Being six months pregnant waddling around in the grocery store when you accidentally knock over a display of tomato soup cans. Almost everybody in a ten foot radius stares at you like you’ve shot someone.
One man, though—masked, tall, muscular—walks over. Silently starts picking the cans up, arranging them the way they were. You mumble apologies, white hot shame pricking all over your skin.
He lifts his hand up, waving dismissively.
“You shouldn’t bend in your condition.”
“More like, I physically can’t. Heh.” A stupid attempt at lightening the mood. “Sorry, that was—”
He laughs a little. “Funny.”
He offers to drive you home, because no pregnant woman should have to walk any longer than they have to. Brings all the groceries upstairs without so much as a huff.
You get to know him, eventually. He learns that the father hadn’t responded to any of your messages or calls since you found out, and that you’ve been on your own the whole time.
A bird flies right into his window, and he’s gonna patch her up. Of course he is.
Takes care of you and inserts himself into your life. Insists it’s because his mum raises him right, but the truth is his mum didn’t really raise him at all and he’s a little smitten with you. Maybe he likes having someone dependent on him.
Somewhere in his mind, it’s settled. He’s the father. That baby is his. No matter what colour hair or eyes it has. He is the father, and he’s gonna be a damn good one.
That window shatters when you tell him the father finally answered your texts. He’s coming to the hospital for your labour, because the staff informed him.
Simon’s rubbing your back as you bend over the bed in pain, when a burly man bursts through in hysterics.
“BONNIE AH’M SO SORRY AH PROMISE AH’LL BE A GOOD FATHER AH WASNAE READY THEN BUT AH’M READY NOW AND— LT???”
Simon squints. “Johnny?”
You’re too much in pain to even focus on this new development. Start yelling at them to get their shit together because the baby’s decided it’s coming now.
Simon’s holding your hand so tight the nurse has to tell him to calm down, and all Johnny can do is pace.
“Ah cannae believe this, Lt. Been shaggin’ my baby momma for who knows how long.”
“Please don’t call me that” and “this is not the time” come sternly, and silence him. Pouts and sits in the corner, drinking the glass of ice chips the nurse had brought for you.
It's Yorkshire Day! But what's Yorkshire? (Where is Yorkshire? Why is Yorkshire?) And why does everyone talk so funny?
Ay up, it’s Yorkshire Day! (Also Lammas or Lughnasadh; also the Feast Day for a couple of dozen saints, none of whom I feel are worth mentioning.)
What is Yorkshire? Well, it’s a large chunk of the north of England, the heartland of what in the Iron Age would have been Brigante territory.
Selected late Iron Age tribal territories
To some it’s God’s Own Country. To others simply the most…
Two beautiful boys show you what it means to have fun in Europe.
or, the soapgaz vacation au.
CW: american reader, threesome, explicit unprotected sex, rimming, weed, high sex, dub-con, everybody is in their twenties, public sex
Read on AO3. Listen to the playlist :)
(dividers courtesy of dollywons)
If you had known that your vacation would’ve turned out like this, you wouldn’t have come. Plain and simple. It sounds horrible to say you don’t like spending time with your family, because you know they love you. Probably more than most. Maybe that’s part of the problem.
Again, a horrible thing to say.
People get sued for falsely advertising products, you know? But when your mom says, “a nice, relaxing couple of weeks in the most beautiful city in Italy”; and really means, “an excuse for me to micro-manage every member of my family”—nobody dares to even bring up libel.
It’s ridiculous. Every second she spends talking about the itinerary and pictures and wake-up calls and complimentary breakfasts, you get closer to drowning yourself in the hotel pool.
That’s not why you’re swimming at eleven PM, obviously. No, you don’t think it’s all that bad. The food is good, the weather is much more pleasant than whatever it was back home, and Sicilian men are just as beautiful as everyone raves.
You cut through the water, stroke after stroke. You’ve settled on a rhythm, reach and pull and kick and breathe. A tingle spreads through the sinew of your arms like wildfire. You dip under the water then, letting yourself sink just enough for the world to disappear: no itinerary, no voices—
Then, a splash. Distant at first, until it isn’t.
“Careful, ye might drown.”
You emerge, water trailing down your face in uneven rivulets. Your limbs feel heavier, and your breath is steadier.
The water ripples around you as you stabilise, cool and gliding over your skin like silk.
Water clears from your eyelashes enough for the man in front of you to come into focus. Your age, give or take—he seems youthful enough. Wide smiles that haven’t yet left their lined taint on his skin. An unruly mullet sits atop, brown curls clinging to his forehead. His eyes are blue—as electrically ultramarine as the water you find yourself in.
He grins, and the movement shifts the crook of his nose—a fighter’s nose, one that’s seen trouble just as much as it’s made it.
“Sorry?” you utter, finally, breaking out of your scrutiny.
He swims over, back cutting through the currents like it’s home. His muscles coil with each expert stroke as he reaches the other end of the pool, hand tapping magnetically against the wall near your shoulder.
“Ah said,” he tilts his head, “ye might drown.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Okay.” Then, a perfunctory, “Noted.” You wipe away the water droplets still resting on your face, ready to plunge in once more to take laps.
His hand settles on your shoulder now, the touch warm and calloused. You freeze, and he moors you back where you’d been.
“Och, relax,” he cuts in. “Jus’ takin’ the piss. Thought Americans liked a bit o’ fun?”
A furrow creases between your brows. His words are lilted, words clipped together in a way that makes even jokes seem like a challenge. It’s got a musical West Coast brogue to it—sharp at the edges, but smooth in the middle.
“D’ya talk at all, lass?”
Your fingers twitch at the strap of your bikini, not from discomfort; but because something about his gaze—his complete lack of hesitation—has you feeling exposed in a way that has to do with much more than just your swimsuit. “Yes.”
He smiles then, a grin so disarming you feel your knees buckle. The corners of his mouth move up like a crescent waxing, and his face lights up like ctenophores. “Johnny.” The expression lingers in his waiting, prodding you. An invite that you’re in the mood to take as a challenge.
Your lips thin, jaw setting. Something pucki plays at your features. “I didn’t ask.”
“Ooh, kitty’s got claws,” he chuckles, eyebrows quirking as though he’d expected less. He leans against the wall, elbows sliding behind him. “Ah like yer swimsuit.”
Heat prickles beneath your cheeks. Though the moon sees everything, you hope for your sake he doesn’t. “Thanks.”
“Christ, Johnny,” a voice cuts in from the other end, laced with mirth. “Can’t take ya anywhere.” This accent is different. More polished, a real Englishman. His words are dragged out, careful and deliberate.
Your head whips around skittishly, as if caught eavesdropping on a conversation you weren’t meant to hear. The new arrival is tall and composed, his posture at ease despite the coltish tension between you and Johnny. He watches with a quiet amusement that feels like he already knows something you don’t.
He’s draped in a towel like royalty surveying his kingdom, legs sprawled, shoulders relaxed. The moonlight casts a sheen on his skin, tracing the lean muscle of someone who doesn’t have to show off to be noticed. Where Johnny’s energy crackles, barely contained, his presence is effortless—calculated, even.
“Sorry ‘bout him,” he says with a smile so clearly directed towards you. His lips are plump, stretching the perfect amount to frame his face. His teeth are blinding in their pearliness. “A bit of a rascal, aren’t ya?”
Johnny lunges through the water like a shark scenting blood, all raw momentum and reckless energy. Before he can react, a wave of cool chlorinated water slaps against his chest. He barely gets out a sputtered, “You absolute—” before Johnny grabs his legs and yanks. There’s a sharp gasp, a struggle—then a loud, messy splash as his friend is swallowed by the pool.
They grapple, limbs tangling in messy bursts of motion. Water sloshes, waves breaking against the pool’s edge. He surfaces, slick and breathless, shaking droplets from his lashes.
Eventually, they settle.
“All you did was prove me right,” Johnny’s friend says, shaking the water free from his knots. “Anyway, back to our new friend,” he says, and both of their heads turn to look at you in near synchrony.
You shake your head timorously, hands already pushing down on the edge to lift yourself out of the water. “No, I was just about to—”
“I’m Kyle,” he says anyway. “Stay.” His mouth tilts at the edge. “Unless you’re scared of a little fun.”
They both fix their gazes on you, intent and ensnaring. Your neck feels stiff, unable to turn around in your attempt to seem phlegmatic. You open your mouth, then close it.
When you open it again, you don’t tell them that it’s getting late. You don’t tell them that your parents must be looking for you.
You don’t tell them that they’re exactly the kind of boys people warn girls like you about.
No, you don’t say any of that. Instead, with a poise you don’t quite recognise, you say, “You sure you can keep up with me?”
Any inkling of your shame—something quite jarring—is quickly washed over by a second wave of confidence when they beam from ear to ear, looking at each other as though they’ve just begun playing a game you’re not yet privy to.
Your bare feet feel the prick of every single sharp stone—or pieces of litter—as they lead you to the beach. You’re quickly regretting your decision to forgo collecting your flip-flops while leaving. The same can be said about your sarong, which you clearly miss with every gust of wind that strings your drenched skin. Kyle tells you it’s a private residence, and you mention you didn’t know the resort had one. To that, they share another one of their looks and laugh.
“Dinnae worry ‘bout it, bonnie,” Johnny joshes. “We’ll give ya the real tour, righ’?”
You don’t notice when exactly their arms become so entangled with yours, fingers prying and prodding everywhere at your nearly bare and wet skin. By the time the water dries off, the current has your limbs shivering.
If they notice it, they don’t say anything.
The nylon of your swimsuit is no longer drenched and see-through, but your peaks are still hardened through it. You find yourself folding your arms across your chest repeatedly, only for them to playfully be pulled off by the boys.
“What’re ya embarrassed abou’ with us?” It’s strange how they’ve already begun talking to you like you’ve grown up together. Like you know their last names, even.
The beach is indisputably beautiful. It had been quite the walk from the actual resort, but somehow still secluded. Someplace too intimate to be a tourist spot. The sand is pristine and a muted white. The light of the full moon glimmers on the dancing water.
There’s only one large house you can make out in the distance, but you don’t ask about it. Except for their occasional bickering and laughing, you can hear the drone of ocean wind wonderfully. As you walk closer to the water, seashells colorful like out of animated movies emerge below your feet. You pick one up, a small conch, and hold it up to your ear. The susurrations of the night whisper and swirl in your ears, and you close your eyes. The gale slaps against your face, as does your hair, and you bask in it until you’re interrupted.
Large hands and tough sinew snake up your waist, and you flinch before you see Kyle’s disarming smile.
“Like the beach?” His voice is soft, deep. It grounds you back to land, and your eyes flutter open.
Your own mouth turns up in a smile.
Oh, what the hell—you’ve certainly had worse vacations than this one.
You let yourself stand there, seafoam washing up and over your bare feet. His grip doesn’t tighten, nor does it loosen. His breaths get slower and warmer on your neck, and they adjust to your pace. His hips cant ever so slightly towards you, and something stiff presses into the curve of your back.
You don’t object when you feel his fingers trailing downwards. Deft, like he’s been trained to do this so surreptitiously the receiver doesn’t notice. Butterflies crawl downwards, faster than his hands; they pool hot and pulsating in your core.
A gasp is about to fall from your mouth when you feel the rude, chilly splash of water against your face.
He jerks away from you almost instinctively, and you catch only his blurry figure running across the beach. Chasing Johnny until they both look a sopping, sandy mess.
You giggle despite yourself. The moon’s higher and brighter than you’ve ever seen it. It seems like there’s no one around you for miles, though you know that to be false for sure.
You make yourself a seat in the sand while you wait for them to walk back over. Their animated conversations with one another seem to be an endless plethora of topics to banter about.
Their chatter grows louder but their accents make the words unintelligible when you choose to zone out. They sit down on either side—Kyle stretches his legs out completely and Johnny lays down.
“This was really fun,” you say, quietly, leaning on your elbows.
And again, as if on cue, they throw each other a look.
“Bonnie, say,” he starts, mullet flat from the water, “ye wanna make it fun-ner?”
You snort. “That’s not a word.”
He jumps upright, and Kyle turns to face you.
“Fuck that,” he smirks, “you wanna have fun or not?”
Your eyes widen. You’re only a little convinced of what this might be. “Um…”
Johnny’s hand darts up to hold your chin. “Jus’ say the word.”
They’re both so close to your face, you can practically count every individual hair on their skin. “Okay,” you breathe out. Mostly to get them to back up.
This is when he gets on his knees, crawling in front of you. His hands rummage in his pockets for a bit before he pulls a small, brown paper bag out. Kyle barks out a laugh that you wince at. His fist jostles at your side briefly before Johnny pulls out what looks like a cube-shaped gummy, coated in sugar.
Your eyebrow raises. “Weed?”
It’s followed by rapid shushing.
“Just a little bit of happiness, lovie,” Kyle grins, taking one from Johnny’s palm.
And then, he holds it out to you.
Your throat bobs. “I’ve never… done that before.”
“Gosh, she’s adorable,” Johnny chuckles, folding his legs and taking two more out.
A small furrow forms between your brows, and in your indignance, you swallow the gummy whole. It faces a little resistance in your dry mouth, but you gulp it down regardless.
Kyle’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s…”
Johnny, on the other hand, is laughing uncontrollably. “Tha’s the fuckin’ spirit!” He ruffles your hair, but you haven’t started to feel it yet. He howls.
And then, another sharp howl in your ear. You turn your head a little too fast, and blood rushes to your ears. It sloshes around in your brain and beats and thrums so hard you can feel it. Hear it.
Their faces endlessly oscillate near and away from your eyes, and they seem to be falling over in multiples each time they approach you.
Everything around you is just a little blurred. A haze has set over your vision, and it's only increasing by the minute.
“Ya feelin’ it, bonnie?” The words echo in your ears like they've been spoken on a megaphone far, far away—but you feel Johnny's lips move right on your shoulder.
You feel your head moving sluggishly in a nod. Every movement is slow, like you're wading through molasses.
Kyle's teeth sparkle in a smile, and you feel his plump lips draw your own in. You're helpless to his advances, and when his finger brushes over your hardened nipples—maybe you don't want to be helped. The sensation of the graze courses through you with a million volts, and you cry out wantonly.
“Such a pretty sound, bird, gonna need ya to make more…”
A second pair of lips moves from your shoulder to your thigh, biting and nipping at the soft flesh. Kyle's tongue bullies its way into your mouth, slick warmth coaxing your muscle into a feverish tango. He pinches the bundle of nerves, and you mewl into his mouth.
The knots of your bikini seem to fall as though of their own volition, and the breeze washes over you violently. The coolness clashes with the warmth of tongues and lips and hands all over you—but you shiver from both.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, ah need this.”
Unusual heat presses at your clothed cunt, like something trying to break in. Johnny's tongue laves at the gusset of your bikini sloppily. It takes him a while before he finds your nub, but when he does he doesn't let go of it. He tries to string it into the vacuum of his lips before he plainly snatches the underwear off, tossing it somewhere because it's just not his concern anymore.
You hear the growls and huffs of an animal between your legs, tongue and lips now attacking your swollen clit. Sparks erupt behind your closed eyes in all colours, especially those of the reflection in the water.
“Be a good girl for him, won't you…”
There's a sharp smack when your thighs snap shut from overload, and they pliantly repel apart. A digit pushes its way through your entrance, and your back arches towards the midnight sky.
It feels unreal, unreal, unreal—this is all you can think about and see and hear and feel. Your back's hit the soft sand now, and you squirm in response to every single stimulation like no one's watching.
Johnny's finger kicks up into your wall, and sounds you've never made before come out of your mouth. Kyle's teeth have latched onto your neck, and you don't have the strength to even think about hickeys.
His tongue swirls smoothly in your ear, and gooseflesh raises in its wake. Your hairs stand up, and your legs fall slack.
Your lids lift momentarily to catch the glimpse of the moon. It lightens above their heads, and falls on the bleary, muzzy sight of Kyle's hand in Johnny's lap.
Their faces double and merge as they bring their mouths to yours, and you're rained down upon by an onslaught of kisses. You don't know what wetness has transferred where, and you're not sure if you care.
They lift at your limbs until you're no longer touching the ground. The muscles they grab sting, but the rest of you feels like you're taking flight. Then, rudely, you are thrown into the water, and you sink like a dead weight before instinct kicks in and makes you flounder alacritously.
Wind carries the sound of their laughs into your ear.
Your eyes drift open to the sight of your hotel room. The curtains are drawn, but daylight filters in through the jacquard. You’re splayed out atop the bed, and your ankle is strung between curtains of a canopy you don’t remember having. You wipe the dried streak of drool across your mouth before getting up, and your weight hardly shifts on the bed.
Your feet carry you absentmindedly through the room, and when you reach the living room of the suite, it hits you.
You don’t have a suite. What your parents got were two normal rooms separated by a wall and connected by a door, not a whole common room.
This is not your room.
And when you see the dark, muscled arm emerging from below the heap of pillows—
You know exactly whose it is.
Panic spreads through you like wildfire. Everything in your mind is clouded by a nebulous haze that can’t lift fast enough. Memories of last night refuse to come forward at your will.
Before you're struck with any life-changing revelations, you make your way out on tip toes. It's not the stealthiest move to accidentally nudge a vase that looks like it costs your entire college tuition. It wobbles and teeters for what comfortably contend for the most stressful five seconds of your life, before standing back upright.
You only allow yourself to heave a comically large sigh of relief once you're standing by the lift, their door hanging only slightly ajar.
The door to your room swings open, and you scurry inside. To your consolation, the space has been left exactly like how it was last night. The connecting door’s locked from your side, too, so maybe your parents haven’t woken up yet.
The time’s 7:42 AM. You suppose it’s fair they’re still asleep—they are on vacation, after all. You start the shower and immediately rinse yourself off. There’s sand all over you, and your swimwear was tied really shabbily—which, more than anything, begs the question: who could possibly mess up such a simple knot? Your hair is stiff as can be, something that only happens when you swim in an open body of water.
Slow and gradual, you start piecing back remnants of last night. The pace they come to you at is quite frustrating and often fleeting. But you know this much: you were with them, on a beach, and you swam at some point. There’s an unexplained soreness between your legs and a reddish bruise between your collarbones, and you’ve decided to not think too much about it for now. You’re not sure you want the memory to flood back to you quite yet.
You opt for a simple, full sleeve crocheted cover along with loose board shorts. Your hair has become frizzy since you’ve left the shower, so you just braid it back. When your parents wake, they greet you cheerfully and it’s all you can do to stop thinking about what happened last night briefly.
You follow them downstairs for breakfast, and you’re in the middle of glazing your picture-perfect pancakes with maple syrup when you hear a pair of familiar giggles.
Your chest swells with a deep, steadying breath, and you brace yourself.
“Good mornin’, bonnie,” Johnny slurs, though you’re sure it’s only because he’s begun to yawn mid-sentence. You turn around, and spot Kyle loading his plate with all the fruits laid out.
“Morning,” you mutter, quiet so that you don’t draw your parents’ attention.
Johnny snatches the croissant you were going for and pops it whole into his mouth. Flakes fly around his mouth boorishly when he says, “ya left so early.” His words are muffled as he chews heartily on what was meant to be your breakfast. “Didnae even get ta give ya a goodbye kiss.”
He puckers his lips at you, and you smack his shoulder.
He frowns cartoonishly. “Och, what the hell was tha’ fer?”
You shoot a glare towards the direction your parents’ table is in, and even though they seem oblivious to this interaction, you just can’t risk the litany of questions. “Be quiet.”
Kyle joins the two of you, and his plate is still only filled with fruits. “He’s right, love. We were really hurt you left us without sayin’ a word. Makes us feel used.” He gives you a wisenheimer smirk.
You keep your plate down, and drag the both of them by their shirt sleeves to a corner of the restaurant. It’s somewhat concealed thanks to the large tower of cupcakes and eclairs.
“What the hell happened last night?”
Their faces light up like dogs, and they lean in closer to you. Kyle places his hand on your shoulder, and starts, “you don’t remember anythin’?”
You shake your head.
“Good god,” Johnny sighs, “it was a great feckin' night.”
When you narrow your eyes, they tell you the series of events.
Other than finding about what had indeed blurred your memory, it pretty much lines up with the series of events you'd contrived, except you know that can't be all.
“So… we didn't…?”
You let the question hang in the air in front of two blank faces. Kyle jerks as if he'd forgotten.
“Oh, right, we did snog a bit.”
Your brow raises in incredulity. “And?”
Johnny makes a pffft sound. “Ah guess there coulda been a little hand stuff.” His eyes are shifty. “And mouth stuff.”
The breath is knocked out of you in an instant. While your indubitable attraction to them even now leaves no room for you to wonder whether there was enthusiasm on your side or not… you still feel a strange itch all over your body. Your ear's begun to hurt as well, maybe in response.
“Dinnae fash yerself,” he says, smile still large on his face, “it was all fer ya. Promise.”
You're sure that had been an attempt at making you feel better, but it falls short embarrassingly. You clutch opposite sides your arms, and begin to walk away when Kyle's hand gently resists on your waist. The impression of his touch lingers all the way from last night to now.
“Listen,” he starts, voice hushed and a small smile on his face. “We're goin’ around the city today. Come with us.”
Johnny joins him in looking at you like puppies that have been kicked.
You begin to shake your head, looking back at your parents’ table only to find them still oblivious. “I… I can't. I have plans with family.”
Kyle rubs your arm before giving it a little squeeze. “Our room, 10:30.”
“See ya,” Johnny grins, in the middle of popping a muffin whole into his mouth. You catch the sight of raisins wedged between his teeth.
You scoff to yourself, and shake some sense back into yourself before returning to your parents’ table.
Before they can ask you why it took you so long to come back with only nothing in your hands, you cough.
“Oh, honey, what's that?”
You shrug, trying to make your face look as sick as possible. “I don't know… It could be a seasonal thing.”
They exchange worried looks with each other. Your father's hand covers yours. “Maybe we skip today's itinerary.”
“No!” you say, too fast and too enthusiastic. When their faces contort in confusion, you explain, “I mean… I'll stay back. But you guys go ahead.”
Your mother sighs. “Aw, you are so considerate.” She looks at your father with adoration. “We did that.” They gush over you all the way back, picking and prodding when you get comfortable under the covers.
“Call us if you need anything.”
“The medicine’s in your suitcase, the front compartment.”
“You sure you're gonna be fine?”
You nod, sluggishly. “Yes.” A cough for good measure, then fingers rubbing your temples to expedite the process of them leaving you alone. It's already 10:17 according to the clock in front of you that you periodically sneak glances at. “Perfectly fine.”
They narrow their eyes at you for a bit, and for a moment you think they might be onto you. But then they shrug, blow you an air kiss, and go their way.
The summer breeze of Sicily gives you a kiss, and hikes your airy cotton skirt up fleetingly. You’d bought it specifically for your vacation, and worn it specifically today for their leering gazes. Which you can feel on your behind as you walk—or, perhaps, sashay would be more apropos—a few steps ahead of them.
They’re not using a map of any sort, so you assume they’re just going wherever the wind carries them. You’re more than happy to follow, trotting along in your comfortable flip-flops.
Johnny entangles his arm with yours after the first ten minutes, and drags you into each and every bakery his eyes fall on. He's having a great time eating, and you wonder how he isn't full after breakfast. One particularly delicious thing he asks you to try, though, is a bombolone. The soft, airy bread breaks in your mouth, coating your lips with powdered sugar. A flood of sweet, vanilla cream bursts over your senses. Kyle licks the sugar off your mouth.
After countless dessert stops so early in the morning, you find yourself craving nothing more than just lying down somewhere on a beach and soaking in the warm sun.
“I'm tired,” you whine, trudging behind them, and placing your arms on each of their shoulders. “Let's get a cab and go back.”
Johnny snorts. “Cannae order a cab in this beautiful place, bird.”
Kyle, on the other hand, seems to be deep in thought. Mischief plays at his features, glowing from a light sheen of sweat.
“What?” you bite.
He shrugs, hands burrowing into the pockets of his shorts. “I think I know a place where we can rest for a bit.”
He doesn't really sound like he's talking about the hotel, and just from that—you know you should insist on the latter. But there's always been something so magnetic about him. A way he goes about life that makes you want to trust him with everything you own, and make you believe with large, watery eyes that you'll only find yourself better for doing so.
The corner of his mouth tilts up in a slight smile, and he leans into Johnny's ear to whisper something you can't quite make out.
The expression that forms on his face is pure, childish glee. “Bleedin' Jesus… Why didna we think o'tha’?”
You pout. “What?”
Before you can get in another wine, they drag you by your arms and start at a brisk, determined pace. They only stop until you're huffing and panting in front of a port, lined with vessels of all categories. Fishing boats to cruise ships.
You quirk an eyebrow. “How are we gonna rest on a rowboat?”
“Why would we take you on a rowboat?”
You walk for what feels like an eternity between the droves of similar looking boats that gradually increase in size in a competitive display of grandeur. They stop abruptly, and Kyle turns around in dramatics. He raises his arms in front of a large yacht. The numerous decks ascend and block the sun out. On the side, a curly font writes Stella del Mare.
Questions run through your mind so fast you can't keep up. You had surmised that maybe they had to be richer than you, because even though you resided in the same fancy, luxury hotel—they had a suite. You didn't need to open the website to know that a suite of that size would any day cost more than two plain rooms. But this? This is a completely different level of rich. Normal people can't rent a boat this size, especially not on such short notice.
“What the hell,” you mutter, neck craning to take in the magnanimous, overwhelming beauty of the ship.
They amble over the gangway as casual as ever, like they own the place. You follow, posture hunched in your nervousness. As though someone's just waiting at the entrance to tell you you don't belong. Your head keeps turning to throw scans over your shoulder.
Johnny holds his hand out to you as you step on. You freeze when the ship wobbles infinitesimally. Your shoes hit the smooth, lacquered wood of the floor. You smooth your skirt down.
The space is large, almost like a banquet hall. Tables full of expensive platters of lobster and crab and shrimp. Bottles upon bottles of champagne and whiskey neatly arranged. Then, towards the end, lavish velvet couches. On one of them lies a controller for a game console.
You walk towards it, moving your fingers over the black leather of the joystick. It moves with a subtle click, and you turn to face Kyle.
“Owners must've forgotten this.”
He takes it off you, fingers deftly maneuvering the controls. “Yeah, I did.”
“What—” you start, but follow Kyle when he begins walking up the spiral staircase. “This is your boat?”
When you reach the second tier, you spot Johnny with his legs kicked up on a table, tossing chocolate covered strawberries into his mouth.
“‘Course it is,” he says, in between mouthfuls.
Kyle shakes his head, carefully placing the controller into one of the many drawers lining the wall. “I don't. My parents do.”
Like that makes a difference. You open your mouth, then close it. You're not sure it's appropriate to say anything in this moment, quite frankly.
So you leave it be.
When the sun is at its highest and warmest, you're already stripped to your intimates—lying flat on one of the reclining beach chairs, eyes fluttered shut.
They'd spotted you out after their quick nap, and conveniently brought up that they had a bottle of SPF 50. When they showed it to you, you'd reached to grab it. But it becomes clear to you that they have very different intentions.
Warm, firm hands massage suncream on your skin—one pair on your thighs and the other closer to your decolletage. They ask you to turn, and Kyle's hands eagerly move to the swell of your ass. Johnny's thumbs expertly press in a line down your back which makes you squirm.
You giggle, and you feel a hard smack land on your ass.
“Stay still!”
“Gotta have even distribution.”
Their hands move slowly and knead your skin deep, like they're relishing the contact. Your sick leave from your family's going delightfully.
You feel pressure building up—both externally and internally—as Kyle's calloused fingers move to your inner thighs.
Your eyes fall closed as his digits prod at your entrance, and your leg kicks up in impatience. You don’t realise the weight of Johnny’s hands goading lift until they shift to your scalp.
As you feel the brief burn of Kyle’s finger entering your cunt, Johnny’s fingers linger featherlight on your eyelids.
“Shh…” he coos, “... jus’ be a good girl.”
You feel yourself being flipped over again, but this time somehow—you’ve been shifted backwards. Your head lolls awkwardly off the flattened chair, only slightly supported by his thighs.
Kyle’s lips plant a trail of kisses along your stomach, finger curling at a torturously slow place. You find your hands reaching to grab his wrist, trying aimlessly to push him further inside. He only chuckles, and resists your movements with little to no effort.
Clothed thighs go from bare and littered with a coarse layer of hair, tickling your face. When the rough pad of his thumb prods at your lips, they pliantly separate. He coats it with your spit, brusquely pushing the entire length of the finger into your mouth. Your muscles gag around nothing when he gently takes it out.
There’s a beat of blindness when you can only feel sparks of pleasure from Kyle nudging at your spongy wall, whimpers sounding from your lips before you can help it. Then, something heavy taps at your lips.
“Open up, sweet lass.”
You open your eyes, to find your vision littered with dots from the blood rush to your head. Johnny casts a shadow over the middle of your face, and this close to you he looks like he’ll give your breakfast a swift upheaval. Regardless, you cast your tongue out in experiment, and immediately taste the heady, salty taste of his arousal.
He draws a long groan when your lips envelop the tip, shaft pushing further into your mouth. His grip on your scalp tightens minutely. In this angle, it’s really easy to keep your teeth out of the mix—but you still strain your jaw. He tickles the hilt of your throat, and you gag around him. He immediately pulls out, waiting for you to catch your breath, and then bottoms out once more.
“Mmfh, so fuckin’ g— ah, fuck,” he curses, pistoning in and out slowly.
You feel Kyle’s hand slip out of your wetness, and you whine at the loss. He settles over your thigh, bringing your hand to somewhere you can’t see. Your fingers wrap around his own length, and he guides your wrist in a specific, up-and-down, twisty motion. He’s different from Johnny, he moves your hand rapidly over him.
You’re overcome by all your senses being filled by them. Their groans and curses are the only things your ears can pick up anymore. Your jaw feels sore all over, but there’s something about the way Johnny’s cock fills your mouth entirely that causes slick to drip out of you. The vinous scent of sex filters into your nostrils, mixed with salty-sweet coastal air. You drag Kyle's skin over his beading head, then back down completely, and his thighs buckle against yours.
He snaps his hips against the fist you’ve tightened around him, and Johnny keeps his pace. Your free hand moves from fondling his scrotum and to relieve yourself.
There's a quick, rapid, unsteady intake of breaths—and then a warm liquid pours down your throat. The angle allows for such that your brain doesn't have time to respond, a smooth descent.
His cock throbs in your mouth as it slips out, and he taps it once against your swollen, spit-slicked lips.
“Sweet Mother o’ Christ.”
Kyle's abdomen sinks and swells with pants. “Now that's a good rest stop,” he chuckles.
If someone had asked you, you'd have been convinced the lot of you had napped past evening. You'd had your fair share of fun for the day and napped.
But the sky that awaits you when you exit the cabin tells a different story. It's still powder blue, streaked with clouds and a large, glowing sun directly overhead.
How is it still noon?
When you bring this up to them, confused and groggy, they simply whip their phones out.
The first one to suggest what next is Johnny.
“There's a showin’ of Gone With The Wind in abou’ twenty.”
Kyle shoves his phone back into his pocket, and immediately follows up, “Can we make it?”
You shake your head in disbelief, fingers rubbing your temples. “Guys, we'll return too late if we go.”
“You only live once, you know,” Kyle says, fingers coming up to pinch your cheek. You scowl.
“Ah'm bookin' it. Let's sprint.”
There is, in fact, no sprinting. They manage to find an electric Vespa, and you're sure it's carrying one person too many. He's horrible at driving it, and your nails are digging into Kyle's pecs for dear life. Johnny doesn't even slow for speedbumps, and if you still had a hymen—this would've been its literal breaking point.
Kyle smells like bergamot and lime and expensive laundry detergent. You're not certain if there's a notable difference between expensive and cheap laundry detergent, but since it's Kyle… it's just a surer shot.
The cinema hall is straight out of a silent movie. Large billboards line the front, each spelling out what movie is showing. Posters for classics cover the windows, and when you enter, it's practically empty. There's a popcorn and soda dispenser to your left, and a booking counter to your right. A man with hair as white as clouds and just as thin stands behind, talking animatedly on a telephone while shuffling through a stack of papers.
He screams in Italian, and even though you’d tried to learn a bit of the language before coming—you can barely make out a thing.
“Zio,” Kyle interrupts, leaning on the counter. “Quando inizia Gone With The Wind?” You get whiplash from how seamlessly he switches between sounding like a native Italian, and his usual British self. You should be surprised that he speaks Italian at a conversational level at least as well, but you reckon whatever fancy private boarding school he’d gone to had it as a subject.
The man hangs up, slowly turning around. His bushy brows furrow, and briefly you almost think he’s angry. That the three of you are going to be chased off as careless and rude tourists.
But then, his face softens. His wiry moustache stretches with a wide smile. “Kyliiino!”
There’s a series of loud laughs and exclamations, and they exchange hugs. Even Johnny, whom you really doubt can speak Italian. At least intelligible, for that case.
They converse in rapid Italian before the man lowers his spectacles to look at Johnny. “You bring your Ireland friend!”
“Scotland,” Johnny corrects, taking it in stride. “We ‘ave our ticket.”
“Ay, what you buy ticket for? For you, Señor Garrick, no ticket.”
You’re utterly confused by what’s going on. For now, you simply write it off as Kyle being good at making friends. You can confirm that one on account of your first hand experience.
“Oh, come on,” Kyle smiles, “we wouldn’t do that to ya. We’ll take the free popcorn, though.”
The man wags his finger at Kyle, and laughs as he disappears into the kitchen behind.
“You know him?” you whisper, soon after you’re sure he’s out of earshot.
Kyle shrugs, standing up right. “A little.”
Johnny groans cartoonishly. “Aren’t ya tired o’this humble game, lad?”
He snorts in response, already beginning to shake his head.
Johnny’s hand rests on your shoulder. “His family owns the hotel chain.”
This place is gonna need a broom to gather all the shattered pieces of your dropped jaw from the carpet. “What?”
“Jesus, shut up, will ya?” Kyle rolls his eyes, giving him a small shove. “It’s not a big deal. They only acquired it a few years ago.”
You scoff in disbelief. “So you’re…” The word rich wants to escape your lips so badly, but you know that now more than ever it’s off the table. Taboo. “... Wow. Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”
He makes a tsk sound, something eerily close to vulnerability flashing in the highlights of his warm brown eyes. “What difference would it’ve made?”
You get the sense he wants to drop it. Fine by you. “Nothing, probably.”
A silence save for the sounds of fresh kernels popping settles over the two of you. Johnny’s occupied with selecting the flavours and toppings on the dispenser—surprisingly advanced for an establishment like this one.
“... except maybe,” you start, a coy expression lingering on your features, "I'd have at least asked you to take me to expensive restaurants.”
He chuckles, and you can hear relief in the sound.
The seats inside the hall are majorly unoccupied, save for two in the front taken up by an elderly couple. They're plush, velveteen armchairs that recline into almost a bed, with swirly beige patterns on the warm brown fabric.
You settle on a seat in the second row from the back, and the light of the idle projector crosses the top of your head.
They each settle on either side of you, and immediately Kyle outstretches his arm across you. His palm opens in front of Johnny, who somehow already has a mouthful of the buttery popcorn he'd gotten.
“Whaf?” he barks, words garbled.
“Give me some.”
“Abtholufely nof.”
Kyle shakes his arm. “Don't be selfish!”
Johnny swats it away with an oily hand covered in popcorn dust, and blows a raspberry at him.
“Pigs,” you mutter, reclining away from their bickering arms as much as you can. Still, a plume of popcorn dust infiltrates your nostrils.
The movie looks like it's being projected on a screen from the 1940s. The reel they're using still has black spots and lines, and it even goes pitch black quite often. There are no subtitles for this Italian dub, so you can only keep up using context clues. It might as well be a silent movie, unironically.
“All that money,” you whisper, sidling towards Kyle, “and this rickety, dusty building is what you bring us to.”
He scoffs in mock offense. “It's a charming establishment.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
“Besides, I don't really care about the movie, anyway.”
Your eyebrow quirks. “Yeah? Why'd we come, then?”
“I have a few ideas in mind.”
You've completely lost the plot of the movie in such short time. Your arms both share the same rest, and the barely there touch now serves to send a hot pool of arousal between your legs.
“For starters,” he leans impossibly close, voice moving from a whisper to a low gravel, “how ‘bout makin’ it fair?”
Furrowing your brows, you ask, “Meaning?”
He brings his face to you, and the short stubble on his face nudges your own skin. “I wanna know what that pretty mouth feels like, too.”
Heat flushes beneath your cheeks. Any snark dies at the tip of your tongue, or maybe even at the back of your throat that still itches with the acidity of Johnny's spend.
His tongue darts out before his lips pucker. Somehow, as if on cue, your tongue finds his, and they swirl slowly before your lips envelope it.
Your jaws move in sync with each other, each trying to get deeper into the other mouth. Kyle breathes heavily over you, hands moving to undo the zip of his pants.
You're meanly yanked back by your hair, lips glistening in the dark with his spit, when he spares you one nod below.
“Go on,” he says, like he's asking you. What he's actually doing is bringing your face close to his erection, poking through his briefs. He presses your face against the bulge, and you mewl softly.
The meaningless chatter from the movie plays as your wet mouth runs over the length of his clothed arousal, head being guided up and down along it.
You feel an extra set of hands land on your ass, slowly goading you to be on all fours. It slides over the curve of your lower back, gently pushing down in instruction of an arch.
Wet fingertips curl over the back of your thighs, digits digging into your flesh and slowly ascending to hike your skirt up. They leave raised gooseflesh and a trail in their wake, until they move your skirt completely.
Kyle's hand mingles in the miasma of your tongue and lips and his briefs, and deftly removes the obstruction. You're met with the heady scent of his arousal, and he lifts your head to the tip.
Your jaw opens to accommodate him, and he pushes you down on it leadenly. Your muscles react before your mind can catch up, and your throat flexes around the increasing, stiff length of him.
You dart your tongue out every time you move down on him, and he lets out a groan when you roll it over the sensitive, bare head.
“Fuck, do tha’ again.”
You feel a sense of pride creeping in to your chest, mixing with the heat that's making its way downward. It's pooling right between Johnny's hands—preoccupied with spreading your ass apart.
His breath is warm on your sopping core, dirty and dogged. You spread your knees wider apart to not stumble while Kyle moves your head up and down at a decided rhythm.
Somehow, over all the gagging and dialogue and groans, you hear Johnny's tongue move out. You feel it trace swirls on your skin, so close to where you need it most. His tongue is red hot, gliding and laving effortlessly, just like how you remember it in your mouth. Just when you feel a cold gust of air conditioning graze your exposed entrance—serving as a reminder for your throbbing anticipation—his tongue evades you and moves somewhere else.
Your plucked hole pulses, knocked for six, as his slick muscle ripples around it. You whimper around Kyle, your leg kicking up in the new sensation.
His hand in your scalp quickens its pace, and it grows uneven with his breath as he nears his climax. Just as you feel his bitter, warm spurt fall down your throat— a sharp intrusion into your ass makes you mewl while swallowing. Kyle sinks back, letting go of your head, which jumps up in response. Johnny's thumb wiggles inside you, and the pain turns to heat and pleasure. Your knees buckle, his arm pulling you back into your seat.
Your hair clings to your sweat slicked forehead, fever rushing to your cheeks. You catch your breath against the soft seat and your knees sting from digging into the bones of it.
You feel Johnny's blue eyes trained on you, pupils forming a black and hungry void in the middle. “Nice arse.”
Despite yourself, shame courses through your veins. But along with that, still, exhilaration you fear you'll never replicate.
You do end up watching the rest of the movie, actually. You douse the fire of acid lingering in your mouth for the second time today with Johnny's buttery popcorn, that he only begrudgingly hands over. It's the most perfect popcorn you've ever eaten, all crispy and oily and warm. You wipe away the residue on the seat of the Vespa.
They'd said, “We're so beat. Are you beat?” and that's all it had taken for you to shrug a sleepy yes and let them take you to the hotel.
The sun hadn't set yet, and you knew for a fact that your parents had dinner plans far from the hotel.
They'd dropped you to your door, hands lingering on your body which you might be perturbed by if not for the much more you'd indulged in hours earlier. Kyle kisses you on the cheek, and doesn't say goodbye or goodnight.
Instead, he hums, “Check your phone once they're asleep.”
And with that ominous piece of instruction, they walk towards the elevator. The door you're holding ajar with two occupied hands is too heavy for you to want to follow up, so you just trudge back inside.
When you rouse, your attempt to emerge from the comforter is rendered futile by the way your limbs weigh a sluggish ton. Your head is light, mind fuzzy.
Kyle's words from earlier echo in your ear as your parent's faint chatter from beyond the door filters in.
Once they're asleep.
They're sure to be within the hour, you conjecture.
In that time, you take to drawing yourself a bath. You add all the tiny bottles of gel and oil that you can find in the drawers. You settle in the scented, foamy water, lashes fluttering against your skin as you press your lids shut.
You bring your knees to your chest, replaying the events of the day in your head. Immediately, on cue, a sudden surge of warmth pools in your belly, and your thighs press closer in a poor attempt at relief.
Your fingers play what you miss.
The moment your head lolls back to the white tile behind, your phone chimes. Water splashes around as you reach for it.
Unknown Number
we’re smokin up
come
It’s easy enough to sneak out. Your parents had fussed over you a little, not too much owing to their tired state, once you’d come out the bath. If you were a tad bit drowsier, you would've forgotten that in their eyes—you’re plagued by sickness. They’d promptly fallen asleep, too, much to your pleasure.
You decide a simple pair of linen pajamas should suffice. You firmly make a pact with yourself to not ingest any more laced foods, at least knowingly. A small part of you wishes they won’t be satiated still—so hungry that they feel the need to intoxicate you and—
Maybe they are a bad influence on you, after all.
When you reach, their door is slightly ajar. Like the way you'd seen it yesterday morning, when you had been leaving in a rush. A rich, bluesy, jazzy melody is carried by the air; along with the faint smell of something burning like incense.
You ring the bell anyway.
“‘S open,” Johnny calls out.
The massive door swings open to reveal a sight more lubricious than you're used to. They're splayed out on oppositely facing seats, with Kyle hanging upside down from a couch and Johnny sideways on the armchair. For some reason, their clothes seem to be in absentia.
You jolt and turn around, the momentary sight of a rolled paper between their fingers a slight blur in your visage.
“What the hell!” you shriek, more out of your own shame than a sense of propriety.
“Not like you're seein’ anythin’ new, Chrissakes,” Kyle chides. “Get off your high horse.”
You pfft. They're not exactly wrong, and that does much to bug you.
“An’ out o'yer clothes, please,” Johnny snickers in addition. You can almost imagine his slow, satisfied nod in his inebriated daze.
You’re much too proud to be pliant, at least without any drugs in your system; and you're already here. Rolling your eyes, you walk towards the French window sill. You sit on the stiff chartreuse cushion, crossing your legs. Your forehead presses against the glass as you try to get a full view of the crescent above, then the light it reflects falling onto the shimmering dark waves.
The smell of cannabis is suffocating, and you can feel a burn forming in the back of your throat. Not to mention the slight dizziness you experience when you turn your head to confirm they're still high as kites. With whatever fine motor skills you have, you pry at the clasps of the window. All you're succeeding in is pinching the skin of your fingers till blood rushes.
Eventually, you give up. You find yourself sinking against a warm, soft body.
“‘S okay, hen. Ah’ve got ya.”
Your eyes are heavy lidded, and it seems too much of an effort to resist. The world feels lighter. Closer.
A hot paper is brought to your mouth, and you taste ash before leaves. It leaves you coughing with a searing heat behind your chest, but the effect is immediate. Multiplied by a thousand of whatever you felt just by the hotbox.
The first thing you think is— you've felt this before. This all feels oddly familiar, what with the beach right in your periphery. Johnny's large hand kneads your breast, roughly pinching the nipple. When you squeal, he lets go.
“Sorry,” he slurs.
You slip free of his grasp, stumbling towards Kyle's lazed figure. He gives you a doltish smile, spreading slow across his features. You sit down next to him, and for a moment, it feels like the ground has been turned upside down.
Warm digits paw around at your flesh, just as Johnny sinks in the seat next to you. Kyle's warm mouth latches on to your breast, teeth sloppily nipping at skin.
You let out lazy moans, head lolling back in equal parts pleasure and permission. Wet lips on the skin of your neck, inching up up up until Johnny’s dirty tongue swirls in your ear, promises of making you feel good in ragged whispers.
You can barely register yourself when they’ve spun you around in a team project, lying down flat on your back until you’re on your stomach. Blood thrums to your head and then down to your core fast and hard and loud. Like it’s pushing you back and forth with each slosh, each pump.
Their hands, their strong hands with veins popping out of their forearms and biceps, the ones your mouth runs absentmindedly on every time you get a chance—they help you up on all fours. Ready for them, a hand pressing down on your back like not so long ago now, ass up for them like an edible arrangement.
First, Johnny’s meaty fingers, working you open like a corkscrew through lid, determined on prying apart the gummy barriers. Then Kyle’s sloppy tongue making its way in your mouth, all rushed and fevered. Your moans are stuck on their way up, pleasure only making itself known in your relentless clenching and knuckles whitening on Kyle’s shoulders.
He slinks against the couch, slowly maneuvering you by your hair to his arousal. You only hear a deep groan cut short before he submerges you all the way, and it’s like you don’t know how to breathe anymore—you go lightheaded and see spots when he pulls you up again. Your short reprieve only gives you one or two breaths, puffs of intoxicating air filled with desire and cannabis, before he’s put you back to work. Like you’re under water, you hear his breathing get faster but grow muffled.
You only remember Johnny’s fingers when they slip out of your hole, leaving cool slick to drip down the inside of your thigh. It’s quickly cleaned up by his tongue, up and then around both your pulsating holes.
You’re so wet when Johnny slides into you, like a hand inside a glove, no resistance whatsoever. You haven’t been this prepared in years, yet something about how big he is makes you feel like you can taste him as though he’s conquered your hilt. Both of your thighs, flush against each other, coated in sticky sweat, all tremors and shakes. Each thrust sends Kyle deeper into your mouth, the synchrony of groans and moans fills your senses just as the sounds of skin slapping against skin does.
Kyle’s free hand hits your lips on particularly harsh thrusts, fingers fondling his balls as you drool over the rest of him. Your spit trickles down to his thigh, and you can’t tell what’s what anymore. Johnny’s cock drags along all your walls and stretches you out so moreishly, but all your whimpers are lost around Kyle.
“Fuck, I wanna feel ‘er,” he murmurs, and they’re quick enough to get you standing.
You’d stumble—all you can feel in your legs is tingling—but Johnny’s grip on your jaw is ironclad. He’s kissing you all dogged and rushed, grunting and panting into it as you feel your hips being dragged behind.
Kyle’s tip fumbles with your entrance, pressing too high, too much until it finally slides in. Your knees damn near buckle with the sensation of his cock kissing your cervix, when he slides out completely and slams in again.
“Fu-uh-uck,” you manage, voice reduced to a hoarse sob as you grip onto Johnny for dear life. Your tits jerk back and forth with each thrust, voice a wobble in rhythm with his hips. A calloused thumb finds its way to your clit, bundle of nerves sparking alight. Every flick burns through you with searing pleasure, making you see white. Johnny’s hand holds your mouth ajar, every sound escaping your throat mangled like a wild dog.
Kyle’s groans get louder and his movements get faster as he nears his peak, your cunt practically sloshing around him. Your own climax is near, overwhelming and overstimulating from all ends. It crashes over you like thunder ignites cables when Kyle delivers his final thrust, the intensity of the crackle making the two of you collapse in an uncoordinated heap back on the couch.
You don’t know who cleans you up when you drift off to sleep, and you don’t know who puts clothes back on you.
Somehow, when you wake up to the light in your own bed, your suitcase in the corner—you don’t feel so bad about this vacation anymore.
All you needed was something of a—regardless of how kitschy it sounds—lesson in fun, perhaps.
You don’t see them again.
Staying true to the essence of a vacation, they remain but a dreamlike memory you’ll recount the next time you feel like getting off.
Umm, okay. Kind of a fucked up thought but I’m thinking about Simon’s 6’4” ass using public transit when it’s packed. Sits next to a bird, he’s trying to relax so he doesn’t have any ill intentions. Manspreads because otherwise he’s gonna trip people up. But the bird next to him? You’re not having any of it. Put your hand on his thigh, and his face goes pale under the mask. Looks at you with wide eyes. “Oh, what, is this making you uncomfortable?” in the most patronising voice possible.
Simon immediately goes into a silent crisis. Heart rate spikes like he’s under sniper fire. His brain is throwing up red alerts, but his body? Frozen. His training doesn’t cover this. Not the warmth of your palm seeping into his thigh, not the casual dominance of your tone, and certainly not the way you look at him like you know exactly what you’re doing. He doesn't know if you’re flirting, humiliating him, asserting dominance, or all three, and that’s exactly what fries his system. There’s a perverse part of him that likes being caught off guard like this, being rendered speechless by someone who doesn't fear him.
And maybe he hasn’t answered for a minute, so you prod further. “Well?” You could be asking him anything, really: is he gonna move, is he gonna stop you, is he gonna be a good boy. And your hand moves higher instinctually. He tenses, alarm bells blaring in his head.
Then—he speaks. “Wha— I, uh, I don’t, uh—”
He fucking stutters. Simon “Ghost” Riley—ghost story of the battlefield, monster in black, legend with a thousand confirmed kills—stutters like a schoolboy caught looking at porn in the library. All because a bird decided to have a little fun with him on the tram.
And as though that wasn’t enough, his dick decides to add insult to injury. Saw danger, and said, “Cool. Time to stand at attention.” He doesn’t know whether to adjust his pants or propose.
Ghost is brought to the real world by forces beyond his control, and his first goal in new life is to hunt down his biggest fan.
or, the isekai fic. thank you to @bajoslovan for supplying ghost's tumblr username :)
Read on AO3.
CW: elements of stalking, masturbation (to smut), unportected p in v, sex. Nsfw MDNI
The world blinks into focus.
No gunfire. No orders barked in his ear. Just silence.
He tumbles into existence at nightfall, awakening to a modest studio apartment in the middle of what he surmises is a metropolitan city.
No rubble. No gunfire. No bodies in the streets.
Not a war zone, then.
No point in questioning the why or the how. He only cares about the what.
From the get go, it’s evident to him that it’s a popular game: Call of Duty. And that he’s from it, and somehow… he’s been transported into a reality that isn’t his.
The apartment makes a spectacle of the game. Of him, mostly. Bobbleheads and figurines and posters. It’s a little confounding. He picks one up, weighs it in his palm in his inspection. He should be flattered.
He’s not. He has more important things to worry about.
So he takes his tactical vest off, clicks the safety back onto his gun. Shoves it all into his already overflowing backpack. Takes his mask off, because from what he can tell—nobody’s seen the Ghost without his mask.
The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional buzzing past of a motorcycle. He hasn’t crossed a normal, civilian street in ages. He gets honked at incessantly. The night is cold, and his clothes are scarce.
He manages to pick his way into an empty library, tying it locked with the same metal chains. The cold bites into the flesh of his palm. It might not keep out other charlatans from breaking their way in like him, but it’ll buy him some time at least. His fingers trail over the hinges of the door, free of oil and rusted. It’s clear to him there’s only two ways to get out of here—the main door, which he just locked; and the window at the opposite end. Seems big enough for him, too. He’d just have to figure out a way to jam it open. Maybe break it, if need be.
The first thing he does is scout the place for computers. Libraries used to have computers, at least back in his reality. He’d stumbled upon a few box monitors—cracked and dusty—back in Baghdad. Counter insurgency missions leading him to stumble upon troves of knowledge gutted by war. These are different, of course. More up to the mark, could be right at home with one of those fancy CIA monitors. No dust, either.
He fumbles with a few switches until he sees the screen go a lighter black. Takes the chair out, and immediately begins typing. It asks for a password, and he pulls off a sticky note attached to the top right of the computer. IHeartReading25, it says.
Christ, he thinks, it’s amateur hour with these folks.
A few clacks of the keyboard like he’s logging in coordinates, and he’s on a search engine. Types in Call of Duty, and the third picture he stumbles upon has him smack dab in the centre.
Did he pose for that? Doesn’t look half bad, either.
The next thing he types in his name. Minus the Ghost. Plain and simple, Simon Riley. He’s bombarded with an onslaught of information—of all kinds, really. His biography, which includes his family history and his military history.
Now, how on earth did these people get ahold of that shit?
His stomach churns as he scrolls the information. His mother, his brother, his father… it’s all in here. His entire life, all that trauma… it had just been a story to these people. They got one thing wrong, though. It wasn’t Roba’s jaw he used to crack open that casket—it was his femur. Or maybe he’s just remembering it wrong.
He sees a 3D render of what people imagine his face to be, and scoffs. He’s almost offended. There’s a strange itch overcoming his actual face, but he can’t quite figure out where it is. It crawls deeper and deeper, gnawing at something in his belly. Unfurling perniciously. He stares at the text in blue for a beat, before shifting his gaze to the next link.
Some site named Reddit says the newer version of him is miles more badass than his older version.
Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
Steam Community says him wearing a mask all the time is lame. You try getting people to take you seriously when your face looks like a Picasso impression.
He continues scrolling through the endless links—Pinterest, some news sites—until he finds a particularly interesting line of text:
Simon Riley whimpers when you pull his hair.
He damn near tumbles out of his chair. His jaw might unhinge from how slack it hangs. Maybe this is some weird dream. Maybe he’d finally taken one of those edibles Soap and Gaz always snickered about, and this is just some… strange wet dream. If only to bite, he clicks on the link.
Simon Riley whimpers when you pull his hair. It’s a broken, strangled sound that falls from his lips, only for the audience of his mommy.
His face is like a Renaissance painting right now—all scandalised and clutching his pearls. It’s like a car accident: it’s horrifying and grotesque but he, for some goddamn bloody reason, cannot bring himself to look away.
“Please, mistress,” he begs, on his knees, tongue lapping at your cunt. “I’ll be a good boy.”
He needs to hunt the author of this post down. Maybe after he finishes reading it, though. Make sure he covers all bases and all that. He hates this, obviously.
Maybe his dick—pressing against the denim of his dirty jeans—doesn’t exactly agree, but he definitely hates this. His grip on the mouse is white knuckled as he scrolls through it. Jesus fucking Christ. These people are doing anything but playing the video games.
Clicking on the username of the person who wrote this proves to be an even bigger mistake. There’s an entire list of works they’ve written about him, mostly revolving around him being pathetic in some way or the other.
Ghost may command on the battlefield, but in the bedroom, he’s just a desperate little thing, rutting against your thigh like a dog in heat.
Okay, false. Wrong, wrong, wrong. On all counts.
Before he can stop it, his free hand’s migrated downwards. Hey, having boners while wearing jeans fucking hurts, okay? That’s the only reason he’s unzipping his belt. Caressing the skin there a little to assess for zipper-related injuries. The library’s empty anyway, so it’s not like anyone’s going to hear him sighing softly.
“You like being used, don’t you, big guy?” He nods, shame burning bright on his face. He loves it.
That’s… no, that’s inaccurate. Well— to be fair, Simon hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to be used before. One night stands really only get you slags that want to get bent over a bar loo sink or their face shoved into their mattress.
Not that he’d enjoy all this… mommy bullshit, anyway. He’s just jerking off because he’s really stressed right now.
“Fuckin,” he mutters, “bloody jeans.” He tugs them down a bit, the hardness of the wood biting into the bones of his ass. He doesn’t care—as long as the denim doesn’t end up chafing his balls, he’s fine.
That’s why he tugged the jeans down. Not so he could fondle himself while reading this hogwash.
His cock is massive—biblical, even. The kind of length that makes physicists scratch their heads and theologians question God’s intentions. It hangs heavy, thick as a forearm, the kind of girth that makes grown men weep and chiropractors rub their hands together in wicked glee.
His hand staggers until it stops. The corners of his mouth press down in perusal, gaze sheepishly dropping to his goods. Well… maybe. A little bit like that. Perhaps. He’s not exactly a shrimp, you know? He’s gotten howls and cheers in the locker rooms before, so he’s aware that he’s… well-endowed, to put it nicely. But this? Biblical? Seriously?
Hours pass. The moon dips low and the sun rises, casting its dusky glow over the horizon. The sunlight filters in through the large window he’d mapped out for an exit, golden rays illuminating the dust particles on the monitor. His head lifts from the desk at 6:07 AM, and the library is still empty.
His come’s dried on his hand and thighs, and the monitor he’d been using for his perusal has long since shut down. He groans, tongue lifting from the floor of his mouth in a disgusting, sticky way that reeks. He has a travel size tube of toothpaste, and a little plastic brush.
His stomach growls with want, muscles rumbling. Maybe he still has that box of chicken tikka MRE stashed in his bag. He wipes his hand and thigh on a used baby wipe in the front pocket of his bag. Sprays a good amount of deodorant onto his body. Turns the computer back on, and erases all the search history after mentally noting down the username of that one blog. He isn’t finished here yet.
He manages to nab a job at a butcher’s shop. It’s what he knows second best, seeing as how to enlist in the military here he’d need an ID. Also, he’s not particularly chuffed at the concept of having to start from scratch with training.
The head butcher, a burly man with a heavy, handlebar moustache, had been hesitant to give the job to someone as desolate and homeless-looking as Simon. But the moment he got his hands on that knife and meat—Mr. Vitaliy, or Vitya as he has Simon call him, was more than convinced. Since Simon doesn’t have bank details to speak of, Vitya makes him do a little more grunt work than expected. Cleaning, taking out the trash, hauling deliveries. His arms are spent and sore by the end of the day, but at least he has a nice looking, crispy bunch of notes that amounts to eighty pounds.
That’s fine. He can do a lot with eighty pounds. Plus the scrap pence he has in his beat-up wallet.
Your fork digs into the cabbage of your salad with a resonant crunch. The break room’s buzzing with chatter already though, so you doubt anyone hears. Your fingertips work at an alarming rate as you type away at your latest work in progress.
His breath, heavy with the scent of danger and mystery (and maybe just a little bit of raw meat), fanned across her skin as he loomed over her like a wolf who had just discovered the concept of love.
Just as you’re about to post it, you get a notification.
Obscure-frequency-89 has followed you!
You click on the blog. Completely empty, blank. Must be a bot. Your finger hovers over the block button when you get another notification. The blog’s sent you a message. Huh.
Obscure-frequency-89: Your writing makes my pulse irregular.
Obscure-frequency-89: Explain yourself.
You furrow your brows, the corner of your mouth tugging up ever so slightly. This is an interesting comment.
simonrileyscock: haha thanks :)
His breath stops for half a second—then he exhales sharply through his nose, lips pressed into a firm line. His free hand twitches at his side, then curls into a fist.
The fuck do you mean, haha thanks?
His jaw tightens. He rubs a hand down his face, fingertips lingering at the corner of his mouth before he shakes his head and types.
Obscure-frequency-89: I’m serious.
Obscure-frequency-89: Do you really like ghost that much?
He takes a moment to consider what else to say, drumming his fingers over the keyboard.
Obscure-frequency-89: I mean
Obscure-frequency-89: Would you really do all that to him?
His breath is bated, stilled as he awaits your response. He rolls his shoulders back, forcing the tension out of them, like shaking off a blow. Then—
simonrileyscock: lol sure. if u know him personally pls send him my way LMAO
A tiny muscle ticks in his jaw, and his teeth grate. He wonders if you have an off button. He wonders how you’d react if you knew who was on the other end of your phone. He leans back, fingers rubbing and pressing at his temples. He’s irritated, but he’s not exactly sure why.
What the hell. Sure, he knows him personally. You could say that, Tumblr user simonrileyscock.
Turns out, it’s not that difficult to get close to someone who writes video game porn like it’s for a living. One just has to play their cards right. Ghost figures out the exact balance between helpful and unsettling that keeps you coming back if only to guess his intentions.
Obscure-frequency-89: Nice username. Not.
simonrileyscock: ok random tumblr generated username
Obscure-frequency-89: Do you have a better idea?
Obscure-frequency-89: This is practical.
simonrileyscock: hmm let me think
simonrileyscock: what about ghostshappytrail
You’re incorrigible, that much has been made obvious to Simon by now. His fingers hesitate over the keyboard, but he changes his username anyway. You get so happy, it’s almost cute.
simonsrileyscock: YAYY YOU ACTUALLY DID IT!!!!! :D
He catches himself smiling in the neon glow of the computer, hunched over the desk in the empty library like he is every night now. He pretends like something weird didn’t just happen deep in his guts. He types you’re welcome, but never sends it.
You send him fan-fiction you work on, and it’s mostly because he sends you back oddly specific advice.
simonrileyscock: ghost drags his knife along his thigh holster, the blade gleaming under the dim light as he leans in
ghostshappytrail: Knives don’t gleam under dim light unless they’re coated in oil. Also if he’s leaning in that close, his body heat would be a bigger distraction than the knife.
You send him back a picture of this strange, one-eyed green goblin staring unimpressed. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.
You make half-assed posts thirsting over him, too. And those are the ones that really get him.
simonsrileyscock
ghost could snap me in half like a twig and i’d thank him
He wants to say, “yeah? You wanna test that out, birdie?” But instead, he hits backspace more times than he can count. Exhales through his nose and grounds himself before he asks you what species of twig you’re referring to.
ghostshappytrail: Red maple has a tensile strength of approximately 10,200 psi. If you meant something weaker, like white pine, then sure.
He lives to read your stories—wank to them, more realistically. He’s made peace with it now. This is just his life. Well, not yet. But it could be. And he knows it can be.
It happens on a Thursday evening. He’s sipping some black gruel they call espresso at the cafe neaby, and scrolling through your blog to check what you’ve been up to in the time he was at work. Something about wolves, something about pubic hair, but then—
simonrileyscock
i hate having to take the bus soooo much omg
Simon stills. The cheap ceramic cup creaks under the pressure of his grip. His pulse kicks up, steady but sharp. A target spotted. A weakness exposed.
(Simon, like most other students in the world, had learnt about this one scientist back in school. Archimedes, the one who proposed the concept of displacements caused by volume. The one who’d jumped out of his tub at his epiphany, and yelled—)
“Eureka,” he whispers, under his breath. He leans back in his chair, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth. She takes the bus. Buses run on routes. Routes have stops. Stops have maps.
He just needs a little more.
ghostshappytrail: Public transit is the worst.
simonrileyscock: TELL ME ABOUT IT
Bingo.
Silly girl. So trusting on the internet.
He’d scrolled your blog for hours, looking for every piece of information for your bus routes. You’ve left croutons in your holed pockets and he’s a bird. You take it daily—it’s a city, not a town. The bus is always late—so it’s not some pristine little commuter town. You’ve moaned about the rain twice this month—which means it’s the north. The south’s been dry for all of it.
simonrileyscock can’t believe the price of yorkshire tea went up again 😭
Most people wouldn’t care, no—but Yorkshire Tea is a religion up north.
simonrileyscock: once this man on the 192 just pulled out a fuckin turtle dude
You know what city uses 192 as a bus route? Additionally, you know what city he knows like the back of his hand? Manchester.
She’s in Manchester.
He cracks his neck, smiling to himself. Like a bullet finding its mark, like a blade meeting flesh—inevitable.
Sequel to this (because I refuse to let this marinate in the drafts any longer). Read on AO3.
Three months later, you’re in the park walking next to Johnny who is pushing a stroller that costs more than what your rent used to. It's all fair game now, though--what with the triple income situation. The baby’s asleep, pacifier bobbing gently with every roll of the wheels.
Co-parenting was a word you Googled after the hospital debacle. You also Googled “can two grown men raise a baby together without turning it into a sitcom.” No relevant results.
Simon walks silently on your right, pushing the second stroller—yes, there are two strollers now because God forbid Johnny shares. On your left, Johnny is explaining how he’s definitely figured out how to sterilize bottles using only his kettle and a prayer.
“It’s all aboot technique. Ye swirl it a wee bit, burn off the germs. A bit like whisky.”
“Jesus Christ,” Simon mutters, not for the first time that day.
Johnny’s been trying so hard to make up for missing the pregnancy that his enthusiasm is borderline terrifying. He brings you breakfast every morning (today: haggis, toast, and a single flower in a beer bottle), reads parenting books at you aloud, and has proudly declared he’ll be the “fun dad.”
Simon insists he is the stable one. The dependable one. The one who knows how to swaddle correctly and doesn’t make airplane noises while burping the baby.
They're both convinced they're the favorite dad.
The baby gurgles at both of them equally. You suspect she’s doing it on purpose.
They both have their strengths, though. Johnny's the only one she'll drink from a bottle with. In addition to being the only one who can feed her those mushed up carrots. In the background, if you squint, you can see Simon peeking from the door and silently fuming.
Simon's the only one who can quiet her instantly though. He's got your gratitude for that, at least. Every night, it prompts Johnny to say, "stealin' both mah girls, Lt. 'S nae fair."
But somehow, it works. You’re not sure how. Maybe it’s because they both show up for every appointment, every 3 a.m. emergency diaper blowout, every time she screams like the world’s ending. Maybe it’s because Simon always hands you coffee before you’ve even asked, and Johnny sings her lullabies in Gaelic. You once caught them asleep on the couch together, baby tucked between them like a little burrito.
Simon’s head tilted back, mouth slightly open in exhausted peace. Johnny snoring like a chainsaw, one sock half-off. The baby snuggled in the middle, one tiny hand gripping Simon’s shirt, the other smushed into Johnny’s beard.
Say what you will about the chaos this arrangement brings to your life... but you haven't felt alone once. And that's a miracle in itself.
Calling Soap a pretty boy? Oh, you’ve just unlocked something dangerous. Immediately poses like he’s in a cologne ad—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, like he’s about to star in a slow-motion commercial for expensive whiskey. “Aye, lass, ye finally noticed, huh?” Winks, but it’s really just him blinking with both eyes. “Didn’t wanna brag, but—” He was absolutely going to brag. Now he’s flexing, running a hand through his hair like a movie star. You can’t take it back. This is your life now. He needs at least five “pretty boy”s a day. Minimum. If he doesn’t get them, he pouts. He starts inventing situations just so you have to say it again. “Damn, Soap, look at you—pretty boy of the year.” If you ever deny it, he gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Oh, so I’m ugly now?” You are trapped.
Gaz squints at you, biting his lip to keep from smiling, but he’s already lost. “You tryna start something?” If you say yes, he just slowly turns to the nearest reflective surface. A window, a car mirror—hell, a spoon will do. He’s inspecting himself now, nodding approvingly. “Y’know what? You got taste.” Shrugs, smirks, then side-eyes you. “You into pretty boys, then?” The way he says it is dangerous. Like he’s filing that information away for later use. Congratulations. You just gave him new ammo to flirt with you at any given moment. And if you ever try to call someone else a pretty boy? He’s shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Nah, nah—that’s the one you pick? When I’m right here?”
Ghost freezes. Like, actual blue screen error level freeze. The only movement is the slow inhale through his mask, and maybe—just maybe—a single, imperceptible tremor in his fingers. He doesn’t even know how to process it. Nobody has ever called him that before. The word rattles around in his brain like an unsolved math equation. Pretty boy. Pretty boy. He’s malfunctioning. If you look closely, you might see the faintest, faintest head tilt—like a confused puppy. Then he just... walks away. No explanation. Just leaves. But if you call him that again? Oh, he’s on his knees, proper. Puppy style. He won’t admit it, but you own him now. Say it once more and he might just start following you.
Price stops. Slowly turns to you, eyes narrowed like a disappointed father. “Come again?” He didn’t grow this beard—these mutton chops—for you to call him a twink. He rubs a hand over his chin, debating if he should be flattered or offended. Decides on offended. “Y’know, I’ve been called a lotta things in my day, but that—” He lunges. You scream because this man is coming at you like a dad who just heard his kid swear for the first time. Tickle attack initiated. “C’mon now, say it proper,” he taunts, relentless, as you struggle. “Call me handsome, love.” This is a war you will not win. Surrender now, or suffer the consequences.
