ghost x f! reader. 12.4k words
cw: smut. both are drunk. 18+ mdni
[masterlist]
Her demeanour soured after that.
She turned shifty, elusive, didn’t speak more than a few words at a time for the remainder of that day. His own fault, because whatever he had said to her had evidently unsettled her; after that she spent another half hour tucked in the bathroom, hiding from him, as if the door could lock. Spent the afternoon creeping awkwardly between rooms, sitting at the table instead of her armchair, dutifully tidying up her mess and folding up her clothes. Haunting his house more than occupying it, as if bothering him was a risk she dared not take.
Not without cause, he supposed. It wasn’t as though he had been at all sweet, even he couldn’t deny that the shift in the air had turned him cold and irritable. Something was intangibly altered after he cornered her in that shower. He could feel it in his jaw, a toothache, and much like all of his other little pains he intentionally and spitefully ignored it.
Her sulking wasn’t his problem. He had a right to be frustrated with her, the bolshie thing — leaving her shit everywhere, draining his hot water, whining about his food, tossing around in his bed, leaving her hair in the shower, bitching and moaning and hissing like a stray — the fact he had maintained any measure of tact was a marvel in itself.
Didn’t help that he couldn’t let himself look at her.
Even a glance made his ribs tight, and he didn’t like it. Hated whatever he felt in the pit of his stomach when he blinked and saw her skin all wet again. Loathed that she seemed to know it, because she avoided eye contact with him as much as he did her; she must, she must have seen right through him.
He spent most of the day outside to avoid her. He had logs to chop, since she had emptied the basket by the hearth to keep the fire lit. He had supplies to bring in from the storage shed. He had a dog to walk. He had a call to make with his superiors.
Plenty to keep himself busy with, and by dusk he had unwinded, if just slightly. The air was biting but there was no wind, and the void winter silence was something of an anti-inflammatory for his brewing resentment.
It was bluish evening by the time he returned to the cabin.
He noticed, as he hung his snowy jacket on the rack and the dog followed him in, that her suitcase was zipped up and tucked against the wall. The blanket was folded neatly over the back of the sofa. The chairs were tucked under the table. The smell of green apple detergent hung bubbly in the air.
His first thought — and it nettled him to consider — was that the wee nuisance was preparing for a hurried departure. That she, like him, had reached her wit’s end, and would next demand once again to be taken back to whatever shithole town it was.
He prepared himself for that very argument, in fact. Came inside with a terse sigh and tight shoulders, tongue forming the words not fucking likely if she were to demand premature freedom. If you want to walk all the way to Smithers, be my guest.
“Hi, Johnny,” he heard a soft voice coo out from the kitchen, where no doubt the dog was already lavishing her in attention, his tail could be heard whipping through the air from the front door.
His boots tracked snow in the pattern of their soles as he lumbered towards the kitchen, where, surprising him, she was busy wiping the bench with a cloth in wide, full-bodied circles. In a t-shirt too big for her and — only as she leaned forward, and the loose hem lifted slightly up her legs, he noted — a pair of spotty pyjama shorts. Too short.
There was a shudder of humiliation in her expression when she glanced up and noticed him; gone quickly as he approached her, when she looked away and wrung out the cloth in the sink.
“Clean in ‘ere,” he commented stiffly, the ire he had arrived with still audible in his throat.
She turned to face him, adjusting her posture as if she had been standing incorrectly, and disquieted that he was within an arm’s reach.
“Yeah, well,” she bit out, chagrin in her throat, “I just thought, um.”
He was irritated again. Already reverted to her tetchy fear of him, as if the last five days had never happened, and all progress was moot. Made his teeth grind together. “Thought what.”
She swallowed a breath and let it out measuredly through her nose. Regarded him with sincerity. “I’m sorry for using all the hot water.”
A humourless puff escaped him at that. Bemused by it, because he utterly did not expect those words to leave her mouth.
“I just — I’ve been thinking about it and, it was selfish of me, and I feel bad about it, and—” she sucked in another breath, then looked at her fingers, “—well, yeah, I’ve been inconsiderate, and I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t help but grin.
That was the issue, was it? Not fear of him, not sudden distrust, not a desperation to leave — no, she was contrite. Simply guilty. Avoiding his eye because she was in trouble. Because he had scolded her.
He was immensely endeared by it, and he assuaged the want to praise her with a brush of his knuckle under her chin.
“Apology accepted,” he said, in passing, as he stepped around her toward the sink. Grabbed a squeaky clean glass from the dishtray and filled it up under the faucet.
She was quiet as he drank his water, he could feel her chewing on something to say without even having to look at her.
“And, um,” she continued, and at this point he sighed, “I realise I haven’t really thanked you for, like, taking me in, or whatever.”
“Or whatever?” He chortled, leaning against the counter once he put down his empty cup.
The fuse of her sweetness was running short — he could literally see it draining from her eyes as they went from cloyingly apprehensive to low and spiteful — but she persevered.
“Thanks for letting me stay here,” she said. Murmured, more like.
Yet another sentiment he thought he’d sooner hallucinate than ever hear her say aloud. He was smiling at her, now, at both the visible effort it took for her to say it, and the chagrin that etched in her features once she did; but, even still, the sentiment itself was guilelessly cute. He didn’t give her the credit, considered her incapable of humility or self-reflection at all — and there she was, evasively picking at her fingernails while she waited for him to let her off the hook.
It was difficult to stay mad at her when she looked like that, averted gazes through her lashes and the unsubtle humiliation that riddled her in having to seek his forgiveness. He could have told her that he had already forgiven her, but he wasn’t about to embolden her.
“Not itching to escape anymore, are ya?” He asked, satisfaction slickening his tone. A simple you’re welcome would surely have sufficed, but he couldn’t help but rub it in.
“No,” she gritted, now defensive. “That was — I was scared.”
That he found less humorous. “No shit.”
“I’m not anymore, though,” she added insolently, crossing her arms. “Now I know you’re just an asshole.”
He laughed. “An asshole that saved your life, though, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s why I said thank you.”
“Did you?”
“I literally just did.”
“Don’t think I heard that,” he jeered.
She scoffed. “You’re deaf, then.”
“Thought I heard thanks for letting me stay, then something about me being an asshole—”
“I’m not saying it again.”
“—not quite a thank you Simon for saving my fucking life, that’d be nice, don’t ya reckon?”
“I’m not saying it.”
He snorted. “Go on, I wanna hear it.”
“Nope.”
“I think I’ve earned it.”
“Too bad.”
There was a smirk, the faintest thing, dimpling in her cheek; enough to pull a true grin from him in response, because — he knew it — she was goading him on purpose.
“Wanna go back to sleeping on the floor?” He threatened, and she rolled her eyes.
“Mph. No.”
“‘Cos that’s where I’ll put you, if y—”
“God, fine, thank you dear Simon for deigning to rescue me from the cold, oh, how I might have perished if you left me in the snow! I can never express the depth of my gratitude, I am forever in your debt — thank you, oh, thank you—!”
“Alright, fuckin’ hell,” he barked, rubbing his brow and letting loose a chuckle. “I’m havin’ a shower.”
She continued her melodramatic performance for the back of him as he walked out of the kitchen. “Please, tell me how I can make it up to you! Anything, Simon, I owe you my life after all—”
“Careful,” he sneered on his way out, and she laughed, satisfied. Best that he wasn’t looking at her while she begged like that, however unseriously.
“No, go on,” she teased, her sing-song voice following him out into the hall, “tell me what you want. I can’t ever repay you, but I’ll do my best!”
“You’ll think of something,” he barked back.
Her laughter bubbled down the hallway, victorious. “I’ll try.”
Seemed she had cleaned up the bathroom, too.
Tucked all her little toiletries — face wash and serums and soaps and all — into her spongebag, which she had put away in a vanity drawer. Really digging her roots in, he thought, already leaving things in his cupboards and drawers; it should have aggravated him, that she felt so emboldened as to put her things away in his house — but, worse than that, it disarmed him.
She’d set her toothbrush next to his. Wiped down the mirror. Replaced the roll of toilet paper, and the old hand towel with a fresh one. Her own stripey bath towel hung beside his navy one, folded neatly on the rail.
What did it say about him, he wondered, that he didn’t care? That, if anything, he found it profoundly endearing?
Didn’t bode well, that was for certain. He’d let himself get used to it, and he’d have to suffer the vacuum it’d leave within the week, once it was time to send her home again and all her shit went with her. A deadline he had incidentally been counting down the minutes to just that morning.
He didn’t look at himself in the mirror before he got in the shower. He kept it brief and hot enough to make his skin red. Raptly watched the water condensate and roll down the curtain to keep his mind off her expression when he cornered her in there. To prevent himself imagining all the ways in which she could repay her debts. And he could imagine a few.
When he emerged from the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweats, the sickly scent of heavy cream and melted chocolate hung in a smog that drifted down the hall; notes of cinnamon that he followed to the kitchen, where she was leaning over the stove, stirring some liquid in a large saucepan with a wooden spoon.
She glanced up at him. “That was quick.”
He bit down on a snide remark about her showering habits as he approached, arms crossed. “The hell have you gotten up to.”
“I’m making us some hot chocolate,” she said proudly, and it was then he noticed the discarded wrapper of a full block of chocolate with only three squares remaining.
“Yeah?” He snorted, now beside her, leaning over the pot to look at what she was stirring. It was thick, and dark, with a stick or two of cinnamon spinning within and foam forming from the bubbles of the steady simmer. “Gonna put marshmallows in it, too?”
“Mmm, that’s a good idea,” she cooed, either unaware of or purposefully ignoring the potent sarcasm he layered his words with. “Do you have any?”
He plucked one of the leftover bits of chocolate from the wrapper and chucked it in his mouth as he opened the fridge. “No,” he replied simply.
“‘Course you don’t,” she scoffed, then added; “Dickhead.”
“This your way of paying off your debt, eh?” He asked facetiously, through the chocolate snapping between his teeth. “Hot chocolate?”
“It’s special,” she explained, a little eager, so he redirected his attention from the shelves of the fridge back to her.
Only then did he notice the heady aroma of liquor carried by the steam; something dark and full of molasses, barrel-aged and — fuck’s sake — there on the counter sat a half empty bottle of Smuggler’s Cove with the cap still off. A bottle that had previously been unopened, last he checked.
“Jesus,” he scoffed, grabbing the bottle and preemptively screwing on the lid. “Went a bit light on the rum, d’you reckon?”
That sarcasm she picked up on, at least. “It’s a big batch,” she argued. “Do you want some or not?”
“Trying to get me pissed, are ya?” He gibed.
“Yep,” she said.
“What’re you plotting?”
“I was just thinking — I feel like we haven’t broken the ice yet.”
“Haven’t we?”
“Don’t think so. Unless you count perving on me in the shower as an icebreaker.”
At that he snorted. Decided it was best not to acknowledge it, but his lack of denial earned him a glance out of the corner of her eye. “Go on, then. Couldn’t hurt.”
Certainly fucking could, but he wasn’t about to say that. Wasn’t about to tell her it was a bad idea because booze made him grouchier and grabbier than usual — which, when alone in his cabin, hurt nobody but himself. Thing like her around, though, no telling what he’d turn into. What he’d say. Where his hands would go.
It’d been a good week, though, since he’d had a sip. The itch was there. Worsened by the mere mention. And it smelled fucking good.
“Okay, good,” she hummed. “Grab me a couple mugs, then.”
He scoffed. “Yes ma’am.”
She straightened her back at that, a pleased little smile in her lips, and he made a note of that. He collected two large mugs from the cabinet and put them down beside the stove.
With a tea towel wrapped around the handle she picked up the saucepan with great effort, intent on pouring it straight from the pot; but she was hindered by a grunt and a wobble, and a bit of brown milk dribbled down the side.
“Christ, put it down,” he demanded, pre-empting an inevitable spill of boiling milk that would’ve burned any skin it landed on. She obeyed with a huff and set it back on the stove. “I’ll do it.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Thanks.”
The creamy scent billowed directly into his sinuses as he poured a steady stream into the first mug. Certainly looked delicious. He must’ve been twelve the last time he had a hot chocolate. Perhaps he wouldn’t have begrudged a marshmallow.
He slid the first mug in her direction, before he poured the next one, and she picked it up with both hands; blew on it carefully for a while before she brought it to her lips. She made a grim toothy face after her first sip.
“Mm,” she hummed thoughtfully, smacking her tongue. “Maybe it is a bit strong.”
He chuckled at her as he went to taste his own. The first sip burned his tongue and went down his throat just as hot; sweet and creamy enough to stick to the roof of his mouth, exorbitantly chocolatey, and — though he had no complaints about it — at least a quarter rum.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he puffed, stifling a cough, out of surprise more than intolerance. He usually sips it straight.
“I’ll just drink it slowly,” she said. “Doubt I’m a heavyweight like you, though.”
“What d’ya mean by that?” He asked through a grin.
She gestured up and down at him. “You’re like the fucking Hulk.”
He tried not to let his feathers get all puffed up at that. Easier said than done. “More for me, then.”
“Uh-huh,” she droned, plodding out of the kitchen with her mug in hand. “You got cards or something?”
“Cards?” He carped, leaning beside the archway.
She shot him a vindictive glance, stopping by the dog to run her hands through his fur, as he watched the altercation with his big dumb smile and his tongue hanging out. “Or, what, would you rather sit around and talk about your feelings?”
“Should be some under the telly,” he said, plainly amused.
“Thought not,” she muttered, as she put her mug down on the coffee table and began rifling through the TV cabinet. Once she found the deck of cards she made her way to the dining table. “Y’ever played rummy?”
He chortled as he sat in the chair opposite her. “Been a while.”
“Good,” she nodded, already dealing out the cards between them, “then I’ll beat you.”
Four rounds in, and she hadn’t yet been proven wrong.
She was all smug about it, too, beaming at him every time she lay a set of cards down on the table; now when she put them down they were wonky and overlapping, because she had already just about finished her third mug of spiked cocoa. She had earlier brought the whole saucepan over to the table, in fact, with the ladle sitting in it for ease of access.
He wasn’t far ahead of her, but it had evidently not hit him as strongly. Where he was slightly warm in the ears, she had warmed all over — plain in her vibrant eyes and coy smile, in the tongues she poked at him when he lost, again, and — right as she declared her victory, the feet she nonchalantly propped up on his thigh under the table.
As if she had done it unconsciously, she carried on sweeping the cards back up to shuffle them again. He smothered the urge to remark on it with two hard gulps of his hot chocolate, finishing mug number three with a loud sigh. Stupidly, he didn’t want to spook her into removing them.
“That’s the spirit,” she crooned, nudging the ladle in his direction and nodding at him to refill. “A little more and you might be able to beat me.”
He chuckled, obliging. “I’m goin’ easy on you.”
“Psh,” she snorted. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”
“I’m figuring it out,” he said, scooping the now lukewarm chocolate milk into his mug. “Got your tells down.”
“There’re no tells in rummy, idiot, it’s not poker.”
“Sure there are,” he jeered. “Every time you’re about to put cards down there’s a shiteating grin on your face.”
“Ooo,” she hooted, dealing out the cards again, “aren’t you observant. I smile when I’m winning. Reckon you’ve got a knack for reading people?”
He fanned out his cards once she dealt them. “Better than you.”
“Dunno about that,” she teased, flipping between her cards to organise her hand. “I’ve got a pretty good read on you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she squinted at him, “you’ve got a little dent between your eyebrows. And — look, your lips are all tight. Ha — you’ve got another losing hand, don’t you?”
He smirked. Triple kings, triple fours, a ten-jack-queen trio, and a lonely ace. Such a fortuitous hand that he wondered if she had counted the cards and dealt them this way on purpose, another effort to make up her debt to him. He needed another four, another king, or a nine for a clean sweep.
“You’re up,” he nudged, when he saw she was still watching him, though it was her turn to kick off the round.
She picked up from the stockpile. Let out a little scoff of disappointment; bad card. She discarded it face-up. A ten of clubs. He picked up next, his a useless one too — eight of diamonds — so he chucked it. She smiled impishly and plucked it up, adding it to her hand, and tossing down her discard. No doubt she was proud of that one, so gleeful when she could show off that she had something good brewing.
Didn’t matter, though. He was sure his grin was shiteating now, too. The card she dropped was the king of spades.
He picked it up, to her dismay, and reorganised his cards for dramatic effect. Then he lay down his triple fours — paused to see her reaction, and her lips pursed — then his ten-jack-queen set, then topped it off by dropping his quadruple kings atop of the rest, and flicking his final ace at her.
“Rummy,” he barked, drumming on the table with his palms to congratulate himself, “s’that what you say?”
She was slack-jawed. Snottily tossed her cards across the table and huffed as she slumped back into her chair. The satisfaction he felt was probably a little juvenile.
“What the fuck,” she moaned.
“What’d I tell ya,” he crooned, sipping from his mug.
“I don’t wanna play anymore,” she grumbled, half-joking but half-serious, because her feet slipped from his lap, and she went to stand.
“Fuck me, you’re a princess,” he derided, snickering, “have some more o’ your cocoa, might make a comeback.”
“Nah,” she huffed, pottering towards the kitchen, “the cream’s making me sick. What else’ve you got?”
No surprise that she’d waste all his chocolate and half his rum only to discard the bulk of it once she grew sick of it. It was, though, excessively rich to be the drink of choice for the remainder of the evening, should he continue drinking — which he was planning on doing. He wondered if it could be refrigerated or if it would go lumpy in the cold.
He left it on the table as he joined her in the kitchen, standing behind her where she stared vacantly into the open fridge. He reached around her to fetch a beer, ready to head back into the sitting room, until her head fell back and bounced against his chest. He was certain she wasn’t drunk enough for it to be a matter of keeping balance, but he elected not to consider any other motivation she might have had. He didn’t push her off, though he should have.
“I don’t want beer,” she groaned.
“What d’ you want, then.”
She sighed. “Gin and tonic. With lemon.”
“Don’t have gin or tonic. Or lemon.”
“Obviously,” she snipped. “Just whiskey and beer and misery.”
He chuckled. An apt stocktake of his booze supply. “Well, pick one of ‘em. That’s all you’re getting.”
She moaned histrionically as she grabbed a beer, too. Better that she stuck with something a little lower in percentage than the half-rum chocolate she had thrown together, he thought. She slipped out from under him, then, twisting off the cap and tossing it carelessly onto the counter.
“C’mon, then, Johnny,” she cooed as she strutted past the dog, and Simon swallowed dry, “let’s put on some music. Wanna dance with me, boy? Yeah?”
Something about that puppy-voice she put on had the dog immediately up and wired, bounding alongside her as if she were about to take him out into the snow for the third time that day; instead she stopped at the CD rack beside the TV.
“You got a favourite, Simon?”
Gave him a bit of whiplash to hear her say his name like that, casually as she might have if she had known him for more than five days.
“Don’t listen much,” he replied, tipping his beer into his mouth.
“Do you do anything fun?” She taunted, flipping through a couple of jewel cases.
“Xbox is fun,” he said, mostly as a joke.
She snickered. “Oh, yeah, right.. Still young at heart, eh?”
“Still young all over,” he said mordantly, and she shot him a sly glance for that.
“We’ll see about that.”
He didn’t ask her what she meant by it. She continued perusing the CDs unfazed, collecting a few options in a stack on her palm.
“Surely there’s one you like,” she groaned. “What about… the Police?”
He grunted. “Piss off.”
“Billy Idol… Queen… Ha — Wham. Jesus, big fan of the eighties, are you?”
“They’re not mine.”
“Right, duh. Belong to the random guy you stole this house from.”
“I was given it,” he clarified, just then remembering the lie he had told her a few days earlier.
“Whatever,” she hummed. “What about — ooo — U2. Now we’re cooking.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” he huffed, rubbing his brow testily before he knocked back a sip of his beer.
“Oh, would you rather we sit in silence? Does that sound like more fun to you?”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, but she was already feeding the CD into the slot in the player. “I’m goin’ for a piss.”
She was too busy fiddling with the buttons to acknowledge him as he wandered towards the hallway. The air was cooler down the hall, and marginally easier to breathe. If he had any left he’d have lit himself a cigarette, because he felt a throbbing in his temples that only nicotine could remedy. Or, if he was lucky, more booze. He forbade himself from seeking another antidote.
He pissed for what felt like a day, then ran his hands under cold water for a minute or two. For motivations that eluded him, he then opened the drawer under the sink and unzipped her spongebag. Fingered through it out of a curiosity he could not justify. A few makeup odds and ends that he could identify as makeup but not much more than that, some sort of face cream or other, tampons, dental floss, mango lip balm, candy pink nail polish. He wondered what other bits and bobs she had left in places he hadn’t discovered yet.
He zipped it shut when he heard the music start, explosively loud before it was swiftly turned down; and next he heard laughter, and a cloying I’m so sorry, sweet boy, did that give you a fright? Sorry baby, oh, I’m sorry…
He hovered once he reached the end of the hallway.
She held the dog up by his paws as if waltzing with him by the fireplace, swaying romantically and all, and the dog’s jaw hung loose as he enthusiastically panted. Fucking schmoozer, that boy. Watched her sing like the sun shone out of her mouth; I have cliiimbed hiiighest mountains, I have ruuun through the fiieelds, oooonly to beee with youuuu!
He stayed out of sight because he knew that, once observed, she’d revert to something more cautious and demure. Schrödinger's butterfly. He only watched with a grin.
She let the dog down gently when she went to grab her beer; she sucked down four brave gulps and coughed, then another three. Getting herself pissed, he guessed, either to cope with her circumstances or to gird herself for something, and he did his best not to imagine what that could be.
Next she spun around, held her bottle to her mouth like a microphone; it was waaarm in the niiiight, I was cooold as a stooone… but I stiiiill haven’t foouund, what I’m lookin’ foooorrrrr!
The dog was barking now, and she cackled, holding the bottle-microphone towards him instead. “Oooh, you’re such a good singer! Yes you are! Yes you are!”
He finished off the last few sips of his beer as he finally emerged from the dark of the hallway, deciding he had lurked there long enough, and went to grab himself another bottle from the fridge. He’d rather make his presence known than have her catch him there, watching her from the shadows like a reprobate.
Seemed he appeared too abruptly, though, because when she looked up to see him approaching she let out a cartoonish gasp, stumbling onto her back foot, and as though caught in a comedy of errors next she yelped; “Ow! Motherfucker.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he chided, as she hopped towards a shelf to balance herself on, “What’d you do?”
He turned down the volume knob on the CD player as he approached her, nudging the concerned dog out of the way. She kicked up her left foot, peering over her shoulder to try and get a glimpse of the bare sole.
“Think it’s a splinter,” she said through teeth, frustrated. “There’s kindling and shit everywhere.”
He was chuckling, and she patently disapproved.
“It’s not funny,” she spat. “It hurts.”
“I bet,” he snickered, “you gonna keep whining or are you gonna ask me to get it out for you?”
She let out a long and theatrical sigh. Evidently assessing whether she’d be flexible enough to do it herself. “Can you get it out for me. Please.”
Didn’t even have to tell her to use the magic word. He smiled, pacifying a chuckle with a sip from his fresh bottle. “Sit.”
She hopped towards the sofa and fell into it clumsily, and he wondered whether she had finished another beer in the time he spent in the bathroom. She looked a bit surprised when he dropped himself into the cushions beside her.
“Aren’t you going to use tweezers or something?”
“Don’t need ‘em.”
She chuffed. “You don’t strike me as precise with your fingers.”
He looked at her reprovingly. She wore a knowing smirk, then stifled a snicker, as if she picked up on the innuendo she herself had put there only after uttering the words.
“You’d be surprised,” is all he said.
She squinted at him, and he thought she might say something a little more overtly lascivious, but instead she asked; “Did you wash your hands after you pissed?”
He snorted. “Yep.”
“Mmmkay,” she jeered doubtfully.
“C’mere, then,” he grunted, a little impatient, reaching down to grab her by the ankle; she shimmied slightly but he did most of the maneuvering for her, swivelling her on her bottom until her feet were in his direction and her back was against the armrest.
Her uninjured foot rested itself on his thigh, cold even through his sweats. Cute feet. Found himself smirking when he noticed her freshly painted toenails, in that same cotton-candy pink she had in her spongebag. Painted them just today, by the looks. Who’d you do that for, he thought, just for me?
“Should’ve been wearing socks,” he remarked instead.
“Whatever.”
“You’re the one always whingeing about the fuckin’ cold,” he said, tugging her injured foot to get a closer look at the sole; it was small and soft in his hand, and he snickered when her toes curled up anxiously. Right below the ball of her foot, in the soft, uncallused centre, a miniscule sliver of wood about half a centimetre long was embedded beneath her skin.
He put the pads of his thumbs on either side of it, but before he was even able to squeeze, she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. “Ow!”
He scoffed in disbelief. “Haven’t even touched it yet.”
“Well, be gentle,” she groaned.
“You’re a big girl,” he grunted, lining up his thumbs again. “Deep breath, eh?”
She inhaled deeply and held it, wrenched her eyes shut and all; so he dug his thumbs in, and after not even a second of squeezing, half of the splinter poked out from the skin.
“That hurt,” she squeaked, and he chuckled.
“Christ, you’re dramatic.”
“You’ve got fucking bear hands,” she snapped, “I’m surprised you didn’t crush all my foot bones.”
“I’m being gentle,” he insisted, returning his focus to the splinter and trying to pinch it with his fingernails. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a pretty foot.”
She snickered. “Like feet, do you?”
“I like pretty things,” he said.
She laughed impishly, and her other set of toes dug ever so slightly into his thigh. He gritted his teeth in an effort to ignore it, because she had surely done it by accident. “Do you— Ow!”
Cut herself off with a squeal as he finally got a grip of the tiny sliver, but she bucked her foot before he was able to pull it out, and he groaned exasperatedly.
“Fuck’s sake, keep your foot still.”
“I’m trying,” she spat, “you need tweezers, you keep poking it.”
“If I can pick shrapnel out without tweezers I can pull out a fuckin’ splinter.”
She frowned at that, and only then did he realise his mistake. “Shrapnel?”
He was lost for an excuse for a moment. A nevermind would’ve only dug his hole deeper, as would any attempt to deny what he said. What day jobs might involve shrapnel, he wondered, and she curiously tilted her head the longer he took to respond.
“You picked shrapnel out of someone?” She asked, and he sighed. “Or is that a secret, too?”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted, distracted now, as he finally got a grip on the splinter again; and before she could fling her foot around, he tugged it with a steadfast pluck — and, there, it was out. She yelped through her teeth, but he shut her up; “Jesus, look — all done.”
She exhaled in relief when she saw the piece of wood between his fingers, and he flicked it away.
“Thank you,” she puffed.
He thought that might be the end of her questioning, but she instead made herself comfortable where she was curled up on the sofa, adjusting her foot on his lap and all.
“You’ve told me, like, nothing about yourself,” she moaned, a little petulant, like sulking might goad him into sharing a little more.
“You’re no open book.”
“I can be,” she said. “I’m not hiding anything. You just haven’t asked.”
His head rocked over the back of the sofa. He certainly had questions, some more appropriate than others, but he hadn’t indulged them. Figured it was unnecessary seeing as her departure from his life was imminent, and there was little point in deepening a connection that was inherently temporary.
“Alright, then. Got a question,” he said anyway.
Her eyes brightened a little. “Shoot.”
“You runnin’ from something?” He asked, tilting his head to look at her.
She sighed resentfully. Took her a moment to answer the question, her eyes flicked between his for a short while as though assessing whether he deserved to hear it.
“Kind of,” she said.
“Boyfriend?”
At that she snickered. “No.”
Good. He hoped his relief wasn’t visible. “Go on, then.”
“I dunno. It’s stupid,” she paused to rub her eyes in frustration, then rested her head against the couch cushion, “I just… I was sick of everything. Needed a change. A fresh start, or whatever.”
“And a blizzard was the perfect time for your fresh start, was it?” He sneered.
She scoffed. “It wasn’t a blizzard when I left.”
“Were you headed somewhere?”
“Not really,” she said.
“Seemed pretty desperate to get to Hazelton.”
She laughed. “I was desperate to get to a population centre. You’re pretty scary, you know.”
Obviously. He held no illusions about it; he was not a good mannered man. Had no interest in nor ability to maintain any social grace, and his appearance was no help to him. He could only grin at the remark, though, because despite all that it seemed she was no longer scared of him.
She wouldn’t still be sitting there if she were. She wouldn’t be wearing those little shorts around him. She wouldn’t have allowed him to continue holding her foot, mindlessly running his thumb along the arch. He should’ve let go of her. It was warm in his hand, though. And soft. He didn’t want to.
She wore a little smile, slightly dim in the eyes as they lazily blinked at him. It struck him, then, that it might just be the booze.
“Your turn,” she said.
“What.”
“I answered your question, now you have to answer one of mine.”
He quirked his brow at that. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine,” he capitulated with a huff, “y’get one.”
She pouted, looking to the side and bouncing her free foot. It was a while before she spoke, so he prompted her; “C’mon, then.”
“Hold on, I’m just — I’m trying to figure out how to fit all my questions into one question.”
“That’d be cheating.”
“No, it’ll be one question. That’s what you said.”
“Alright, Christ — get it out, then.”
“I’m thinking!”
“Better be good.”
She thought for a moment longer, until her face suddenly lit up.
“Are you, like, a secret agent?” She asked, and his eyes shot to her. Likely too harsh a glance, because her smile went away, and she softened it with; “or something?”
No, he was not, but her childish guess brushed far too close to the truth for his liking. “Where the fuck’d you get that from?”
“Um,” she was a little on edge, now, sitting upright and prompting him to let go of her foot. It landed next to her other one on his thigh. “Well — you’re always sneaking off to make phone calls, and, like… your laptop looks like it’s bulletproof. And you’ve got guns everywhere. Everywhere. Who has that many guns? We’re not in America.”
“You’ve—”
“Also, like, whose house is this? There’s so much random shit around, it’s like fifty people have lived here before. And you’re out in the middle of nowhere, it’s like you’re in hiding or under cover or something.”
Her questions tumbled from her lips with an air of humour and fascination about them; evident that she didn’t understand how close she teetered to the truth, and that she had left him with very little room to come up with a believable enough excuse to cover all of it.
“That’s more than one question,” was all he said. It was all he could say.
Her face sunk at that. Smile gone, eyes lidded and brows knitting in patent disappointment. “Okay, then answer just the first one.”
“No.”
“Are you kidding me, but you said—”
“That’s the answer,” he clarified through a stiff jaw.
She squinted at him. “I don’t believe you,” she spat, “you’re obviously hiding something. Either you’re some kind of secret agent or you’re a serial killer.”
He tilted his head. “Which do you reckon I am.”
“Well, if you were a serial killer you’d have killed me already.”
“Still might.”
“No you won’t,” she snorted, a little emboldened by the liquor in her system, he supposed. “You’re a big softie under all that.”
He could only chortle. “So I’m a secret agent, then, am I?”
“Or… maybe a soldier, or something,” she thought aloud, looking at him circumspectly. “Are you?”
Observant little shit. “Y’already asked your question.”
“So you are!”
“No.”
“You’re lying,” she snipped, frustrated, “I can tell you’re lying.”
“Not so good at reading people after all, eh?”
“You fucking suck,” she grouched, shoving his leg with her feet as she swivelled herself to stand, and at first he was content watching her walk away.
Until — and he should have seen this coming — she unlatched the front door.
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he barked, but by the time he lept up from the sofa she had already torn open the door and sprinted out into the black of the night.
He was up and running before he lost sight of her, out the door with a firm stay, Johnny and without putting his boots on — though he should have — but the stupid fucking girl had run out into the shin-height snow in nothing but those tiny shorts and her hoodie. Perhaps she had done it just to spite him.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” He roared after her; she was sprinting in zigzags as if an effort to lose him, but he could hear the squeaks in her panting through the still air. Wouldn’t be long until her feet were numb.
She was lucky that it wasn’t windy or white-out, because despite the subzero chill of the air, body heat was enough to keep one temporarily immune to the dry cold. The booze would certainly have helped, though.
She was a speedy thing, but not as fast as him; his legs were far longer, stronger too, and he was quickly closing the distance. He wrestled with the idea that he might have to tackle her, because there wasn’t a way to do that without hurting her — but it seemed gravity did the job for him. She tumbled hands-first into the snow with a squeal, surprising him with a high-pitched giggle as she thrashed to get herself oriented before he caught up with her.
He reached down to grab her; “C’mere, you fu—”
Interrupted by a flash of white and a burning cold across his cheeks as she hurled a handful of snow at his face, followed by a loud and breathless cackle. She was beaming as he brushed the snow away, proud of herself, but before she could scoop up another snowball he had his hand around her arm and was yanking her out of the powder.
“You are a little shit,” he grumbled, hauling her over his shoulder like he had the first time; “and you’re stupid.”
“And you’re a grumpy old hermit with a stick up your ass,” she grouched, but the spite didn’t quite conceal the amusement in her throat.
“Watch it,” he retorted, glad she couldn’t see the smile that was fighting to dimple his cheek. “You’re already in trouble.”
“Ooo, what’re you gonna do?” She taunted. “Give me a hiding?”
Her ass was, literally, right next to his head, and the thought had admittedly crossed his mind. “Might do.”
She only laughed — nothing witty to say to that one — as he carried her in through the open door, and past the dog who dutifully waited in its frame, tail wagging ferociously to greet them.
“Your friend’s a big fuckin’ brute, Johnny,” she crooned as he escorted her towards the fire, he could feel the dog jumping up his backside to reach her petting hand where it hung from him. She yelped when he slid her off, dropping her unceremoniously to her feet right in front of the woodburner.
Now she was shivering, the snow stuck to her bare legs finally catching up to her. Her hoodie was saturated once the snow melted, shorts too.
“Feel better?” He asked, bitterly facetious, going to shut and lock the front door.
“T-there’s snow in my undies,” she stammered, through a sheepish smile, and he fought the impulse to laugh at that.
He had to exhale at that, because now his mind was between her legs, ruminating on the snow melting into her cunt. Wondered if it felt strangely good for her against her heat. If she’d now be icy to the touch down there. If the melt would dribble down his fingers.
“I bet,” he sneered. “Better take ‘em off, then.”
Her mouth hung open in mock-horror. “You are a pervert.”
“Never said I wasn’t, did I?”
No doubt he was getting a bit too bold, because her eyes narrowed suspiciously at that, playful grin shrinking into a wry little smirk. He knew, in the pit of him, that he ought to shut his mouth. To put a sock in it and go to bed, and hope that she passed out on the couch with the dog, because he couldn’t guarantee that his dreams would stay dreams if she slipped in beside him again.
“I s’pose you didn’t,” she snorted, as he went to the kitchen to put the kettle on; something to distract himself, so he didn’t stand there watching her shed her wet hoodie like a degenerate.
He was watching, though. The only thing under the hoodie was white singlet. No bra under it, he could see the faint shadow of her nipples through the thin cotton, pebbled and conspicuous from the cold. Tits bounced a little as she dumped the hoodie on the floor and her arms fell to her sides, bounced even more as she plodded towards the kitchen.
Where he expected her to stop and make some snide remark, she instead strode right past, down the hallway.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” He barked, following on instinct, because he strongly suspected she’d be hopping back into his bathroom for an hour-long shower to warm herself up again.
Wrong on both counts. She went straight to his bedroom. “To bed,” she said snidely.
“No the fuck you aren’t,” he chided, but she had already leapt onto his bed by the time he made it to his bedroom door.
She rolled over, sitting to face him, leaning back on her hands that sunk into the blankets. Bare knees together. Watching him with faux-innocence and a faint smile, because — obviously — she was doing it on purpose. Pretty clear to him now, in fact, that she had been from the start.
“Get off the bed,” was all he could say, and it came out tightly.
“I’m tired,” she said, artificially stroppy. She was buzzing with energy, he could see it in the way her eyes flickered about him, downward from his face and back again.
“Don’t care. You’re back on the couch.”
She pouted, tilting her head and fluttering her lashes and all, tipping her knees side to side — but she did not move from where she sat.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” he ordered, reaching for an ankle; she didn’t make a single effort to escape him as he ensnared her, and he pulled her down the bed until she was sprawled flat with her feet dangling off the end of the mattress.
“Like what?” She moaned, as she sat upright, now too close to him. Her face a foot from his lower stomach. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.
On purpose. No doubt about it. Against his better judgement, he hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her head back; she blinked at him, wide-eyed and wet-lipped, as if surprised he’d have touched her at all despite her palpable desperation for him to do just that.
Playing with fire, as usual.
Fucking around. Finding out.
“Like you’re asking to get fucked,” he said.
Her face smoothed over at that, as if the matter were suddenly deathly serious. No longer fun and games. What did you expect, he wanted to ask — did she think he’d let her poke and prod indefinitely? That he didn’t have a fuse she was actively burning short?
She had nothing to say to that. Her eyes jumped around his face, looking for a sliver of humour, any evidence that he might not have been serious. She’d find none, because he was.
“Last chance to head back to the couch,” he murmured, after her lengthy silence, and he felt her swallow against the finger her soft palate rested on.
“Or what,” she whispered.
He just about chuckled. As if the answer wasn’t obvious. “Or you’re gonna get fucked.”
She stood up, then. Slowly, slightly wobbly, a hand on his stomach to regain her balance as she came to full height in the small gap between his body and the bed. It wasn’t quite disappointment that struck him, nor was it relief; something in between, or a sticky emulsion of the two. For the best, he thought, because whatever fragile dynamic they had established would be irreparably altered if he fucked her, and he had no idea for how much longer she’d be stuck with him.
She hesitated, though, eye-level with his sternum and dithering about where to go. Her hand was still on his stomach, though. Warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. Her window of escape was narrowing.
Then, confounding him, her hands slid up to either side of his face — with her nails in his skin, she tugged his head all the way down to hers, where her lips were open and wet — he needed no further instruction. He kissed her.
What else was he to do? She was all but begging for it, and it was palpable in her lips, in how she sucked his air into her mouth, in how she welcomed his tongue, in how her teeth clacked against his in her intensity. He could taste liquor on her breath and chocolate on her tongue, and he only wanted more of it — her claws were in his neck as if he might try to escape her, as if there were anywhere else on earth he’d rather be than right there, with his hands gliding up her back and palming her ass.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he panted through a wet mouth, separating from her briefly to reach behind him and shut the bedroom door; God forbid the fucking dog wander in to see what the fuss was about.
He shoved her with a hand flat on her chest, and she tumbled backwards on the bed with a bounce. Perhaps he had forgotten how strong he was, because she landed far harder than he had intended for her to — but he wasted no time with an apology, already taking handfuls of her tiny fucking shorts and yanking them down with three tugs until they were around her ankles. He tossed them. Undies, too.
“You’re such an asshole,” she puffed in the midst of it, but any anger in the first few syllables quickly syphoned out when he hunched forward and pressed his lips against the inside of her ankle, leaving only whiny air to escape her mouth. Couldn’t help but glide a tongue up the sole of her foot, take a freshly painted toe in his mouth just to hear her squeak when it tickled.
Figures that her pussy was pretty, too. So pretty. He’d have liked to take it in his mouth right then, too, but he resisted the impulse — instead he smeared his mouth up the inside of her leg, crawling up the mattress as he did, until his lips met the velvet-soft skin of her inner thigh. The urge struck him to bite right through it, certain it’d taste like butter and marshmallow — he quelled it with a firm grip of her instead, fingers digging into her meat a bit too hard where he held her by the hips.
His mouth hovered there, though. Breath fanning over her cunt, an inch or two from his lips, he could feel the heat of it against his cheeks — eyes flicked up to meet hers, where she watched him raptly, brows all curled up and eager, mouth hanging loose and sucking air.
How long had she been so desperate, he wondered, that she was so flustered and wanting already? All day? Several? Since the night he found her? Certainly would explain a few things.
He grinned, sinking his teeth into her groin instead, pulling a yelp from her. She hadn’t earned it, had she? How could he reward her behaviour like that? It’d set a bad precedent, he thought.
She groaned exasperatedly in dispute, “you can’t just—”
Bitten off when he leaned back to flip her like a ragdoll, she landed on her front with a squeal, and before she could catch her breath he had already hoisted her hips upward until her ass was in the air. He kneeled behind her, nudging her knees apart so her cunt was spread and open. A sight men have fought and died for. Mouth-watering. Just when he thought he couldn’t get any harder.
“The fuck I can’t,” he grumbled. He was not a patient man, nor was he a tender one; she knew what she was getting when she decided to stay in that room.
He ran a thumb down the slit of her pussy, and it was scalding to the touch, even through the callus. Glossy slick was already leaking from her hole, a sweet droplet of dew dribbling downward towards her swollen clit, and he chased it with the tip of his thumb.
“I hate you,” she whined, hiccuping when he brushed her clit, and he snickered.
“I know,” he chortled, rubbing it just briefly, firm enough circles that her breathing was broken up by weak grunts, and her cute little asshole puckered as she twitched. If he was lucky he might get a go at that one, too.
He lined a finger up with her hole and pushed it in, sinking into the knuckle and pulling a whine from her. Fuck, it was soft, and hot, enveloping his finger like a slick mouth and spasming around him. He hooked it, dug the palp of his finger into a gummy wall and pulled downwards. Then he slipped in another finger, and it went in easy — good, she was already loosening up for him, slick as oil and hot with want.
He was too distracted to scrape together something witty to say, even though another knew it was sliding down his tongue; any words he uttered would turn to pure filth in the air, though, because that’s what his mind was swimming in. Knew you were a slut. Is that what you’ve been doing in the shower, girl? Touching your pussy to the thought of this?
He slid his fingers out of her, and he snickered at the mournful whine she let out in protest. Greedy, impatient thing. He pushed down the front of his sweats to free his cock and, Christ, he didn’t think he’d been that hard in a decade. Maybe in his life. It was far heavier than usual in his hand, leaking from the tip which it almost never did. Ruddy and dark with the copious amount of hot blood that filled it, he could feel his heartbeat where it sat in his palm.
He smacked his shaft against her pussy, just to gird her for it, so she might know the weight of it — then he rutted forward, sliding it along her hole, letting her wetness slicken him. Wouldn’t be wet enough just yet, though — no doubt eating her cunt would’ve helped, but too bad — so he brought his fingers to his lips and hucked up a lump of spit, smearing it over her hole and wiping the residue over his tip.
Her cunt shuddered as he wedged his blunt head against her entrance, resting it there for a beat, waiting for her to loosen up just a little more.
“Deep breath,” he grunted, and she inhaled deeply as instructed; before he tipped forward, pushing himself into her until he bottomed out in one go, and a groan ripped itself from deep in his chest. “Agh — shit.”
Inside she was magmatic, viscid walls soft as velvet that fit so snugly around the length of him it may as well have been vacuum sealed; constricting in waves from her entrance to the deepest part of her, and she let out the sweetest whimpering sound into the blankets beneath her when his cock pressed into the pillowy flesh at the end. Took a steady amount of focus not to blow his load the moment he sunk into her.
His vision went hazy as he pulled himself out, and he was granted the friction of her ridged walls around him, before he plummeted back in again. And again. And again. He found a steady rhythm, a little slower than he felt compelled to, but he didn’t want to hear the bitching if he fucked her hard enough to hurt.
Surprising him, though, she quietly mewled; “harder.”
He didn’t think he heard it, at first. Uttered so sheepishly and desperately that she must have been humiliated to even request it, because she knew the satisfaction he’d get from it — and she was right. He chuckled smugly at her as he leaned forward to rest a hand at the nape of her neck.
“What?” He asked, goading, no effort made to conceal the mocking tone in his throat.
She grumbled frustratedly in response, when he stilled inside her, waiting for her to repeat it. It was clear she struggled to say it, that the first time she uttered it it slipped out by accident — but, after not more than ten seconds, she groaned, “harder.”
And how couldn’t he oblige her? He might have told her to say please, he might have dragged it out just to teach her a lesson — but even his patience was wearing thin.
So he fucked her harder. He leaned a portion of his body weight into the back of her neck, enough to hurt just a little but not enough to do any damage — his other hand gripped the hollow of her waist, thumb dimpling the flesh of her back and yanking her backwards with every rut.
Didn’t take him long to get lost in it. Soon the noises she made were sweeter but harsher, forced out through her teeth with the momentum and muffled by the blankets. Her hands took tight and desperate handfuls of wool, and the arch in her spine deepened with every thrust, and her painted toes curled and spread as her feet scrambled to get a grip.
He wanted to see her face, then. On impulse he flattened her, pulling out just briefly enough to flip her over onto her back, and he spread her legs with his hands on her knees. She took the chance to take her singlet off, twisting and stretching her torso to pull it over her head.
He wondered if she had read his mind, because yes, of course, that’s exactly what he wanted to see; perfect tits, too, bouncing as she lay flat on the mattress, skin sheeny with sweat.
“Take your shirt off,” she panted, eyes fluttering about him expectantly.
He chortled, because he did not expect such a demand from her. He didn’t imagine there was anything particularly appealing about his body these days, unless she were partial to poorly healed tattoos and a hearty layer of two winters’ worth of hibernation fat — that’s what he liked to call it. Maybe she liked his broad shoulders, or his big arms, or the unmaintained wheaten hair across his thick chest, or how it trailed down from his navel to a nice heavy dick.
Couldn’t help but feel a little cocky, could he? Not when he shucked off his t-shirt and she looked at him like that, heavy-lidded and slack-jawed like the sight of him alone made her drunker.
He could have said the same about her. That drinking in the sight of her splayed out in front of him was more potent a panacea than booze had ever been, and it was doubly as addicting. She was perfect, fuck, of course she was, and of course fate would have it that he could only experience such a luxury if it were painfully temporary.
She pulled him out of his reverie by clawing for him, so he obliged — slid the head of his cock down the cleft of her spread pussy, nudging around for her entrance, and sinking in once he found it. Spread her legs with his torso alone, and they hooked around him, needy and forcefully pulling him as deep as she could take him.
He suspended his face above hers, watching every minute detail of her expression as he did; how her brows knitted up tightly, eyes glossy and bright but out of focus, how her teeth sunk into the inside of her lip as if some effort to stifle the delicious little noises that bubbled up her throat each time he pushed in.
His head fell to hers and he landed a slovenly kiss on her cheek, dragged his mouth down her jaw, settled it against her neck. Even her smell was inebriating, the salt of her skin and the floral sweetness of her hair, some biological mechanism in his animal brain was set off when it filled his sinuses and all he wanted to do was eat her. Kissed her there instead, felt her heartbeat against his lips as he fucked her steady.
“So pretty,” he murmured, the words half-formed and murky as he spoke them into her skin. He didn’t even mean to say it, but he did, and she let out a soft giggle between ruts.
Her hands were at his cheeks, then, pulling his head from the crook of her shoulder and meeting him halfway — she kissed him. Properly and eagerly, almost supplicant with her mouth, breathing him in as he did her. Hands brushing over his ears and fingers weaving through his cropped hair, she let out little moans against his lips. Thighs warm and soft against his sides as her legs wrapped around him. Cunt all but sucking him deeper into her, slick enough that it made wet noises as he pulled out and pushed in.
God, she was sweet. What could he possibly have done to get so lucky — though only lucky enough to taste her once, or twice, however many times she let him before she was gone — as to have a thing like her cross his path by pure chance?
She moved her mouth from his lips to his stubbled cheek and kissed him there, and that was enough.
“Agh—fuck, hol’ on—” he spluttered, immediately stalling, because he felt an all-too-familiar surge in the base of him and his cock started to twitch sooner than he thought it would; he tugged his cock out of her all at once, leaving it hanging between her legs and just about holding his breath to make sure he didn’t finish on the blankets.
His head fell to her collarbone, and she snickered softly. “Did you come?”
He let out a puff of laughter. “Not yet,” he grumbled, kissing her there, before he began smearing his lips downwards.
Took a handful of her breast, sunk his lips into the milk-soft skin of it and breathed in deeply — dedicated a moment to her nipple, sucking it into his mouth until he felt it stiffen against his tongue. Travelled down her stomach after that, licking and suckling as he went past her navel, lowering himself down the mattress.
Her breaths turned long and yearning, because she knew where he was going. Spread her legs for him and all, as he kissed where her stomach met her hips; still holding out, just to keep her needy, how he liked her.
He sunk a finger into her pussy, then another, and she was somehow hotter to the touch than before — might find a use for that snow after all, he briefly thought — she tilted her hips towards him, entire body alight with the same desperation he saw in her face. He considered making her wait, making her beg a little, just to hear it; but he didn’t even think he had the patience for it.
He opened his mouth and smeared a flat tongue up her slit, before sealing his mouth to her cunt. She sighed in relief, twitching as he pulled her clit into his mouth, suckling on it and running his tongue up and down all at once — curling and tugging his fingers inside her, too, massaging her from the inside out, and he hoped it felt good like that — seems like it did, because the noises she made now were even sweeter, needier, stickier than before.
Pussy tasted as good as he had imagined it would; heady and vaguely salty, undiluted sex on his tongue. Something indescribably animal that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his cock leak a drop of precum from where it hung between his legs.
Her thighs tightened around his head, feet indecisive in whether they’d prop themselves on his shoulders or hang down his back, hips bucking unconsciously; but he followed her. Didn’t let his mouth separate from her once.
Claws burrowed into his scalp after a moment, deep enough to hurt, and her breathing began to stutter; “f-fuck, Simon, I’m—”
He smiled against her — wanted to hear her say it, but he wasn’t going to grant her the reprieve. He was consistent, avid, precise, and soon her cute noises stopped dead as she sucked down a deep breath and held it there — when she came, her cunt clenched eagerly around his fingers, fast at first before evening out to a slow rhythm, and some part of him wished he’d feel that around his cock next.
She exhaled all at once, then, and it came out shrill and wanton, before she finally put her palms on his forehead and tried to push him away. For a moment he didn’t, kept his tongue busy, just long enough to hear her squeal in dispute but before her pushing turned to hitting.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand once he was done, proud of himself, because she just stared dazedly at him on his way up.
He stroked his cock with one hand as he knelt, debating briefly where he wanted to put it. Her legs were still spread wide, pussy still twitching in the aftermath of what he did for her — but she blinked at him with those pretty eyes, soft lips gently open as she breathed, shiny with saliva.
“Sit up,” he grunted ungracefully as he went to stand at the end of the bed, expecting some whinging or perhaps even a refusal.
Not so. She sat herself up almost immediately, adjusting herself until she was on all fours, and crawling in his direction with the faintest smirk in her lips.
She replaced his hand with hers when she knelt in front of him, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, running the palp of her thumb along the ridge underneath from the base to the tip. Peered up at him through her eyelashes as though supplicating, waiting for him to tell her what she wanted, even though she already knew the answer.
He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, settling a hand on the side of her head. “Your turn.”
So she complied. Opened her mouth so her tongue could slide out past her bottom teeth, and she dragged it up the length of him, focusing pressure on the sensitive underside of his head. She kissed the shiny tip, lapped up the dollop of precum that oozed from it, before she wrapped her lips around the head whole.
Then she sank lower. Fuck, she was good. Purposefully slow at first, cheeks hollowing out where she added suction, the texture of her tongue rougher the closer he got to the back of her throat. He was not surprised that she couldn’t take him whole, buffered by her fist around the base of his shaft, she got about two-thirds of the way down before she gagged and her pretty eyes started to water.
He found a grip of her hair, the other hand cupping her jaw as she reeled back and sunk back down; picking up speed now, and pulling an ursine growl from deep within his chest, she held onto his hip with her free hand and stroked his cock with the other.
Jesus, it wouldn’t take her long. Not when she looked up at him like that, eyes glossy and contrite as if this was her way of seeking his forgiveness, of repaying her debt to him, of pleasing him for the sake of it. Not when she sucked him off so devotedly, carefully, avoiding using her teeth but lavishing with her tongue. Not when something so deliciously yet dangerously perfect had popped into his life and was there, somehow, choking on his cock in his bedroom, so indistinguishable from a hallucination borne of solitude that the closer he got to coming the less he believed she were real.
“Mph, fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect,” he grumbled, before his neck gave out and his head tumbled back from his shoulders, “shit. That’s it, fuck—”
She was unrelenting as his cock jerked in her mouth, as his stomach sunk and all the muscles in the base of him tightened up — with a hoarse groan he came, toppling over the edge with enough momentum that it left him breathless, as her tongue and hand milked the come out of him. He felt her swallow around him, and his come kept pumping, filling up her throat — but she continued draining him, sucking it down dutifully, hungrily, until there was nothing left for his balls to squeeze out — and she continued still.
He made noises he didn’t think he was capable of, too close to whimpers as he pulled at her hair and keeled forward, not yet willing to force her off but barely withstanding the overstimulation of her busy tongue.
“F-fuck, easy,” he growled, panting like a dog, when he finally yanked her head away from him. She maintained the suction until he finally pulled his cock from her mouth, and it came out with a wet pop, and it kept twitching as it hung heavy. “Jesus.”
She grinned sweetly, licking her lips like she’d just finished a meal, before she wiped her bottom lip with the tips of her fingers. She fell backwards, then, arms outstretched as she landed on the mattress with a light bounce and a sated sigh.
He took a moment to catch his breath before he lazily crawled up the bed, until he collapsed on top of her, squishing the breath out of her when he rested his head between her breasts. The quiet that fell afterwards was heavy, broken up only by the ragged breathing of the two of them, and the sound of her fingers thoughtlessly tracing the shell of his ear.
Gooseflesh travelled down his neck from where she touched him. Something treacly and warm was thawing inside him, heavy, aching somewhere between his lung and his stomach. A repletion he didn’t deserve to feel, he thought, one so serendipitous that it had to have been the sugar before the medicine. A trick of the light, a ploy enacted by whoever was tallying his misdeeds to get his guard down before his true sentence befell him.
Too lucky, he thought. He was too lucky.
“Isn’t it weird,” she panted, staring vacantly at the ceiling, “isn’t it weird that we met in the middle of nowhere?”
He had no clue where her train of thought was taking her, but for a moment he genuinely wondered if she was listening to his thoughts. It was weird. A fucking fluke, for her sake, because she would have died without him. For his sake, because for the first time in a decade he hadn’t thought about dying at all.
“Who’d’ve thought,” she hummed.
He grunted in place of a response, too tired to think up something more meaningful. Who’d have thought, indeed, because he certainly never would have.
“I kinda like it here,” she said dreamily.
He grinned a little at that, despite himself. She sure as hell hadn’t been acting like it; not until today, anyway. “Uh-huh.”
She sighed, and his head rose and fell with it. “It’s a shame.”
“What’s a shame,” he murmured.
“That I’ll have to leave.”
He exhaled hoarsely, scooping an arm underneath her, trapping her on the bed beneath him. Perhaps she was right from the start, right to be all twitchy and nervous when he first brought her through his door; because even after all her begging and all his promises, after all of her attempts to escape, all of the ways she infuriated and dumbfounded him — he had no intention of letting her leave.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said.
By late spring, the rocky road into Smithers was far less perilous to drive.
Once the snow had cleared, and the puddles of melt shrunk with the warming sun, Simon could even drive with the windows down. It certainly wasn’t balmy, by any stretch — but anything above zero was tropical, to him, after two years tucked up in the mountains. And that day, it was a whole seven degrees.
He’d gotten better about his supply runs. More regular, more organised. Where he’d once leave them to the very last day — forcing him to make the two-hour drive to the Safeway in a squall — he now returned monthly. Got a bit more generous with his shopping lists, too. He’d always been a pragmatic shopper, buying only the barest of necessities, meat and potatoes and beans. In the back of his truck, now, he had a diverse range of goods. Ingredients for actual meals. Sweeter things, too. Marshmallows. Gin. Lemons.
Johnny’s furry head stuck out the back window, his mouth wide open and tongue flapping in the wind, chomping at the bugs that flew by as if he had any chance of catching them. Dog always preferred the warmer months, because he could spend more time outside, didn’t have to spend all day sitting around the fireplace while Simon sheltered from the bitter cold.
The CD player in the centre console flipped over to the next song. One he didn’t know the title to, because he hadn’t chosen the CD.
His lucky girl sat in the passenger seat. Singing half-gibberish along to the song she clearly didn’t know much better than he did, with the window rolled down, and her hand surfing the wind. Speckles of evening sunlight danced over her where it was broken up by the trees, she just about glittered in it. He couldn’t help but smile like an idiot.
She gave him a reproachful glare when she caught him looking at her. “Eyes on the road.”
He snickered. “They are.”
“Not having you spin out like I did,” she snipped, through a smirk, “eyes on the road.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, obliging only after another few seconds, just before it looked as though she were about to repeat the command without the humour underpinning the first two.
“You can look all you want when we get home,” she chided.
Never ceased to warm him up when she called it that. Home. It had never felt much like one until she stumbled into it, but she dug her roots in quickly. Filled in the gaps like spackle, held it together like glue. Warmed it up better than the woodburner. How lucky he was.
Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.
Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.
He took it off?
Worse. Way worse.
That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.
He’d seen it once before.
A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”
The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.
Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.
So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.
“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.
You’d barely finished your sentence.
“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”
“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”
He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.
“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”
She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.
You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”
He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”
“I’m serious.”
“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”
Days later.
Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.
You froze.
Then grinned.
“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
Too late.
You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”
“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”
“Simon.”
He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”
“She deserves—”
“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”
You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”
Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.
Then–
The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.
Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.
Simon froze.
“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.
She peeked out.
And saw him.
Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...
Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”
That was it.
Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.
“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.
You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.
He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.
Instead—
She laughed harder.
Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.
Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.
Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.
You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”
She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.
He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”
You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”
He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.
And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.
Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.
She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.
MASTERLIST 🍎
A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all 🍓
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn!Reader (+ Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish)
CWs: hurt/comfort at its finest. First sentence is a TW for the whole drabble tbh. More platonic than anything, but sometimes we all need a friend like him (and who knows where this will go).
Happy Valentine's Day! 🧡
18+
"You ever want to get fucked just to feel useful?"
Simon's eyes fleet to you, blinking idly. He's tipsy enough for his ears to cotton your voice, but the alcohol hasn't fogged up his brain yet.
Still, he takes a sip from his whiskey. The ice clinks against the glass. Patrons come and go by your booth, footsteps and chatter brusquely invading your little sanctuary, before softening as they leave you behind. The low hum of music frames their voices, occasionally causing the liquor in his tumbler to vibrate when the bass hits during a song.
Johnny's voice can be heard as he bellows the orders to the bartender over the commotion of the pub. Kyle leans against the bar top, chin propped in a hand, making sweet eyes at said bartender.
When they stood up to get fresh drinks, you seized the moment and posed that question to him. Briefly, Simon wonders why him above literally everyone else.
"You do?" He asks.
You're folded over the table, cheek plastered on your forearm. He watches you tilt the glass. Liquid amber sloshes before settling diagonally. You stare at it with hooded eyes, seemingly drunk beyond repair.
"Only sex I know."
He cocks his head. "Tha' so?"
You nod.
His own question is warranted. "Why's tha'?"
Your brows tighten, eyes dancing about the liquor rippling in your glass—as if the answer is written in there and you just have to fish it out.
"I like it," you offer after a handful of seconds. "To feel useful."
He gestures at you with his glass. "There are other ways," he reasons.
"Are there?"
Simon leans back, extending his arm along the backrest of the bench. He's focused on you, but you're fixated on the alcohol you're not drinking anymore.
"Yer job," he shrugs, sipping on his whiskey. "Dunno. Helpin' the neighbour with the kids. Volunteering at the shelter."
"No," you frown. "Those would make me feel like a good person. I'm not a good person."
He snorts. "Yer mad."
"Am I?"
"Yer the nicest person I've met."
"Haven't met many people, have you?"
"Fair." He raises his glass at you with a half-smile. "But I rest my case."
You scoff. "Stop that."
Perhaps this is more than just drunk rambling. He curses his curiosity and the natural way your bond on the job has deepened into something more personal. Debating on whether to push you to talk or just to let you be, he tongues his cheek.
Alright, he'll bite.
He jerks his chin your way. "Bad person, then?"
You mull over it. "Neutral. Neither good nor bad."
"Better than the latter, no?"
Your glass clinks as you set it back on the counter. Simon watches as you struggle to straighten your spine, flattening your palms onto the table to push yourself up. A groan leaves your lips, voice weakened by the burn of liquor and the exhaustion engraved on your face.
Still, you don't look at him. Your eyes land on your drink as the brown turns golden, diluted by the melting ice. You toy with the glass, twirling it between your fingers.
"I don't know, Riley," you sigh. "At least good and bad people are defined, you know?"
He doesn't speak, instead opting for silence to let you elaborate. In vino veritas, they say—let the alcohol tell what you clearly can't without it.
"I feel like a fraud," you mumble. "Neither bad nor good. Just existing without a purpose. My job is to follow orders and execute them without second thought. I'm a machine with the skin of a person, I—"
Finally, you decide to take a sip from your drink. A gulp, more likely. He watches your throat bob and can't tell if it's because you're swallowing the bourbon or a sob.
Nevertheless, your glass clinks harshly when you set it back on the table.
"I am nothing," you say, gaze finding his. He sees the tears still unshed, the redness of your eyes branching into thin rivers from each corner to your pupils. "Sex... Sex is a balanced way to—to feel like I am something. In that moment, I am irreplaceable. I am good by default, because I'm making the other feel good."
"Reckon's the opposite, love." He shifts in his seat. "Sex is physical. Yer just a body—nothin' more replaceable than a body."
"A good one." You counter, tapping your finger on the table to state your point. "A good body."
His eyes narrow. He watches you over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip. Waits.
"An' on the job?"
"Just a body," you explain. "Not a good one, not a bad one. A body. A-a machine with disposable parts. If I disappear, they'll just put in another one."
Simon kisses his teeth. "Wouldn't be the same one, though, would it."
"Would work the same," you insist. "Would follow orders and execute them."
"Right," he scoffs. "Wouldn't be you."
"No one would notice."
He nods his head in the general direction of Johnny and Kyle.
"We would."
You roll your lips between your teeth, silenced. He's usually proud of his inborn talent to muzzle people with one well-placed reply. Doesn't really understand why, now, instead of satisfaction, there's a chasm opening in his chest.
Your lips curl bitterly, burning holes into the rippling surface of your bourbon. You take another swing. The glass clinks.
"Not the point."
But it is.
He stays quiet. You do as well. Chatter goes on around you. Footsteps stumble nearby, ignorant of your distress. The music hums and vibrates low through the table. The world spins and spins, cruel and unsympathetic.
"I want to feel good—be good,” you whisper. “I feel empty. I want to be filled."
He cocks a brow. "An' you wanna do that by getting fucked."
No need to beat around the bush.
And you're just as blunt. "Fills you up in more ways than just metaphorical, no?"
Simon can't help but snort at that, throwing back his head until it hits the wooden planks lining the booth. He quiets down, staring lazily at the ceiling. A fly skitters around the globe of the lightbulb overhead. Buzzes. He's so focused on his own thoughts that he almost hears it above the chaos.
He understands, somehow. He's drowned his own sorrows in alcohol, drugs, bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies. Though he had nothing inside him that needed to be filled, unlike you—no empty nook eating away at him. Instead, he was trying to unleash the burden on someone else, someone ignorant of it. He was filled with too much and had to release it somewhere in order to breathe again.
He gets it. Been there, done that. Had no one to turn to, though, unlike you. He's never been the sympathetic type: people have left him to his own devices his whole life; it was only fair of him to give them a taste of their own medicine.
But.
But.
When he returns his eyes to you, you're sitting softly, looking sweet. The sourness he left on your face vanished, replaced with something hot and wet. Tears track your cheeks, your lower lip is stuck between your teeth—the dents occasionally soothed by the tip of your tongue. You're batting your lashes, fiddling with your glass to look small and naive.
It's how you get them, isn't it.
Simon sighs. The straight line of his shoulder curves inward, elbows propped on the edge of the table.
"Don't," he offers. Sets the glass down, lacing his finger around it. "Not with me."
He watches your eyes widen and your mouth as it pinches bitterly. A waterfall of emotions rushes past your gaze until it hardens in a vain attempt at hiding the shame of rejection. Your head snaps to the side, fixing on a random spot in the crowd.
"I thought you'd get it," you croak past the lump in your throat.
And he does.
His arm reaches across the table, two fingers setting on your jawline. He traces it, tipping at your chin, and guides you to face him again. Your mouth quivers even as you're clamping down on the corner of your lips.
"S'because I get it that I won't do it," he murmurs. "Not to ya."
He can't tell if it's the alcohol still playing tricks or if, after the shower earlier that day, he hasn't washed the suds away properly, but there's an insistent fizz in his ears that is driving him up a wall. Chatter is muffled, the music suffused. Wetness drips from your cheek to his thumb. Your mouth wobbles, though you stop it by rolling your lips between your teeth again.
You nod weakly.
He pats your cheek gently, drying some of the tears that have escaped, and takes back his hand.
"Deserve better than tha', alrigh'?"
You scoff, shaking your head with a worn smile. He doesn't care if you don't believe him right now—he figures that if he tells you enough times, you might internalise it eventually. Osmotic.
He'll keep that in mind.
The tips of your fingers catch the hem of your sleeve, and you bring it up, rubbing your cheeks to dry them as best as you can.
"Happy Valentine's Day!"
You jolt, sitting upright like you've been called to attention. With a weary sigh, Simon turns his head towards the intruder, who isn't one to begin with.
Johnny smiles, drunk and boyish, as he stands at one end of the booth, holding two pink drinks in his hands. Kyle follows, beelining his way through the crowd and towards the table, holding two more cocktails of the same colour, just different glasses.
"Where's ma lover?" Kyle mumbles with a feigned pout before spotting you, lighting up like a Christmas tree. "There you are."
He slides next to you. Sets the cocktails on the table.
A thick arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you in, smushing his cheek to yours. You can't help but chuckle, patting his other cheek with the hand that isn't trapped between yours and his flank.
"God, Kyle—you're breathing fire," you huff when the smell of gin wafts from his lips.
"And you smell like Ghost, love," he retorts. "Bourbon and sadness."
Simon barks a laugh. Lifts his glass at Kyle with his brows raised, "Cheers."
Johnny sits slumped next to him, cheeks flushed from alcohol and sporting a toothy grin as he takes in the view of his friends being plastered against one another.
"We got Valentine's drinks," he gestures with a lazy hand at the pink concoctions. "Strawberry, uh—Gin, an'—Och, fuck off, somethin' else."
"Ain't drinkin' tha'." Simon drawls.
"Don't ye dare, Simon." Johnny's wobbly finger points at him. "Fifteen quid each. You better inhale tha' shite."
Kyle pouts, still flattening his cheek to yours. "Wanted a discount. Bartender didn't fall for my charm."
You offer a sympathetic coo, patting his thigh with your trapped hand. "It's alright. His loss."
"Ye tell him!” Johnny pitches in. "Lad was ugly anyway."
"Johnny, that's not nice," Simon deadpans, sipping on his whiskey.
Though he keeps his eyes on you, looking directly above the rim of his glass. You're struggling to breathe through your laughter as Kyle leaves drunk and playful kisses on your cheek. You're pushing at his chest, pretending to be disgusted, but the smile on your face says otherwise.
Kyle relents, grin wide and tipsy.
And then he starts rambling about his misadventures with the poor bartender who was just trying to do his job, really. You nod along with his story, occasionally gasping at the apparent emotional injuries Kyle has sustained while he drunkenly tried to hit on a lad who was on the clock and genuinely couldn’t give anyone a discount, most likely.
He softens. Doesn't blame it on the alcohol this time, especially not when your eyes find him again.
Your smile is sincere. Small, barely an outline, really. Something intimate that the drunken looks of the others wouldn't be able to spot. But he does, and it's what matters.
He lowers his glass, showing his lips.
"We would," he mouths, not making a sound.
Simon watches your eyes light up and turn glossy, brows fluttering softly to your forehead. The curve of your mouth broadens, dimpling your cheek.
You nod.
And as the crowd grows loud again, as the music rumbles each bass through the table and the drinks, your mouth parts for him, too—soft and quiet.
thought i’d share a touch of the original fiction i’ve been working on, since it's been so long since i published anything (sorry) <3
He was stirred by a knock on the door.
With it a dollop of excess ink rolled off the tip of his quill, and wet black splatter landed atop the last word he had written: condolences. Anger flared up in him quickly; he growled a curse and crumpled the parchment in a fist, tossing it into the yawning mouth of the fireplace. The ire was gone as it came, though, when his head felt too heavy, and it landed in his hands.
Another knock, purposefully gentle. He already knew who it was.
“Later,” he said.
Aetta’s voice emerged cautiously, muted by the wood. “I’m coming in.”
He only sighed, but she had taken his lack of reply as an invitation; the hinges whined as she pushed open the door, followed by the thunk of it closing behind her. He didn’t lift his head up to acknowledge her.
Her smell drifted in before she approached him. Living in Wargough with his mother had turned the armaid into a proper little lady, it seemed. More handmaid than Chardon, perfume and all. Lavender, thistle, and sage, and an underlying redolence of busybody sweat — that one was the smell most familiar. It made his ribs feel tight, and he cleared his throat. Nostalgia, he supposed.
“How are you faring,” she asked with a croak.
Not surprising that the girl, earnest as she was, would overestimate his grief. Would misconstrue his reticence and moodiness as mourning, and not the tumorous stress that began swelling as soon as he heard of the young Prince’s death — the same worry his father felt even more deeply, no doubt, as he always did. Uncertainty. Impending instability. The looming cloud, leaden and black, of inevitable war.
Dago huffed. “Do you permit me to speak honestly, or should I keep my words pretty for you?”
He was certain she frowned at that. Could picture the little crease between her eyebrows. But his back was still to her, and she hadn’t stepped further into the room.
“You don’t mourn the Prince,” she said. “I know.”
“Is that a guess, or your Chardon shit?”
She scoffed. “You’re in a sour mood.”
“Ooo. You are one for reading me.”
His shoulders tensed when he heard her take a step, and his ears followed her feet as she walked towards his bed. He turned his shoulder and watched her sit on the edge of his mattress, and noticed she was still in her mail. Chain headdress on, too. She had either been dismissed from her post by his mother or had snuck away to speak to him.
“Stop being a prick,” she said.
He rubbed his eyebrow, because there was suddenly a guilty ache in the marrow of his skull. “What do you want.”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
He might have asked her to leave, then, because she had disturbed him for no good reason. He didn’t, though. Some company was necessary, he thought, because in his pestilent solitude he was getting all wound up. Knots in his stomach and brontide beating in his temples that would not abate no matter how hard he breathed.
“We haven’t spoken much since you arrived,” she said, after a moment.
“Don’t you start moaning at me,” he grunted. “I can’t always set aside time for you.”
That hurt her, he could see as much in the way the corners of her lips curled slightly downwards.
“I wasn’t moaning at you, I only…” she stammered, upset, “I thought it would be nice to talk. It’s been more than a year, hasn’t it?”
“You’re—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, standing up quickly and smoothing out her skirts. “I’ll leave you be.”
“No,” he said, though it was closer to a bark, and he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry. I’m struggling with words at the moment.”
Her lips stiffened. “I’m not sure that it’s words alone you’re struggling with.”
“You’re right.”
With the admission she sat back down, albeit tentatively, back straight and perched for a quick departure should he snap at her again. “What’s the matter.”
He leaned forward and carded his fingers through his hair. It was oily. He needed a bath.
“I’m not sure I can explain it,” he murmured.
“Try.”
There was a sternness in her voice that had taken him aback, and he blinked at her. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he thought of what to say.
“The throne the Prince was born to fill will soon sit empty,” he said. “There’s no heir.”
“Eufemia is perfectly well,” Aetta commented pointedly; inappropriately familiar use of the Princess’s first name, one she might have been scolded for in the company of her betters. He was her better, he reminded himself — but he preferred when she treated him like a commoner. In closed quarters, at least.
“It will be a brittle rule, if she ever succeeds the King,” he said.
“She may have a son before then.”
“Even if she does, there’s no saying he’ll live long enough to rule in her stead. Viccar boys die like rabbits.”
She looked out his window, though the pitch dark of night meant there was nothing to see. “You sound like Gerhard.”
His Grace, he almost corrected her. The young dame’s habit of forgetting her place had not been yet trained out of her, evidently.
“I couldn’t give a shit whether it’s a man or a woman’s arse in that throne,” he said, gritting teeth. “We’re on the very brink of war, Aetta. If there is no confidence in a successor the Kingdom will shatter into bits, and Coveny will send their whoring armies through the cracks.”
“That’s what is troubling you?”
“Shouldn’t it be? The world is cruel. People are hungry. Trade is failing. Crops are dying. With this blight you’d hardly know it’s spring. The whole cunting Kingdom is one winter away from crumbling into the sea.”
Aetta was quiet as she considered his words, fingers interweaving on her lap.
“Come here,” she said.
He sat himself straight, squinting at her, searching for a glint of humour in her puppyish eyes — but there was none. She requested it firmly. He could have refused, or demanded that she leave, but instead he stood from his chair and went to sit beside her on the edge of his bed. Left a space of an arm's length between his body and hers.
There was an ease about her that he didn’t see much of anymore. Her shoulders were loose and her expression was sincere; rich brown eyes emotive and warm opposed to sharp and vigilant. The latter he had gotten used to, over the months past — the shrewd apathy of an ordained Chardon, whipped into shape by a year caged up in the Briary. Always sniffing out his thoughts like a truffle pig, primed to dissect and evaluate them. Attuning herself to him, or whatever the fucking Order called it. Witchery, he always thought. Or horseshit.
That rigid, duty-bound stare of hers turned her inhuman in his eyes. The measured cadence she employed since their reunion had been nothing short of estranging.
Now, though, alone with him, Aetta was Aetta again.
“Can you feel that?” She asked.
His brows knitted together as he looked at her, bemused. She was a pretty thing, really, in her own way. He always knew that. Even as a young man of fifteen, the thought would mire his mind, a broken rule in itself; isn’t she pretty. The Brentforte was prettier then, too. Lemon green and sunlit, yellow blossoms in the trees and white clovers in the fields. The horses were bigger, sturdier, and the sheepdogs were happier. Desdemona, that was her name, the bitch with pointy ears and black spots that used to chase him around the meadow as a boy, and who he’d sleep on like a pillow in the afternoon, once she herded him into the stables as his mother had trained her to.
Aetta had a little smile on her face. A faint smirk, lips together, and she tilted her head to observe him. He hadn’t answered her question.
“What,” he said.
“Do you feel better?”
“I…” The air was warmer, now, buttery on his skin and sweet in his mouth, and he drew in a deep breath. “What is that?”
She reached across the space between them and gingerly cradled his hand. She turned his wrist so his palm was up, then pressed a thumb into the centre where the skin was still soft and not yellow and hardened by sword hilts. A tingle travelled along the tendons in his wrist, and gooseflesh crawled up his forearm, to his shoulder, up the side of his neck — then a low hum began sounding in his head, and it made his mind blur at the edges.
His voice came out soft. “You are a witch.”
“Not quite.”
“Might as well be.”
She hummed and offered a smile, focused on his hand, and he watched her. A sable ringlet had escaped from her wimple of mail, floating away from her face and back in as she breathed. A halo of pearls hung around her face, adorning the edge of the chain, with the largest one almost lambent in the centre of her forehead. Far more sumptuous a uniform than the knightly garb she wore at the Brentforte; the great blackstone monolith, where anyone that carried a weapon was a soldier, whether they had cock or otherwise. The court of Wargough was one of great esteem, as his mother might have said; a palace, not a fortress. Armaids were something of an accessory in high society, no doubt, and should look the part.
Look the part she did.
Shame struck him when she glanced up and caught his eye, as though he had been leering at her — but it was smothered quickly by whatever charm she was enacting upon him, and it drifted away like smoke. Lord above, she was bewitching him, plain and simple; she had never appealed to him so deeply until now, while her thumb circled his palm, and her skin gleamed like satin, cheeks toothsome enough to bite. The neckline of her dress was lower than he had grown used to, impractically so; he could see the hollows under her collarbones as she breathed, the slightest slope of her breasts before they were cut off by the tight mail of her bust. A throat so exposed for a fighter like her, he could see her heart beating under her skin. She blinked at him innocently as though blissfully unaware of it all, how she wiled him so brazenly — though he had the distinct sense that she knew what she was doing.
“Is that you?” He asked, intended to be circumspect, but it emerged from his lips breathy with awe.
“Is what?”
“Making me want you.”
Her eyes went wide and she dropped his hand like a hot stone, arms retreating from him and returning chastely to her lap. “What do you mean?”
Whatever warmth he had been basking in was siphoned out with it. It dissipated like sunlight eclipsed by cloud, he felt a shiver as the air turned cool, and his tongue tasted bitter.
“You’re putting thoughts in my head.”
Her brows went flat and she regarded him edgily. “I wasn’t — I’m not able to influence your thoughts, Dago.”
“Well, you did.”
“My only intention was to soften your worry.”
“So you were casting a spell?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “There’s no such thing. I am not a witch.”
“Yet you’ve witched me.”
She looked positively mortified, now, her skin had just about gone grey with it. “What thoughts am I supposed to have put in your head?”
Whatever expression he wore disquieted her, and she shifted slightly where she sat, as though preparing herself for flight. He buried around in his mind for words to give her, but his thoughts had gone porridgy, and everything he conjured he dared not utter aloud; that he was encumbered by the imaginings and hungers of a common lecher. That what had started as a simple admiration had, in a minute, decayed into lust, and he could no longer distinguish between the two.
“I cannot say,” was all he told her.
He quickly surmised he couldn’t have said anything more incriminating.
You're walking the footpath in town after shopping in Manchester, maybe you're visiting or just moved there. You crave community, so you're saying hi to the people who look the friendliest or seem to have common interests with you.
Most people waved or smiled back, and if you're lucky, they'll return a compliment you've dished out.
Then, walking toward you, is a tall man, muscular and built just about to the heavens. In any other scenario, you wouldn't have said a thing, but this man happened to be wearing merch from your favourite band, a black hoodie with the logo. It was simple, but any fan would recognise it.
"I really like your hoodie." You tell him as he'd pass by, a bright smile on your beautiful face.
He'd look at you, but his feet wouldn't stop as he grasped at anything to say back.
"Thank- uh- I- f-mm. Good- Have a good.." He stumbles but keeps walking, as if nothing happened. You keep walking too, fighting a grin as you turn away from him.
"Fuck's sake!" You hear the man's voice growl at himself from behind you, clearly frustrated with his own fumble.
the ECHO world has a lot of lore. i’ve always (for some reason) written like i’m intending some future movie adaptation, so there’s a lot of small details, and heavy lore that might make things more complex.
SO, i’m making a masterdoc about the ECHO world, maybe i’ll add some history blurbs, there’s gonna be info about the substructures, military & government systems and ranks. stuff like that. nothings going to be spoiled in the doc, it’s just going to be there for your better understanding of the universe.
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2087
