I hate that âbad dreamâ just means ânightmareâ instead of âshitty quality dream.â I had a bad dream last night. It wasnât scary it just didnât make a lot of narrative sense
the fact that we only have âherculean taskâ and âsisyphean taskâ feels so limiting. so hereâs a few more tasks for your repertoire
icarian task: when you have a task you know youâre going to fail at anyways, so why not have some fun with it before it all comes crashing down
cassandrean task: when you have to deal with people you KNOW wonât listen to you, despite having accurate information, and having to watch them fumble about when you told them the solution from the start (most often witnessed in customer service)
feel free to chime in i ran out of ideas much faster than i anticipated
Promethean task: opposite of a Cassandraean task. You have the right information, and SOMEONE has to share it. But it's all in the delivery and if you're the person to identify the problem you WILL be hated forever.
Oedipal Task: (1) Attempting to avoid an unspeakably awful outcome and in doing so creating the circumstances that will bring it about.
(2) Trying to solve an problem and discovering that you are in fact the problem you are trying to solve.
damoclean task: the thing you've been putting off long enough that it becomes a constantly hanging doom over your head
pyrrhic task: you can get it done but it's going to cost you
medean task: you can get it done and you don't care what it costs you
dionysian task: task that might not be -better- if you do it drunk, but -will- definitely be more fun
hegelochic task: it was a simple job, but your name will be recorded in the annals of history for how impressively you fucked it up
task of theseus: a project for which the parameters have changed so many times that you're not sure it IS still the same task
gordian task: ok technically there Is a Right Way to do this but it's going to be fiddly and awful and take forever and what if. what if you just said fuck it. and started slicing
I really like the colours you get on magpies, what at first glance looks like a other black and white bird is actually full of these wonderfully iridescent greens and purples
something something you call for your husband as you make tea in the kitchen and another man's voice answers. slowly you make your way to the living room, where a strange man is wearing your husband's clothes, reading your husband's book, sat in your husband's chair.
"somethin' wrong?" the stranger asks, peering over your husband's reading glasses. he has powder blue eyes, a dark, shaggy beard with flecks of silver glinting in the lamp light, and shoulders so broad they stretch the thin cotton of his everton fc shirt- and even sitting down, you can see that his joggers stop well above his ankles.
you don't think you've ever seen this man before in your life- but something about him is awfully familiar.
"where is my husband?" you ask quietly, voice shaking in obvious fear. the man's mild curiosity flips to deep concern as he puts the book down, not even bothering to mark his place.
"what are you- i'm right here." his brows furrow. "sweetheart? are you all right?"
"you're not my husband." on shaking legs you slowly back away towards the kitchen door. "you're not my david."
"of course i am, who else would i be?" he asks, sounding concerned- but not in the way david would be. david would be irritated, angry, annoyed with you for being 'hysterical'. this man isn't doing that- and what's more, he seems genuinely worried.
"i don't know you. get out of my house." it comes out barely above a whisper, terrified tears springing to your lashes. you can barely comprehend what's happening right now, but the way you see it, your options are one of two things:
one- there is a stranger in your home, pretending to be your (missing) husband and doing a rather poor job of it. your david is not near as gentle or sweet as this- if he was really your husband, he'dve told you to shut up by now. twice, probably.
two- you have suddenly undergone some sort of traumatic brain... thing... that you don't remember, and now your husband appears to you to be kinder, taller, wearing a different face, and speaking in a different voice. your brain is no longer to be trusted, and you're going to have to depend on david as reality's grip on you continues to loosen.
so you've either lost your mind, or you're in serious danger from an intruder. either way, your instinct is to get far away from the man whose presence is causing you so much confusion and distress.
"are you hurt, darling? did you hit your head? did you fall? do you remember?" he asks, brows creased in concern, arms out like he's trying to calm a nervous horse. he's fucking with you, he's got to be. david would've called you names by now- hurtful ones, cruel ones meant to belittle and break the spirit.
the worry in this stranger's voice and written on his face brings your tears spilling over your lashes and onto your cheek. fear and humiliation have you turning on your heel to run, but the stranger is on you faster than you'd expected, arms locking around your waist and reeling you in.
"it's all right. it's okay. just a bump to your head, sweetheart, we'll take you to see someone, get you fixed up. it's all right." he spins you in his arms, pulling you into a tight hug, one hand holding the back of your head as the other rubs up and down your spine. light kisses are peppered against your temple, and it brings another wave of tears to your eyes.
he's an imposter, you're certain of it- and it breaks your heart to realize that a stranger, someone who maybe even wishes to do you harm, is treating you with a gentleness and compassion that you actual husband hadn't shown you in years.
"what do you want?" you ask, voice croaking with emotion. the stranger coos sympathetically at you, petting at your back as he continues to nuzzle against the side of your face.
"i want my best girl t'be well. we'll get you well, love, don't worry. we'll see a doctor, and then maybe i'll take you up to scotland for a few days. i've heard of a place we can rent- out of the way, far from people, a quick walk to the sea. should do your nerves some good, i think." he murmurs softly, determination audible.
it's hard to think like this. you know he's lying, that you're not hallucinating, but parsing out what it is he's actually after seems to be nigh impossible without directly confronting him, and you're not sure that's the best idea. what if he drops the doting, attentive, and concerned charade that you can't help but relish in? on one hand, it would mean that he could decide to hurt you to get what he's after. on the other, well. with your cheek pressed against his shoulder and his broad, warm palm still rubbing comforting circles on your shoulders, it fills a need that your husband left unfulfilled for years.
the realization wrings a pained sob from you, and the man murmurs quiet assurances, sweet words to calm a hysterical woman, all with the patience and warmth you've been so severely lacking.
and you cry all the harder for it.
"i st-still don- don't know what you wa-want from me-hee-hee." the words rattle and shake their way from your mouth, uncertain and afraid- but they're met with more tenderness and gentle reassurance, which makes it all the worse. this is the most danger you've ever been in, and you've never felt more treasured in your life.
"i don't want you afraid, darling- especially not of me." he murmurs between gentle shushes, and god help you, but you really do believe him. you pull back a bit to look at him, and the soft way he looks at you is heartbreaking. when was the last time david looked at you like that? it's been years. you stare up at the stranger's face, still feeling that faint spark of recognition as you gaze up at his face. you remember those eyes and that little mole on the side of his nose- but not where you'd seen them before. it's infuriating, making you feel even crazier than his assertion that he's david.
"please don't hurt me." you plead, looking deep into those beautiful blue eyes. his visible shock almost makes you flinch, but his expression settles into a determined one as he gently cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping away your tears.
"listen t'me: whatever else you might believe about me, know that i will not hurt you." he tells you, solemn as a funeral, eyes locked onto yours. he tilts his chin to his chest. "i think we'd better get that fresh scottish air in your lungs sooner rather than later. lets pack your bag, darling. come on."
he leads you towards the bedroom, but as you pass the window you notice something- despite the fact that they won't be picked up for another three days, the bins are out, and judging by the way the lid is tilted, stuffed full to the brim.
'david' watches you like a hawk as the two of you pack your bags, telling you to bring as much as you like, that he'll figure out arrangements with your work until this 'mental health crisis' is over- and you wonder if he means to kill you.
"you don't have to be here. you don't have to do this." you plead with him, throwing every clean pair of underwear you have into the bag petulantly. "you can just leave me. just go. live your life, leave me here, it'll be okay. you don't need me."
"yes, i do." the stranger murmurs, pulling you in for another hug and kissing your temple. "i've needed you since i first saw you. it's why i'm here, why i have this ring, isn't it?"
david's ring sits on the man's finger, and in your heart, you know you should grieve- but there's a blockage inside of you preventing it. it could be that fear and confusion have overridden it, it could be that david's callous and cruel behavior eroded away any possibility of it, or it could be that you've actually, factually, broken your brain during the course of this mindfuck of an evening.
the stranger presses a gentle kiss to your lips- and while still fairly chaste, you can feel something in it, a passion that's barely being held back.
"i'm gonna take care of you. we're gonna take care of each other. in sickness and health," he kisses your forehead, "-til death do us part, yeah?"
"yeah." you reply, without knowing why. the way you see it, he's huge, in your space, and either crazy or dangerous or both. fighting isn't an option, and you're not fast or wiley enough to run. freezing didn't work, so fawn it is, you suppose.
"my good girl. lets finish packing and get on our way." he presses another kiss to your mouth, and reaches back to full-handed grope your ass, winking as he lets go to finish looting your husband's closet. it doesn't escape your notice that none of the blue everton shirts get packed into his bag, nor any of the trousers that you suspect also cut off above his ankles.
soon he's got you buckled into the passenger seat, your luggage packed in the boot, and the backseat crammed with a few days worth of food, toilet paper, and general supplies. he reaches over and squeezes your thigh, fingers flexing on the inseam of your trousers, and it sparks a memory.
merseyside derby, a few years ago. david got drunk and started shouting at some liverpool fan who'd done nothing more grievous than breathe the same air as him. he'd ignored your husband entirely, giving you a once-over with powder-blue eyes, smirking slightly when he'd remarked that he thought you'd look even prettier in red.
it had been so long ago, but now here you are, receiving that same look in the front seat of your husband's car, and the memory leaves you breathless.
"we're really doing this?" you ask warily, voice shaking with nerves. how long was he waiting? watching? planning?
"we're really doing this." the stranger confirms warmly, unaware of your recognition and subsequent mental spinout, putting the key in the ignition. the engine turns over, and it feels like a death knell.
"who are you, really?" you ask, voice barely audible over the radio that's just come to life, volume last set by david to mask any 'chatter' you might engage in. the man clicks it off entirely.
"i'm your david, sweetheart. remember?" he asks, but there's a tone to it. a mild warning, and therefore, an acknowledgement of the farce. your blood runs even colder, and your posture stiffens. he pulls the car out, driving you both through the neighborhood in the dead of night, making your way north towards god-knows-what.
One night stand Gaz that you met in Italy who speaks perfect Italian and you think is a local until he shows up around your neighbourhood in London (you only ever spoke to him in shitty Italian which he indulged in because you said you wanted to practice, and which you must have really needed because you clearly didnât listen to any of the things he rasped in your ear while bottomed out in your cunt about following you home and making you his)
inspired by this piece of art but oh, losing your husband to vampirism. heartbroken as you are, you fear for your life and that of your children, so you swear he'll never cross your threshold again. night after night, he prowls the yard and circles the house.
over the weeks, he cycles through begging, anger, and desperate promises before eventually abandoning language altogether, resorting to standing outside and watching through whatever crack affords him a glimpse inside.
the doors stay locked and the windows remain latched. you put up thick curtains and draw them before dusk each evening so he cannot peer inside. no one may leave the house after sunset.
but how the children miss their father.
one night, despite every precaution and warning you've drilled into their heads, your youngest stirs having heard the sound of their father's voice whispering in the dark. they slip from their bed and sneak out of their room and down the stairs, following the voice until it becomes clear. at the front door, they kneel before the brass cover of the mail slot.
"don't you miss me, kiddo? won't you ask daddy to come in? we'll play and play, then i'll read you a story and tuck you in. won't that be nice? ...mommy said not to? oh, well, hasn't mommy seemed sad lately? you know i always make her laugh..."
you wake to find him standing at the foot of your bed, your youngest cradled against his shoulder, sleeping soundly. he raises a finger to his lips, shushing you before you make a sound.
"hiya, darling," he whispers. "i'm gonna put this little angel back to bed, and then you and i are going to have a chat."
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewelâa pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "ButâŠI wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are peopleâŠgenerally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "JustâŠa little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It'sâŠ" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not reallyâŠit's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitelyâyou knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'llâŠI was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries againâand like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then ohâ
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Pleaseâplease just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"PleaseâŠ"
"Simonâ" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitlessâliterallyâand he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to lightâ
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahhâfuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at youâŠ"
"Fuckâ" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boyâand he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don'tâ" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually beâit manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthlessâcheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
you know that trope where itâs princess + knight, but theyâve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because heâs thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?
writing your fave having sex with with their love interest is OUT writing your fave shamefully jerking off and coming pathetically fast at just the idea of fucking their love interest is IN
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, âOh, look what I gotâ or âLook at what all my work has amounted to.â
Thatâs never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know youâre worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldnât be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.Â
Itâs not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.Â
And it happens that way with your heart too.
Thereâs a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.Â
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them youâve even grown to recognize over timeâstudents bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
Theyâre harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choiceâsome boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.Â
Then, to him.Â
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.Â
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.Â
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that thereâs a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.Â
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.Â
Itâs no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that youâll cross paths again.Â
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.Â
That isnât unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that youâve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; youâre no different. Neither is he.Â
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when youâve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but itâ
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.Â
You donât entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear youâve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as himâbroad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.Â
Heâs objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man youâve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?Â
You donât know what to do with yourself when he doesnât show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that youâve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesnât owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesnât, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. Itâs pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that youâve become infatuated with wasnât at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.Â
Forgive yourself though. Nothing youâve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you donât expect is for him to finally notice you.Â
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as youâre about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and heâs already pushing on the other side.Â
âTraffic jam,â he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. âHere, Iâve got you.â
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you canât move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.Â
That wasnât part of the plan. Itâs thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.Â
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mindâthe crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.Â
The only problem isâ
Now he knows who you are.
You donât expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. Heâs not the one thatâs been pining these past few weeks. Heâs not the one thatâs been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.Â
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time heâs in.Â
Itâs one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. Itâs what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zenoâs Achilles never could.Â
âHey stranger, no dance today, huh?â he asks, clearly addressing you. Â
You donât know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks youâve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadnât considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.Â
âSorry?â you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. âFrom the other day, remember?â
You donât know how youâll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. âRight. Haha. I guess the dance floorâs closed today.â
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.Â
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. Itâs too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.Â
And he will figure you out. You havenât exactly played it subtle.Â
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you donât even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.Â
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right. Â
Kyle doesnât seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you. Â
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.Â
At first, itâs nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didnât realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe youâre imagining it.Â
âSo when are you gonna let me take you out for real?âÂ
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you canât seem to suppress.Â
âFor real?â you repeat.
âOn a date,â Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone werenât enough to wreck you.Â
âOh.âÂ
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, heâs already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).Â
This isnât what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.Â
Itâs everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldnât want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you canât quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.Â
Youâll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.Â
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you canât do this anymore. You need to leaveâgo anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But thereâs a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.Â
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isnât what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.Â
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. Itâs the having thatâs dangerous.Â
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly itâs too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because heâs deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldnât allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.Â
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one youâve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.Â
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.Â
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before youâ
âA long time,â you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?Â
Kyle doesnât seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. âI must be one lucky man then.â
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.Â
You assume he means a drink at a bar until youâre standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.Â
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.Â
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. Itâs not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.Â
âDo you have, umâŠany plans tomorrow?â you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.Â
âNope,â he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.Â
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.Â
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your doubleâs ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. âIf I give you an inch, youâre going to run a mile, arenât you?â he murmurs.Â
Thereâs a lump in your throat when you swallow. âNo,â you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.Â
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.Â
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they canât gather themselves enough to retreat.Â
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.Â
He eats pussy like he hasnât had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost donât know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.Â
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.Â
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesnât seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.Â
When have you been someoneâs âpoor babyâ? Someoneâs darling, sweetheart, honey, thatâs it, Iâve got you, that felt good, didnât it? God, youâre so pretty, I canât believe you let meâ
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.Â
âItâs still sensitive,â you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.Â
âSo what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means Iâm not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?â
âNo,â you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.Â
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.Â
They donât stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.Â
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
âYou are the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen,â Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than youâve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
âDonâtâdonât say that,â you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. âYou canât tell me that. You canât tell me what to do.â
Whatever this is, itâs nothing like anything youâve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.Â
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.Â
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, andâ
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.Â
What you donât expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
âThatâs right, baby,â he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. âIâm not going anywhere.â
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.Â
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. Heâs entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.Â
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.Â
âI can feel your heart racing,â Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldnât he? Your heart is racing after all. âIâm nervous.â
âI know you are, baby,â he murmurs. âThis is hard for you, isnât it?â
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. Youâve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.Â
âWant me to make this easier on you?â he asks gently. Youâre not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.Â
And wouldnât it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?Â
You nod.Â
âOkay, honey. Then you donât have to do it. No telling me to go away. Iâve got it from here.âÂ
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you donât stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.Â
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.Â
So be it. What use is there in protecting something thatâs already his?Â
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Except⊠you donât.
You donât even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
Thatâs when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyes⊠shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like youâre some glitch in reality. Heâs covered in other menâs blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and youâre looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You donât look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
âBloody hell,â he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. âDidât expect a filthy lilâ thing like you tâcream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Orâve you just got a thing for monsters?â
Youâre still staring. Still heated. Ghostâs thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
Price wonât like it if thereâs loose endsâŠ
But he might not mind if Ghost keep a little petâŠ
I love how some fics are called shit like "They Only Shoot The Birds Who Cannot Sing" and it's like the most insane porn you're ever read and then some fics are called Spit On Me and it's 18,000 words of the most achingly id-scratching prose you've ever read and they're both. They're both so fucking good. thank God for fanfiction.
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