful woman, and then he’d moved on. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

But now, he sees it differently. He sees the kid, trying to navigate the immense pressure of his first NHL camp. And he thinks of the mother, the one who was now the subject of locker room chatter, the one whose private moment of joy had been turned into public fodder. The one who had, by all accounts, raised this promising young man all on her own.

He makes a mental note. Look out for the kid. It’s his job as captain, but suddenly, it feels a little more personal. It’s about respect. It's about protecting the room, and that includes the families that support it.

Later that evening, you get your call from Colton. He sounds lighter, happier than he has in days.

“You’ll never guess what happened at practice,” he says, his voice buzzing with excitement.

“What?”

“We were doing this breakout drill, and I kept chipping the puck off the glass. It’s faster here, you know? The timing is different. And I was getting so frustrated. And then Sid skated by.”

“Oh?” You say, a smile in your voice. “Did he tell you to try again?”

“Better,” Colton says, practically bouncing. “He pulled me aside after the drill. He actually took five minutes and walked me through it. Showed me how to use my body to shield the puck, to get my head up a fraction of a second sooner. He said … he said I had good instincts and just needed to trust them.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. It’s one thing to be his teammate. It’s another to be his mentor.

“Wow, honey. That’s amazing.”

“I know! It was the coolest thing. He didn’t have to do that, Mom. Especially after I fumbled his pass the other day. I feel like … I don’t know. Like maybe I actually have a shot.”

“You do have a shot,” you say, your voice full of a conviction you feel deep in your bones. “You just keep listening to your captain. He sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” Colton says, his voice full of hero worship. “He really is.”

You hang up the phone that night feeling a sense of peace you haven’t felt since he left. Your son is in good hands. He’s being challenged, he’s being pushed, but he’s also being looked after.

You have no idea, of course, of the conversation that took place in the locker room. You have no idea that Sidney Crosby’s simple act of kindness was born from a moment of quiet, firm defense. A defense of a young player’s dignity, and by extension, a defense of yours. You just know your son sounds happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. You are a thousand miles away, but in a strange way, the orbit of your quiet life in Florida has just edged a little closer to the gravitational pull of a man in Pittsburgh you have never even met.

***

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sleepy, sun-drenched day in central Florida where the biggest event is the mailman arriving. You’re in your kitchen, humming along to a playlist of 90s rock, chopping vegetables for a salad you will eat alone. When your phone rings, displaying Colton’s name, your heart does its customary little flip.

“Hey, honey,” you answer, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scrape diced cucumbers into a bowl. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Finished an hour ago,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of its usual energy. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, courses through you. You put the knife down on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own voice quiet. “Colton, what happened?”

This is it. The call you’ve been fearing for six weeks. The one where he tells you he’s been cut, that he’s being sent to the AHL affiliate in Wilkes-Barre, or worse, back to his junior team in London.

“I’m not coming home, Mom,” he says, and the words are a punch to the gut. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turn white. You were prepared for this. You told yourself you were. You were lying.

“Oh, baby,” you start, the sympathy thick in your throat. “It’s okay. It’s just one step back. You’ll work hard and …”

“No,” he interrupts, and for the first time, you hear a tremor in his voice. Not sadness. Something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed joy. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming home because Coach Muse just called me into his office.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“He told me to stop living out of a suitcase,” Colton says, his voice finally cracking, the emotion breaking through like a dam. “He told me to go find an apartment.”

The world stops. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower, your own heartbeat — it all fades into a dull roar in your ears. You slide down the kitchen cabinets until you’re sitting on the cool tile of the floor.

“Colton,” you whisper, the name a fragile thing.

“I made the team, Mom,” he sobs, and now he’s not holding back at all. It’s a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. “I actually made it. I’m in the NHL.”

The tears come then, hot and silent. You cry for the exhausted eighteen-year-old on the other end of the phone, and you cry for the determined six-year-old who first stepped onto the ice, his ankles wobbling. You cry for every dollar you saved, every mile you drove, every doubt you pushed aside.

“You did it,” you say, your voice thick with tears. “Oh, my sweet boy. You really, really did it.”

“Get on a plane,” he says, his voice still shaky but now underpinned with a frantic excitement. “The season opener is Tuesday. Against the Rangers. At home. You have to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Are you wearing a tie right now?”

He laughs, a wet, hiccupping sound. “No, Mom.”

“Good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Because I’m not there to fix it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, you are stepping out of a cab into the crisp, alien air of a Pittsburgh autumn. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees are a riot of gold and crimson. You check into a hotel downtown, the city’s iconic black and gold color scheme seemingly imprinted on every street corner.

In your room, you lay the jersey out on the bed. It’s a real one, not a knock-off. Colton had it custom-made and overnighted to you. The iconic penguin crest on the front, and on the back, in bold, white letters: Y/L/N, and beneath it, the number 42. You trace the stitching with your finger. It feels sacred.

Colton meets you in the hotel lobby before he has to head to the rink. He looks exhausted and wired all at once, a human bundle of nervous energy. He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe.

“I’m going to throw up,” he says into your hair.

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “You’re going to go out there and play your game. The same game you’ve been playing your whole life. The ice is the same size. The puck is the same size.”

“Sidney Crosby is not the same size,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You laugh, smoothing down his collar. “Just try not to hit him with a pass in the skates. Here.” You hand him a small, worn photograph from your wallet. It’s a picture of him at age seven, wearing a comically oversized jersey, a gap-toothed grin on his face as he holds up his first-ever trophy. “Put this in your stall. For good luck.”

He takes it, his expression softening. “Thanks, Mom.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Your ticket. Section 104, row F. It’s a good one. You’ll be right by the glass for warmups.”

“I’ll be the one screaming the loudest,” you promise.

He gives you one last, quick hug. “Gotta go. I’ll see you after.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the revolving door, leaving you standing in the polished lobby, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

***

The energy inside PPG Paints Arena is a living thing. It thrums through the soles of your shoes, a current of anticipation and civic pride. You find your seat, the jersey feeling both like a costume and a second skin. The sheer number of people, the noise, the dazzling lights — it’s a world away from the cold, quiet rinks of his youth.

The lights go down. A hype video plays on the massive scoreboard. The music thunders. And then, the team emerges from the tunnel, a stream of black and gold skating onto the pristine white ice. You’re on your feet with everyone else, craning your neck, searching.

And then you see him. Number 42.

The team makes their way down the tunnel, and then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all stop, leaving the entire sheet of ice open. All except for Colton. A few players tap his shin pads with their sticks as they pause. He looks up, confused for a second, before the realization dawns on him.

It’s the rookie lap. The tradition. His solo moment in the spotlight.

A roar goes up from the crowd as they recognize the ritual. Colton hesitates for a moment, then a shy smile breaks across his face. He takes off, his skates carving clean, powerful arcs into the fresh ice. For one solitary lap, he is the only one out there, the center of this universe, skating under the bright lights with twenty thousand people cheering for him. For your son.

The tears you’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, hot and fast. You don’t bother to wipe them away. This moment is too beautiful to be blurred.

The game itself is a 60-minute anxiety attack. It’s faster in person, more violent. The sound of a body hitting the boards in front of you is a sickening thud that makes you flinch every time. You watch Colton’s every shift, your muscles tensing whenever he goes into a corner, your breath catching whenever he rushes the puck.

Late in the first period, it happens. Colton corrals a loose puck at his own blue line and makes a smart, simple pass up to his defensive partner, who then threads a long pass to a streaking Bryan Rust. Rust fires a wrist shot that beats the Rangers’ goalie clean. The horn blares, the red light flashes, and the arena explodes.

You’re screaming, hugging the strangers next to you. A minute later, the goal is announced: “PENGUINS GOAL! Scored by #17, Bryan Rust! Assists from #58, Kris Letang, and … #42, Colton Y/L/N!”

His first NHL point.

As the celebration on the ice dies down, you see Rust skate to the net, retrieve the puck, and toss it to the bench, where a trainer catches it. You know, with a certainty that makes your heart swell, that the puck is for Colton.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. It’s tied 2-2 late in the third period. The tension is unbearable. The Penguins are pressing. Colton, seeing an opening, jumps into the play, taking a pass at the top of the faceoff circle. It’s a defenseman taking a chance, a risky move for a rookie.

He doesn’t hesitate. He winds up and fires a slapshot.

Time seems to slow down. You watch the puck leave his stick, a black blur against the white ice. It rises, finding a hole through the tangle of bodies in front of the net. The goalie, screened, reacts a split second too late.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that is uniquely distinct. Thwack.

The eruption of noise is volcanic. It’s a physical force that pushes you back in your seat even as you leap to your feet. Colton is mobbed by his teammates, his helmet knocked askew by a joyous head rub from Evgeni Malkin. He’s laughing, screaming, pointing to the sky.

Your scream is lost in the roar of 20,000 others. You’re jumping up and down, tears and laughter mingling on your face. He did it. He scored. His first NHL goal.

As the scrum of players disperses, you watch closely. Sidney skates calmly to the net. He reaches in, picks out the puck, and gives the referee a nod. As he skates back to the bench, he passes Colton, gives him a firm tap on the helmet, and hands the precious souvenir to the trainer. The gesture is quiet, professional, and loaded with significance. It’s the captain, acknowledging the moment. Anointing the rookie.

The Penguins hold on to win 3-2. Colton is named the third star of the game. You watch, beaming, as he skates out one last time to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

***

After the game, you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the arena to the designated family area, a polished hallway outside the locker room doors. It’s controlled chaos, filled with stylish wives, excited children, and proud parents. You feel a little out of place in your jersey, but you don’t care.

The door opens, and Colton emerges, his face flushed with victory, his hair still wet. He spots you and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it hurts. He closes the distance in three long strides and lifts you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Did you see that?!” He shouts over the din, spinning you around. “Did you actually see it?! It went in! I scored! In the NHL!”

“I saw it!” You laugh, your feet dangling above the floor. “You were amazing! The whole arena was screaming your name!”

He sets you down, his eyes shining. “Okay, okay, check this out.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two pucks, both encased in clear plastic and wrapped in white athletic tape. On the tape, in neat black marker, are the details.

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Point - Assist - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Goal - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

He presses them into your hands. They’re heavy. Real.

“They’re for you,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. “For the mantle. For everything.”

You hold the pucks in your hands. They’re heavy, solid. They feel like everything he’s ever worked for, everything you’ve ever sacrificed for, distilled into two dense circles of vulcanized rubber.

“Colton, they’re yours,” you whisper, your throat tightening.

“Everything I have is yours,” he says simply, and with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “We did this, remember?”

You pull him into another hug, a tight, fierce one. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Mom,” he says, his expression shifting slightly. He looks over your shoulder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You turn. Walking towards you, looking impossibly larger in person even without his gear, is Sidney Crosby. He’s wearing a team sweatsuit, his hair is damp, and there are the faint, tired lines of competition etched around his eyes. He looks less like a superstar and more like a man who just finished a very hard day at the office.

“Sid, this is my mom,” Colton says, his voice full of reverence. “Mom, this is Sid.”

Sidney offers you a small, genuine smile and extends a hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice calm and low. “You must be incredibly proud.”

You place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and calloused. You are acutely aware that this is the hand that has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times. “More than you’ll ever know,” you reply, finding your voice. “Thank you. For everything. For looking out for him.”

You gesture with the puck still in your other hand. “And thank you for this. It means the world to him. To us.”

His eyes, a deep, intelligent hazel, meet yours. He holds your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There is no hint of the locker room talk, no trace of anything other than sincere respect. 

“He earned it,” Sid says, his gaze shifting to include Colton. “Hell of a shot. It was the first of many.” He gives Colton a nod. “Great game tonight, kid. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Colton breathes, looking star-struck all over again.

With another polite nod to you, Sid moves on, disappearing into the crowd of families. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it leaves an electric hum in the air.

“Come on,” Colton says, pulling you from your reverie. “I’m starving. Let’s go get that celebratory dinner.”

As you walk away, arm-in-arm with your triumphant son, you can’t shake the feeling of that handshake, of that direct, unwavering gaze.

***

Sidney stands for a moment, watching you and Colton disappear down the hall. He sees the easy affection between you, the way you laugh at something your son says. It’s a world he is familiar with — the families are the bedrock of the team — but he’s always observed it from a slight distance.

A heavy hand claps him on the shoulder, making him jolt.

“Captain is thinking hard,” Evgeni Malkin rumbles beside him, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Just tired, Geno,” Sid says, turning to head back toward the locker room. “Long game.”

“Tired?” Geno says, easily keeping pace. “Or you see pretty mama and now your brain is scrambled egg?”

Sid shoots him a warning look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

“She is good looking,” Geno continues, ignoring him completely. “I see from bench. Very nice. Young guys are not so stupid, eh?”

Kris Letang falls into step on Sid’s other side, toweling his perfectly coiffed hair. He looks impossibly fresh for someone who just played 25 minutes of hockey.

“He’s not wrong, Sid,” Letang says, his French-Canadian accent smooth as silk. “She’s very elegant. You can see where Colton gets his good manners from.” He winks. “And he’s a good kid. You’d be doing him a favor, really. Being a positive male role model.”

Sid stops, turning to face his two oldest friends, his two longest-tenured teammates. “Are you guys serious? That’s Y/L/N’s mom. He’s my rookie. He’s eighteen. Stop it.”

Geno just laughs, a loud, booming sound. “So? You are old. You need nice woman. She is nice woman. Is simple math.”

“It’s not math, it’s … inappropriate,” Sid insists, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

Letang smirks. “Is it? Or are you just scared, Captain?”

Sid throws his hands up in exasperation, a gesture of pure defeat that only Geno and Tanger can elicit from him. He turns and walks away, leaving them laughing in the hallway.

But as he retreats to the quiet of the empty locker room, he can’t brush it off. He thinks of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your son. He thinks of the strength in your handshake, the genuine gratitude in your voice. He thinks of the easy, unguarded smile you gave Colton as you walked away.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, pulling off his sweatsuit. She’s Colton’s mom.

But for the first time in a very long time, the ever-sensible, always-focused voice of reason in Sidney’s head sounds a little less convincing than he’d like.

***

The six weeks since the home opener have settled into a new, strange rhythm. Your life in Florida continues its quiet, orderly pace, while Colton’s life in Pittsburgh unfolds in a series of frantic, exhilarating highlights you watch on a screen. You’ve become an expert on the NHL’s streaming package, your evenings now dictated by the Penguins’ schedule. You learn the names of the broadcasters, the tendencies of the referees, and the particular way your son looks when he’s tired versus when he’s frustrated.

It's a strange, disconnected intimacy. You talk on the phone every day, but it’s not the same. You miss the comfortable chaos of having him in the house.

So when he texts you on a Tuesday morning, it’s like a beacon of light.

Colton: Hey Mom. We play the Lightning in Tampa on Saturday night. It’s a quick trip, just in and out. You should come.

Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Already looking up hotels.

Colton: No need. I got you a room at the team hotel. It’s all set. Just drive down Saturday.

The casualness of it, the ease with which he can now provide for you, sends a fresh wave of pride washing over you. For eighteen years, you handled the logistics of his entire life. Now, he’s handling yours.

***

Saturday arrives, and you make the two-hour drive from Orlando to Tampa with the windows down, the warm November air a welcome balm. You check into the gleaming waterfront hotel, your room offering a panoramic view of the bay. It’s a level of luxury you’re still not quite used to.

You meet Colton in the hotel lobby for a quick, pre-game lunch. He looks good, if a little tired. The grind of an 84-game season is starting to set in.

“Are you excited?” He asks, stealing a french fry from your plate.

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic,” you say. “I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s not the same on TV.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’ll be good to have you there. It feels … normal.”

The word hangs in the air between you. Nothing about this life is normal, but having you in the stands, that’s a piece of the past he can hold onto. He gives you your ticket, hugs you tight, and heads off with the team for their pre-game meetings and nap. You’re left with a few hours to kill, your own nerves starting to hum with a familiar, pre-game frequency.

***

In the visitor’s locker room at Amalie Arena, the atmosphere is loose but focused. The Penguins are on a winning streak, and the mood is light. Players are getting their sticks taped, stretching, going through their individual rituals.

Sidney is sitting in his stall, methodically lacing his skates, his mind already running through the game plan. He’s trying to focus, but his two longest-tenured teammates are making it difficult.

“So, Captain,” Geno says, plopping down on the stool next to him with a dramatic sigh. He’s already in his full gear, minus the helmet. “You see rookie’s mom tonight? You say hello? Or you hide in here like scared little boy?”

Sid doesn’t look up from his laces. “I’m focusing on the game, Geno. We’re playing a very good hockey team.”

Kris, stretching his groin against the wall nearby, laughs. “He says that every time. Sid, the universe is giving you a sign. An away game in her backyard. You just have to walk up to her in the family area after the game and say, ‘Would you like to get a drink?’”

“It’s not that simple,” Sid mutters, pulling a lace tight with a sharp tug.

“Is that simple!” Geno insists, gesturing with his massive, gloved hands. “You are Sidney Crosby. She is beautiful woman. You say, ‘You, me, drink.’ What is problem?”

“The problem is that she’s the mother of our eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman who sits three stalls down from me,” Sid says, his voice low and firm. “It’s a line you don’t cross. End of story.”

“Excuses,” Kris says, switching legs. “You’ve been weird since you met her at the home opener. Just finally work up the balls and ask her out.”

“I’m not having this conversation …” Sid starts to say, but his voice trails off.

His eyes have flickered up and landed on the doorway to the trainer’s room. Standing there, holding a freshly sharpened pair of skates, is Colton.

Colton has frozen mid-stride. His eyes are wide. It’s impossible to know how much he heard, but judging by the way the color is draining from his face, he heard enough.

The joking banter in the room dies instantly. The handful of other players who were within earshot suddenly find the tape on their sticks fascinating. The air grows thick with a horrified, awkward silence.

Geno and Kris exchange a wide-eyed, ‘oh shit’ look.

Sid’s heart plummets into his stomach. This is it. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s embarrassed his rookie, made him uncomfortable in his own locker room, and shattered the professional boundary he values so highly.

He stands up, his skates still untied, and takes a step towards Colton. His mind is racing. He has to fix this.

“Colton,” he says, his voice low and urgent, full of sincere regret. “Man, I am so sorry you heard that. They’re just messing around, you know how they are. I want you to know, I have the utmost respect for you, and for your mom. I would never, ever cross that line. It was just a stupid locker room joke. It won’t happen again.”

He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs to convey how deeply he means it.

Colton just stands there for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He walks past Sid to his own stall, sets his skates down, and begins to untie his shoes. He doesn’t say a word.

Sid follows him, his voice dropping even lower. “Seriously, Colton. I’m mortified. It’s unprofessional and …”

“Sid.”

Colton cuts him off, his voice quiet but firm. He finally looks up from his shoes, and his eyes meet Sid’s. There’s no anger in them. There’s something else. Something thoughtful.

“It’s okay,” Colton says.

Sid blinks, completely thrown. “No, it’s not okay. I put you in a terrible position.”

“No,” Colton says, shaking his head as he pulls off a running shoe. “Just … listen.” He takes a deep breath, and it feels like every other person in that corner of the room is holding theirs.

“My mom,” he begins, his voice steady, “she’s been a mom since she was eighteen years old. That’s it. That’s all she’s ever really gotten to be. Her entire adult life, every single decision she’s made, has been about me.”

Sid, Geno, and Kris are silent, listening with a new, sober attention.

“The jobs she worked — waitressing at night so she could drive me to practice in the morning. Where we lived — always making sure it was in the right school district for the hockey program. What she did on weekends … it was never for her. It was always driving to some tournament in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a freezing cold rink for six hours, just for me.”

He pauses, his gaze becoming distant for a second, lost in a memory. “She never dated. Not really. I remember she went on a few dates when I was in middle school. This one guy was a real jerk, and he made some comment about how much time she spent on my hockey. She came home that night, and I heard her crying in her room.” He swallows hard. “After that, she just … stopped. She told me once she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t 100% in on ‘Team Colton’.”

He looks back at Sid, his eyes boring into him with an unnerving intensity. “She deserves to have her own team now. She deserves to go to dinner with someone who isn’t her son. She deserves a good guy.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “And you’re a good guy, Sid. I see how you treat people. The trainers, the staff, the rookies … everyone. You’re the best guy I know.”

Sid is speechless. This conversation has veered into territory he could never have anticipated. He feels a deeper respect for this kid blooming in his chest, so strong it almost knocks him off balance.

Then, Colton’s expression shifts. The softness hardens into something protective, fierce. It’s the look he gets before he’s about to clear the front of the net.

“But,” he says, his voice dropping a little, “I swear to God, if you ever, ever hurt her … you need to understand something.” He takes a half-step closer. He’s no longer a rookie talking to his captain, he’s a son talking about his mother.

“If you make her cry, if you aren’t completely honest with her, if you disrespect her in any way … I know what the deal is. I know you’re Sidney Crosby, and I’m some kid on an entry-level contract who could be on a bus to Wheeling tomorrow. I know you could probably make one phone call and I’d never play in this league again.”

He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “But spending the rest of my career playing in the ECHL would be absolutely worth it to me if it meant I got to protect my mom from a broken heart. Are we clear?”

The silence in the locker room is now so absolute you could hear a pin drop. Geno and Kris are staring, their jaws practically on the floor.

Sidney Crosby, a man who has faced down 250-pound defensemen his entire life, who has played through immense pain in the crucible of the Stanley Cup Final, finds himself completely intimidated by an eighteen-year-old kid. And he respects the hell out of him for it.

He can only nod, his throat suddenly dry. “Crystal clear, Colton.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. Colton’s face relaxes into a small, wry smile. The fierce protector vanishes, replaced by the easy-going kid.

“Okay, good,” he says, as if he hadn’t just threatened the career of a living legend. He starts pulling on his hockey socks. “So, after the game … her favorite place is a little Italian spot about twenty minutes from the arena. It’s over in Ybor City. It’s called Bernini of Ybor. She loves their gnocchi.”

He stands up and claps Sid on the shoulder, a shockingly familiar gesture that makes Sid’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I expect her home by midnight, Captain.”

And with that, Colton Y/L/N turns, grabs his helmet, and heads out of the room towards the ice for warmups, leaving his captain, and two of the league’s most seasoned veterans, completely and utterly speechless.

Geno is the first one to move. He lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Wow,” he says, his voice full of awe. “Rookie has, how you say … very big balls.”

Kris is just shaking his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Kid’s got his priorities straight. Damn.” He looks at Sid. “Well, you got the green light, my friend. And a shovel talk from a guy who can’t legally buy you a beer.”

Sid is still processing the whiplash of the last five minutes. He feels like he’s just been through a full-speed collision. The kid’s fierce loyalty, his surprising maturity, his unconditional love for his mom … it’s overwhelming. He’s not just thinking about you anymore. He’s thinking about the incredible young man you raised.

The pre-game buzzer sounds, jarring him back to reality. He has a game to play. But as he finishes tying his skates, his mind is already miles away, replaying Colton’s words.

She deserves a good guy.

The question is no longer if he should ask you out. The question is how he can possibly live up to the impossibly high standard your son just set.

***

The game is a hard-fought, gritty win for the Penguins. A 3-2 victory where Colton plays solid, defensive minutes, finishing the game with a plus-one rating and a handful of blocked shots. You watch from your seat, your heart swelling with a quieter, more sustainable kind of pride. The shock of his first goal has worn off, replaced by the steady joy of watching him belong. He is an NHL defenseman. It’s no longer a dream, it’s his job.

After the final horn, you make your way to the designated family waiting area, a familiar ritual now. The space is smaller and less glamorous than the one in Pittsburgh, but the energy is the same — a low hum of relief and celebration.

The players begin to emerge. Colton spots you immediately, a tired but happy grin on his face. He comes over and gives you a sweaty, all-encompassing hug.

“You play so well tonight, honey,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “That blocked shot in the third was incredible.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, his face flushed. “Felt that one in my teeth.” He looks over your shoulder, then back at you, a strange, meaningful glint in his eye. “Hey, can you just wait here for a sec? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He says it with a forced casualness that immediately puts you on high alert. Before you can question him, he squeezes your arm and disappears back towards the locker room. You stand there, puzzled, watching the remaining players trickle out.

And then you see him. Sidney emerges from the tunnel, flanked by Geno and Kris. He’s laughing at something Geno said, his face relaxed. He looks up, and his eyes meet yours from across the room. The laughter dies on his lips. He freezes for a split second, a deer caught in the headlights. He gives you a small, hesitant nod of acknowledgment and looks like he’s about to make a sharp right turn and flee.

You watch, fascinated, as an entire silent drama unfolds in the space of three seconds. Geno stops, looks from Sid to you, and then back to Sid with an expression of profound exasperation.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice a low rumble. “Go now. No excuses.”

Sid shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes pleading. “Geno, I can’t.”

Geno is having none of it. He puts a massive, gloved hand on the middle of Sid’s back. “Yes. You can.”

And then he shoves him.

It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s a full-body, hockey-player push that sends Sidney Crosby — three-time Stanley Cup champion, future Hall of Famer — stumbling forward several steps in your direction. He catches his balance with the practiced grace of a world-class athlete, but his face is a mask of pure mortification. He whips his head around to glare at Geno, who simply beams, gives him a huge, toothy grin, and a double thumbs-up before steering Kris in the opposite direction.

And now, Sidney Crosby is standing five feet in front of you, looking more flustered than you’ve ever seen a human being look. It’s so unexpected, so completely at odds with his public persona, that you can’t help the small smile that touches your lips.

“Uh,” he starts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Hi, Sidney,” you say, your voice full of amusement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back towards where Geno disappeared. “He’s … strong.” He clears his throat, his professional composure starting to reassert itself, though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “It was a great game tonight. Colton played really well. Very responsible in his own end.”

He’s deflecting, you realize. Using hockey talk as a shield.

“He did,” you agree. “I was so proud watching him.”

An awkward silence descends. It stretches for a beat, then two. He’s clearly struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, the kind a person takes before plunging into icy water. His gaze meets yours, direct and sincere now.

“So,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I know this is … this is probably very forward. And maybe out of line. But Colton happened to mention that you like Italian food.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“And I was wondering,” he continues, the words coming out in a slight rush, “if you weren’t too tired, or if you don’t have other plans … if you would let me take you to dinner?”

The question hangs in the air between you, stunning you into silence. Sidney Crosby is asking you out on a date. You feel a thrill, a flutter in your stomach you haven’t felt since you were a teenager yourself. You glance over his shoulder and, as if on cue, Colton peeks out from the locker room doorway. He catches your eye and gives you two enthusiastic, frantic thumbs-up.

The pieces click into place. Colton’s strange behavior, Geno’s shove … it was all a conspiracy. A ridiculous, sweet, high-school-level plot to get the shy captain to talk to the rookie’s mom.

A real, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing any hesitation.

“I’d love that, Sidney.”

The relief that floods his face is so obvious it’s almost comical. “Yeah? Great. That’s … great.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth at Bernini of Ybor. You’d ridden over in a black car service the team uses, the silence between you filled with the nervous energy of a first date. The restaurant is beautiful, all dark wood and exposed brick, with the low, warm hum of happy diners.

The conversation starts as you expected it would — stilted, polite, and centered around the one thing you have in common: hockey.

“The power play looked good tonight,” you offer, taking a sip of the red wine the waiter recommended.

“Yeah, we’ve been working on the zone entry,” he says, studying his own menu intently. “Getting the puck in with possession is key against a team that pressures like Tampa.”

You talk about Colton’s development, about the team’s schedule, about the different feel of the arenas around the league. It’s nice. It’s safe. But it’s not a date. It’s an interview.

Then, you decide to take a page out of Geno’s book and give things a little push.

“So,” you say, setting your menu down. “What does Sidney Crosby do when he’s not being Sidney Crosby? When the season is over and you can finally breathe. What do you do?”

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up from his menu, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second. “That’s a good question.” He pauses, genuinely considering it. “I go home. To Nova Scotia. I have a place on the lake. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet sounds nice,” you say.

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s the one place I don’t feel like … you know.” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the restaurant, the fans, the entire world of expectations that surrounds him. “I just fish. See my family. My sister, Taylor. My parents. It’s … normal.”

There’s that word again. The same one Colton used. The longing for normalcy from two people living the most abnormal of lives.

“It must have been a lot,” you say softly. “Being ‘The Next One’ since you were fifteen.”

He gives you a small, wry smile. “It had its moments. It’s a weird way to grow up. Your whole life is scheduled. Hotels, buses, planes, rinks. You miss a lot of stuff. High school dances, proms, just … hanging out.” He shrugs, a gesture of acceptance. “But I got to play hockey for a living. It’s a trade I’d make every single time.”

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his intensity focused entirely on you now. “What about you? Colton told me … he told me you were eighteen when you had him.”

“I was,” you confirm, your voice steady. “A baby having a baby.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

You feel a lump form in your throat, an old, familiar knot of emotion. “They never felt like sacrifices,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said. “When you’re a parent, it’s just … what you do. His dream became my dream. There wasn’t a line between the two.”

“But you must have had your own dreams,” he presses gently.

You find yourself telling him things you haven’t articulated to anyone in years. About your plan to go to college for graphic design. About the part-time jobs that became full-time careers. About the loneliness of parent-teacher conferences and the specific, gut-wrenching fear of your car breaking down when you only have fifty-three dollars in your bank account until payday.

He listens. He doesn’t just hear the words; he actively listens, his eyes full of a deep, quiet empathy. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathy. He just nods, creating a safe space for you to speak.

Then, you turn it back on him. “What about you? All those years on the road. It must get lonely.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re surrounded by twenty guys all the time, but yeah. It’s a different kind of lonely. Everyone knows the hockey player. Not a lot of people know the person. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

You talk for two hours. You talk about favorite movies, bad travel experiences, the weirdness of being recognized in public, and the simple joy of a home-cooked meal. You discover he has a dry, understated sense of humor that makes you laugh, a real, deep belly laugh you realize you haven’t done in ages. You feel a connection, a spark of recognition between two people who have lived strangely parallel lives of dedication and sacrifice, albeit in vastly different arenas.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you are not just “Colton’s mom.” You are you. And the man across from you, he’s not just “Sidney Crosby.” He’s Sid. A kind, funny, surprisingly shy man from Nova Scotia with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As he pays the bill — insisting over your protests — he smiles. “Colton was right. The gnocchi is amazing.”

“He’s usually right about things like that,” you say, smiling back.

The ride back to the hotel is different. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, companionable. He walks you all the way to your hotel room door.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” he says, his voice sincere. He’s standing a little closer than he needs to.

“Me too, Sid,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He just nods, his eyes lingering on yours for a long moment before he gives you a small, shy smile and turns to walk down the hall to his own room.

You let yourself into your room, your mind reeling. You lean against the door, a goofy, giddy smile plastered on your face. You feel light, hopeful. You feel like a teenager after a perfect first date.

There’s a soft knock on the adjoining door that connects your room to Colton’s. You open it.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression a comical mixture of a nosy best friend and a worried father.

“Okay,” he says, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. “Full debrief. Now.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up out of pure happiness. “Debrief on what, Mr. Nosy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mom,” he says, flopping down onto the edge of your bed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “How was it? Was he a gentleman? Did he make you laugh? Did he say anything stupid? Do I need to go down the hall and kick my captain’s ass?”

“It was wonderful, Colton,” you say, your voice soft. You sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. And yes, he made me laugh. A lot.”

The tension drains from Colton’s shoulders, replaced by a genuine, heartfelt relief. “Good,” he says, his voice losing its joking edge. “That’s good. You deserve that.” Then the stern look returns. “Because I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know you did, sweetie,” you say, your heart overflowing with love for this incredible young man you raised. “And that’s one of the million reasons why I love you so much.”

He smiles, a real, happy smile. “I love you too, Mom.” He gets up to leave, then pauses at the adjoining door, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just one last thing,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s 11:58,” he says, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You cut it a little close on curfew.”

You grab the decorative pillow off the armchair and hurl it at him. He dodges it with a laugh, slipping back into his room and closing the door, leaving you alone in the quiet, happy glow of a night that feels, impossibly, like a new beginning.

***

The months that follow your first date in Tampa are a whirlwind of quiet moments stitched together across time zones. The relationship builds not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the steady accumulation of small, private intimacies.

It’s in the nightly FaceTime calls that become as routine as brushing your teeth. You’ll be curled up on your sofa in Orlando, and he’ll be in a sterile hotel room in Calgary or San Jose, his face tired but his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You talk about everything and nothing — about your day at work, about a funny text Colton sent, about the book you’re reading, about the nagging soreness in his shoulder.

It’s in the dinners when the Penguins are on a home stand in Pittsburgh. He’ll send a car for you, and you’ll fly in for a weekend, staying in a hotel near his home. He introduces you to his favorite sushi place, a tiny, unassuming spot where the owner knows not to make a fuss. He holds your hand under the table, his thumb gently stroking yours, a silent, grounding connection in a world that is always watching him.

Colton, for his part, becomes the wry, supportive gatekeeper of your burgeoning romance. He develops a running joke with his captain.

“Taking my mom out again tonight, Sid?” He’ll ask in the locker room after a morning skate, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t scratch my car.” The first time he said it, a few of the younger players nearly fainted. Now, it’s just part of the room’s rhythm.

Sid will just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not your car, kid. And I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The season grinds on. Colton solidifies his place on the blue line, his confidence growing with every game. The Penguins make a respectable playoff run, battling their way to the second round before being eliminated in a hard-fought six-game series.

The end of the season is always abrupt. One day, there is the singular, all-consuming focus of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The next, there is silence. Boxes to be packed, goodbyes to be said, and the sudden, yawning expanse of the offseason.

You’re in Pittsburgh for the team’s exit meetings, helping Colton pack up the apartment he moved into mid-season. Sid had insisted on taking both of you out for one last dinner before you all scattered for the summer.

You’re at a quiet steakhouse, tucked away in a corner booth. The conversation is easy, comfortable. You’re talking about summer plans. Colton is excited to get home to Florida, to feel the sun, to decompress for a few weeks before his intense training regimen begins.

“What about you, Sid?” Colton asks, polishing off the last of his steak. “Straight back to Nova Scotia?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Sid says, swirling the ice in his water glass. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was, uh, actually wanting to talk to you both about that.”

You and Colton exchange a curious glance.

“I know the summer is a weird time,” Sid begins, his eyes focused on you. “Everyone scatters. But I go home. To my lake house in Cole Harbour. And it’s … it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s the one place I can just shut everything off.”

He takes a breath. “I was wondering, and I know it’s a lot to ask, and please feel free to say no … but I’d love for you to see it.” He shifts his gaze to include Colton. “I’d love for both of you to come up. For the summer. Or for as long as you want. Colton, you can train with me and Nate. We’ve got a pretty serious setup there. It’ll get you ready for next season.”

Then, his eyes find yours again, and his voice softens. “And you … you can just relax. Read a book by the lake. Go for a walk. Finally have a summer that isn’t about packing up gear and driving to a rink.”

The offer is so full of sincerity, so loaded with unspoken meaning, that it takes your breath away. This isn’t just an invitation for a vacation. This is an invitation into his life. Into his sanctuary.

You look at Colton. His eyes are wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. He looks from Sid to you, and he gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

You turn back to Sid, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the wine.

“Sid,” you say, your voice a little thick. “We’d love to.”

***

Three weeks later, you step off a plane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the air is the first thing you notice. It’s clean, cool, and smells of pine and the faint, briny tang of the distant sea. It’s a world away from the thick, humid blanket of a Florida summer.

Sid is there to meet you, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He’s in a simple t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. The ever-present tension he carries in his shoulders during the season seems to have melted away. He hugs you, a long, welcoming embrace that feels different here, on his home turf.

The drive to Cole Harbour is beautiful, all rolling green hills and glimpses of the sparkling Atlantic. You eventually turn off the main road and onto a long, winding gravel driveway, trees forming a dense canopy overhead. And then, the woods open up, and you see it.

His house is not the ostentatious mansion you might expect. It’s a beautiful, modern log-and-stone home, nestled perfectly into the landscape, with a wall of windows overlooking a serene, glass-like lake. It’s private, peaceful, and unpretentious. It’s perfectly him.

“Wow,” is all Colton can manage to say from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sid says, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s home.”

The summer settles into a rhythm that feels both brand new and deeply familiar. The mornings are for work. Sid and Colton, often joined by a ridiculously energetic Nathan MacKinnon, are gone by 7 a.m. for grueling workouts in Sid’s state-of-the-art home gym, followed by on-ice sessions at a local rink.

You spend your mornings with a cup of coffee and a book on the huge wooden deck that overlooks the lake. You watch the mist burn off the water, listen to the haunting call of the loons, and feel the layers of stress and responsibility you’ve carried for two decades begin to peel away. For the first time in your adult life, your only job is to simply be.

The afternoons are lazy and beautiful. Sometimes the three of you take the boat out, the cool spray a welcome relief in the afternoon sun. Colton learns to waterski, his athletic prowess translating surprisingly well. Other days, you and Sid just sit on the end of the dock, your feet dangling in the shockingly cold water, and talk for hours.

One Sunday, he takes you to his parents’ house for dinner. You’re nervous, but Troy and Trina Crosby welcome you with the easy, unpretentious warmth of Maritime hospitality. They treat you not as a guest, but as family.

Trina pulls you aside in the kitchen as you’re helping her clear the plates. She’s a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense air you immediately like and respect.

“I haven’t seen Sidney this relaxed, this happy, in years,” she says, her voice quiet as she stacks plates. “Since he was a boy, really. His whole life has been about the pressure. With you, it’s like he can finally just be himself.” She turns to you, her expression full of a mother’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

“He did that himself,” you say, deeply touched. “He’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a proud smile on her face. “He is. And he’s got good taste.”

***

One clear, cool night in August, after a long day on the water, you’re all sitting around a crackling fire pit near the edge of the lake. The sky is a deep, star-dusted velvet, the Milky Way a brilliant slash across the darkness.

“I can’t believe we have to leave in two weeks,” Colton says, poking the fire with a long stick. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

“You’ve earned it, kid,” Sid says, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. “You put in the work.”

“Thanks to you,” Colton says. “I feel twice as strong as I did last year. I’m ready.” He looks from Sid to you, a deep, mature gratitude in his eyes. He stands up, stretching his long frame. “Alright, I’m beat. I’m heading in. Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

He gives you a kiss on the top of your head and claps Sid on the shoulder before heading up to the house, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fire-lit dark.

You lean your head on Sid’s shoulder, watching the embers dance. “He’s really grown up this year,” you say softly.

“He’s an incredible young man,” Sid agrees. “You did a hell of a job.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“A year ago,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I was sitting at the draft in Las Vegas. I was so proud, and so terrified. I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to hold on tight.”

“And I was in the Penguins locker room,” he says, his voice a low rumble next to your ear, “about to draft a kid from the London Knights who was going to completely change my life.”

He shifts, turning to face you. He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“I love you,” he says. The words are simple, direct, and hold the weight of a truth he’s been settling into all summer. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that first night in Tampa.”

Tears well in your eyes, sparkling in the firelight. “I love you, too, Sid.”

“When I asked you to come here,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “I just hoped you’d like it. I hoped it would be a nice summer. But seeing you here, on the deck in the morning with your coffee, laughing with my mom in the kitchen, sitting right here … it feels like you’ve always been here.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“It feels like home.”

He leans in, and his lips meet yours. It’s not the tentative kiss of a new romance, full of questions and uncertainty. It’s a kiss of deep certainty. It’s a kiss that tastes of woodsmoke and promises, of a shared past and a future you will build together.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You look past him, at the dark, peaceful water, at the sturdy, welcoming house, at the brilliant, endless sky. For eighteen years, home was wherever Colton was. It was a person, a responsibility, a fierce and unconditional love.

Now, you realize with a sudden, breathtaking clarity, home has expanded. It’s still the boy, now a man, sleeping soundly in the house behind you. But it’s also the man whose hand you’re holding, the quiet sanctuary he’s built, and the incredible, unexpected love that has filled a part of your heart you didn’t even know was empty. You’re not just Colton’s mom, and he’s not just Sidney Crosby. You’re partners. And you are, finally and completely, home.

***

Three Years Later

The locker room at PPG Paints Arena smells exactly the same. It’s a timeless mixture of sweat, clean laundry, and the sharp, metallic tang of sharpened skates. The energy, however, is different. It’s younger. There’s a new guard, a new rhythm.

Colton Y/L/N, now twenty-two and an alternate captain with a freshly stitched ‘A’ on his jersey, sits on the stool in front of his stall. He’s no longer the wide-eyed rookie trying to stay out of the way. He is the anchor of the defense, a leader in this room, fielding questions from a small cluster of reporters with an easy, practiced calm. The Penguins have just won their season opener, and the mood is buoyant.

“… yeah, I thought the new pairings felt good,” Colton is saying, peeling tape off his shin pads. “Communication was solid. We’ve still got things to clean up, but for the first game, you take the two points and build on it.”

A new voice pipes up from the edge of the scrum. He’s a young reporter from The Athletic, keen to find an angle the veteran journalists might have overlooked.

“Colton,” the reporter begins, “obviously this is the first opening night in a generation without Sidney Crosby being a part of this team. How weird does it feel to start a season without him around?”

Colton stops what he’s doing. He slowly looks up, his expression completely flat. The other, more seasoned reporters around the young man share a subtle, knowing glance. The kid has just stepped on a landmine he doesn’t even know exists.

A long, silent beat passes. Colton just stares, his gaze so incredulous it’s almost comical. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips. It builds into a full, genuine laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair.

“Weird to not have him around?” Colton repeats, the question thick with amusement. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink, making the reporter wait. “Man, I don’t know,” he says, finally lowering the bottle. “It’s sort of hard to feel that way considering I ate breakfast across from him this morning while he was getting spit up on by my baby sister.”

A stunned silence falls over the scrum. The reporters exchange confused looks. The young journalist who asked the question looks completely lost.

“Your … your baby sister?” He stammers, his pen hovering uselessly over his notepad.

Colton’s expression shifts. He leans forward slightly, adopting the patient, overly-enunciated tone one might use with a small child who can’t grasp a simple concept.

“Yeah,” Colton explains slowly. “Callie. She’s six months old. You know. Little human? Cries, sleeps, spits up on my mom’s husband?”

He lets the words hang in the air, a breadcrumb trail the reporter is still failing to follow. The kid’s face is a perfect mask of incomprehension.

Colton lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Sidney Crosby,” he clarifies, as if explaining 2+2=4. “He’s married to my mom. He’s my stepdad. We live in the same house.”

The collective sound of frantic typing fills the room as the other reporters hammer out their new headlines. The young reporter’s jaw has physically dropped.

Colton grins, the last piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place for the poor kid.

“So, no,” Colton finishes, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “It’s not weird not having him around.”

He takes another long swig of water, the universal sign for this interview is over. He stands up, stretching his tired frame.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says to the stunned group. “I promised I’d pick up diapers on the way home.”

[sem-ra]

Professional Boundaries (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)

Masterlist

Summary: You work remotely for a high-performing consultancy firm, and you absolutely do not have a crush on your infuriatingly charming manager. Baelor Targaryen does not flirt with employees. But he does welcome challenges. And unfortunately, you keep giving him one.

Corporate, Teams messages, even late at night, and the kind of eye contact that should come with its own HR disclaimer.

Word count: 12K (damn, i really went overboard with this haha)

Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s)  explicit smut, masturbation (f), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, flirting through Teams chat, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language

Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.

Author’s note: Did anyone ask for this? Nope, but I just had to write it hahaha Did I go overboard? Absolutely! This started out as a drabble while I was outlining and drafting the next chapters of my other two stories, after I saw this pic of Bertie Carvel. And then whenever I tried to write the second chapters for ‘The Lady of Summerhall’ and ‘In the Shadows of the Red Keep’, my mind kept going to this, because in this house we cope with modern AUs and smut! And apologies for the corporate lingo in some places!

So, yeah, here you have it! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it :)

From a young age, you had always been exceptionally good at managing your crushes.

Not avoiding them, that was never realistic, but containing them. Filing them neatly into the corners of your mind where they could not and would not interfere with productivity, judgement or even dignity. You believed that such feelings could be controlled. And you were always successful in that endeavour.

Until the manager at your new job turned out to be the infuriatingly charming Baelor Targaryen.

Now, let's be clear, you did not develop a crush on him. What you felt for him was professional admiration, entirely reasonable and appropriate. Baelor was composed, precise and unnervingly competent at his job, and anyone would respect that. So what if your stomach performed an inconvenient somersault every time he said your name during a meeting? That was a perfectly normal reaction, a biological response to authority and competence. It had absolutely nothing to do with the measured cadence of his speech, or the confidence in his voice, or the way his mouth sometimes curved when you challenged him, or the fact that he was a very, very handsome man, objectively speaking.

Truly, none of this would have been an issue if Lyonel Baratheon had not insisted you apply for the job in the first place.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It had been a Sunday, both of you enjoying the remnants of your brunch, and you were complaining to Lyonel for what felt like the hundredth time about your current job. 

“I think you are just bored.” Lyonel said, stirring his coffee with an exaggerated calm.

“I am not bored.” You retorted, sipping your own coffee.

“Oh please!” He said. “You reorganised your team’s work process for fun.”

“Not for fun! It was inefficient.” But he didn’t hear you, continuing on.

“You built a performance tracker no one asked for.”

“Well, they use it now.”

“You are just proving my point.” He laughed. “You have been complaining about this position for months now. I think you just need a change of pace.”

At that, he opened his phone and after finding what he was looking for, he slid it across the table to you. 

“You know I am not looking for a new job.” You said.

“Just read it!” He said, exasperated. “I think that it’s just what you need! And you get to work with yours truly.”

You took the phone, ignoring how he wiggled his brows, and skimmed through the job listing: Senior Strategy Associate in a competitive consultancy, high pressure, high visibility, remote work.

“Who would I report to?”

Lyonel hesitated, just slightly. “Baelor.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately, leaning on the table. “As in Targaryen?”

“As in Targaryen.”

Baelor Targaryen was a legend in his field. Not in the loud, self-promotional way some senior executives tried to be. He did not post LinkedIn essays about leadership philosophies or speak in rehearsed soundbites. He just… won. Campaign pivots, that other firms had declared unrecoverable? He turned them around in a quarter. Clients that were impossible? He retained them. He had built a reputation on precision, strategic recalibrations so clean they felt surgical. People did not describe him as creative, they described him as dangerous.

“I think you’d like him.” Lyonel said casually.

“If I apply, I will apply for the job Lyonel. Not to date him.” 

He rolls his eyes. “That is not what I meant.”

“That is exactly what you meant.”

Lyonel grins, ignoring her remark. “Do you want to know more about him?”

“Fine.” You folded your arms, leaning on the chair. “What is he like?”

“Composed.” Lyonel mused, scratching his beard in thought. “Irritatingly controlled. Intense. He listens more than he talks, but he likes to challenge people. Push them to their maximum potential.”

He took a large sip of his coffee. “He is very much a ‘I have a five-year strategic vision with a colour coded spreadsheet’.”

“That just sounds like he is very competent.” You remarked. “He is, after all, one of the best in his field.” 

“Understatement of the year.” He smiled wide. “He also hates mediocrity. And he detests yes-men.” 

Your brow lifted. “So that made you think of me?”

“Immediately.”

You kicked him under the table, ignoring his yelp.

“Look…” He added, rubbing his hurt leg. “You need someone who pushes back. And he needs someone who won’t fold. It’s like the perfect alignment.”

You sighed, changing the topic before he could push you more. But later that night, you applied. Mostly because you refused to let Lyonel be right about you being bored. And partly because you wanted something new.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The first couple of weeks at your new job were spent completing the onboarding and training courses. Your first one-on-one meeting with Baelor was scheduled for a Thursday morning, for thirty minutes, the calendar invite simply reading ’Introductory alignment’. It was perfectly timed with when you completed the onboarding process, and just before the team meeting in the afternoon.

You joined the meeting a minute earlier, wanting to make a good first impression. And also to make sure that the background was blurred, and that you looked good on camera.

Baelor joined exactly at 9am sharp. You told yourself you only noticed out of habit, assessing punctuality, presentation, authority, which was normal, professional.

The crisp grey shirt fit him too well to ignore, structured and intentional, the kind of detail that suggested control rather than vanity. His hair was styled with the kind of precision that looked effortless, and his beard, neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey, only made him more handsome in a way that felt unfairly deliberate.

You mind catalogued all of it automatically. You reasoned with yourself that it was all because it was your first impression of him, an assessment of his leadership presence. That was all.

But then, he looked directly into the camera. The heterochromia was subtle at first, very easy to miss unless the light caught it the right way. But when it did, the difference became unmistakable, one shade deeper than the other. Not dramatic enough to feel mystic or theatrical, just enough to feel arresting. You felt your attention linger a second too long on them.

It was just nerves, you told yourself. Anyone would be a little hyperaware of a new manager, or new expectations, or new dynamics.

It had nothing to do with the way he held himself, or the steadiness of his gaze, or the small smile he gave you, or the quiet confidence in the simple act of saying: “Good morning.”

Yeah, nothing at all.

“Hello.” You smiled back at him, ignoring how clammy your hands felt.

“Welcome to the team.” He said, as if you had always been expected. “I am happy that you decided to join us. We are very much looking forward to your perspective.” 

You ignored the way your stomach involuntarily flipped the more you listened to his voice. It was just nerves, you told yourself again.

“Happy to be here.” You said to him instead.

He spent the first few minutes talking about the company, the team he led and that you would be a part of, before turning the conversation back to you.

“I would like to understand your long-term objectives.” He said, looking at his notes before returning to look at you through the camera lens. “Where do you see your skill set expanding and where do you expect friction?”

You blinked. “Friction?”

“I believe that if you are not encountering resistance…” He explained calmly. “You are not operating at your edge.”

You felt yourself lean forward slightly. “I do not mind going against the resistance if I believe, and I know, that my position is correct.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t.” There was a small pause, and the faintest shift in his expression. Approval perhaps? Or at least, you hoped it was that.

He continued by asking you about your previous projects, challenging a few of your conclusions here and there. He was neither aggressive or dismissive in his line of questioning, everything felt deliberate. When you explained why you had pushed back against a former team lead at your old job on a campaign positioning, Baelor listened without interrupting.

“And did you win?” He asked, his voice melodic, with an almost teasing lilt.

“I wasn’t trying to win.” You replied.

“That wasn’t my question.”

You held his gaze through the camera, feeling goosebumps trailing from your neck to your spine.

“Yes.” You answered.

The silence that came over you was measured, not awkward at all.

“Good.” He finally said, making a note of something. “You will not find much tolerance for mediocrity here.” 

“I do not do mediocre work.” You replied evenly, not feeling the need to diplomatically dress it as something else.

There was another pause, and his eyes found yours again.

“Good.” He repeated, quieter this time.

The call ended after precisely thirty minutes, and you sat there a moment longer than necessary. There had been nothing inappropriate, flirtatious or personal. It was just a manager meeting and assessing a new hire. And yet, the way he had said ’Good’ the second time, something lingered.

Before you could give it some more thought, your Teams chat pinged with a new message.

Lyonel: So?

You stared at the message before replying back.

You: He seems competent at his job Lyonel: That’s not what I meant

You ignored him.

Your first proper team meeting began at exactly 1:00 pm later that day. Baelor appeared on the screen without much fanfare, sharply on time again with the same crisp grey shirt, dark hair perfectly in place.

“Good afternoon all.” He said, voice even, measured. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our new team member.”

Your name sounded different in his voice, a faint blush covering your cheeks.

“She joins with a competitive strategy background. I expect she will challenge us in useful ways.”

There was that word, challenge. And he didn’t look at his notes when he said it. He looked directly into the camera, at you. There was something… assessing in his gaze. You straightened instinctively, smiling.

“Welcome!” A few voices chimed in and you recognised Lyonel’s voice easily, your eyes naturally searching for him in the grid.

The meeting moved on after, the team going through updates efficiently. When there was silence, it was always intentional, when someone rambled or went off course, Baelor redirected them with surgical politeness.

During the entire meeting, you remained aware of him. You could not deny it, you thought, he was a handsome man. Not in the effortless or careless way of someone who relied on it. His attractiveness and charm were precise, composed posture and controlled expressions combined. He was the kind of man who was aware of the space he occupied and how he chose to fill it carefully.

You pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind, focusing on the meeting. They were irrelevant, you told yourself, entirely irrelevant.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

By the fifth week, you understood the rhythm of the team. What Baelor expected from the team was structure, clear outcomes, arguments backed by numbers and not just instinct. He also preferred to give his opinion last, which usually meant that everyone adjusted to his opinions. 

The meeting that morning was about repositioning a major client campaign. You listened to everyone’s thoughts, took notes. The keywords being thrown out were risk mitigation, conservative rollout, with at least two team members echoed variations of the same caution.

You felt everything was played safe. Too safe actually.

Baelor hummed, before summarising. “So, we’re talking about phased release and controlled messaging. No deviation from the tested framework at all?”

A chorus of yeses followed. Pursing your lips, you decided you had to speak up. And just before you did, there was a small tightening in your chest. The friction he had asked about in your first one-on-one came to mind.

“If we do that…” You said evenly. “We will lose momentum by Q4.”

The silence that followed your statement was heavy. Baelor’s eyes shifted to yours immediately, no hint of annoyance, just curiosity.

“Explain.”

Inhaling deeply, you noted how he did not move on the defensive, or dismissive stance. He took your opinion as a challenge, not defiance, just as Lyonel had told you.

And speak of the devil, a Teams message flitted at the top right corner from him.

Lyonel:  Go get them :)

Pulling your presentation slides, because of course you had prepared one just in case, you shared your screen. 

“As you can see from the data gathered from the last two quarters, it shows response spikes during higher-variance content cycles.” You explained. “Instead of adapting, we are proposing to react to this volatility by ignoring it.”

A few people shifted in their chairs. One of the analysts frowned slightly. Baelor didn’t interrupt you and leaned back on his chair.

“If we slow the release…” You continued. “We signal uncertainty. And our competitors will exploit that.”

After that, you canceled your share screen, letting the argument stand. Baelor tilted his head, looking at her directly. You noticed Lyonel’s eye brows had shot up, and you knew it was not because of your words. But you decided not to focus on that, waiting for Baelor to say something.

“So, you are suggesting an accelerated rollout?” He asked, his eyes intensely on you.

“Yes.” Your pulse echoed in your ears. You convinced yourself it was the nerves that you went against Baelor and the team. And not because he was looking at you like… that. Well maybe it was both. Thank God your voice was steady at least.

“What you propose comes with higher exposure risk.”

“But with higher engagement probability.” You were quick to reply.

“Are you comfortable carrying that risk?” He asked after a moment.

Your eyes narrowed. The phrasing was deliberate. You knew what was coming.

“Yes.” You finally answered.

The room suddenly felt warmer. Heat spread through your neck.

“It’s a substantial gamble.” Baelor said calmly.

“It’s a strategic decision.” You replied, just as calm.

His captivating eyes did not leave your gaze. He studied you in that same assessing way from your first one-on-one, except this time there was something sharper behind it.

Your phone started vibrating with messages, but your focus was solely on him.

“You are proposing deviation from established protocol in your fifth week.” He said.

“I am proposing growth.”

A ripple moved through the team, subtle, but there. 

After a fraction of a second, his mouth curved. Not in a smile, not quite that. Approval maybe?

Baelor looked around the virtual room. “Any thoughts?”

There were a few cautious ones, a few predictable ones. He listened, nodded and took notes, deliberating. Then he looked back at the camera, at you.

“We will pilot y/n’s model,” he said, his word final. “Limited segment, full metrics tracking. If performance dips below baseline, we revert immediately.” 

He did not break eye contact as he added: “You’ll lead it.”

Your pulse jumped again, and you felt light headed. “Understood.” 

The meeting moved on from that, but something had shifted. It was not just that he had sided with you, but it was the way he had done so. Public and deliberate, trusting you with something high-visibility instead of barring you from it.

After the call ended, you stood up to go to the kitchen, to grab some water. You finally checked your phone, not surprised that it was Lyonel who spammed you with messages.

Lyonel: Didnt take you too long to challenge him in a full team meeting Oh my god! He did the thing!! The posture!!! You: What are you talking about?!

His replies came in very quick succession.

Lyonel: The posture The lean The head tilt That is his I am intrigued pose I’ve not seen him do that in more than a year You telling me you did not notice that??

Of course you had noticed, but you did not think it was a big deal at first. But now…

You: You are making this bigger than it is. He was just being a competent leader Lyonel: Yeah just… a competent leader

You were about to reply to him when you heard Outlook ping with a meeting invite from your manager.

Follow-up: Campaign Acceleration Pilot in 15 minutes. When you joined, he was already there.

“You anticipated resistance.” He said without preamble. “You came prepared.”

“Yes.”

“You enjoyed causing friction.” It wasn’t an accusation, instead Baelor said it more as a conclusion.

You held his gaze. “I enjoy showing my competence.”

He had that almost-smile again. “Be careful.” He said.

“Of what?” You asked, slightly confused. Wasn’t he the one who always pushed for this?

“Of winning too quickly.”

Your stomach dropped. “And why is that?” 

“Because,” He said, before taking a deep breath. “It changes the way people look at you.”

The silence that followed was different from the others. It was thicker, no longer just professional, no longer safe, no longer hidden behind corporate talk.

“And how do you look at me?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

He did not answer immediately, but he didn’t deflect, didn’t change the topic.

“With interest.” He said at last.

That could be a professional answer. After all, he could just be interested in your career progression, as a manager would and should be. But it was ambiguous enough, for the voice inside your head to go that dark and dangerous route, to that dark corner of your mind.

Truly, you thought, it was undeniably intentional.

“Execute the pilot. Send projections by Thursday.” He said abruptly and the call ended.

Leaning back in your chair, you just sat there, your heart steady, but your mind not. Because that had not been flirting. But it also was.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The second time you contradicted him, it wasn’t planned.

The discussion was about reallocating the budget after early pilot results, your pilot results, and Baelor proposes tightening the expansion until the next quarterly review. You impulsively challenged his cautious and controlled plan to delay the expansion, interrupting him and arguing that hesitation would kill momentum. He methodically dissected your argument, asking you to outline worst case scenarios and reputational risks. In the end, he did not concede to your answers, did not endorse them. He set a condition, send him with a full risk breakdown by the end of the week, making approval contingent on proof. 

You were searching for some reports for his ask, when a private Teams message came in nine minutes later after the call. Your eyes widened, as you opened the chat window. He had never reached out by direct message before, he preferred emails and meeting invites to chats.

Baelor: Well argued. But you should not have interrupted me.

Your ears thrummed, still staring at the screen, longer than necessary. You started typing a reply, deleted it, then typed it again.

You: Thank you. And I am sorry for doing that  But was I wrong?

You would not let it go so easily. Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared and then reappeared.

Baelor: No. But you challenged me in front of the room.

And there it was, the line that wasn’t quite a reprimand, but it was something sharper than just feedback. You pursed your lips as you wrote your reply, hitting enter before you could regret it.

You: The numbers needed to be clarified. Baelor: You could have waited.

Your jaw tightened as you typed your reply.

You: And just let the assumption stand?

A longer pause from him this time. The three dots appeared almost instantly, stopped, reappeared…

Baelor: You assume I would not have corrected it. You: Respectfully, I wasn’t trying to undermine you

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, stopped and returned.

Baelor: I know. If you were, I would have handled it differently.

Your stomach flipped at that. It was not a threat, but a simple fact. You typed before you lost your nerve.

You: I just don’t wait when I’m certain Baelor: I’ve noticed.

Your pulse stuttered, but you did not get a chance to compose yourself when the next messages hit the chat.

Baelor: It is one of the reasons I keep you in the room. Next time, let me finish the sentence. And then challenge me.

No don’t, just later.

And that was it. You closed the chat window, pushing yourself to forget what he wrote and focus on the reports. He did not reach out to you for the rest of the day, no emails or meeting invites. But the boundary felt less like a wall now, and more like a line drawn in chalk.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It was close to midnight, and you were still up finishing that risk breakdown he asked for. You still had a day before the deadline was up, but you had gotten so honed in on it that you just had to finish it. You emailed it to Baelor and went to take a shower.

When you came back to your home office to grab something, you saw a notification on Teams.

Baelor: I expected you to send that tomorrow.

You stared at the timestamp, 11:47 p.m., and he was still online.

You: You asked for it at the end of the week

A pause, then:

Baelor: Most people interpret that differently. You: Well, I am not most people

The reply came faster than it should at that hour.

Baelor: No. You are not.

The three dots appeared again, lingering longer this time. Your breath was caught in your throat. What was he writing?

Baelor: Your downside modeling is thorough. In section 3, you assumed a 12% volatility ceiling. Why not 15?

You exhaled slowly. Of course he read the report already, and of course the message was going to be about that. And not something else, something that would make your stomach flutter.

You: At 15% the narrative collapses regardless of pacing

It took him three seconds to reply.

Baelor: Good. You think ahead.

It was not praise exactly, but it was recognition. You closed your laptop five minutes later, your mind still very much awake.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The observation came up casually. You were halfway through your brunch, at your usual table, Lyonel watching you with an expression that meant that he had already decided on something and was waiting for you to catch up to it.

“Do you know what’s worse than the posture?” He asked.

You groaned, embarrassed. Every time Baelor did the posture during a call, which lately it had been every time you spoke, Lyonel would ping your phone.

“Do you have to mention it every time we hang out?” You complained. “And there is nothing worse than the posture.” 

“Oh there is.” He leans over the table. “He lowers his voice when he talks to you.”

You look at him for a second, before laughing loudly. “No, he doesn’t!"

“Yes, he does!” Lyonel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Everytime he addresses the team, it’s one tone, controlled. The standard issue.” He tilts his head a bit. “When he talks to you though? It drops.”

“You are just teasing me now.” You tried to deflect.

“I am not.” He retorted, offended at the insinuation. 

“You are projecting.”

“I am observing.”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee. 

“You really didn’t notice?”

“No.” You hated how you sounded, so uncertain.

Lyonel did not push you further. He just smiled, his eyes teasing. “Oh you’ll hear it now.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied. “I will not.”

But when you had to review a recorded meeting, a routine procedure for you, you remembered his words when Baelor’s voice filled your headset. Even through them, his voice carried that steady, measured tone: composed, deliberate, never rushed. Then, you reached the segment where you had challenged his position about reallocating the expansion metrics. He had been mid-sentence when you interjected. You noted how he turned towards his camera, his mismatched eyes serious.

“Explain.”

Your stomach tightened, rewinding the recording a bit, playing it again. When he was addressing the team, his voice was firm and with clear authority. When you interjected and he spoke to you… It was definitely lower.

You straightened in your chair, skipping ahead and finding another moment, later in the meeting, when you clarified a data point.

“I understand your position.”

There it was again, lower, quieter. Intimate was not the right word, but it was closer than anything else.

Your pulse drummed in your ears. You skipped ahead again, this time to a moment where he addressed another analyst.

“Duncan, walk us through the variance.”

Baelor’s voice was a higher register, firmer. But when he addressed you?

“Y/n, what would you adjust?”

There it was again, the subtle drop, as if the air changed when he spoke to you. You paused the video, staring at the frozen frame of his face.

You are imagining this, you told yourself. You just want to hear it, because you are walking that tight rope between professional admiration and unrelenting crush. It’s nothing! You’d never notice it if it wasn’t for Lyonel. 

Blushing furiously, you shot the culprit a text.

You: I hate you Lyonel: ?? Oh you heard it, didn’t you?

When you left him on read, he texts again.

Oh my god. You did hear it!!!

You typed back slowly, biting your lip.

It’s probably unintentional.

Immediate reply.

You know that’s worse, right?

You sighed sharply. That was the problem, because if it was intentional, it would be a choice. But if it’s unconscious…

You played one last segment, not knowing what you were hoping to achieve.

“Good…” Baelor said in response to your analysis. Again lower, measured.

Stopping the recording, you pressed your hands to your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that spread below your stomach. There was no denying it, when Baelor spoke to you, the room disappeared from his voice. 

This moved beyond theoretical now, as voice was harder to control, harder to fake, harder to justify. And when the next meeting came, you knew exactly what you were going to listen for.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You were in bed, phone dimmed, doom scrolling mindlessly before sleep when the notification appeared.

Baelor: Are you awake?

There was absolutely no reason why he should be asking that. And you really should not reply, it was after work afterall. But your fingers did not listen, as they opened the chat and replied.

You: Yes

The typing indicator appeared immediately.

Baelor: Revising the expansion deck. Quick question. If we reframe the pilot as controlled disruption, does that weaken your original argument?

You propped yourself up against your pillows.

You: Only if you position disruption as instability. Call it evolution instead?

Three dots appeared, disappeared and reappeared.

Baelor: You are good at this.

Honestly, his compliments were starting to feel addictive. But this one settled differently. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, suspended feeling of being awake when the rest of the world was not. Or maybe it was the way the conversation had narrowed, stripped of meetings and agendas and witnesses. The chat window felt smaller somehow, more intimate, like the world outside it did not exist, leaving only the two of you and the glow of the screen.

You: That’s why you hired me

This time the pause stretched, long enough that you wondered if you overstepped.

Then:

Baelor: I hired you because you are capable.

Followed by:

I keep you because you are exceptional.

Your pulse quickened in a way that has nothing to do with career validation. There was pride there, sharp and bright, but threaded through it is something more dangerous. Because the “I hired you” was business, the “I keep you” was not.

Baelor: And because I like watching you work.

Heat climbed up your neck before you could stop it. Because liking your work was one thing, liking watching you do it was something else entirely.

The chat went still after that, and you sighed softly. You set your phone down on your stomach, the quiet pressing in around you.

His last three messages replayed in your mind, not as text, but in his voice. Especially the way it dipped when he spoke to you, subtle, controlled, as it always happened.

You closed your eyes and saw him, his expressions, immediately. The steady eye contact through the camera, the slight tilt of his head when you made a point he had not anticipated, the almost-smile he gave you whenever you challenged him and refused to back down.

You turned onto your side in a huff. This… crush was getting ridiculous. He was your manager, your boss. You had prided yourself on the way you managed your crushes, on your ability to control your emotions, on never blurring the lines.

But…

I keep you because you are exceptional.

You shifted under the sheets, restless, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him. At the way his last messages burrowed in your mind, under your skin, making your blood sing. Your thought about his gaze, the way lately lingered a second too long in meetings. The way his voice lowered whenever he spoke to you, the way he said your name.

You really should not think about that, you should not imagine how your name would sound like on his lips if you were alone in a room. But your body did not care, heat pooling down between your legs, heavy and impossible to ignore.

You breathed slowly, deeply, trying to think about anything else. And failed spectacularly at it, because your mind betrayed you immediately, conjuring an image of Baelor leaning closer than necessary, one hand braced on the desk beside you, close enough that you would feel his warm breath upon your neck, close enough that his voice would not need to carry, close enough that his quiet, measure control would slip, just slightly.

This moved beyond professional admiration, or seeking to impress him, or earning his approval, or enjoying the intellectual sparring. This was about want. And you wanted him, plain and simple. Not just hypothetically, not just intellectually, but physically as well. That thought alone sent another wave of heat through you, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively. 

“Fucking unbelievable…” You whispered into the dark. But you did not stop thinking about him. 

You imagined the way he would look if that composure fractured, if he stopped choosing restraint, giving way to raw need. Your breath quickened, your hand sliding down the covers, past the waistband of your panties, fingers ghosting over your swollen clit.

You moved slowly at first, testing the edges of your fantasy, dipping into the wetness between your thighs before pressing two fingers firmly against your clit. You imagined his strong hand gripping your waist, thumb tracing your lower lip. You envisioned the way he would say your name when no one else was there to hear it, the way his lips would feel on yours, crashing against yours in a hungry kiss. The way his fingers would feel in you, stretching you, filling you.

Your back arched slightly before you could stop it, a curse falling from your lips. You slid one finger inside your tight heat, pretending that it was his claiming you. 

You bit your lip to stifle any sound threatening to escape, as if Baelor could somehow hear you through the silence of the night, sense your secret through the darkness. As if he would know exactly what he had done by ending the conversation the way he did.

You imagined him being there in the room with you, eyes locked on you, guiding you through your pleasure, voice low with approval, praising you. 

“That’s it…” His voice echoed in your mind. “Just like that…”

The thought of his controlled gaze snapping, hunger flaring, as he saw the power he had over you, how completely you yielded to him, sent a sharp pulse through your body.

You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucking into your palm, your fingers moving faster, your soft whines and gasps filling the room, as waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering in release.

Spent, you laid there, chest heaving and breath uneven, staring at the ceiling, reality slowly seeping in.

This obsession was going to be a problem, you thought. Because tomorrow, during the calls, you knew exactly what your body would remember, how it would react, when Baelor says your name.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You could not pinpoint exactly when it started. Or perhaps you could, but you did not want to admit it. After that night, after lying in the dark with his voice in your head and your body still warm from it, something switched.

Sweatshirts and simple blouses disappeared from the rotation, substituted with tailored blouses and shirts that fit just a little too well. Your hair was styled every morning now, nice and neat. A subtle, but deliberate lip colour was on you before any meeting, not bold enough to invite comment, just deliberate enough to matter.

This is normal, you told yourself, you had always been polished. Baelor set a standard for the team, in work and presentation so you had to reflect that. That was professionalism.

It had nothing to do with how aware you were of the exact moment he joined a call. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary whenever you spoke. Nothing to do with the quiet drop in his voice whenever he said your name. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of how easily your body responded to the thought of him.

It was just about standards, you told yourself, about presence. You were allowed to look good. 

Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you clicked on the one-on-one meeting link. Today, you had decided to wear a dark red shirt, the fabric having a subtle sheen, and the open collar framing your neck and collarbones. A delicate gold necklace rested lightly against your skin.

You felt good, you knew you looked good. And you tried, very hard, to ignore the somersaults your stomach did while you waited for Baelor to join the call.

By the time he did, you had composed yourself somewhat, greeting him with a smile. He returned it, greeting you in a polite and professional manner. Then his gaze shifted, first to the shirt, then the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you conscious of every detail, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your breath hitched, and you barely heard him for the first moments of the call. But still, you told yourself that it was not anything more than him noticing your shirt.

You wore it again the following week. It was an ordinary Tuesday, and it was the usual team during the call. Yet, there was no reason for your pulse to spike but it did. You told yourself it was because the quarter was intensifying, and leadership visibility was increasing. Of course it was not about Baelor, not him.

When the meeting began, it was the usual routine, team updates, forecast adjustments. You tried your best to focus. Lyonel pinged you on Teams instead of your phone, because he knew you would ignore his texts. 

Lyonel:  Why are you dressed like ur about to negotiate a merger?

You still ignored him, keeping your attention on the meeting. Midway through the meeting, someone asked you to walk through the revised projections. As you spoke, you noticed Baelor’s eyes dip, from your face, to your collar, and then back again. Subtle, barely noticeable if you had not been watching him. Your mind screamed: You imagined it, it was nothing, you are projecting…

When you shifted slightly, he looked away. He had stopped, it had been a conscious decision.

When the meeting ended, your Teams pinged. You assumed it was Lyonel again, but your breath caught when you saw the sender.

Baelor:  Your revised projections were well structured.

You were about to reply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when another message followed.

Baelor:  The dark red suits you.

Your heart lept. For a second you stared at the screen, re-read the message. The words seemed harmless, casual even. But your body reacted before your brain could compose something rational.

You had told yourself it was not about him, you had told yourself you just liked looking put together. But he had noticed. Not the updates, not the projection, not the work. You. And he wanted you to know that he had noticed.

You swallowed and forced your fingers to move.

You: Thank you

A perfectly simple and neutral response, but your heart was anything but. Now, it’s no longer just the posture, or just the tone of his voice when he addressed you directly. It was a pattern.

The late night messages, lingering eye contact, compliments that stepped half an inch beyond necessary. 

Patterns were harder to deny, harder to dismiss as coincidence, harder to explain away as nerves, harder to pretend you were not participating. You leaned back in your chair slowly, heat spreading low and steady.

You could not lie to yourself anymore. He was watching… And you did not mind, because you wanted him to.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It was 12:03am when your phone lit up. You knew who it was, who had texted, before you even looked.

Baelor: You were right about scaling.

Your stomach flipped, that quiet, familiar drop that had nothing to do with work or analytics. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, before quickly replying.

You: Metrics came in? Baelor: Yes.

A moment passed.

Baelor: You were confident before the numbers justified it.

Your throat tightened slightly. You could almost hear the way he would say it, calm, measured, faintly impressed.

You: That is part of the job sometimes

A longer pause this time, you watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, return.

Baelor: No. That is instinct. And you trust yours.

The words settled low and warm in your chest. He was not just validating the outcome, he was validating you. Silence stretched between you, charged and deliberate.

You: And you? Do you trust yours, always?

After a long pause, the three dots flickered, then vanished.

Baelor: I trust my instinct most of the time. But sometimes it is influenced… by certain details.

Your pulse jumped and your fingers twitched.

You: Details? Baelor: The kind that are not on a slide deck. The kind that cannot be measured.

You bit the inside of your cheek, as you replied. The screen suddenly felt closer, more intimate.

You: I am not sure what you mean Baelor: You do.

Your chest tightened, your mind flailing. He’s joking, you thought. He is being professional, just joking. Keep it clean. Be calm. Focus on slides.

You: Care to clarify? Baelor: I could. But… I think you like discovering some things on your own.

You did not know whether to type or just stare at the words, letting them sink in. Instead you replied:

You: And here I thought we were talking about work Baelor: We are. Mostly. But… work is not just what happens on a slide deck. You have noticed, have you not?

This whole conversation had nothing to do with the pilot, nothing to do with projections or ceilings or controlled disruption anymore. It was unmistakable now, and you both knew it.

You: I am not sure what to say… Baelor: Say nothing. Just think.

You blinked at the screen, his words lingering, teasing, deliberate.

Baelor: Confidence is rare. But restraint is rarer.

The digital glow of the screen felt like the only light in the world. Your pulse was racing now, the heat in your chest warm and insistent. This was about him, and you, and the way a single line of text could make your heart trip over itself.

You: It is late, you should sleep Baelor: I could say the same to you. But I suspect neither of us will.

You forced your fingers to move.

You: Goodnight, Baelor. The reply came less than a minute later. Baelor: Goodnight, Y/n.

The next morning, Lyonel did not even bother to greet you when he sent over two images by text. It was a screenshot of your Teams’ status from last night. And another one of Baelor’s.

You: You tracking my status?  His too?! Lyonel: I’m observing patterns You: It was about work Lyonel: At midnight? You: YES Lyonel: Mhmm, midnight chats with your manager

You did not respond. Because that was the problem, it was about work, and slides, and projections and risk ceilings. But it was also:

I hired you because you are capable.

I keep you because you are exceptional.

And because I like watching you work.

And those were not comments about slides, they never were.

You: It was not like that

You did not immediately send it, because you are not sure what part you were defending. The content of the conversation from the night before, or the way you felt breathless every time when his typing bubble appeared. Or the way your body reacted before the rational part of your mind could. Or the way midnight had started to feel like something to anticipate.

But you knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity, that if tonight your screen lights up again, you would look, and you would respond.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

This meeting was not part of the routine Baelor and you had. It was sudden, adhoc, framed as performance alignment but not you knew it was not just that. He had been acting very strict in the previous two meetings, brows furrowed. He had been short with other team members, and definitely had acted differently towards you.

You joined first this time, and he entered a minute later.

“I’ve reviewed your revised projections.” Baelor jumped straight into the main topic of the call, no pleasantries. “You expanded the risk ceiling again.”

“I refined it.” You retorted.

“You escalated it.”

“Because the data supported it.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “You are comfortable increasing exposure without full predictive modeling.”

“I am comfortable recognizing momentum.” Your voice had risen an octave, and you were breathing hard. 

Baelor leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk. “You interrupt me in meetings.”

“I thought you liked a challenge.”

“You assume I would allow it every single time.”

“And here I assumed you respected competence.”

His mismatched eyes sharpened, the air tight. “You enjoy testing me.” He concluded.

“And you enjoy it when I do.” You were not going to let him forget it.

That stopped him in his tracks. Not because your assessment was wrong, but because you said it outloud. He studied you, not anymore as a manager evaluating an employee, but as something else, something more deliberate.

“You are very confident in everything you do.” He tilted his head when he said that.

“Of course.” You all but huffed. “I have to be.”

“And you think that gives you liberty to do as you please?”

“I think my results so far do.”

He looked long and hard at you, before saying quietly. “You think this is about results?”

“What is it about then?” You ask, ignoring the way your hands got clammy and your voice trembled at the end.

Baelor’s nose flared, as he leaned towards the camera more. 

“You push me in public.” His voice was dangerously low, sending goosebumps down your spine. “You challenge every controlled decision I make.”

“And you respond every time.” You said.

His gaze to your lips, lingering. The silence that enveloped you was no longer part of the corporate world, it was charged, dense, warm. 

“If the circumstances were different-” He began, his mismatched eyes back to yours.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. But he stopped, he did not continue. Yet you did not let him get away with that.

“Different how?”

Baelor exhaled slowly, like a man choosing restraint by force. 

“You are ambitious.” He said instead. “And ambition can blur lines.”

“That is not what you were going to say.” You almost whined.

His jaw tightened. “You are pushing it. You are testing boundaries now.”

“I was not aware you set them!”

Your room felt smaller, as if he was in there with you.

“Careful…” He murmured.

“Or what?”

He held your gaze steady now, another deep and slow exhale coming from him.

“Or I stop being patient.”

“You think I want you to be patient?” The words left you before you could stop them.

He inhaled sharply at that, something raw flickering in his expression. “No, I think you do not.”

And that was the closest either of you had come to naming it. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see it clearly, the confession forming. The line neither of you would be unable to uncross.

But then the steel returned, and he stepped back, the distance rebuilt.

“Send me the finalised projections by six.” He said, voice restored to the executive calm. The shift was surgical.

When the call ended moments later, your hands were not steady at all. Because you finally had the confirmation that both of you were in the same boat. And that he wanted to say it. But he was choosing not to, for now.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The following Monday, an HR email went out, inviting everyone for the yearly party, to celebrate the company achieving excellence in the past year. It was mandatory attendance for leadership and selected teams to attend in person, one of them being yours.

You had no chance to digest the fact that you had to be there in person, when Lyonel called you immediately.

“No.” He said.

“Hello to you too.” You sighed. “It’s just a company event.“

“It is not just a company event.” He corrected you. “It’s weeks of unresolved tension, in a physical location.”

You tried to sound unaffected. “Everything will be professional.”

“Oh really?” He asked dryly.

Before you could reply, you heard the Teams notification sound. “I have to go.” You told him, opening the chat.

Baelor: You will be attending.

Not a question, but not an order either. Just confirmation.

You: Of course Baelor: Good.

It landed differently now, because the both of you knew that remote made it manageable, remote made it abstract. The party was going to be anything but that.

Lyonel texted you, because he knew why you had ended the call.

Lyonel: If he lowers his voice in person, I am going to file a report to HR

His message almost made you laugh, almost. But something electric hummed under your skin.

For the first time since this what you had considered to be a harmless crush, there will be no screen, no digital barrier.

You would share the air. And the unfinished sentence would hang between you.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The party was louder than you expected. It had been organised in the restaurant on the highest floor of a glitzy hotel a town over, with rooms paid for you and anyone who travelled to attend.

It felt weird seeing people in close proximity, no screens to buffer anything, no one frame in small rectangles.

You were wearing a silk dress in your favourite colour, a cocktail in your hand as you spoke to Duncan. You told yourself you would not look for him. But you still noticed when he appeared.

You saw him before he saw you. He was across the room, wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, a black turtleneck beneath it. His hair was styled masterfully, and his beard trimmed.

He was real, so very real, real height, real presence. Not framed in a rectangle, not compressed by speakers.

Your stomach flipped in ways it had never done before, your throat seizing.

You looked away, telling yourself that you will not seek him out, even if it meant fighting against every fiber of your being. You continued to talk to Duncan, or at least tried to.

But you did not have to wait long, because within fifteen minutes you felt it. The subtle gravitational pull of someone entering your orbit. And when you turned, he was there, close. Not touching, not close to cause any scandal, but close enough.

He greeted everyone, saying your name last, his voice lower, sending shivers across your spine.

“Baelor.” You said in return, trying to keep yourself under control.

“You made it.”

“So did you.” 

Something akin to amusement crossed his features. Before any of you could speak, colleagues passed around you, someone clapping Baelor on the shoulder, someone complimenting you on your pilot results.

When your eyes returned to him, a blush crept in when you saw that he had been looking at you. You stood like that for a long moment, the space between you felt separate from the rest of the room.

“So this is you outside of Teams?” He said, sipping his whiskey.

You laughed, a little breathless. “Disappointed?”

“Not even a little.”

The words settled between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He held your gaze, unflinching, like he was curious how long you would let him.

“I did not realize you were this tall.” You said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did not realize a lot of things.” His voice had a teasing lilt.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to be calm. 

“Hmm.” He made a sound after noticing your drink.

“What?”

“That’s unexpected.” He replied.

“What is?”

“That.” He pointed at your drink with his. You took a long sip, not moving your eyes from his.

“You disapprove?” You smiled a little.

His gaze drifted slowly from your eyes, to the glass and back. The corner of his mouth lifted into that almost smile.

“Not at all.”

It didn't feel like you were talking about the drink anymore.

Across the room, Lyonel was openly staring at you like he was watching a live disaster unfold. You ignored him, or at least tried to. 

You were pulled into different conversations, separated. But the pattern from remote work and calls continued here too.

Every time you moved across the room, you became aware of him again. Every time he laughed at something someone else said, his eyes found yours afterward.

After a while, you slipped out to the terrace for air. Your body felt warm, your pulse unsteady, your mind hazy from being in his presence, from having to be in control. Exhaling, you press yourself against the railing, staring at the city skyline. 

You heard soft footsteps trailing behind you, stopping just a little away.

“You have been avoiding me.” Baelor said softly.

You did not turn to face him, cheeks ablaze. “I was networking." 

He stepped beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat emanating from him.

“Is that what you are calling it?” He asked, amused. “Well, you have been networking in the opposite direction of wherever I was.”

You fully turned towards him, a small smile on your lips. “You are imagining patterns.”

“Am I now?” He asked, voice husky.

The city lights flickered in the silence that came over you. There was no audience here, no grid of face, no corporate pretense to hide behind. Baelor stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming under the light, his expression unreadable.

“I think I’ve been patient long enough, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

Your breath faltered, realising what he was saying. You realized that he was close, close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly more…

Baelor said your name, his voice sounding like a plea and a warning.

You did not give yourself time to think. You stepped forward, closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly upon his.

The kiss was not chaste, nor careful, nor tentative, weeks of restraint collapsed into it. Baelor’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, groaning in your mouth. Your hands grabbed onto the lapel of his suit, whimpering when his mouth pressed harder against yours.

His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you there as if he had already decided you were not going anywhere. The kiss deepened, his tongue prodding your mouth, and your thoughts scattered, your knees threatening to follow.

You felt the shift in him, how his control thinned at the edges, his composure gone, replaced by hunger. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand resting at the base of your neck, as if letting you go required a decision he did not want to make. 

“This…” He said, his breath ghosting against your lips, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”

“Do you regret it?” You hated how your voice trembled, scared at his answer.

“No…” He groaned. “And I am done pretending I do not want it.”

He captured your lips in another kiss, which was slower, deeper than before. When he pulled away again, his eyes were almost black with hunger. His thumb brushed along your jaw, your lips tingling and swollen.

“Come with me.” He said, the words hovering between a plea and a command. Your heart was pounding so hard, so loud, that you were sure he could feel it, hear it. You looked at him, feeling the restraint that was barely holding, the choice sitting between you.

“Yes…” 

He studied you for one final moment, making sure he heard you right. Then nodded.

You left separately. He went out first, smoothing his hair and suit as he walked away. You followed five minutes later, ignoring the way Lyonel’s eyes widened from across the room, ignoring your phone vibrating as you neared the elevators.

You were certain your heart was about to leap from its cage as the elevator doors closed, his hand wrapping around yours. The air was tense, and thick, but he did not kiss you, he did not touch you otherwise. 

When you reached his floor, he all but dragged you across the corridors. And the moment the hotel room door was shut, he was on you.

This kiss was nothing like the ones before. It was deeper, hungrier, stripped of any restraints. Weeks of charged glances, sharp exchanges unravelled in seconds. He backed you against the door with a soft thud, his hands on your waist. You pushed the jacket off of his shoulders, moaning as his tongue touched yours,before he dove it deeper into your mouth.

He bit your lower lip, spurring you to grab his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. And he let you.

“Off…” You mewled into the kiss, breaking it so you could remove his turtleneck before diving for his lips again, like a drowned man would dive for air.

His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it firmly, sending a jolt straight to your core.  You moaned low, trailing hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a gentle shove, you pushed him to sit on the bed. He watched you with a dark, measured focus as you stepped between his knees. You continued kissing him, lips brushing against his collarbone, continuing your descent until you reached his belt, nipping at the skin above it.

“You do not have to do this.” He said, his voice in a gravely rumble. One hand rose, cupping your face as your fingers worked his belt. His thumb dragged across your lip in a slow and deliberate stroke that made your pulse race. You parted your lips and captured the thumb between them, giving it a soft, teasing, lick before sucking it. He hissed sharply at that.

“I want to…” You said, releasing his thumb with a soft pop. “I really do…”

With his help, you pulled his pants and boxers down, shoving them aside. His cock sprang up, standing proud against his stomach, precum leaking at the tip. The sight of it, the size of it, made your mouth water. 

Wrapping your fingers around the base, you dragged your tongue along him before guiding him past your lips, his taste blooming on your tongue. The effect you had on him was immediate. His composure frayed just enough to show you the edge of it. His hand moved to your hair, not forcing, not controlling, just holding, steady and warm against the back of your head. His thumb stroked in silent encouragement.

You continued, taking your time with him, savouring every inch, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Heat spread through you like wildfire at his sounds, thighs clenching instinctively instinctively. 

“That’s it…” He moaned, his head tipping back in a groan. “Take me deeper…”

You obeyed without hesitation, took him deeper until the head bumped the back of your throat, your jaw stretched. A muffled moan escaped, the sound humming along his length. He made a sound that was something between a moan and a sigh, fingers curling in your hair as he pushed you down, jaw tightening, hips shifting instinctively before he reins himself in. You felt the shift in him, the way control becomes effort.

“You look very good on your knees…” He murmurs, voice rougher now. “Have you been thinking about this?”

You did not answer directly, letting the swirl of your tongue and the hollow of your cheeks do the talking instead. The sound he made this time is lower, less controlled, his fingers flexing in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. Just before he lost the last of his restraint, he stopped you, tugging you off with a firm pull, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop.

A glistening strand of saliva stretched between your swollen mouth and his cock. You looked up at him, eyes hazy, utterly drunk on him, his voice, his taste, his presence consuming every sense.

Using the grip on your hair as leverage, Baelor pulled you up into a kiss that was almost punishing in its intensity, his mouth claiming, his breath uneven, all teeth and tongue as he devoured you. He broke away to pull your dress off, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the sight of your dark red lingerie.

His hands cupped your breasts possessively, thumbs brushing over the lace. He dipped his head, pressing hot kisses at the top of your breasts, before he shoved the fabric down, freeing on to the cool air. You back arched as he captured your nipple between his fingers, pinching with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat, rolling the hardened peak until it ached deliciously.

One of your hands slid against his hair, tugging him closer, a silent demand for more. Baelor chuckled against your skin, kissing up your neck before slotting his lips against yours.

His other hand slid down your body, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it found the heat between your thighs. His palm pressed flat against you, moaning as he felt the damp fabric. With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down, you kicked them off eagerly. His middle finger delved between your thighs, parting you slowly. You moaned into his mouth as his finger coated itself in your arousal. He exhaled slowly against you, his finger circling your entrance teasingly, clearly pleased by what he felt.

Looking at you through heavy-lidded eyes, he said. “Sit on my face.”

That was not a request. It was an invitation laced with command.

Your breath got caught in your throat, not from shock, but from the certainty in his tone. He was not asking out of impulse, he was testing whether you would yield the way you had been daring him all this time. You whined softly as he removed his finger and hand from you, and he leaned back on the bed, mismatched eyes never leaving yours. Desire burned in them, tempered by a deliberate patience.

“Come here.” He adds, softer now, but still having that authoritative edge. You hesitated just long enough to let him see the effect he had on you.

Then you moved. 

His hands found your hips, guiding you with a firm grip. His thumbs dug into your skin, as if etching the texture of it into his memory. The shift in power is immediate, you were above him, but he was the one in control.

“Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss on your inner thigh.

You did.

When he pulled you down toward him, his focus was absolute. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place,  while his tongue delved between your folds, parting them with a slow, deliberate stroke. A loud moan escaped your throat, your hand moving to his head, your fingers threading into his hair for support. You had thought about his tongue on you so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars. 

“Oh fuck, Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth.

“That’s it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You don't have to hold back with me.”

With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, exactly where he wanted, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in easily at your wetness, the second following soon after. He crooked them upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly. Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low, approving.

And when your fingers tightened in his hair, when your breathing turned uneven and broken, he tightened his grip more, ensuring you stayed locked against his mouth.

“That is it…” He said again, moaning. “Let me feel you…”

The control in his voice is what undid you. Your hips jerked wildly, chasing your release, his name chanted like a fervent prayer, your walls clamping hard around his thrusting fingers. He did not relent, lapping and sucking through your release, his own groans mingling with yours.

Finally, you clutched his hair, tugging him away from your throbbing core, your hips lifting away from his glistening mouth. He allowed you to move, but not before dragging his tongue along your folds one final time, pressing one last deliberate kiss to your inner thigh, slow and possessive.

Baelor sat up immediately after, pulling you into his lap. Your bodies pressed together seamlessly, skin to skin, heat to heat, his hard cock pressing insistently between your thighs. His hands trailed up your spine, then back down again, deliberate and claiming. Your eyes met his, heavy, with lingering heat, before capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“You did so well.” He whispered. 

“I need more Baelor… please…” You begged, rolling your hips, seeking his length.

“Tell me what you need.” He ordered gently, his lips grazing your neck, tongue tracing the junction where it met your shoulder, sucking it gently.

“I… fuck me… Baelor, please…” You moaned, pressing your lips on his forehead in desperation.

He shifted, rolling you onto your back beneath him, reclaiming the upper hand without breaking eye contact. He settled between your thighs, his hard cock nudging against your entrance, coating itself in your wetness.

“Still confident?” He asked, trailing his mouth along your jawline.

You nodded, breathless.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

His control finally fractured, and he claimed your mouth in a fierce kiss, like he was done waiting. Like every restrained meeting, every late-night message, every almost-confession had been building to this exact moment. And when he entered you, it was deliberate and unhurried at first, inch by inch until he buried himself fully inside you. He watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, a low groan escaping him as your walls stretched around his length.

His forehead rested against yours as he began to thrust, one arm braced beside your head. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as you clutched his shoulders, the pace intensifying with each collision.

The sound of his hips meeting yours filled the room, his grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. His fingers dug into your hip hard and tight, and you were sure it would bruise.

“You are doing so well…” Baelor praised you, his breath fanning your lips. “You are taking me so well… like you were made for me…”

Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of him filled and withdrew from your core. Baelor chuckled lightly, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and warm around him in response. He angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts.

Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of his touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own. 

“Baelor…” You gasped his name, teetering on the edge of desperation and release.

Climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless. 

“You are so perfect…” Baelor said, riding the wave of your release with you. “So flawless…”

His composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts.

A few more powerful strokes and he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips. You stayed like that for a while, his body heavy and comforting atop yours, trying to catch your breath. He kissed you tenderly then, his thumb brushing your cheek, murmuring and praising you.He pulled back just enough to brush his fingers lightly over your skin, tracing the heat still lingering along your arms and shoulders. 

His voice was low, grounding you when he asked. “Are you okay?” 

When you nodded, he let a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The two of you drew in sharp breaths, and you moaned lowly when he eased his cock out from you, the sudden emptiness making your inner walls flutter desperately around nothing.

His fingers combed through your hair soothingly, before going to the bathroom to fetch a towel and run it under warm water. Returning, Baelor knelt beside you, dabbing the towel gently against your sensitive folds, every movement filled with deliberate care, a contrast to the fire and intensity you had just shared. He finally joined you under the covers, his heat enveloping you, your bodies shifting together, limbs entwining, tangled in sheets that would not stay in place. 

He kept you close, hand resting possessively at your hip, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin.

“You are,” He said quietly into your hair. “Exceptionally dangerous.”

You smiled against his chest, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You started it.”

A low hum of disagreement passed through him.

“No.” He replied. “You did.”

The sheets are half twisted around your legs, the air thick and warm and still humming with what you had just done. Baelor stayed exactly where he was, not rolling away, or reaching for his phone. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess, his beard still slick with your release, his breathing finally steadying. But his eyes, when they met yours, are clear, focused.

“You are being very quiet.” You whispered.

“I’m thinking.”

“Hmm… dangerous.” You snuggled close to him.

A faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes.”

There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment between you. Just a charged stillness that felt almost more intimate than what came before.

He moved slightly, rolling you more fully against him. His palm slid up your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you by touch alone.

“You surprised me…” He said quietly.

“Well, that was the intention.”

His gaze sharpened, his fingers grasping your chin, making you look at him. “No. Not that.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “You trusted me.”

The weight of that landed heavier than anything else tonight.

You did not joke this time. “I would not have come upstairs if I did not.”

Something changed in his expression then, almost imperceptible. His dominance softened, not disappearing, just settling into something steadier. He brushed his nose lightly against your temple.

“You should know…” He said, voice low, “If we continue this… I will not be casual about it.”

Your pulse jumped, eyes widening a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a warning.”

“It is.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you fully.

“I do not divide my attention easily. And I don’t compete.”

“Are you staking a claim?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes.”

The honesty in which he said it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slower, less urgent, like a seal pressed onto something neither of you intended to undo.

You slid your hand slowly up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“So you are not going to pretend this did not happen on Monday, are you?” You asked quietly.

A soft, amused exhale escaped him, his eyes warm. “Absolutely not.”

Your blood sang at that, at that confirmation, not knowing how much you needed it. 

“You do realize…” You said lightly, though your voice was not entirely steady. “This makes work infinitely more complicated.”

“I am aware.”

“And?”

“And I have decided it is worth it.”

The certainty in that answer was almost more dangerous than his touch had been. Then his hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“Come here.” He murmured.

You were already pressed against him, but he pulled you closer anyway, tucking you beneath his chin. His fingers threaded lazily through your hair now.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on like nothing monumental just shifted. But it had, because this was not just physical. This was weeks of tension turned real.

“You should sleep.” He said softly.

“Is that an order?”

“It is care.”

You huffed indignant, but did not stop the wide smile that spread on your lips.

And when the lights finally dimmed and the room fell quiet, he kept one hand anchored at your waist like he expected you to stay.

You had already decided that you would.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

Come Monday morning, you were back in neat squares, screens aligned, everything professional and composed.

Baelor’s voice cut through the grid, low as he called your name. “Your thoughts?”

You held his gaze through the camera, long enough to feel the pull. You smiled at the subtle shift that came in as he leaned in and tilted his head.

“I think we should be bold.”

A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I agree.”

As the meeting moved on to other topics, a notification blinked in the corner of your screen. Your stomach fluttered, every nerve alert, you could not ignore the way he seemed to unravel you with just a message.

Baelor: We need to discuss boundaries at work. You: We do

Three dots lingered, before the message came.

Baelor: Dinner tonight? You: Yes, I’d love that

You stared at the chat, smiling widely. Across the grid, you did not notice Lyonel’s camera had fully turned on, and he was watching you like he could read everything before you even typed it, a big grin on his face.

You did not need to pretend it was professional anymore.

Taglist: @ladygrimmx, @gespirida, @wallachianvampire, @somniari-94, @aysamuka, @outpostsworld, @lovergirlygirl, @omgwhataloser, @theqvynrand, @luvweezer, @gezello, @raashluvsff, @1-lu-1, @hamlet111, @fizzie-bubbles, @gotham-lady, @kishie8, @nancystrange, @emneedshelp, @tomie9kawakami, @travelingmypassion, @crazyfangirln1, @miramindlesslywriting, @kellyyn02, @sleepysunriser, @jakecockley, @briefenthusiastkitten, @fiwnsikw, @agirlwithmanyloves, @doctortrek, @anathemius, @optimistictacosaladcloud, @flyinglama, @therighteousmanisdead, @angelofpearls, @mahumf9, @stormynight11-blog, @thecryptidabyss, @viiistrength, @llucyfer, @eddie-munsons-mommy, @stevengrantsqueen, @kvroshit, @hcafx101, @klntt, @thateldritchairin, @belladonnadarksshade, @seoknaei

Join the taglist!

[ihatethewayyou]

This was delightful, start to finish. The writing is delicious, the corporate talk expertly executed. I can’t wait to circle back and read it again.

[noisyghost]

local woman alarmingly quick to throw herself in the face of danger if it means she might get to kiss a werewolf

[noisyghost]

you miss 100% of the shots you dont take

[bitterrfruit]

splinter

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader tags/cw: smut (eventually). free use. fixed simon pov. forced proximity bordering on captivity. somno. voyeurism. all that said this is probably the most wholesome thing i've ever written lol

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

or [read on ao3]

extras

playlist pinterest board

[ceilidho]

Margaritaville | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.

Or: the knocked up on vacation au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Woman, Light Dubious Consent, Husband-Wife Play, Breeding Kink

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Extras

Series moodboard

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Summary: Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? In other words, smut about diety! 141.

Winter Frost (John X Reader)

When the god of the Winter had needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But the god of the Winter, John Price, had other plans for his devotee.

Spring Comforts (Gaz X Reader)

The winter ice has melted, and the spring blossoms have bloomed. But as the elders continue their tyranny over your village, your gods seemingly disappeared. Or had they?

Summer Scoarch (Soap X Reader)

You had only wanted to petition the god of summer for rain to ease the drought. Locked away for your crimes, the god of summer, Johnny comes to your aid to set all things right.

Johnny HCs

Autumn (Ghost X Reader)

Altar HCs

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job.

Or: the babysitter x single dad au

[ao3]

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dubious Consent, AFAB Reader, Possessive Behaviour, Single Dad AU, Babysitter Reader, Age Gap, Daddy Kink

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Extras

Series moodboard

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Two: love, and love well

tw: religious abuse, domestic violence, minor grief, minor man handling

When you arrive home, you lay the wine out on the table like an offering to Jesus Christ Himself. 

A perfect trifecta, the florid liquid sloshes and slowly settles in their bottles as you wipe your sweaty palms on the front of your apron. Skin soaked in moonshine, the scent is so strong you almost feel tipsy off of the fumes alone. Luckily, your father has locked himself away in his office, rendering him too far away to smell the stench on you—likely hunched over his well-loved bible to take notes. Even now you can see the way that poor book falls apart at the seams with loose pages and a fractured spine. 

(Is this why he rips you apart the way he does? Is this how he loves, and loves well? By ruining? Let all that you do be done in love. If your spine was just as crooked as his bible, would you find him attempting to mend you with glue?) 

Instead of ruminating about your father’s strange expression of care, you take note of the light that bleeds on the floor. Honey gold, it livens up the wood floors your father forced you to scrub clean the previous weekend. Cleanliness is close to Godliness, and still he managed to track dirt in not even hours after you had finished. It’s of no consequence—you are grateful to be given so many opportunities to improve yourself in both skill and personhood. 

Sighing, the setting sun reminds you that there is a meal to be cooked. Having been denied lunch in favor of running errands, your mouth waters at the sight of the ingredients alone. Beans, sourdough biscuits, brown gravy and sowbelly; the steam and flames leaves your cheeks toasty by the time they’re finished cooking. 

You fix up two plates and gather the cutlery to set the table before taking a seat. There are three chairs that surround this small, square table, yet one has remained empty for longer that you’d care to admit. Sometimes, if you stare at the gaping void on your right for long enough, you can nearly feel the warmth your mother left behind. She lingers in odd places throughout the house—in the jar of sourdough starter she created that you still feed; in the lilies she planted along the deck that refuse to die no matter how many times your father yanks them from the earth; in the face of the full moon that winks at you through the window as the sun sets. 

As soon as the clock strikes seven, the rusty hinges to your father’s office squeak open. Quiet, like scuttering field mice. His pace is languid as he wanders towards the table, foggy eyes piercing through you. Greeting him with a smile, you gesture to his place at the table where cooling food awaits him with puffs and swirls of steam. 

“Supper’s ready, Daddy,” you say as if it wasn’t already obvious. “And I got the wine just like you wanted.” 

He responds with nothing but a hum as he takes the seat next to you. His chair creaks and groans beneath his weight, crying out like a wounded animal begging for relief. Swallowing, you roll your lips together as you await his word. 

“Say Grace, girl,” he orders. 

Eagerly, you fold your hands and rest them above the table before bowing your head. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Father, we thank you for your many blessings. We thank you now for this meal. Please bless it. May it nourish and strengthen our bodies to your honor and glory. Amen.” 

Your prayer flows from your mouth like blood from your wounded knuckles, and it’s enough for your father to be content with it. You wait for him to take the first bite before you dare to indulge in the meal you slaved over the hot stove for. A stitch of hunger ravages your stomach and it refuses to relinquish its hold on you until you’ve shoved a spoonful of beans into your mouth. Stomach tinged with avarice, it hardly allows you to taste the flavors on your tongue before demanding you swallow. 

Dinner is a quiet affair, like usual. There is nothing for you to share with your father that he doesn’t already know—or something he could find the heart to care for—and he seems to speak to you only to order you around or share his displeasure about something. Usually, his silence means you’re doing well, so you bask in the cold nothingness. 

Though, it usually doesn’t take long for him to shatter through the algid atmosphere with a sharp tongue. 

“The change that Mr. Beckett gave you? Where is it?” he asks. 

Nodding, you swallow the food in your mouth before placing your utensils on your plate to rest. “I’ve got it right here in my pocket,” you assure. 

Yet, when you burden yourself with cloth against your aching wounds once more, your stomach drops when you can’t find the change you were given. Blinking, you dig deeper, and still there is nothing but the cotton of your apron. Soft, you’ve had this clothing item for years and it has never betrayed you before. Desperate, you stand to your feet to search, worried that you can’t feel the change in the swathes of fabric in your dress. 

The only thing your fingertips brush against is a torn hole. 

It’s big enough to fit your thumb through frayed seams—plenty large enough to lose the coins Mr. Beckett gave you. Your heart leaps into your throat where it threatens to choke you and you are brutally reminded of your time in the saloon. Those strange men, how anxious you were to flee that place, how your apron caught on the stool…

“Well?” your father questions impatiently. 

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t… I don’t have it,” you admit. 

Though you’ve already admitted defeat, your hands continue to fruitlessly paw at your skirt. Was it left behind at the saloon? Could you go back now and see if Mr. Beckett cleaned it up? Or did you leave a trail of coins behind you during your walk home like breadcrumbs meant to lure children? Would you have to scrounge the earth on your hands and knees in order to make this right? 

“You don’t have it?” he repeats incredulously. 

“My apron tore, it must’ve fallen out of my pocket,” you explain with trembling hands. “I-I’m sure Mr. Beckett still has it. I’ll go back and look for it. I’m sorry, Daddy, I promise I didn’t mean to lose it.” 

He is quiet. Silent for long enough that your heart begins to quiver in your chest like a hare burrowing beneath the earth to hide from vicious predators. You stand with a rigid spine as you wait for him to wipe his hands on the front of his trousers. When he finally looks at you, his eyes hold nothing but virulent desire. 

“No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house; no one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes,” he quotes. “Nothing but excuses and empty promises. Tell me, girl, why do you lie to me?” 

“I’m not lying, I swear it,” you assure. 

“Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord,” he quotes further. 

“Daddy please, I’d never lie to you,” you beg. Tears begin to trespass along your cheeks, but you know better than to wipe them away. If you don’t acknowledge their existence, then maybe he won’t either. 

“Not only are you a liar, but you are a thief,” your father claims as he rises from his seat. He moves around the table and you find your teeth biting into your tongue to prevent you from begging any further. “What punishment do you think is fit for a liar and a thief? Do they deserve mercy? Does a false witness go unpunished, girl? Or shall he who breathes out lies perish?” 

You are given no time to contemplate his questions and rehearsed verses before the back of his hand bites into the apple of your cheek. He carries more strength than a preacher should—oftentimes you wonder if he carries the strength of God Himself when he punishes you. Your ears ring at the impact as your feet stumble from the force. A lip in the wooden floor catches your heel, and you cry out as you fall onto your rump. Lights dance in your vision like sun flares on a photograph as you stare up at your father. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was a halo of light around his head. 

But you do know better. The only thing that ever illuminates your father is his anger. 

He strikes you three more times on the same cheek. He’s kneeling next to you and yet still towers over you—always maintaining power and control. Pain blossoms along the side of your jaw and up into the mushy bits of your brain as you stifle your sobs. A migraine is bound to burrow into the thin layer of your skull soon, but for now the only thing that hurts worse than this throe is your repentance. 

“Well,” he speaks when he’s finally determined that you’ve had enough. “Go then. If you say you’ve lost it, then go find it, and don’t you dare return until you do. Do I make myself clear, girl?” 

Clutching the side of your face, you nod only for him to bark at you to speak. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.” 

When the cool dusk air hits your skin, you do not find yourself heading into town. You do not chase the change that lurks in the thicket that lines the trail or in Mr. Beckett’s rowdy saloon. Instead, you follow the moonlit trail that your mother used to take you on when you were a child. 

It looks different in the dying light of the sun—or perhaps you have your tears to thank for the distortion. Still, it’s a path you could follow even with your eyes plucked from your head, and you continue to stumble further and further away from home while you lament in your sorrows. Even the crickets join you in your babbling as they leap out of your way and dive into the bramble. 

Something has broken in you today. Something that has been suffering from stress fractures and erosion for longer than it should have, and now it gushes. It ferments like wine and festers like a bad wound and for a moment you swear you hear the moon urging you to follow its guiding light. Your father always told you that if you ever got lost, all you needed to do was look for the steeple that towers close to God and you’d find your way back, yet now you find relief in looking over your shoulder to see it growing smaller in the distance. Even as the worn trail ends in a fit of weeds and fallen trees, you persevere along the chossy earth. 

Your feet don’t stop moving until your toes catch on a clump of sagebrush at the top of a steep hill. You save yourself before you tumble to the ground and you use that opportunity to let yourself slowly sink into the dirt. It isn’t until you’re resting on your bum that your body is able to comprehend the amount of pain you’re in. The sting of your knuckles, the bruises that taint your knees, and the throb in your cheek—it all coalesces until it sears your skin just as bad as your obloquy does. 

Despite it all, there is still beauty. 

It flickers in the distance as your sleepy town begins to enjoy evening festivities with lit lanterns and warm windows. Perched high in the hills, you have a perfect view of the way wagon trails carve into the earth like a knife through fresh ham. A part of you swears you can hear someone playing the piano in Mr. Beckett’s saloon, but you shake that illusion as soon as your eyes land on the steeple of your father’s church once more. 

You are still too close to home for comfort. 

Once you manage to catch your breath, you stand back up on your aching feet and continue trekking through the foreign and unforgiving terrain. You are grateful for the milky moonlight that illuminates the space between tree trunks and bushes, though you still find spindly branches pulling at your dress. 

You’re unsure of what you should do in a situation like this. Surely your father sits at home finishing the meal you prepared for him as he waits for you to return with the change he is owed. Yet, the thought of returning home while your wounds are still fresh makes your stomach twist with a terrible, mawkish longing. 

Any craving for your mangled sense of home quickly evaporates at the scent of smoke. 

It’s an active fire—still burning with freshly cut logs that sputter dark smoke. A skinny plume rises in the air where it weaves between stars and you find yourself utterly stricken with curiosity. The scent grows stronger as you meander. You’re not sure what you’re hoping to find. Here in the middle of the night, out on the fringes of your town—the environs of the wilderness—surely it would be nothing good. 

(And never satisfied are the eyes of men.)

Marmalade light bleeds between branches as you catch sight of a small campfire stirring in the distance. Shadows warp your point of view, making your head spin and forcing you to brace against a tree as you squint to make sense of the shapes. You see horses. Several hands tall, they dip their heads low as they lazily graze on the sparse bits of grass at their feet. Their owners seem to also be enjoying food of their own as the scent of game wafts toward you on the bitter breeze. 

Braving a few steps closer, you catch the tail end of a chuckle and what sounds like an insult. Then, you see it—an odd haircut bathed in amber. Cropped short on either side of his head, yet leaving a longer trail down the center, the style reminds you of a horse’s mane. 

“You can piss right off with that type of talk.” 

“Aye, but I’m taking all the firepower with me. Not unless you trust Simon with the dynamite.” 

There’s a scoff. “Scary thought, that. Bad enough already trusting you with it.” 

Their accents are strange—unfamiliar at the very least. They speak as if they’re fresh off of the boats that traversed across the Atlantic, which isn’t anything interesting. Plenty of people from all over the world flock to see the United States and stake a claim, yet travelers are rare around these parts. You’d expect accents like this to hang around Grand Hollow, not the tiny town of Penmosa on the fringes of nowhere. 

Yet, there’s something especial about these figures. Marginally familiar like the way juniper bushes smell just like their berries taste, yet bitter enough to leave your lips puckering. You can’t discern if it’s because of the huff of the man on the right side of the fire, or the warm smile of the man on the left, but there is something haunting about their presence. You soak in the view of them and find nothing but a herald for something truculent. 

It isn’t until you meet the sapphire blaze that glints from across the campfire that the familiarity crashes down on you. A low brim hat nearly smothers the flames in his gaze, but there’s no mistaking the man that seems to appear from thin air—these are the men Mr. Beckett warned you about. Recalcitrant outlaws who bring nothing but trouble. Your sweet bartender had told you that they were nothing but wild animals, and now here in the penumbra you are able to witness this for yourself.

(All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.)

The urge to flee hardly has the time to boil in your bones before a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth to silence you. Your scream dies as a gasp in your throat while your fingers claw at a thick forearm, nails desperately attempting to peel into skin like it’s fresh bread and not pure iron. Squirming heels spade into the dirt in front of you, but the beast at your back moves the earth in order to drag you toward the fire and the pack of wolves that await you. 

Mind whirling, you scream into tobacco tainted flesh as the beast huffs with effort to keep you contained. You find yourself suddenly yearning to see the steeple of the church once more, but that desire dissipates as you’re tossed on the ground where you land on your already injured knees with a yelp. 

“Don’t like eavesdroppers,” the voice behind you growls. 

Palms pressing into the earth, you twist around to gaze at the herculean man that stands above you. He’s just as tall—if not taller—than the horses hitched to the pine trees nearby, and his face is obscured with a dark bandana. Only his eyes are to be seen; not even the incandescence from the fire can thaw the frost he exudes. 

“I-I wasn’t eavesdropping,” you stutter. 

“No?” the masked man prods. “Just out in the middle of nowhere staring at our camp for fun then, huh?” 

“No, no, I just- I was wandering was all. I promise, mister. I didn’t mean any harm, I swear it.” You’re stammering. Tripping over your words before they form. This beast pins you with his gaze and you’re stuck with the threat of his claws as the flames of the campfire lick at your back. The heat is almost enough to evaporate the tears on your cheeks. 

“Bullshit,” he says, acidulous. 

“Easy, Riley.” 

A canorous voice rings behind you, calming the escalating situation though doing nothing to quell your quickening pulse. Eyes stuck on the brute before you, you are forced to listen as a pair of spurs jingle quietly in tune with the crackling of the fire. Languid. Creeping. The sound halts to your left and you finally muster the courage to look. 

The boots are nice. Well kept, though worn. Classic cowboy boots with the pointed toes and strong heel meant for keeping steady in stirrups. For a moment you feel as if you’re kneeling in the church again with knuckles bared. These are your father’s boots pacing back and forth as he greedily determines your castigation for whatever transgression you’ve committed before him. 

Then, the figure kneels, and you are brutally brought back into the present. The faded blue jeans, the thick belt, and the six shooter glinting in the amber light. This is him—the leader of the 141 Mr. Beckett told you about. There’s no mistaking his vivid azure gaze. 

You are plagued with an odd callosity—if you truly had your wits about you, you’d be making a run for it. Now, you are no better than a fawn fainting at the sound of gunshots. 

A perturbing smile flickers across his lips as he reaches up and removes his hat, revealing neatly kept dark hair beneath. His eyes don’t leave you, not even as he runs a hand over his locks to smooth out the bumps. 

“We’ve got nothing to be worried about here, boys,” the man assures with a sonorous chuckle. He glances around at them where they shift and huff as if disappointed at the lack of fresh meat that should be splayed before them. Then, his eyes find you again where they narrow—almost taunting. “Nothing but a lost lamb, aren’t you?”

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[ceilidho]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time with the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will warp back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm sized up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[ihatethewayyou]

So fucking good. Finger licking good.