The joke character: *organically develops feelings, lore, a conscience, and generally a sprawling story about cycles of abuse and the tragedy of man's inability to change*
The little buddy effect: Defined as when you (usually a version of sonic or a character made to directly parallel Sonic) have a short best friend you cherish dearly. Anyone affected by the little buddy effect has the tendency to take to others of little buddy material or who remind them of their own little buddy very quickly. While generally (although not 100% of the time) the universe of Sonic the Hedgehog mandates each person affected by the little buddy effect gets to keep only one little buddy, this does not stop this person from trying. While all relationships come and go, the one between the affected and their little buddy is one to outlast them all (as long as the little buddy is properly cherished of course).
Another name for the "little buddy effect" is "the Tails effect.
Post brought to you by...
Mightray??
Sorry, I'm reading Archie Sonic and it's like. So far in every Sonic media, none of the Sonics affected by the little buddy effect recognize the eternal bliss you may receive by cherishing the little buddy and giving them lil kisses (aka pursing at least a not completely platonic but also not famial relationship). In fact, sometimes they neglect the little buddy to pursue romance with a girl (that ultimately doesn't work out).
Meanwhile Mighty over here is like L + I'll never leave Ray behind again + get gud + no matter what we'll adventure together forever + Ratio
Congrats for being the only one to figure out the little buddy effect and cherishing the little buddy, Mighty😂😂
could i please request a fic where jack is dating reader who is a wildlife vet and while she's working things go wrong and she gets bit by a venemous snake. Fluffy ending after jack being a wreck at the thought of losing her
💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age gap relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff, SmallTown!Reader x CityBoy!Jack Abbot
💞Plot💞: After one misstep, Jack Abbot’s worst fear comes true…
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: Bad Luck
💞A/N💞: Thank you sm! I really hope you like it!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“John Digby. Look at you. Comin in for another haircut?” Dana asks pleasantly as the lanky man smiles shyly at the attention.
Night shift had fully taken over, but Dana couldn’t pass up the chance at catching up with one of her personal favorite ‘frequent flyers’..
“My friends need help..” Digby says, voice small as if he doesn’t wanna be a bother. Dana eyes the blanket bunched up in his arms.
“Yeah..” She says slowly. Benji would blow his lid at her being late. Tonight was their annual movie night, but.. She had to see what the hell this was all about..
Squirrels.
It was about squirrels.
Two to be exact. See, Digby had been enjoying his night at the local park when he saw the two squirrels. They’d gotten caught in a broken part of the fence. One had it’s tail take the worst of it, and the other its side…
Thinking fast, Digby had taken his blanket and caught the squirrels with it, knowing they’d easily attack if they didn’t have something to cover them. Then he wondered in here, claiming he couldn’t find his ‘usual girl’. When he’d unwrapped the blankets, both squirrels took that as their chance to run.
“We have had mice, we have had stray cats..” Ellis complains. “Hell, we have had pigeons!” She huffs as Lena makes quick work at checking the books on who to call while Jack rubs his face.
He should’ve taken the night off..
“I draw the line at squirrels!” Ellis continues simply.
“Relax!” Lena assures. “Go around and make sure no patient finds out. I’m calling animal control right now..” She says simply.
“No!” Digby says fast as Dana, who’s kind of glad she didn’t run off yet, moves to gently pat his shoulder. “They’ll just kill em!” He says to Dana. “Get Dr. Y/N. She can help.” He nods certainly as he pulls out a crumbled up card from his pocket.
Looks were exchanged and debated whispers were had, but eventually, Dana was the one to actually call the number.
It was 7:40pm when Y/N finally showed up.
Jack would never forget that time. It was the beginning of the best part of his life…
Y/N had worked fast. Efficiently. She had set up non-threatening traps to catch the two trouble markers, and when placed into a dark box, she spoke to them softly and warmly. As if they could understand her. As if they could trust her. Jack had let her do her work in peace, sure. He was never one to want to flirt with a woman while she was on the clock, but he did keep an eye on said clock.
She couldn’t be on it forever.
“That was a good catch, Digby. How much do I owe you?” Y/N asks gently as the older man shyly shrugs, wanting to reject the idea of money..
“No no. You’re my eyes and ears, remember? Keeping the small animals of Pittsburgh safe.” Y/N assures gently as she slips some cash into Digby’s hand. He gratefully accepts. Jack watches on from his place at the nurse’s station, pretending to actually be listening to Lena..
“I hope they get better..” Digby says gently as Y/N assures him that she’ll make sure they will. Thanks to him.
Jack knew at that moment that Y/N was the one.
So he helped her to her car with the boxes. And he listened to her talk about how she’d first met Digby after her first week here in Pittsburgh. How he is always bringing her injured animals that he finds and she pays him for being her ‘doctor on the move’.
He learns about her big move to a big city, and how deep her love for animals really is. He listens as she complains so passionately about that damn gate in the park. How poor animals are always getting caught in it and how the city does nothing. At a certain point, he respectfully interrupts.
“Would you wanna… Grab some coffee tomorrow morning?” He asks quietly. Y/N pauses, setting the boxes in her car as she sheepishly eyes Jack.
He was handsome.
But she had been told over and over again at her going away party to be weary of handsome city boys..
“I’ll… Think about it.” She says politely, voice soft and Jack hums gently. That’s all he needs. Numbers were swapped and long glances were shared, but the two had left it at that.
Until the next morning.
Because if you asked Jack Abbot about Y/N Y/L/N.. With his full chest he’d tell you that he knew he liked her that very night.
But if you asked Y/N… She’d tell you she knew the very next day.
Because that was the day she’d drop the squirrels off in the park, and find Jack Abbot fixing the gate..
*
*
*
Jack could barely find his footing.
It all felt off today. Everything felt wrong, and he couldn’t put his finger on why. Walking into the ED, Robby is first to greet him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Jack stumbles a bit, making Robby eye him in concern.
“You alright?” He asks.
“Yeah. Uh.. Yeah. I got the 911. What’s up?” Jack asks, trying to shake it off. But mentally he goes through this morning in his head.
Clocked out at 6am, went to Y/N’s house, crawled into bed with her without showering. Was.. That it? He didn’t shower?
“Needed all hands. This thunderstorm’s supposed to be real bad. St. Peter’s Mercy already said they’re gonna start downsizing..” Robby explains as Jack nods along, only half listening.
No. It wasn’t the shower. Jack continues going through the morning. He held Y/N and fell asleep. Then he woke up to his phone ringing. It was Robby. That was at.. 10:23am.
Yeah. That was it. The early phone call.
Jack comes back into the conversation now, assuring that he’ll shoot a text over to Shen while Dana tries getting a hold of Ellis. He bites his lower lip though as he slips back into his own head when Robby starts debating where to put Santos and Whitaker for the day..
It wasn’t the call. That’s not what woke him up. It was… Y/N! Y/N had woke him up!
His eyes widen slightly as it finally dawns on him. “The kiss!” He says, stopping Robby’s conversation with Dana completely. Both eye him oddly.
“The what?” Dana asks with slight humor in her tone and clear as day on her face..
“Y/N woke me up this morning. Something about making a house call to some farm.. Ranch.. Place.” He waves his hand. “But I couldn’t kiss her because you called!” He continues as he motions towards Robby.
“I called?!” Robby asks in amusement, acting offended by the accusations.
“You costed me a morning kiss. Now I’m gonna be all off my game!” Jack states, completely serious as Dana snickers while walking away from the two men.
“It’s my fault you can’t multitask?” Robby jokes as Jack sighs softly, pulling out his phone to see if there was a text from Y/N. She had woken him up to tell him she was leaving, but before they could kiss, his phone rang from the nightstand.
He’d been half asleep.
He hasn’t been thinking right.
If he had, he would’ve let the damn phone go to voicemail and gladly kissed his girl. She had slipped out of the room while he was talking on the phone to Robby.
“Not funny. We haven’t skipped on a goodbye kiss in the almost year we’ve been together..” Jack sighs as he starts to write a text to her.
“It’s life. It happens.” Robby shrugs like it’s not a big deal, pausing though as he sees Jack trying to start a text. “What are you doing?” He chuckles.
“Gotta apologize…” Jack says like it’s obvious. Robby shakes his head.
“As much as that would entertain me, I need you at the ambulance bay, man. We’re gonna get flooded..” Robby states. Jack sighs, pocketing his phone for the moment. He’d message when he had a chance..
*
*
*
A chance never came..
Any time Jack thought he’d have a minute to text his long winded apology, something else would happen that would need his full attention.
It was frustrating to say the least..
He doesn’t know what time it is when Dana shouts about an incoming patient, but he steps back out on the ambulance bay. Robby coming to stand next to him. The ambulance pulls up and paramedic comes out. The awning stops them from getting soaked by this damn rain.
“Snake bite. Copperhead from what the assistant could tell us. She wanted to come straight here. Passed out now, vitals growing unstable.” The paramedic says as Robby walks over first to the now open ambulance doors. He freezes as what he sees. He quickly moves in front of Jack to stop him.
“I got this one, brother.” He says fast as Jack eyes him in confusion.
“I can do it..” Jack assures as he tries to walk around Robby to see the stretcher the paramedics are now rolling out.
“Abbot..” Robby warns as Jack falters in his steps when he gets a glimpse of that hair. Hair he always loves running his fingers through.
“What happened?” Jack breathes out, moving fast to be by her side. She’s sweaty and clammy. Her lips are an off shade as she lays there, looking… Undisturbed.
“Apparently snake attack while on duty. Right to the ankle…” The second paramedic says slowly, eyeing Jack oddly as the physician shakes his head. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
“No. No, no, no..” He rushes out quietly under his breath as he takes charge. He had to make this right again..
Jack fully takes over, yanking the stretcher so he can roll it inside the ED, running it at this point. Robby chases after him. “Y/N? Baby? Hey. Open your eyes, baby…” He tries quietly as he rushes her inside the operating room.
“I need hands!” He screams roughly. Dana jumps at the sudden boom of his authoritative voice. Mel and Shen are quick to run into the room too.
Robby finally gets into the room, frowning softly as he watches his best friend, his brother, shakily work on the love of his life. “You can’t be working on her, man..” He tries as he walks closer so only Jack can hear him..
Jack doesn’t listen, doesn’t even look Robby’s way as he barks out orders. Orders for CroFab, for NSAIDs, for proper cleaning of the bite mark on Y/N’s right ankle.
“Abbot.” Robby tries again. “You aren’t thinking right. Your judgement is-“ Jack finally cuts Robby off, turning to stare him down with a hard warning sharp in his dark eyes.
“Get out of my way, Robby..” He whispers with all seriousness as Robby hesitates.
“Abbot-“ Jack cuts him off again.
“You either find something to do, or you get the fuck out of my way, man.” He snaps finally. Everyone in the room tries to ignore that, focusing solely on helping Y/N.
“I’m doing this..” Jack continues shortly. “You wanna stop me, you better call security.” He warns gruffly.
Robby sighs softly, slowly stepping aside to let Jack work on Y/N. He preps himself in order to help…
*
*
*
Y/N thinks she’s in her bed at first.
It’s a split second of normalcy where she believes everything she’s been through was just some bad dream.
But then the smell of sterilization and an unmistakable scent of disinfectant seeps into her nose. It almost burns.
Yup. It’s the hospital.
“I’m alive?” Are the first words out of her mouth, eyes struggling to open. It’s a joke, of course. To no one in particular, but.. She knows.
She knows he’s there.
As if to assure her of this, she’s blessed with his soft and breathy chuckle before a hand is on her cheek, lips being placed eagerly on her forehead and then her cheeks and then her nose. She can feel the slight dip of her hospital bed as he sits on the edge of it to fully hover above her, marking more territory that way.
She blushes as her eyes finally open. She relishes in his soft lips, his slight stubble, the way he can smell of sanitizer and Tom Ford..
She knew time had to be on her side the minute she felt the quick, sharp prick. It felt like being snapped by a heavy rubber band. She had used her phone to snap a picture of the snake as it slithered past.
Just in case it was needed for further medical planning.
Then she called 911 as her assistant helped get her to the farmhouse so she could wash the area with soap and water.
Sighing in contentment, Y/N touches Jack’s cheek when he stops his kisses to rest his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry..” She whispers as she watches him. He shakes his head fast. Now his eyes are shut, taking in every detail of this moment.
“Just rest. Just.. Please, just rest..” He whispers as if that’s all he wants from her right now. The look of relief is clear on his face as he puts his hand on hers and kisses her wrist, keeping his lips against her pulse point.
“I should’ve known better..” She sighs anyways. The room is quiet besides the rain on her window and the beeps of distant machines.
“But I was so dead set on getting reception so I could text you, I.. Didn’t even think to look at where I was stepping..” Y/N continues to speak, really wanting to explain how the hell she ended up here..
Jack pauses. “Text me?” He asks.
“I wanted to say sorry for leaving without kissing you goodbye.” She says and he pauses before laughing quietly, moving back a bit to shake his head in amusement.
“What?” Y/N asks sheepishly.
Jack slips out his phone and unlocks it, showing her the unfinished text he’d been working on all morning and afternoon. She sits up with a slight wince, grabbing the phone to read it.
‘Hey, acorn. I’m so so sorry about this morning. Should’ve kissed you. I’m completely off my game now. Hope you’re having a better da…’
Y/N sheepishly smiles and then silently nods at her bag of belongs for Jack to go through. He tenderly gets up and gets it for her so she can hand him her phone. He unlocks it and goes straight to messages, seeing she’d been in the middle of writing him something too.
‘Hate that I didn’t get to kiss you this morning, bear! Has me feeling off. Gonna have to make up for it late..’
“See what happens when we don’t kiss goodbye?” Jack finally teases quietly as he sets her phone down. She nods in agreement, giggling.
“It’s bad luck.” She agrees playfully before grabbing Jack by his face with both hands, leaning in for a much needed kiss. It’s like a shot of espresso for him and a much needed breather for her..
“Mm.. That’s the good stuff..” Jack mutters quietly against her lips, eyes still closed. It makes Y/N giggles as she goes back in for more…
There is a group of people I play multiplayer mtg with, but as a competent deckbuilder who is not dating any of them I am cast into this role I have dubbed "The vizier". Meaning, I am, by this definition, the clear villain, but must advise players and alert them to the schemes my keen eyes spot across tables to survive.
"You must listen to me closely. I hold not threat to you. I am mearly trying to survive... I may be gaining counters, but he is one card away from completing his combo. You must fear the squirrels my lord, do not be deceived. They plot for your demise"
"Do not listen to his pleas of innocence. He carries with him the means for colorless mana. The stench of the eldrazi. You must end him before he becomes a threat not just for you, but the whole kingdom"
"think carefully with your target of banishment my lord. When have I harmed you? What is a single lifepoint between friends? But there across the board lies a much greater target! I ask you, what use would a man such as him have for double strike?
A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.
Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.
Or: the live-in masseuse au
tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings
The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly.
He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates.
It never quite goes away though.
And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag.
This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on.
It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.
But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.
There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year.
It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester.
But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.
Odd.
Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.
Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.
His key still works though. Fancy that.
He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up.
You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.
He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”
Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry.
He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat.
You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”
The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else.
“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!”
Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place.
You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run.
“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door.
When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.
“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”
On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom.
What a bloody headache.
He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”
“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite.
Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?”
“I have a knife!”
Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there.
“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again.
Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open.
You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat.
The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be.
He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”
“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”
“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod.
“Yes.”
“Show me then,” he orders.
And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.
“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable.
“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.
“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?”
His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.
“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”
“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten.
“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”
“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism.
It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you.
“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.
For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him.
Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.
“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.
“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner.
No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.
“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically.
“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.
“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”
“Me neither, birdie.”
He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in.
There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time.
The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale.
Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.
In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.
“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”
He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back.
Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for.
“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone.
The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.
His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out.
He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.
“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face.
“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”
“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling.
You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”
He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”
“Oh. ‘Til when?”
“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more.
You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”
“Your cousin live around here?”
You hesitate. “No.”
“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”
“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”
While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial.
“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says.
“Fine.”
The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year.
He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.
He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway.
What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.
Cohabitation is—
Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect.
It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy.
But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this.
You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him.
Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room.
“I’m a masseuse.”
“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes.
“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat.
“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch.
“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words.
He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”
You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin.
For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for.
A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though.
Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.
When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.
Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you.
And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone.
The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds.
His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what.
Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.
When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear.
Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done.
Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.
In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter.
Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed.
At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away.
Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.
You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot.
“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart.
“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor.
That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more.
“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket.
He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed.
In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours.
So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.
But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.
In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent.
It’s an idea, at least.
He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults.
The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you.
He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find.
“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.
“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.
“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?”
He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.
“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder.
Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”
You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.
His nose itches because the world is changing.
He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.
That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.
Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it.
“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table
“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth.
Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.
He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook.
What really ticks him off though is that—
he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices
—you keep getting away with it.
The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.
“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business.
Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”
You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”
“Well, it is.”
“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”
How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside.
“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table.
“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.
And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.
Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open.
But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely.
He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits.
“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset.
“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to.
That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.
You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”
Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else.
He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.
Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.
When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA.
Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip.
“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward.
“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”
Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.
“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?”
He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”
“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”
Ghost doesn’t answer.
Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”
“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”
“Didn’t say that.”
Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”
Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?
It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry.
In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat.
He has some nascent idea of where this is going.
As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”
In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence.
All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face.
Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face.
It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism?
Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed.
One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches.
His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch.
He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight.
“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap.
You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist.
Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?
Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base.
His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.
You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him.
“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”
He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”
“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness.
His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”
A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room.
He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.
The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off.
Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put,
“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly.
He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips.
You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back.
He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest.
“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?”
Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV.
“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says.
“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”
Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises?
He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.
One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things.
He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.
You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—”
Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable.
You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him.
Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.
Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.
When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue.
“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch.
The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means.
But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.
You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.
“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap.
“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes.
“Calling me fat, sir?”
He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”
Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey.
All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him.
The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn.
The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into.
Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.
Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either.
Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand.
“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word.
Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.
Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.
You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss.
“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open.
It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering.
Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.
“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin.
This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice.
He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way.
“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open.
“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug.
You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.
His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.
He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full.
He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected.
Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you.
“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.
His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.
“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle.
“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten.
“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms.
He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out.
You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face.
“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.
“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”
Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air.
“Simon—” you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place.
He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.
“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”
He means it too.
“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.
Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away.
He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms.
“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.
Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds.
He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.
When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom.
“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?”
The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?”
He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”
The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.
Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice.
“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”
You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”
Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive.
“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.
His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees.
Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.
Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.
In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck.
“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”
Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off.
He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices.
“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again.
And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight.
The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way.
His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always.
The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.
“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”
Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.
If he were a different man, if this was a different world—
No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does.
But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under.
The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air.
A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“Shut up.”
“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”
Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”
And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway.
It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.
You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid.
“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him.
“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”
“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?”
Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity.
Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.
“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open.
Simon doesn’t respond.
You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.
“No.”
When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying.
“It’s ours?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.
Oh god Mohawk mark who had a quiet so but she died and now he’s the crazy off the hinge Mohawk mark we know…..and he runs into mc in main marks universe who never knew main mark or his identity as invincible, yet there’s this invincible look alike that’s hugging her legs and is he crying?? Wasn’t this the one that was laughing crazy like on tv? Or was he the one that destroyed the high security jail? Reader not sure but now she’s trapped in bed with this clingy invincible man that tells her to call him mark.
nothing ever felt right the moment you took your last breath, and mark was never entirely the same either. his smug expression was always accompanied by your shy and sheepish demeanor, you always apologized to others when mark would be harsh towards them. now all he had left was a distant memory, but when angstrom offers mark a universe where you’re alive, he can’t pass up on the opportunity of seeing your face again.
“stupid! fucking! guard!” every word mark uttered was followed by a bloody punch to a guards face, the blood would splat on to his blue suit before he threw the man away from him. heavy breathes, that’s what you’d always tell him when he began to grow frustrated with the world. mark took a few seconds to regain any form of calmness deep inside of himself, before flying into the air and abandoning his mission. mark was never the patient type anyways, he knew you were here in the flesh and angstrom had more versions of him, they wouldn’t miss one.
anyone would be scared shitless if their government told them one of the most trusted and strongest hero on the plant had other versions of himself that weren’t so nice. you had every right to be so anxious when something as small as a twig snapped outside, or a squirrel hops on to your roof. your worries began to grow when everything around you grew quiet, no nature or screams from a distance. this made you feel like prey, no thought in your mind had you thinking that the war was over, rather you were next. the silence was ringing in your ears, keeping quiet before something shoved you against the wall with minimal force, almost causing an injury. your screams were deafening to marks ears, his smile big and bright as he inhaled your scent, a heavy sigh left his lips as he mumbled— “fuck, i’ve missed this, and look at you! fuckin’ hot and still as precious.” you were frozen in fear as this invincible hugged you with a deadly right grip, scared out of your mind as to what he’d do to you.
this wasn’t what you had in mind at all. being forced to sit on the side of your bed, while invincible, who told you to call him mark, cried heavily into your legs. at certain points he’d begin kissing your legs and calves, crying and begging for forgiveness. you grew slightly uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t a mass genocide maniac who has blood on his suit. you couldn’t say that to his face however, he’d probably kill you next if you dare question his motives with you. gentle rubs against his scalp visibly made him relax, mark sighed heavily and sniffled. your warmth and awkward affection was all he needed, even if you were uncomfortable, mark was finally at peace of mind.
“so fucking perfect, my angel. no one can ever hurt you again, tell me to kill someone and i’d do it all for you, precious.” marks babbling against your legs were almost clear enough to hear. you couldn’t help but feel seen, but the thought of there being multiple versions of him stuck with you. awkwardly, you tried to make conversation, “so do you have a favorite food, or?” you smiled sheepishly, trying to give you both some form of space. marks grip tightened once he felt you move even an inch away from him, he smiled and looked up at you with his psychotic eyes. “y’know what i like baby, i’d eat you any time.” the comment made you nervous, “oh. yeah, uh right. i like food.” mark could sense your unease, it didn’t make him feel better about holding you hostage and forcing you to give him comfort for his own actions. he looked up at you, his smile faded away and all that was left was his big doe eyes—“you really don’t know anything, huh?”
“how did i die, if you wanna tell me.” you asked, looking at mark whose now sat on the other side of your bed. the uneasiness in your stomach lingered, but you were able to remain calm despite the situation. marks nose scrunched up, he looks as if he’s reliving the memory of your passing. the tears fell once more as he quickly wiped his face, acting as if he was fixing his hair before speaking with a voice crack—“old age, natural causes and other shit.” humming softly, you knew better then to accuse him of lying, and it seemed like he really didn’t want to tell you what actually happened. mark scoffed and crossed his arms, trying to brush off his emotions, “what, the me from this universe never asked you out or somethin’? what a fucking dork.” the laugh mark let out quickly died off as he realized you had no clue who or what you two been through together. only fear and uncertainty were a few he could assume, that’s what he think he’d feel if he wasn’t as invincible. he coughed, and spoke once more—“we used to wake up together, you’d wake up way earlier though. i loved how you would wait for me, and say ‘good morning sunshine.’ i thought it was corny, but that’s what made waking up worth the pain.” throughout this entire experience, this was when you saw the vulnerability inside of mark, how much he missed this version of you, that isn’t you.
you didn’t know how to tell mark that his version of you, is far from the actual you. all you could do was listen to the stories you both had together, the ones where you’d laugh at him when he’d have a whipped cream mustache while drinking hot chocolate, or when he’d fly you both to your favorite restaurant. some stores brought a small smile to your face, mark was a romantic at heart, but he was still a very bad man whose killed many in your name. whether or not if you fall in love with him, or repent him, the real invincible was out there hunting his variants. completely unaware that one of them was wooing his old high school crush, the one he had to let go of in order to keep them safe from everything.
…
“we used to go at it likes animals! what’s that one fucking song? you and me baby ain’t nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like how they do on the discovery channel! yeah, we were fucking freaks.”
a/n: i’d like to thank you all for over 500 followers!! i couldn’t do this without u guys, and it turns out a lot of u rlly like mohawk mark
warnings: 18+, smut, fem!reader, friends to lovers, adrian's a fucking dumbass loser (swoon), p in v sex, blowjob, fingering, riding, creampie, etc.
summary: the opposite of tears by sabrina carpenter where every time adrian does some dumb shit you wanna fuck him stupid
wc: 3.9k
a/n: this ran away from me u can disregard the summary its practically just pwp oops!
"god, he's such a fucking idiot," harcourt groaned for what was likely the tenth time that day.
you weren't paying attention, but even without looking, you were pretty confident you knew what she was referring to. facing towards the direction she was looking only gave you confirmation.
it was adrian, or should you say, vigilante, trying to help a squirrel down from a tree. he'd seen eagly fetch a squirrel for chris once and had been insisting on replicating it next time he bumped into a squirrel. it was a completely useless, time-wasting task, but it was entirely on brand for him. he got distracted easily.
you shrugged, a smile threatening to tug at your lips, "i don't know, he's kinda cute."
this made adebayo stop on her tracks and face you with a furrow in her brow, "wait, what?"
harcourt joined her, adding on her own aura of judgement towards you, "i echo that — what?"
shrugging again, you continued to look to adrian, who by now had attempted to climb a very inconveniently shaped tree about four times to no avail. but his refusal to give up prevailed. he was maskless, giving you a perfect view of the mess his curls always became after a long mission.
you'd only been part of the group for a short while, being the newest addition. while everyone else was far more familiar with one another, you'd grown a little extra fond of adrian — though, you'd never let on about it to anyone. not until this moment.
"you like that little weirdo?" leota asked, eyes still on adrian.
you hesitated, but nodded with your lips in a straight line. yeah, you liked the little weirdo.
"you have questionable taste," added emilia, "but, you know, to each their own, i guess."
they both went their own ways after that, walking towards the van while you continued to watch adrian, absentminded but somehow still completely focused on him.
you stood there and watched for a little while. long enough for emilia to yell out from the van for you guys to get a move on. but adrian remained fully unaware of your eyes on him (questionable for a vigilante).
"dude, did you see that? i almost made it up that tree! it was kinda shaped weird, though, so i only made it halfway. still! i almost got that squirrel. man, one day i'll be able to one-up eagly," he rambled as he walked towards the truck. you walked beside him, nodding to his rambles but not responding much otherwise.
coming to the realization that his stupid habits were enough to break your focus was terrible news. but as he continued to ramble next to you, a few tiny twigs tangled in his messy hair, you were kind of okay with it.
⭒⭒⭒
"dude, look, i bet i can chug three beers at once!"
you were currently at a bar — emilia's choice for the night. it was meant to be a team-bonding activity. it'd been a while since the last time you actually took the time to hang out outside of some sort of mission.
chris had just demonstrated his ability to chug two cans of beer at the same time, with adrian very predictably cheering him on. emilia rolled her eyes while leota and economos goaded him on, already tipsy and a little gone.
after chris' turn, adrian practically bounced up and down, gassing chris up and trying to get anyone to dare him to try it for himself. economos took the bait, groaning when adrian finished and didn't give it up, now wanting to outdo himself with another beer.
unable to say no to him, you gave him your attention. the others were disinterested by now, which made you frown to yourself. so you opted to quietly cheer him on (despite the fear he might get alcohol poisoning).
but the way his smile widened when he saw that there was at least one person who wanted to engage with his shenanigans simply made your heart soar.
and the view of the beer uselessly dripping down the length of his neck had a whole other effect on you. most of the beer didn't even make its way into his mouth, wetting his shirt and dripping all the way down his clothed body. it was almost worse than that time he'd gotten showered in beer while in nothing but his tighty whiteys.
"did you see that?" he yelled excitedly at you, grin wide as usual.
and somehow, he was nowhere even near tipsy — likely thanks to what you were sure were some secret healing powers he'd been hiding. this was like his seventh beer, but he was standing upright and his eyes were perfectly focused on you. as the beer dripped down his chin, all he seemed to care about was that someone acknowledged his party trick, that someone cheered on him the way they had for chris.
and so, putting aside how easily he seemed to have an effect on you, you pat his back with a smile and gave him the impressed reaction he was looking for.
in reality, you were more worried about the possible hangover he'd have the following morning (and how good he looked with glassy eyes and a wet shirt).
he seemed to love what he interpreted as encouragement (even though all other 11th street kids had already moved on to something else), eyes excited as he reached towards the table for another handful of beers.
"i can do four, look-"
you stopped him after that, hands coming to his and disarming him of the alcohol. getting him distracted with darts after that was pretty easy. he wanted to impress you in that regard to — though you weren't sure if it was you he wanted to impress or just anyone in general. you had the benefit of the doubt by being the only person to have their attention on him.
as you played darts, the mess of a man somehow continued to fail. it surprised you that he could have such bad aim at darts when his knife-throwing skills were the best you'd ever seen.
but even then, adrian continued throwing darts, chiming in between turns to tell you some incorrect fact about manta rays (or crows, or owls, he let you choose). despite being aware of his wrong information, you still let him continue, awing internally at how happy he seemed to finally receive some attention and receptiveness.
the unfortunate bit was how easily affected you felt by his ... idiocy.
he'd thrown off his plaid button-up due to how damp with beer it'd become, leaving him in a white tank top under the ambient lighting of the bar. the sight alone killed you, but what affected you the most was how much of a loser he could really be when he tried.
despite his lack of aim and his absolute disregard for fact-checking, he still had an immense amount of charm that had you wondering what steps needed to be taken to get to drag him home with you. he'd laugh and giggle at his own jokes, offering high fives to himself and pretending the dart was a little plane as he cheated his way to a bullseye.
maybe it was the two drinks you had, but everything he was doing was truly working for you.
⭒⭒⭒
somehow you did end up taking him back to your place.
not in the context you would've liked, but it ended up happening regardless, so it counted as a win to you.
it was something about his mom kicking him out any time he came home past two in the morning, that even though he wasn't even tipsy, he was off his game and would probably wake her up if he snuck in. he hadn't even asked you if he could stay the night, simply huffing to himself as he told you the innermost details about living with his mother at age 30. but you, a fellow dumbass, offered up your place (to which you received a thumbs up from leota and a frown from emilia — adebayo was a supporter of the pairing; harcourt was mostly just confused by it).
now in your house, adrian couldn't help but continue to be an absolute failure at being a functioning adult, only getting you wetter and wetter by the minute (an embarrassing admission).
when you told him to raid your closet for some of the few garments you knew would fit him as pjs, the idiot came out wearing one of your hello kitty pj sets, which fit him far too tight and made him look like a hot mess — emphasis on hot. but he'd done it as a silly little joke, not meaning anything by it, simply cackling at himself when your eyebrows raised at his appearance.
after that, he somehow managed to get into a physical altercation with your couch as he attempted to fold it into a bed. he'd gotten stuck, a little sheepish as he asked for help in getting out. this forced you into too close a proximity and into incidentally feeling up his arms as you tried to pull him away from it.
and throughout it all, the idiot continued spewing incorrect facts. so many to the point that you were beginning to be convinced about the validity of each and every one.
after it all, the two of you sat side by side on your foldable couch, tired from a long day.
"hey, today was a lotta fun!" he perked up, "we should, like, hang like that all the time. you're kinda way more fun than peacemaker — but don't tell him i said that. you let me tell you all my interesting facts and you don't tell me off when i cheat at darts," he mumbled that last part, as if his cheating was some sort of secret.
meanwhile, you were dealing with an embarrassing amount of uncontrollable lust for your friend. his hair was a mess after a long day out, his glasses perched on his nose and his entire demeanor completely relaxed in your house as if he belonged there.
you sat next to him, feeling like shit due to how badly you wanted to jump him.
"man, i'm so tired," he yawned, "such a fun day, though. we could hang out here next time. it's waaaayyy nicer than peacemaker's place," he continued rambling.
when you yawned in exhaustion, he began looking at you with a teasing smile, "hah, do you want me to read you a bedtime story? c'mon, we could stay up and have, like, a slumber party!"
you tuned him out after that. he filled the otherwise silent room with suggestions, going from a horror movie marathon, to doing each other's nails, to any other common sleepover activity. every suggestion was more animated than the last, practically conversing with himself as you shamelessly eyed him up and down.
then an idea crept up in your head, making you perk up.
"hey, adrian," you interrupted him.
"oh. yeah?"
"wanna play spin the bottle?"
his head cocked to the side, confused. his lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed as he tried to understand the logistics. then he voiced his confusion.
"uhhh, how would we play spin the bottle? it's only the two of us here," you lifted your eyebrow, smiling at him suggestively.
still he didn't get it. it took your hand laying on his lap for him to understand, a move that made you feel like some sleazy man trying to score after a first date.
"o-oh! you mean- oh. uhm, okay! yes. i mean, yeah sure, we could, uhm-"
you let him go on for exactly ten seconds before crawling the rest of the way on the couch and closing the distance.
with a surprised yelp, he began kissing back. a little sloppy in his kisses, maybe, but it was the type of sloppy that made you sigh in pleasure. he couldn't get enough of you, licking every inch he could reach, heady moans landing into your lips.
your hands dug in his curls, pulling, messing with them, earning groan after groan from the boy as he continued to devour your mouth.
he kissed as if he'd been waiting for it for years, as if no one had given his lips a chance and they were parched for some wet contact. your tongues snuck out to massage at each other, tangling and sucking the saliva off of one another. all the while, the two of you released low moans into the other's lips.
"fuck, this is sooo sick," he mumbled between kisses, handsy, "i've been wanting to fuck you since forever ago."
"yeah?"
"mhm! peacemaker had- fuck," kiss, "he had-" kiss, "-dibs, but-" kiss, kiss, "i begged him to let me shoot my shot."
you rolled your eyes at this. of course chris had tried to mark his territory with the only other girl in the crew who could possibly be into him (not that you were). still, it made you flush to think that adrian had tried to stand his ground to his friend. he wanted you back.
pulling away, you kissed his nose, uncharacteristically soft for the heavy patting you'd been just engaging in a moment ago.
"you want me, adrian?"
he gave you a look, hands squeezing your ass, "are you crazy? do you not feel the massive boner i have? well, not massive. or at least peacemaker doesn't think so-"
"let me be the judge of that," you interrupted.
gaping at you, he gasped, "are you going to play with my dick? sick!"
it was impossible not to roll your eyes again, but you still held back. with one hand, you undid the drawstrings of your his hello kitty shorts, pulling him out. you didn't need to look down to notice the size, as its girth already filled up your hand to its entirety.
"'thimle'?" you asked, incredulous.
"fuck, not you too!"
"no, dumbass, i mean- never mind," you couldn't be bothered. you were still a little tipsy, your senses heightened and your legs already sticky, "can i suck it?" your voice turned a little coquette-ish.
"fuck yeah," he then leaned in, adding, "feel free to slobber all over my dick, babe."
you almost scoffed, but maybe that comment had you squeezing your thighs, and maybe you did want to slobber all over it.
climbing off the couch, you got on your knees in front of him, grinning when he groaned and opened up his legs to welcome you between them. he rushed to pull his shorts all the way down. something about not wanting them to touch his butt right now, which you disregarded for the time being.
"wait," he interrupted before you could lower your lips down to his tip.
already gripping him with one hand and with your lips wet and ready to start, your eyes drew towards him with a questioning look.
"can you- can you take off your top? i reallyyy wanna see your boobs."
it made you feel objectified, but also embarrassingly horny that he wanted the visual of your tits on top of your mouth on his dick. you obeyed without a single word.
mouth open, you engulfed him between your lips. you'd gathered some saliva, letting it drip down his cock as you began to suck at the tip. your right hand jerked at the length of his cock while your left dipped down to play with his balls. he was an absolute mess above you within seconds.
"oh, holy fucking shit- that feels so- fuuuuuck..."
looking up, you found him with his head thrown back on the back of the couch, eyes scrunched close and glasses halfway slipping off his nose. the look on his face appeared pained, but the sounds leaving his lips were anything but.
one of his hands gripped at his own leg, nails digging in. the other dug into your hair, not forcing your face all the way down, but still keeping you there.
it didn't take long for his hips to begin hammering up. you were bobbing your head, aided in taking him as deep as humanly possible while his thrusts attempted to find your rhythm. drool slipped down his lips and into your hand, some even reaching the seat of the couch. it was sticky and disgusting, but the sloppier you were, the more he whined above you.
"you have such- f-fuck- such a slutty mouth- it's so fucking good. you want my dick soooo fucking bad- you're so into me, it's making me so fucking horny-"
those words weren't complimentary in any way. and though you usually thrived off praise, his words had your thighs squeezing together uncomfortably, had your fingers itching to find their way between your legs. he was so shameless, it made you dizzy.
"wait- stop," he gripped your hair a little harder, apologizing right after before letting his hands dip to your chin in order to softly nudge you up, "i wanna come inside you," he said once you were back on his lap.
his eyes were distracted, stuck on your lips rather than your eyes. words seemed to be stuck in his mouth.
"wanna taste yourself?" you took a guess.
he nodded silently, nose nudging yours before engulfing your lips once again.
the kiss, sloppy and heavy, consisted of adrian's tongue digging into your mouth to try and lick every last trace of himself off your tongue. he moaned shamelessly into your mouth, hips hammering up without realizing.
"can i play with your pussy?" he mumbled into your lips.
you hummed, eyes already threatening to roll back.
"hell yeah."
his fingers trailed their way to your cunt, sneaking under your pj shorts and going straight for the kill. a throaty groan was let out when he felt just how wet you'd been — courtesy of weeks of holding back in jumping his bones.
"fuck, you're soaked! that's so fucking hot. man, i'm gonna have so much fun with this pussy."
two long fingers entered you without warning, no finesse nor coordination until he found that spongy spot that had you sighing into his neck. lips trailed up and down your neck while he played with your cunt, sucking shamelessly, leaving his mark as he always did. occasionally he'd chuckle at the noises you made, nibbling at you in some sort of cheeky response.
"can't wait to feel her around me," he chuckled to himself, "she's so wet and sloppy, fuck."
his comments made you squirm, but you couldn't help tightening around his fingers. he was incredibly crass, which was something you thought you were used to. you'd just never had him be so callous in such a context.
"but i can't make you come like this, you know? i need to feel her wrapped around me."
and then he stopped, sudden and without warning. it made you scowl at him, but he didn't think much of it. he just grinned at you and palmed at your ass again, drawing you as close as he could and chasing your lips again.
by then, you felt like you'd invertedly lost control, but you couldn't find it in you to care. the idiot in front of you was driven by his shameless lust for you, and it had you wanting to mirror him and throw your shame away in tandem.
"wanna fuck me, adrian?" you whispered in his ear, hips right above his dick, just waiting to plunge down on it.
"fuck- more than anything. i'll literally do anything if you let me put it in."
giggling, you nodded. you'd note that for another time. for now, you were aching like crazy for him.
shifting upwards, you positioned him, dragging the bulbous tip along your slit and gasping in sync with the boy under you. the tortured look in his eyes told you all you needed to know — he needed you just as bad as you did him.
"oh- fffuck! wait! don't- don't move- it's so- it's so fuuuucking tight," he breathed out, fingers bruising your hips with their hold.
but you didn't want to listen to him. maybe he was a little bit of an airhead, and oftentimes fucked up without meaning to, but he should at least be good at taking your pussy. right?
holding onto his defined shoulders, you ground up and down, bouncing, gracing that special spot inside you right against his pelvis and sighing out in relief. he didn't have to do anything, just sit there and take your every move with a moan of your name in his lips.
"fucking- perfect pussy, fuckfuckfuck- they should sell it at, like, seven eleven or something-" he babbled, "if you were a buffet, i'd have endless servings," it didn't make sense, but he was obviously lost to the pleasure. and embarrassingly enough, it did make you tighten around him just a little more.
"i'd kill to have this pussy every night- oh, fuck," his thrown-back head went from resting on the back of the couch to burying in the crook of your neck, slobbering all over your skin with messy love bites, "i'm serious! i'll kill anyone you ask me to- just- just let me come inside you ... one kill per creampie, okay? oh- yeah- just got so fucking tight, i'll take that as a yes."
his feet settled on the carpet below him, granting him the support necessary to begin humping his hips against yours, creating an echo of slapping skin that filled up the otherwise silent room. your couch could barely take the force of his thrusts, squeaking in an increasingly high volume as adrian completely lost himself in your cunt.
his pretty curls were victim to your claws, but the freak would only whine louder any time you pulled, keeping him hostage in the space between your neck snd your shoulder, uncaring about the marks you could feel him leaving behind.
"fill me up, then," you challenged, "make good on your promise and i'll let you fuck me in my bed next."
adrian blew up after that. a gargle of moans left his lips as they trailed back up to yours. the sad excuse of a kiss was an obscene exchange of saliva, with your tongues fighting each other as adrian filled you up, mumbling incoherent pleas for you to come with him.
when you came, it was with a deep arch of your back, with a full-body shudder and an eye roll that exposed the bare whites of your eyes. adrian only became louder after that, pressing his body as close as humanly possible to yours.
the aftershocks didn't leave you for a few moments. even vigilante's prowess debilitated due to the life-changing high you'd just shared.
"did you mean that or was that just the orgasm talking?"
you hummed in question, still not fully there.
"man, i totally rocked your shit," he chuckled, "i mean, like, can i really fuck you in your bed? i've been told i'm a really good cluddler too — not that peacemakers appreciates it."
unsurprisingly enough, he provoked some sort of cuteness aggression in you even after such an earth-shattering exchange. so you giggled at him, nodding slowly as you played with his sweat-damp curls.
"take me to bed, adrian."
"hell yeah."
you chose to ignore the fist bump he gave himself after that.
prince valarr stumbling upon a hidden away maiden sheltered from the rest of the world ⊹ ࣪ ˖ꫂ᭪݁ pt. 2
-sheltered!reader x valarr targaryen, nothing crazy just more fluff! slight tension and a kiss on the cheek! sorry if there are any spelling mistakes lol ᥫ᭡
the days that followed were a strange, new kind of silence. it wasn't the peaceful, contented quiet you had always known, but a hollow, expectant one. every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, sent your heart leaping into your throat, only to sink when it was just a squirrel or a foraging badger. you found yourself lingering at the edge of the clearing, your gaze lost in the deep green of the forest, as if you could will him to reappear.
you went about your chores, tending your small garden, mending your clothes, grinding herbs with a stone mortar but your hands moved while your mind was elsewhere. you replayed every moment of his visit. the sound of his laugh, low and warm. the way his mismatched eyes had watched you, not with judgment, but with a curiosity that felt like a caress. the solid, warm strength of his thigh beneath your hesitant hands. you touched your own fingertips, remembering the texture of his trousers and the heat of his skin, and a warm blush would bloom across your cheeks.
a week passed, then another. the initial frantic hope began to dull into a quiet ache. you told yourself he was a knight. he had duties.
the world beyond the woods was vast, and you were just a tiny, forgotten corner of it. he had probably forgotten you the moment he rode out of sight. you were a strange maiden with a broom, a fleeting anecdote in a life of grand adventure.
and then, one afternoon, as you were hanging bundles of lavender to dry, you heard it. not the clumsy stumble of before, but the rhythmic, confident thud of hooves on soft earth.
your heart stopped. you dropped the bundle of lavender, the purple blossoms scattering at your feet, and turned toward the sound.
the sight of him stole the air from your lungs. he wasn’t limping when he swung off his horse. he was clean, his jaw shaved smooth, and he carried something in his hands, a bundle wrapped in clean linen. he looked every bit the storybook knight, and for a terrifying moment, you felt the urge to hide, to retreat into the safety of your cottage.
his face broke into a smile so brilliant, so genuine, that it banished every fear. it was the same smile as before, the one that felt like the sun. he stopped, his eyes finding yours across the clearing.
"i told you i would not forget," he said, his voice carrying easily in the still air.
your hands twisting in the fabric of your simple dress. "i…i did not expect you to remember the way."
"i believe i could find this clearing in the dark," he replied, walking towards you. "it's not every day a man is bested by a maiden with a broom. some things are unforgettable."
his gaze swept over you, from your bare feet in the grass to the wild strands of soft hair. "i hope you have been well."
"well enough," you managed, "your leg…is it healed?"
"perfectly, thanks to your miracle salve." he grinned, and it was that same disarming smile that had made your stomach flutter before. "in fact, it was healed so well, i managed enter a small tourney joust today."
"a joust?"
"a minor affair," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "a contest. of skill." he gestured vaguely. "with lances and swords. for glory…"
he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, simplifying his world for you.
"and did you win the glory?"
a slow, confident smile spread across his face. "i did."
you felt a surge of pride for him, so sudden and strong it startled you. "that is… that is wonderful."
"but i found myself thinking of you as i rode. thinking of this quiet. i’ve spent the day surrounded by noise and pageantry, and all i wanted was to find this clearing again."
the sincerity in his voice made your chest feel tight. he had come back. he had thought of you. "i- i was just hanging lavender," you bent to pick up the fallen bundle.
"let me," he said, and before you could protest, he was kneeling beside you. his fingers brushed against yours as you both reached for the same sprig, and a jolt, sharp and sweet, shot up your arm. you snatched your hand back as if burned, your eyes flying to his.
he stilled, his hand hovering in the air. his gaze was intense, focused on your lips for a heartbeat before rising back to your eyes. the air grew thick, heavy with unspoken things.
"my apologies," he murmured, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. he finished gathering the lavender, his movements deliberate, and rose to his feet, holding the bundle out to you. "for startling you."
you took it from him, your fingers trembling slightly. "you didn’t." you gestured vaguely towards the cottage. "would you…would you like some milk? or…or some bread? i just baked."
"i would like that very much," he said, his smile softening.
you led him to the small bench beside your cottage door, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. you disappeared inside for a moment, returning with a wooden plate with a slice of warm bread and a clay mug of cool milk. he took them with a nod of thanks, his eyes following your every move.
he ate the bread with a relish that made you feel a strange sense of pride whilst you finished hanging the rest of the flowers.
"this is better than any feast at-" he said, stopping himself from finishing the last of his sentence. "this is the best thing i’ve ever tasted."
"it’s only bread," you said, sitting on the edge of the bench, a careful space between you.
"it’s made by your hands," he countered, turning on the bench to face you fully. he propped one arm up on the back of it, his body angled towards yours. "there’s magic in that."
you didn’t know what to say to that, so you just looked down at your hands, folded in your lap.
"tell me something," he said, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. "have you thought of me my lady?"
your head snapped up. his eyes were searching, hopeful. there was no use in lying, not to him, not to yourself. you gave a small, hesitant nod.
a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. "good. because i have thought of little else." he leaned in just a fraction, and the scent of him leather, and clean sweat, and something that must have been uniquely him, washed over you.
"i kept thinking about your eyes. the way they looked at me with such… honesty. no one looks at me like that. and i found my thoughts wandering. to a quiet wood, and a cottage, and a maiden with a surprisingly strong swing."
as he leans closer you notice the small scar above his eyebrow, the way the late afternoon light caught the darker flecks in his one eye, making it shine like amber.
"your world is so small here," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. "is it enough for you?"
the question hung in the air, more intimate than any touch. you looked around at your clearing, your cottage, the familiar trees that had been your whole world.
"i never knew it wasn't," you answered honestly, your voice trembling slightly.
his eyes searched yours, and he lifted a hand. it was a slow, deliberate movement, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn't. you couldn't. his fingers, calloused and strong, gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. his touch was feather-light, a brand and a caress all at once.
"you my lady are something rare and beautiful that the rest of the world doesn't know exists."
your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wild, frantic thing. you could feel the heat radiating from him, "valarr," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.
his gaze dropped to your mouth again, and the air crackled with tension. he was so close, all you would have to do was lean forward the barest inch…
he seemed to catch himself, his hand stilling on your face. he took a slow, deep breath, as if gathering his resolve.
"i must go," he said, his voice rough. "before i do something foolish. like forget i am meant to be a gentleman."
disappointment, sharp and poignant, pierced through you. but you understood.
he stood infant of you then and gestured with the linen bundle. "i did bring you something. a token of my gratitude."
you shook your head instantly. "that is not necessary. i did what anyone would do."
"no," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "not everyone would have. please. let me give you this."
he unwrapped the linen, and nestled inside was a long fine silk ribbon for your hair. it was such a simple thing, but to you, it was treasure. it was from his world. it was proof that he had been thinking of you.
"oh," you breathed, your eyes wide. "its wonderful…" you took the silk, your fingers brushing against his again. you clutched the gift to your chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "thank you," you whispered, truly meaning it.
"i will not be gone so long this time," he promised, his voice low and earnest. "but when i return…i would like to show you something."
"show me?"
"the town," he said, the word sounding both grand and slightly terrifying. "there is a market day, in a fortnight. the square fills with people. there are stalls selling everything, spices from across the sea, fabrics and sweet cakes…"
"musicians playing, children laughing…i would be with you the entire time. i would not let any harm come to you. i just... i thought you might like to see it. to see a little piece of the world you've been sheltered from."
he paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "would you come with me, to the market? one day?"
the question was so much more than an invitation. it was a key, offered to unlock the door of your cage. to see his world. to walk through it with him.
you found yourself nodding, a slow, shaky dip of your head. "yes," you breathed, the single word feeling like the bravest you had ever spoken. "i have been before though not in many years, but yes, i will come with you."
he looked as though you had just handed him a kingdom. he opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it, simply giving a firm, decisive nod of his own.
"then i will return for you," he vowed.
he took another step back, the distance between you a physical ache. he was leaving again, and this time, the thought of his absence was a thousand times more painful. you had spent your entire life being cautious, being safe. but you had just agreed to follow a very kind, noble, handsome stranger, and the only thing you were certain of was that you didn't want him to go.
a courage surged through you, before you could talk yourself out of it, before the fear could reclaim you, you moved.
you closed the distance in two quick steps, rising onto your toes just as he turned. your lips, soft and uncertain, brushed against his cheek. it was a fleeting, chaste touch, over in a heartbeat, but it felt like an eternity. you could feel the warmth of his skin, the solid line of his jaw.
you dropped back to your feet, your heart hammering so violently you were sure he could hear it.
he was utterly still. a deep, crimson blush up his neck, and flooded his entire face, burning his ears and cresting his high cheekbones. his mouth was slightly agape, he looked completely and utterly undone. the prince, rendered speechless by a simple, innocent kiss on the cheek.
the sight was so endearing, so unexpected, that a giggle escaped your lips. a soft, airy sound you hadn't known you were capable of making.
it seemed to break the spell. a slow, shy smile began to form on his lips, transforming his shocked expression into one of pure, unguarded delight.
"well," he managed, his voice a husky, breathless whisper. "i will be back in a fortnight my lady."
