No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, blood/violence, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.
Characters: Captain Syverson
Note: thank you all for coming along for this ride <3
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
You slow as your lungs scald. You heave and bend over, unlooping the forgotten rope from around your neck. You're lucky it hasn't caught around anything.
You dizzily stumble around and hide it in the brush. If he's following, you can't leave any sign. Your mouth is full of saliva as your throat is scratchy and dry. You can't remember the last time you ran like that.
You keep moving. Even if you can't run, you have to keep moving. Sy will be after you. You got him deep but not deep enough.
If only you could have gotten him further over, right in the middle, maybe you could've killed him. The thought doesn't chill you, only your apathy to it. That's another thing he took from you. Your compassion, your trust, your naivete.
You trip and slide down an incline. At the bottom, sticks jab into your skin. You fix the shirt around you. The two buttons you managed to hook are loose. Your had bobbles as you blink and crawl over the ground.
You stand up and look along the curling road. Not a real one, not paved, but two dusty lines worn into the ground from the roll of tires. You turn toward the moon and start to walk.
As the adrenaline calms to a baseline thrum, your heartbeat slows enough to think. What do you do? Sy's a soldier, you're sure he's trained to survive, to find people. You're not trained for anything. And you're almost naked.
You wince as you step on a sharp stone. You hear something. A strange but familiar noise distorted by your ringing ears. You turn as a light flashes in your direction.
You dodge out of the way as you think it's him at first. But then the light splits and becomes two. It's not a flashlight, it's headlights. You hop back into the tire tracks and wave your arms.
"Hey, hey! I'm here! I'm here!" You holler and stagger.
You stare down the truck, certain it's going to run you over, then the brakes squeal to a stop. You gape at the driver as you see his shadow lean over the wheel. You can't move.
He opens his door and gets out. He strides along the hood as he sniffs, "now what're you doing all the way out here?"
You should probably wonder the same of him but all you know is you need to get away. You sputter and show your hands. "Please, I need help. Please. There's someone after me. He hurt me--"
"Who?"
"Just... this guy. Please, there's no time."
"Heh, you're telling me this isn't a trick," he scoffs and turns away, stomping up to his car door. "I know the type, you distract me and--"
He croaks and wheezes and you hear the new sound, the one you hadn't heard before that night. The noise of metal in flesh, squelching and stabbing deep. The man's body is hurled away, revealing the hulking shadow with the knife still in hand.
Your lip trembles as Sy bares down on you. His arm is soaked in his own blood, his hand in that of the man who's on the ground moaning. You take a step back, keeping your hands up.
"Sy, please, I'm sorry. I was... I was scared, please," you beg.
His breath grits in his throat like a growl, his chest rising and falling heavily as he advances on you. His eyes are pool of shadow as the moonlight gleams on the blood the slickens his flesh. He's naked, shameless, mindless. He only has one end. Yours.
You want to look around for something, anything, to get away, but you can't take your eyes off of him.
"I love you, sugar," he snarls as he gets closer and you take a pace back for everyone one of his. "How could you do this to me? I been good to you." He grips the knife tighter and his shoulders puff up. "I don't wanna do it..." he grits. "I DON'T WANNA DO IT!'
His holler echoes through the trees and leaves rustle as night birds scatter. Your heart seizes and your muscles buzz. The world narrows to just that moment, that road, and you see the dead end before you. This is it. It's over. You tried and it didn't work. He's going to kill you.
He growls again and adjusts his grip on the knife. He lunges forward and in an instant, he's hurtling sideways. He grunts as he lands in the dirt, the knife flying into the unseen brush. The snapping and snarling intermingles with Sy's yelps and grunts as you watch the dog's silhouette tear at her owner.
"Aika! Ahh!" Sy furiously tries to shield himself and she latches onto his hand. He garbles and growls as he struggles with the canine.
You don't think. You just move. You go to the truck and hop in the driver seat. The engine's still going.
You hear that man on the ground. He's gurgling. He's alive. It's not fair to leave him. He wasn't going to help you...
No, no. Sy didn't take all of you.
You get out and go to the man. He's not very big. Spindly with a bit of a pooch.
"Hey," you hiss. "Can you get up?"
He gives wet breaths and groans. He reaches for you. You plant your feet as you hook his arm around your neck. You haul him up, barely, and stagger with him toward the truck. He gets himself up into the front seat and you shove him across and follow him in.
You hear a yelp and the sound of paws scattering. You slam the door shut and hit the gas. The truck hurtles forward and you don't look back. If he's still alive, you don't want to know. You just want to get out of here. You want to be gone.
💮
The bright lights blind you as a figure blurs before you. The thumb tugs at your eyelid as the glow makes your eye water. The hand lets you go and the doctor comes into focus.
"Shock," he declares as you sit on the high hospital bed, still only in the dirty flannel shirt. "Nurse."
A woman in teal scrubs comes over and drapes a backless gown over you. Your legs dangle over the edge as you stare. They stare at you then the man in his white coat scribbles on the chart.
"She'll be fine. Not sure about the man."
The doctor leaves and the nurse eases you back to lay across the bed. You let her. She pulls the coverlet over you and her voice fogs in your ears. she points to a red string. She leaves with a hollow breath.
The walls become clearer, and the single window, the curtain beside the bed, and the shining sink faucet, dripping into the deep sink. The tempo keeps you from slipping.
The room darkens as the nurse comes back. She flips the overhead light but a lamp remains on near the bed. You rub your thumbs against your index. Someone tried to wash the blood off your hands. You can still smell the iron.
The morning rises and with it, the world settles back in around you. You take a breath as it washes over you. Is he gone? Or is he waiting right outside those doors?
Your hands rest over your stomach. You feel him inside of you. The way he tore at you, stretched you, tortured you!
You hope Aika got him good. You hope she killed him. That he bled out in the dirt.
Your eyes glaze with tears. A knock comes at the door. You don't react. It opens.
The nurse enters, a man in a dark uniform behind her. "Hon, the police wanna talk now."
You blink at the man. His face tenses. He looks at your hand and your blood-stained nail beds.
"You still got the cloths from that?" He asks the nurse. She points to the bin hooked from the end of the bed. He nods. He focuses on you and takes out a notepad. "Miss, we gotta ask you some questions."
"My computer. Check my computer," you say. You shudder and hang your head. "It's how he found me."
"One thing at a time," the officer says. "Last night. Talk about that first."
You take a deep breath then snivel. Your eyes sting and your cheeks pinch. If they're asking, you don't think they found him...
💮
Life is simpler now.
It's just you. It was before, but now for real. Just you and your books. You and the market stalls, the people, face-to-face. No more online shadows, no virtual wraiths to haunt you. This world is real. This world is only what's around you.
And Della. The golden labrador with her goofy expressions and soft coat. She's more than just a cuddlebug, more than your friend, she's your protection. The monster taught you more than he meant to. He taught you that you need to be vigilant. That it's good to have a loyal ally.
As sweet as the dog can be, she's not all soft fur and slobbery kisses. When someone gets to close to you, her head goes down. When she hears something odd, she growls. She's friendly on the outside but cautious on the inside. Like you.
You take her to the pier to paint or draw. You no longer sell online. You don't do anything online. You don't even have a phone.
That day, the dawn sky is a lazy shade of lavender dusted above cornflower and puffs of cloud. You carefully recreate the scene in watercolour, your easel set up in the sand. You never lived by the water before. The city was suffocating. This is airier.
In a way, it reminds you of that fateful day. Of him. Of that life he'd dreamt up in his twisted mind. But when you think of him, you push it away.
You're free of him and you're going to stay that way. He doesn't get any more of you. Not your fear, not your thoughts, not your grief.
They never did find him. After all the reports, the questions, the doctors, nurses, and officers, you stopped wondering. You read the short article on the discovery of a man and woman in a truck after an alleged attack at the beach, but it was so vague, it sounded skeptical. You're not sure anyone cared. The man who stopped, recovered, and wanted nothing to do with you. You didn't have much affinity for him either.
Maybe you're colder now. Maybe more distant. Wary. Wise? Some might call it that.
Three years ago, you started your page. To document your life, your existence, your thoughts. You did it to keep yourself from fading into nothing. To feel a little less alone. Now, you don't mind being alone.
You think about it. What use is it being a footnote on the internet? When you were in danger, no one cared. No one noticed. The only person who ever noticed you, well...
You sigh and step back to compare the sky to the painting. The sun's moved since you started. That's okay. The colours are close. The way the clouds curl is just so whimsical.
Della gets up and stretches, before makings circles on her blanket and flopping back down. She rolls so you can see her stomach. She wants attention.
You set down the brush and wipe your hands on the rag tucked into your belt. You go to her and squat down, scratching her belly as she wriggles and groans in delight. Her tongue lolls out and you chuckle.
In the end, you did get what you wanted. Not exactly happiness, but freedom. You have your art, you have a booth down in the town centre, you have Della, and you have the lake. It's all you can ask for and as much as you can handle.
Most importantly, it's yours and no one else's. You answer to no one and you belong to no one. You are no one and that's just fine.
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
You have sand it places you don't want to think about. You shake off as much as you can as you approach the carrier plane. Sy greets the pilot as stretch your legs and shoulders. The drive was long and bumpy.
He approaches and points you into the cargo bay of the plane. You load in with the crates and sit on a metal bench mounted to the wall. He sits beside you and splits open the wrapper of a protein bar.
"I can't wait for a greasy burger and fries," you say as you grip the edge of the bench and lean on your arms.
"Yeah? All that healthy stuff ya buy me, I thought you'd be dyin' for a salad."
"Well, I wouldn't eat it every night but I do like to indulge," you hide a yawn in the crook of your elbow.
"How's 'bout you stretch out, Iz?"
The plane engines blast one and the big metal vessel shakes. You brace the bench tighter as the wheels taxi and you take off at a slow incline. You slide into Sy and he steadies you.
When you're level, you pull away. You may as well close your eyes, even if you don't sleep. You move your bag and rest your head on it as you stretch out.
You cross your arms and shake with the constant vibration.
You ease into the metal even if it hurts your hips. It'll be a few hours, then you'll be boarding an actual passenger line. You long for the cushion.
Suddenly, the bench is no longer between you as the plane bounces. You fly off against a crate as another crashes down on the other side of the cargo. You cry out at the shattering pain in your knees as you fly off the floor and hit the mounting bar of the bench directly on your cap.
You're kept from hurdling through the air once more as Sy latches on to and pulls you against him. He has you in his lap, panting as his chest presses to your back. You wheeze through your teeth as you reach for you knee and whimper.
"Izzie! You okay?" Sy hollers as the plane steadies.
"Urggggh, damn!" You shudder. "I-- I-- it hurts, god, it's..." you suck in air then bend over his arm. You vomit onto the floor as you feel the cracked bone rub together.
"Shit," he growls, "Iz."
He lifts you and turns you sit on the bench again.
"Hey, you idiots," he barks over his shoulder as he searches in his pack. "Assholes tryna do tricks or somethin'"
He wraps a cloth around your knee. Tight. He doesn't pau attention to the bile between his boots.
"Needa keep it from movin' too much," he helps lift your legs and angles to sit under them. "I got ya, Iz. Alright?"
You touches your wrist and you wipe your tears with your other hand. He has a gash above his cheek. You reach into your pocket and dig out the packet of tissues.
"You got..." you hold it out and wiggle it. "Blood on your cheek."
His brows draw together then he tuts and shakes his head. He takes the package and pulls out one of the tissues. He dabs his cheek.
"You worryin' 'bout me when you nearly flew all the way home yourself," he shakes his head and crumples the tissue. He tugs out another. "Iz, you got anyone worry about you?"
He unfolds a tissue and pats it against your chin. You're bleeding too. You lidt your head and look down. You have scratches all over your hands and a rip right through your shirt.
"I'll do my best," he avows. "You take it easy then. I got something for it."
He reaches in his vest and takes out a syrette. Before you can react, he jabs it into your thigh and squeezes. You gasp and groan then a heavy warmth spreads through you like a river over stone.
"Morphine," he says. "Takes the bite off."
"Sy," you murmur.
"You'll sleep a bit, okay? Any luck, when you wake up, the doc will be done fixing yer leg."
You hiss and heave. Before you can even think, the blackness speckles over you and blots out the world. The relief is only a dulled pain and oblivion.
🖤
When you wake, you're groggy. Your mouth is dry as cotton balls and your muscles are wound like springs. Your lashes stick as you try to clear the haze.
Your head feels loose on your neck. You see a cup. You're thirsty. You reach for it only to knock it off the table. You groan and drop your hand. There's a tube stuck to it.
"Iz," Sy startles you as he lumbers over. He looks tired. His shirt is sweat-stained and his eyes have bags.
"Sy, where--"
You try to sit up and nearly gag at the agony in your leg.
"Shattered knee cap. Remember, the plane..." he touches your shoulder and rubs gently. "I can get ya some more meds."
"No, no, I... I wanna be awake," you insist and fall back. "Damn it, Sy."
"I know, Iz. It hurts but doc says it should heal just fine--"
"Sy!" You proclaim as you throw your hands up. "How am I gonna work like this?" You sigh and shake your head. "I don't wanna go back to riding a desk."
"Huh? You-- I ain't gon' fire ya, Iz." He snorts.
"Why not? I'm caput," you mope. "How am I gonna jump outta planes or get you your awful tequila?"
"Ain't nothing you can't get over. Izzie, you're strong than most of the men I was in the shit with. Mind my language, but you'll be okay."
"I'm not okay," you cross your arms.
"Not right now but ya will be," he insists.
You look at him and furrow your brow, "since when did you become an optimist."
"Day I met you, sugar," he grins. "Now you let me get the doc, you gonna make it worst with all your squirming."
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
“I think that’s everything,” you smile at Conrad across the table.
Sy continues to loom and pace around the edge of the room. He’s been doing that. Hovering like a vulture. Even when you try to get him to participate, he only has grumbles and glares. You’re used to his grumpiness but lately, he’s been nearly intolerable.
“Mm, yes, I think it is,” Conrad smirks, “shall we have a celebratory drink? Seems the old boar could use it?”
“I’m younger than you,” Sy stomps over, his ears sharp. “So how’s that?”
“Yes, well, one might not guess it by looking. Do relax, I am merely making fun,” Conrad crosses his arms. “Is there a reason you are so antsy to be away? I was rather happy to receive an old friend such as yourself.”
“Nice seein’ ya and all but we gotta get back,” Sy crosses his arms. “Izzie’s got friends waitin’, don’t ya?”
He nudges you with his elbow and you send him a skeptical look. Since when did he care so much?
“Ah yes, so you mentioned some wonderful ladies back home. Do have a drink in my honour. Such a considerate boss, eh, Syverson?” He smirks.
You stand and press your fingertips to the table, “thanks. Uh, I guess he’s right. The sooner we’re on the road, the sooner we’re back. It was nice meeting you. And doing business.”
“Always a pleasure, Syverson, and I do enjoy a beautiful lady darkening my door now and again.”
Sy growls and you try not to notice. You’re not sure if it’s territorial or what but you don’t need him acting like a guard dog. You prefer his slightly oblivious gruffness to his intense derision.
“Thank you. You’re a great host.”
You shake Conrad’s hand and he tugs it up. Once again, he kisses your knuckles and sends you a wink. Sy grabs your other arm and yanks you away.
“Get on with it, Izzie,” he snarls as he drags you away.
You stagger with his furious pace, not mentioning that he hardly bothered to give a proper goodbye. The way he’s gripping you so tight, you can’t think of much else but the creak in your bones. You dig in your heels as you get through the compound door.
“Yow! Sy!” You yank your hand away at last. He takes a few steps before he stops and faces you. “What is your problem? You can’t grab me like that.” You raise your arm and rub the tender skin, “you hurt me.”
“Ah, I’m-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, Iz. Ya know I wouldn’t ever--”
“But you did. What’s gotten into you, anyway? Why are you being so rude?”
“I’m not,” he harrumphs and drops his shoulders. “I just wanna be home. Bein’ out here in all this sand, takes me back. That’s it.”
“Is that it?” You challenge and stand straight. Even with perfect posture, you hardly measure up to the large man.
Sy frowns, “I’m sorry, Izzie, truly. Why don’t ya give me a smack then? I deserve it.”
You almost laugh, instead snorting, “I wouldn’t-- I’m not that sort, you know that.”
“I do. It’s why I like ya, Iz. You temper me out. I’m a big oaf without you,” he looks away bashfully. “How about you go grab your bag and I’ll go say sorry. You’re right. No way to treat a friend. And partner.”
You consider him and slowly nod. “Alright, I’ll meet you at the gate then.”
“Sure thing, sugar.”
You tilt your head at the pet name but have no time to comment. You move aside as he moves towards you and let him pass. You stare after him for a second then turn back to your path. You know how he feels. You just want to be home in your bed. Oh, and it would be nice to have cell reception.
You find your room after a few stray wanderings and grab your bag. You head back out, still lost in the maze of the compound. You find the sunlight and walk out into the blaze of the noontime apex. You go to the gate and peer around at the mercenaries in their padded vests and harnesses.
As you wait, you grow uneasy. You’re still not entirely used to this job. Not always. It’s easier to manage Sy’s grocery list or his forgotten appointments, but out here, in the shit as he calls it, you feel lost.
He appears with a wave of his large hand. The fingerless glove nearly blends into his skintone from the wear and tear. You face him fully as he approaches and he points behind you.
“Ready to go for a ride?”
You follow his finger to the buggy just on the other end of the yard. You squint and turn back to him.
“Conrad can be nice when he wants to,” he grins, “you wanna drive?”
You stare at him, deeply considering the prospect. You don’t know if you trust him to make the drive and yet, you don’t if you should trust yourself either. He dangles the key from a thick finger and you roll your eyes.
“I wanna get outta here in one piece,” you snatch it.
He chuckles and lets you have it. He reaches for you and you wince. He grabs the strap of your bag and hauls it onto his shoulder next to his.
“I’ll get these secured, Iz,” he offers.
You hesitate. He’s being awfully helpful. Not that he can’t be but the last few days have been strange. You guess both of you might be getting a bit homesick.
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
Conrad kisses your hand before you go. It’s enough to make you roll your eyes but you maintain your veneer. As it is, you’re more worried about your boss. Sy hasn’t quit huffing and puffing all night. Usually, a good meal puts him in a good mood but not this time.
“So,” you open the folder Conrad handed over. “I think it’s a good deal. Almost a partnership, which you know, we could use some consistency.”
Sy grumbles but doesn’t answer as you head down the hall. He drags his feet as the caftan flaps around your hips. The sleek fabric sends chills through you. You stop at the first corner.
“Wanna point me in the direction?” You prompt. He points, head down, and traipses beside you. You frown. “Sy, what’s going on?”
He growls and shakes his head. He sniffs and rubs his nose, “nothin’.”
“Right.” You accept dryly, “I’ll give it a look over tonight, you should too--”
“You know, I think you look good.” He says abruptly. “In that dress thingy you got on. Wasn’t meanin’ it earlier, just playin’, you know?”
You arch a brow at him as you slow. You glance around again. You’re really lost in this maze of hallways. “Alright, Sy,” you chuckle, “it’s fine. It’s not exactly my style.”
“Just wanted you to know, Iz.”
“Mhm, got it.”
“He talks a lot.” Sy stops and taps a door. You think it’s yours? “Worked together back in the service days. He always had some local gal on the hook. Interpreter. He could chatter all night. And he did.”
You eye him and giggle. You can’t believe him. Does he really think so little of you?
“This is business. I’m working, right now, Sy. I have no interest in Conrad. Not beyond this.” You wave the folder.
“Well, I know that.” He rubs his neck and looks away bashfully. “Wouldn’t expect that of ya, just warnin’ ya. He can be convincin’.”
“I thought he was an old friend.”
“He is, but don’t mean I agree with all his ways.” He shrugs and crosses his arms.
You hug the folder, “thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I need to lay down. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He turns and opens the door. He pushes it inward and waves you in. You enter and stifle a yawn, your eyes wetting at the corners. You lay the file down and a shadow moves along the edge of your vision.
The door shuts behind Sy. On the wrong side.
“What are you doing?” You scoff.
“Oh, uh... habit. We usually share, don’t we?”
“Yeah, when all we got is a backseat. Not to be rude, but you snore like a hog.” You snip.
“Ah, yeah, well, I told ya to poke me.”
“Yeah, I tried that. Sy, please.” You put your palms out. “We could both use a good night’s sleep.”
“Sorry, I... I’m tired. Wasn’t thinkin’ straight,” he chuckles. A grizzly noise. “See ya in the mornin’ then.”
“You too,” you nearly sigh in relief.
You wait for him to go before you can relax. You sit down at the small table and resume your review. You should just lay down but you don’t know what he has in mind for tomorrow. Could be another plane ride, could be nothing.
When at last you sleep, it’s deep and undisturbed by the bump of the axel or the rumble of a snoring beast. You dream of your old office job and angry printers. You even dream that you’re late for a boardroom meeting only to be awoken by a pounding at the door.
“Izzie!” Sy’s roar shakes you awake.
You nearly fall out of bed in your scramble. Your vision is bleary and your head is heavy. Your bearings are all scattered as you stumble across the room. You pull open the door to find your boss on the other side.
“Brrg, what time is it?” Your tongue is uncooperative as you speak. Maybe you had a bit more wine than you thought.
“Huh, uh,” Sy’s face turns red and he runs his hand over his beard and coughs. His eyes flick down then side-to-side. “Uh, it’s... it’s only nine. I—I—Iz.”
He points down and you look at your body. Shit. You only remember stripping off the caftan and falling face first into the bed. No bother for your sports bra or boy shorts. Thank god you didn’t get that comfortable.
“Ah damn, sorry, Sy.” You close the door and retreat.
You pull open your bag and fish out your usual; leggings and long-sleeved tee, a zip-up to go over it. You roll your socks on and tie your boots, snatching up your vest as you breeze back to the door. As you pull it inward, Sy sways and peers in shyly.
“Got everything?”
“Uh, yeah,” you loop the vest on one arm as you tie a bandana around your hair. “I was passed out. Sorry. Haven’t slept like that in years.”
“Ain’t no worry.” His cheeks are still pink. His eyes keep scouring up and down.
“Stop that.” You punch his arm as you step into the hall. “Oh, wait.”
“Shouldn’t need your vest,” he says.
“Oh,” you toss it on the bed as you swipe up the folder. “Well, got my notes.”
You come back out and nearly collide with him. He moves around you awkwardly. He hovers like your shadow and you grab his arm to guide him.
“Sy, what’s up?” You chide.
“N-nothing. I just--” He huffs out through his nose. “Was worried ‘bout ya. You’re usually gettin’ me up, is all.”
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
You’re shown to a room of your own. It’s a luxury in your line of work. You often share the back of the truck or some cramped space with your boss. You look forward to a night without Syverson’s rumbling snores.
As you remove your harness and vest, a knock thumps on the door. You answer and find a man with a pile of fabric in his hands. He gives it to you without a word and leaves, a rifle across his back. You frown and shut the door.
The accommodations are acceptable. There’s a bed, a side table, and a fan. Nothing fancy but better than a cot or a car seat. Or your favourite, the ground.
You hold up the patterned swath of silk and let it unfold. The long caftan is cool and sheer. It might not be your usual attire but it’s preferable to your dusty cargo pants and sweaty cotton shirt. You shake out your clothes as you undress then throw the swishy fabric over your head. You feel almost human.
Another pounding comes at the door. You hear a snort as you approach and know before you answer it, who it is. Sy waits on the outside. He wears the same thing he showed up in; dirty cargo and camo. He blinks at you dumbly and grimaces.
“What the hell is that?” He flicks a thick finger at you.
“What?”
“What’re you wearing, Iz? You look like my mammy.”
“Shut up,” you jab him and turn back. You push your feet into your boots and tramp back to him. He chuckles at the clomp of the heavy soles.
“Naw, I mean it, Iz, you pack that get-up or what?”
“No, it was... given to me. I don’t know.” You cross your arms and look down with a shrug. “I thought... Well, it seemed nice.” You look up and narrow your eyes. “Wait, why’re you bothering me anyway?”
“Hungry, ain’t ya?” He scoffs.
“Sure.”
“So come on, I’ll show ya the mess.”
You cluck and step out into the hall. After settling from the jump, your stomach has turned ravenous. You wish you were at Retro’s, gnawing at hot wings and downing martinis. Alas, you have work. Well, you’ve had worse than this.
“Thank,” you grumble.
He’s quiet as you walk through the halls. Others pass or follow in your stead. He toys with a flap on one of his many pockets.
“Tired?” He asks.
“Mm? Oh, yeah. Kinda.”
“Get that adrenaline kickin’ and you sleep like a black bear in winter.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” you chuckle. “Maybe you though. You’re pretty good at it.”
“Good at what?”
“Sleeping through the b—chaos,” you keep yourself from swearing.
“Ah, I guess. Not much of a skill.”
You shrug. He can be awkward sometimes. Mostly when he talks. When you first started, he didn’t say too much, now he tends to force himself too.
“Here we are.” He points you to a door.
You peer down the hall and step out of the way of the men in civvies milling around. Sy opens the door without knocking and nudges your lower back to urge you inside. You stumble in as a figure stands to greet you. Conrad smiles and tilts his head.
“I don’t like to presume things about you Americans but it is rather uncourteous not to knock,” he reproaches.
“Eh,” Sy grunts.
“Then again, it is you,” Conrad snickers back. He moves around the table in front of him. There’s a bottle of wine and glasses, a few cans of beer, and food that isn’t served in tin or vacuum seal. “And you, I do hope the attire suffices. It was all I could scrounge, I regret.”
“Uhhh, it’s good. Er, pretty.” You look down and touch the silk.
“Feel free to take it with you. That colour is immaculate on you.”
“Ha, er, thanks.”
Sy marches forward and claims a seat with a huff. He shows no patience as he reaches for the dish of seasoned chicken. You come forward and Conrad rounds the table to pull out another chair. You thank him as you sit and your brutish boss glances over at the gesture.
“Shiraz? Does that suit you?” Conrad grabs the bottle wine and a glass.
“I’m not picky,” you assure him.
“Yes, but I hate to leave a women disappointed,” he winks and pours you a glass.
“What’s in here?” Sy interrupts as he holds up a bowl.
“Olive? Rosemary, bit of red vinegar. How about a brew, eh?” He grabs a can and offers it.
“I’ll have what she’s havin’,” Sy insists through a mouthful.
“You may help yourself. As you have done.” Conrad clunks down the bottle between your and Sy’s plates.
He sits and offers to serve you before he does himself. You don’t mind the attention though it does strike you as a bit overdone. You have an extra scoop of curry as the aroma drives you mad.
Conrad watches as you taste the wine and Sy slurps from his own glass. Your boss tuts and puts it down heavily. He scrapes his plate loudly with his fork as you only just start to poke at your own fare. The other man is uninterested in the meal as he stares you down.
“Please, you must tell me, how did you end up here at my table?” Conrad purrs.
You chew slowly and look over at Sy. He narrows his eyes and shovels more food into his mouth, a dribble catching in his beard. You stir the rice with your fork.
“I applied on a job board and interviewed and--”
“Ah, that sounds rather proper. Syverson, I thought you more the type to snatch up beautiful women.”
“Hm?” Sy grunts around a mouthful.
“And yet, a creature like this should be cozened. To have her jumping from planes? Tsk tsk. Oh, don’t tell me he’s had you living on beans and sleeping in dirt.”
“Her job...” Sy sneers over.
“It’s exciting, actually. My old job was just the same desk, same walls. I couldn’t even get the time off to go parachuting for fun so... not so bad.”
“Thrill seeker? Mmm, that’s intriguing. Have you ever been rock climbing? Not in a gym but on a real mountain?”
“You got barbecue sauce?” Sy interjects.
Conrad laughs again. He stands and goes over to the footlocker against the wall and opens the lid. He pulls out a bottle of a southern brand of sauce. The same you stocked for Sy. Hm.
“I have to be prepared for anything, not least of all the way you get when you’re hungry.” Conrad struts back and sets the bottle at Sy’s elbow. “I must admit, I wasn’t ready for you, darling.” He sits again and you’re certain there’s a low growl from your other side. No matter the perks, managing men is never simple.
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
Adrenaline pumps behind your ears. You sit in the dirt, heart thumping, body tingling, you're breathless. You can't believe you just did that.
You tug on the strap of the chute as it digs into your shoulder. You steady you grip on your phone as you look up at the sky as you try to still your shaking. You just fucking jumped out of a plane and lived. Wow.
You hit send on the video. The girls aren't going to believe you without evidence. Besides, you feel bad for missing cocktails. You'll be there in spirit.
A sudden release has you feeling lighter as the chute detaches. You're lifted from behind by the empty back strapped onto you, "Iz, you good?" Sy asks.
"I'm... alive," you say as you lower your phone and steady your feet, "that was..."
"Come on," he meets your trembling disbelief with his stern intensity. "You know we still got stuff to do."
You clear your throat and let out a deep breath, "sure thing, Sy."
"Whatcha doin' anyway?" He taps your phone before you can tuck it away. "UberEats don't come out here."
"Pfft," you scoff, "girls are having drinks. Was just sending them my regards."
"Girls," he utters, "you tell them I'm sorry for keeping ya. Tequila Izzy must be a lot of fun."
"I told you, I don't drink Tequila," you counter.
"Sure, ya don't. You just never had good tequila."
"Please," you turn to walk in time with him across the sandy field, "you know good liquor? I'm the one who stocks your footlocker."
"Patron ain't too bad. I just don't like the price tag," he shrugs.
“You? Careful about money?” You shake your head.
“Eh? Last I checked, you were my money manager.”
“Well, it wasn’t in the job description but there wasn’t really one, was there?” You kid as you keep step with him. You look ahead and the last of the thrill slakes away. “So, what are we doing here, Captain?”
“Why ya callin’ me Captain for?” He nudges you with his elbow, “don’t sweat it.”
Your eyes pinpoint in the distance as you try to see more than sand. Your cheeks slacken and your lips straighten. Business. It isn’t like it used to be. It’s more than emails and Zoom calls. No, it’s life and death.
“Really, you don’t need to worry. He’s an old buddy. He’s just... livin’ off the grid right now.”
“You sure?” You ask.
“What happened to trust?” He challenges.
“When did I ever say that word,” you mutter and chew your dry lip.
He huffs, “don’t start. Come on. Won’t be no time.”
He’s right. You approach a compound behind a thick metal fence. The sun beats down so hotly that you can see a ripple in the air and it looks as if the bars are bending. Like Sy, you’ve wrapped a scarf around your head to sop up your sweat and protect your face.
You don’t miss the men perched on the posts or those just within. They have guns. They ready them at your approach. Sy shoots up a green flare that has them standing down. He stops you twenty feet from the gate.
“He’ll come to us before we can go in.”
You look at Sy. He’s calm, unbothered by the guns and the watching men and the burning sun. Out here, he’s in his elements. He’s confident in the matters of blood and violence, everything else is a mystery to him. His world is foreign to you. You live in the little nooks and cranny’s he doesn’t see; the business of living not killing. Bills, laundry, doctor’s appointments, deadlines, dishes...
The gate opens and you tense. He taps your wrist, “ease up.”
You do your best to obey. You don’t want to put any one else on edge. Didn’t you take this job to let go of all that? To stop being so damn uptight.
A man walks out, unarmed, though he wears an armoured vest. Sy goes forward to greet them and the chuckle as they embrace, slapping each other’s shoulders. You stay behind, wary of the shadows behind the fence.
“Syverson,” the man lilts, “you made it.”
“Didn’t make it easy, Conrad,” Sy snorts.
“Mm, but I thought you were coming alone,” the man looks past him and nods in your direction, “if you’d said a lady was accompanying you, I’d have sent the town car.”
“Don’t be fucking funny,” Sy reaches to muss the man’s hair. “I’m starving and tired and your jokes still aren’t amusing.”
“Come,” the man, Conrad beckons to you, “I’ve everything ready. Beds, food...” He draws out the last word with a wink, “wine.”
Sy tilts his head and cranes to look at you as he follows Conrad’s gaze. You cross the expanse and take Conrad’s hand as he offers it, introducing himself as ‘James’. You shake his hand and return your name in turn. Sy turns forward and squares his shoulders.
“Might I ask how you know each other?” Conrad turns to walk at your other shoulder as he points you onward.
“Mmm, she’s...” Sy mulls his answer with a grumble.
“Personal assistant,” you fill in for him.
“Oh? How amusing,” Conrad remarks, “and in this line of work.”
Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.
Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
The rumble keeps you awake. A storm but not the type in the sky. You yawn and lean against the hummer door, jostling with the wheels as the roaring snores fill the compartment. Pierson drives and sends dark looks in the rear view, equally as disturbed by the burly man snorting and snuffing beside you. Neither of you dare disturb him. You’re not that dumb.
The man is intimidating even in slumber. You pull on the seat belt and adjust your posture. The hours spent in the back seat have you stiff and restless. You envy Syverson. He can sleep through anything. You really believe that. If it wasn't for you, he'd oversleep the alarm in his phone every time.
You yawn as you sense Pierson's attitude shift. You're almost there. He nods at you in the mirror and you sigh. You reach to grab the thermos that will be lukewarm at best by now. Still, you have to appease the bear.
You reach to squeeze Sy's shoulder. He snorts and sucks in a deep breath. You try to shake him, an impossible task for most. You brush your fingers down his sleep and poke his muscle.
"Syverson," you say tersely, "time to wake up."
He slumps away from you and snores even louder. You roll your eyes. He's stubborn even when he's asleep. You pull your hand back and snap your knuckles against his arm.
"Sy! Up."
Still he is unaffected. You undo your seat belt and move closer. You uncap the thermos and reach around him, hovering it under his nose. He quiets and sniffs, grumbling. He moves stuntedly to wrap his hand around yours and slide the metal cup free. He sits up and purrs over the brim.
"Coffee," he growls and gulps deep.
"About there," Pierson states.
Sy hums flatly and finishes the coffee in another swig. He hands back the empty cup and you shimmy back to other end of the seat. You cap the thermos and put it back in the plastic holder.
"Remind me," he flicks two fingers at you.
You stir around and bring out your tablet, sliding back the protective cover. You tap and bring up the contract, flicking through the maps as you go over the numbers. Units in the east, with another party coming from the north. Estimates are about sixty men total, fifteen vehicles, and ammunition to match.
"They're tryin' to short us," Sy insists. "I can sell half as many for double."
"Yes, you can," you agree, "but you also need to network."
He chortles, "this isn't a boardroom, Izzie."
"Don't I know it," you utter. You miss those days sometimes. Sand and sun make you long for climate control and complimentary coffee. "Money is money, I get it, but this is a big one. Could open a lot of doors. Make it so you can demand your worth."
"Mm, so wise," he praises in his grizzly way, "kit."
You fold up the tablet cover and once more search around the pack. You take out the toiletry pouch and hand it over. He finds the mini toothbrush and uses a gulp of the bottled water to wash up, spitting out the window. As he checks his watch, you reach over with a tissue to wipe a spot of paste from his beard.
"Thanks, Iz."
You go about cleaning up yourself. Worse than the cold caffeine and sleepless night, its the lack of hygiene that gets to you most. You use a face wipe on your skin and ball it up. The money is convincing and as much as you might long for the old ways, those office walls drove you mad.
"I need a fuckin' drink," Sy grumbles as he rubs his eyes.
"Tell me about it," you scoff.
"Huh? You never do."
"Not with you," you counter. "Don't drink on the clock."
"Mm, so you do partake?"
"None of your business."
"Ah, come on, Iz, you can't dangle the bait in front of me like that."
"You got your vest on?" You ask.
"Always. Don't change the subject."
"Not much else to say about it," you zip up the pack and sit back, watching through the windshield, a cage between the front and backseats.
Sy straps on his fingerless gloves and furls and unfurls his fists. He's getting impatient. He always gets a bit uppity before a meeting. Especially with money on the line. You don't doubt him for a minute. He handles numbers as well as he does a gun.
"Let's say I get them to tack on another fifty," he says, "will you drink to that?"
You look at him from the corner of your eye, "depends."
"Depends on what?" He challenges.
"No Titos."
He's quiet as he drags his boot tread on the floor. Even in such a large vehicle, he's cramped.
"How'd you know?"
"Someone has to keep your pantry stocked," you tut.
He chuckles, "s'pose."
You tidy yourself as best as you can and set your jaw. It took a lot to get used to the whole not smiling thing. You were never very keen on it but every job you had before required it.
"You get this one, you get a lot more than money," you gird. "I know you will."
"Ah, you trust me, Izzie."
"Trust is a strong word. I know you'll handle it," you say as you stretch your legs, checking your own vest as you tighten the straps. You sense him watching you.
"Eh, I think I might let you take lead," he snorts, "you can be terrifying when ya want to."
"Whatever," you shrug off the joke. Scary? You?
What's scary is walking into a job interview with a brute sharpening a hunting knife as casually he might clean his nails. Scarier even is to say yes to the offer. Life does lead you to the most unexpected places. Still, you prefer it to the purgatory of predictability house in the white corporate walls of the past.
Warnings: 18+ but it’s pretty tame. Angsty with a hinted ending.
Summary | Miscommunication makes for a good make up.
In retrospect, you shouldn’t have come, especially with the amount of questions that you’ve been asked since you stepped into the house. You’ve kept a low profile since the breakup, initiated by you and not him. Too many late nights and not enough communication and you decided to walk.
And he let you.
It was an immature move and you knew it, trying to see if he’d play the game and you knew he wouldn’t. He’d even let you walk right past him with a suitcase packed, opening the door for you without saying a word.
Not that he needed to. His eyes did all the talking, as if he knew you were throwing a tantrum and god help you, you were.
But two can play that game and tonight he’s at the same party, knocking back a beer and laughing with his friends, his biceps on display in that damn black t-shirt.
“Aren’t you going to say something to him?” Your friend says with a nudge. “I know you’re probably pissed off still but…”
You tilt your head up, defiant when he looks over at you.
”He could have called,” you counter.
“And you could have told him how it makes you feel when you get ignored. You know he hates when you shut down and how you don’t want to listen. If you ask me,” she says with a nod toward his direction. “It was a big lack of communication on both sides.”
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink, some concoction that makes you cough slightly.
“He can talk to me if he wants,” you tell her, turning on your heels to walk away.
You don’t get far.
You’re laughing at some joke with a few acquaintances. Something that isn’t funny but you’re committed to the bit, even going so far to add to it as the small group laughs harder.
“Something funny?” A voice says behind you.
All eyes lift to stare at him.
“Hey Sy,” one of them says, taking a step back as he crosses his arms while observing the group. “We were just making fun of Liam’s bad driving.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking right at you.
“Can we talk?” He asks.
You give a nod, following behind him as he walks down the steps, hearing the whispers of people as you try to remain composed. You know your mouth and your attitude is already going to get you into trouble and you might as well save up the fire you have for him when you’re alone.
His car comes into view - a matte black Challenger that starts when you take another step, making you nearly jump.
“We’re going to talk in your car?” You ask him. “We can talk out here.”
He leans against the car, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Go on then,” he says. “I’m listening. Tell me why my girl decided to storm out like some spoiled brat when I’d told you I’d be working late.”
“You always work late.”
It was supposed to sound much more stern. People standing outside the house are watching and suddenly you don’t feel much like airing out your business to bystanders.
When you try for the passenger door, he unlocks it, letting you slide in as he goes toward the driver’s seat. Once you’re both buckled in, he leans his head back, his hand sliding down his jaw.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” he says, hand on the wheel as he accelerates, the car heading back down the main road. “Somewhere you can tell me exactly what’s on your mind and how I can fix it.”
His hand is on your thigh as you feel the heat in your belly.
“And I’ll even make sure we’re in the backseat so there are no interruptions and as much room as you need so I can apologize properly.”
Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.
W.C: ~6.2k
TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).
Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)
Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading
One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction.
It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.
You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.
All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.
Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.
In fact, tonight you had a date.
A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.
The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.
After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.
Then, you heard it.
A faint gurgling.
You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.
The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?
You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened.
You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.
“Shit.” You breathed.
The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.
You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.
A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do.
So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.
Or…
Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing.
He answered on the third ring.
“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.
“No.” You inhaled.
“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.
When nothing came, he cleared his throat.
Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Um, my sink’s busted.”
“Your sink… is busted?”
“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
A moment of silence, then:
“You need me to fix it?”
Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.
“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”
“I’m on my way.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.
You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.
It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen.
But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.
“Hi,” You said breathlessly.
Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.
“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”
You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.
“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”
“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”
You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.
He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking.
But his eyes lingered on the top one as he straightened up to his full height.
“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.
“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.
Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.
“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.
“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”
For the divorce.
Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—”
“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”
That was very unconvincing.
Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.
“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”
You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?
“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”
The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.
You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.
Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.
“You fixed it.” You blinked.
“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”
Without missing a beat, “you did.”
“…Right.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”
“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him—“you’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”
You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”
Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”
“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”
“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.
Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.
You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.
“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”
Right, your date.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.
Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.
“I’m staying with you.”
Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”
“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”
Ex-husband.
You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”
Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”
“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”
Joel’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.
To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.
His voice was soft when he responded.
“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”
Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.
Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.
The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.
“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”
“My mom has always been bad with names!”
“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.
You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”
“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”
“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”
“He still callin’ me–?”
“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”
Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.
You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.
You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.
And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did.
God, you missed this.
“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.
You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.
“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents in the lake house.”
“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”
You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”
“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”
You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”
A beat.
“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.
A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”
The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.
And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.
“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.
But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you?
There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement.
Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.
No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving.
Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.
He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”
“Think about what?”
A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
“How things used to be.”
“Oh,”
A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.
And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.
You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.
Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.
All the time.
Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”
“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”
You held your breath.
Joel heaved a sigh.
“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”
“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.
And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.
This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.
“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.
Joel whispered back, “Always.”
“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.
“Do I what?”
“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?”
You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.
And you did.
“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.
You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.
Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”
“We did.”
“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.
His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”
Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.
Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No false facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.
Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first.
He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.
You held your breath.
Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.
“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”
Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.
“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”
His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.
“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”
His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.
“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”
He loves you.
Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.
“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.
Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.
Joel nodded.
“I never stopped.” He whispered.
Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years.
He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.
You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.
Shit. Was this even a good idea?
You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.
“Wait,” You panted.
His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.
“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.
“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”
Joel smiled softly at your words.
“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”
“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”
“After?” His eyebrows rose.
“After you fuck me.”
A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.
With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.
His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.
“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.
“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second.
“Might break the sink again.”
“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”
And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.
“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.
You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—
“How much was this dress?”
Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”
“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.
“A moderate amou—”
“Can I rip it off you?”
There it was.
In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.
You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face.
“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”
Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”
And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.
His eyes darkened.
You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.
You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.
“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.
Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”
“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”
With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.
“Joel!”
“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”
You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.
He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.
“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Don’t fucking tease me.”
And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie.
He was practically salivating, now.
“I’ll try not to, ma’am.”
Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.
Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had.
Fuck, you were gorgeous.
“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”
“You.” You breathed without a second thought.
“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”
“You.”
Smirking wider, “damn fucking right.”
Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.
His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance.
Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—
“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”
He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.
You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.
After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.
“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.
He barely pulled away to look at you.
“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.
He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.
Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.
“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.
He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.
His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”
A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.
Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.
And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.
A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.
He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk.
“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.
“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.
Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.”
And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.
He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.
Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.
“Need somethin’, baby?”
“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.
“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.
“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.
“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers.
You heard yourself swallow.
Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.
He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.
“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.
And you very willingly obliged.
“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.
With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.
Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”
And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.
You gasped some variant of a plea.
Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.
“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside.
Deeper, deeper, deeper…
He winced. “Shit—there you go.”
When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.
Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.
“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours.
You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.
Joel got the message, though.
Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.
“Good. Feels so good.”
And, fuck, he did.
He felt amazing.
His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.
“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”
An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.
“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”
Dumbly, you shook your head.
“You, Joel.”
Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.
“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”
“You, Joel!”
Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.
You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.
Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.
“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.
“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”
With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.
Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.
And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.
“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.
“Yeah.” You exhaled.
He smiled against your lips.
“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”
You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.
He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.
“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.”
You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.
Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.
A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.
He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.
Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.
He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.
“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.
You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.
Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.
Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.
You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.
“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”
Joel was even more of a sight.
The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.
Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”
You could only respond in broken syllables.
“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”
He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.
“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.
If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.
You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.
As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.
“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured sweetly, his nose nudging the side of your face.
You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.
His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.
Again. And again.
“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.
Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.
“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”
Not even a full second later, “inside.”
“You sure?” He panted, starstruck.
“I have an IUD, just—please.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed.
And then he resumed his earlier pace.
He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.
After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.
His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.
Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.
“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.
And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.
“That was great, George.” You panted.
Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
“Nope.”
He huffed out a chuckle.
Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach. You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.
A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.
Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.
“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.
“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”
He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.
You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.
Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.
“I won’t.”
And you meant it.
thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)
You feel him before you hear him. Broad chest pressed into your back, thigh nudging between yours under the sheets. His hand slides across your waist, firm, certain.
“Turn over.”
It’s low. Rough. Not a question.
You blink, still dazed with sleep. “Simon—what—?”
“To your side, sweetheart.” His voice is deeper than usual, coated in something hot and lazy and fucking dangerous. “Need you like this.”
You roll without thinking. Your body always listens to him first. The second your thigh hikes forward and your spine curves, he’s already there fitting behind you, bare skin against bare skin, cock thick and hard, sliding between your legs like he’s been grinding against you for hours.
“Fuck,” he groans, like the heat of you ruins him. His hand slips between your thighs, fingers stroking through the slick mess between them. “You were already wet for me, weren’t you?”
You whimper, caught between sleep and need, pushing back into him without shame. “Simon—”
“Shh.” His mouth is at your ear now. Teeth scrape. Tongue soothes. “S’just me, yeah? Let me fuck you slow.”
He doesn’t give you time to beg. Just tilts your hips and presses in—slow, steady, all of him. The stretch makes your breath stutter. You clutch the pillow as his hand comes to your throat, soft but heavy, holding you there while his cock sinks deeper.
“That’s it. There she is.” He’s fucking you like he missed you. Like you weren’t already in his arms. The sounds are obscene in the quiet, slick and wet, the soft drag of his cock inside you, the creak of the mattress with every slow grind of his hips. The bed creaks with each grind of his hips, your soaked cunt dragging him back in every time he pulls out.
His hand drags up, cups your jaw, tilts your face back toward his mouth.
“Love you like this,” he breathes. “Warm, soft, still dreamin’.”
You come like that. Half-asleep and full of him, biting down on a moan while he holds you through it, hips rolling, mouth at your throat. And he doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep, groaning against your skin like it splits him open.
You fall asleep with him still inside you, cock softening slow, arms wrapped around your body.
you’re in his lap in the back of the transport truck, legs spread over his thighs, the rumble of the engine covering the wet sounds between your bodies. he’s still got half his gear on—vest, mask, gloves—like he couldn’t be fucked to wait.
his voice is low, hot against your ear.
“knew you’d let me have it. soon as i saw you, i knew.”
his hand’s around your throat, not tight—just there, just a warning. your head’s tipped back against the wall, trying to breathe, trying to take it, but he’s fucking into you like you’re his to use.
“look at you,” he mutters, cock buried deep. “so fuckin’ needy for it. all that mouth, but you open up like a good little slut when i get you alone.”
his thumb wipes the drool from your lip, smears it across your cheek.
you answer on instinct, heart thudding like a warning—but the moment you hear the low crackle of distant static, your chest eases.
"si?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep.
"told you i'd call."
his voice is gravel, dulled by poor signal and fatigue. but it’s him.
"you okay?"
"fine," he says. it's automatic. a soldier's answer. then quieter, "can't sleep."
you sit up against the headboard, brushing hair from your face. "where are you?"
a silence and then, his answer.
"nowhere good."
he never tells you, not really. you stopped asking a long time ago.
there's a pause. you hear him breathe.
"is she awake?" his question makes you smile for a moment.
"she had a nightmare an hour ago. i rocked her back down, but she’s been babbling since. talking to the ceiling fan, i think.” you explain softly, sitting at the bed.
he huffs something close to a laugh.
"i'll put you on speaker."
in the dim nightlight, your daughter—grace, as he was gifted to call her, lies in her crib, blanket half-kicked off, tiny fists waving at nothing.
simon listens. on the other end of the world, he's crouched in some half-shelled out building, rifle at his side, bone-weary—but when his daughter coos into the line, high and breathy and nonsense-sweet, his eyes close.
"bah-bah. da-da-da-da."
he bites down the ache.
"daa,"she says again, louder, like she knows.
his voice breaks low over the line. "that's me, sweetheart."
as the line keeps up, you smile with your eyes closed. tiny moments, as you called them. tiny moments where simon could feel happy even if he was crossing the whole world.
taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb
It started as a joke.
"I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."
At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.
When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."
Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.
Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.
"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."
You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.
But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.
"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"
Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop.
Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.
You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.
He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.
"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"
You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.
"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"
You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming.
He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.
"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."
He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.
"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."
You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.
Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.
You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.
"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."
Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders.
Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.
"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.
"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"
You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.
"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."
Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.
He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.
"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."
Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.
Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.
"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."
You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.
He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.
Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.
"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."
Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.
Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.
"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."
He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.
"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."
Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.
"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"
You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.
He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.
"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."
And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.
Ghost.
He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.
Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.
"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell.
Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.
Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.
Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.
"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"
You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.
Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."
Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.
Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."
Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.
He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.
Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.
"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."
Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.
He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.
You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.
Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.
Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.
"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."
You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.
And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.
"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."
Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace.
The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.
You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.
Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.
You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.
You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.
Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.
Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.
Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."
And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.
Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.
You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.
Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.
You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.
And Johnny, of course, was already awake.
He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.
"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"
You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.
"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."
You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.
"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"
His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.
You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.
Johnny's grin turned wolfish.
"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."
He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.
You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.
Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.
He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.
"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.
You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.
Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”
Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.
Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.
"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."
And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.
“You know, Si..” You begin, almost making him groan since it’s eight am and somehow you’re awake already. He swore you were exhausted last night, where was all this energy from?
“Mm..” He grunts, his head somehow buried in your neck during the night and his large hands splayed around your waist.
“You could just leave the mask off forever if you like.”
That makes him raise a brow, had he even heard that right? It was early morning, so maybe he was losing it. “Come again?”
“Just sayin’, if you didnt wanna wear it, it’s okay.”
“Love..I wear it to hide my face, y’know, from enemies?”
You let out a huff,stretching your arms over your head as you turn your head to look back at him. “Yeah, but don't worry—no girl will try hit on you-- I can fight.”
He should’ve known since your lips began to curl, that you’d come up with a stupid joke like that early in the morning. This time he does groan, burying his face into your shoulder for a second before he rolls over and faces his back to you. “You’re sleeping with the plushies for that one.”
