ÖŽ àŁȘđ€ i'm lilly! i'm a beginner writer and a huge weirdo fangirl. if i can sink my teeth into it, i will.
my fics are afab!reader on default, but i will write for anyone/thing else on request!! donât be shy to ask :)
*please read the content warnings and tags of anything i write. most of it will have themes that can be disturbing or uncomfortable. with that being said, please assume that my fics will contain dark themes.*
i will never write anything with ageplay, bestiality, incest, or anything that could fall into those categories.
haiii i have a question, every writer sort of characterizes tim different so i was wondering how you did? like what does he look like to you, how does he act? i really really really love masky hehehhe
HI HELLO HI!!!!
i like this question a lot!! tim is probably one of my (if not most) favorite characters off all time, i think heâs soo complex and interesting. the fic i wrote for him i intentionally made him a little bit meaner that i would normally write for him, since i was lowk just horny posting LMFAO
thereâs a lot of clips we see in marble hornets of tim being silly, making quick remarks, and overall not exactly being the âextremely grumpy angry manâ lots of people characterize him as. while thatâs not an issue because itâs fiction and everyone should have fun, i feel like heâs moreso just a sleep-deprived, mentally unstable guy who was sucked into a mess that he canât do anything to get himself out of. i feel like he definitely has moments where people donât want to be around him for the way he acts, in the way that i (diagnosed bipolar/manic) can get when i go through an âepisodeâ and get tangled up in feelings i donât really understand why i have. i see a lot of myself in tim, which is partially the reason i freaking adore the guy.
in that way i sort of have the headcanon that heâs got either bpd or bipolar disorder :p i think he definitely goes through some intense mood swings and does things he generally wouldnât normally do
sorry for the yap session i could genuinely talk about him all day. i hope this answers your question tho!!
ââŽïžËïœĄâyouâre sent out on recon with masky!! it doesnât turn out well.
[cw; dubious consent, tim is very a little mean, choking, spitting, barely getting slapped, fucking in a car, mentions of the rake, tim is your height (iâm a 5â8 masky truther), rough fucking, this is NOT well written, brat-taming(?), ooc masky]
>{an; hi guys!! its been a little while (;;;*_*) iâm so sorry!! over my little hiatus i got soo unmotivated and out of practice, so im really sorry that this is so poopy but im trying again! just practice :) ily!!}
"FUCK! MOVE!" Masky roars, swinging a plank of wood in your direction.
A blur of white, a crashing, and suddenly you're slammed into the filthy wooden floor. You couldn't have known it was there, couldn't have seen it coming. You can't even see it now, as it scrambles over-top you and begins screeching.
"Whatthefuck- Tim!" You scream, trying desperately to push the thing off of you. You catch sight of a gnarled, clawed hand, and then it's ripped off of you in a blur.
Masky grunts as he lands with a loud clatter against a row of rotting pews, one fist gripping the thing by its throat while the other lands blows against its' face. The creature claws at his shoulder, pulling a shout from the brawny man.
You pull yourself up, barely coherent as you dart forward and slam yourself into the thing. You fumble for your belt, where you know your knife is, but it's already peeling away from the two of you and galloping out of a broken window.
"What the fuck?! What the fuck was that?" You sputter, chest heaving almost in time with your pounding heart.
Masky is silent for a beat, trying to catch his breath between wet coughs.
"I don't- motherfucker got me!" He hisses, pressing a hand to the fabric beginning to soak through with crimson ire.
"Tim," you begin, reaching forward. He glances at your hand before glancing to the door, swallowing his pained expression with a deep inhale.
"We need to leave, now. Grab your shit." He grunts, turning to walk out.
You open your mouth to speak again, but he repeats himself. "Now. Before that fucking thing comes back."
You can do nothing but scoff as you collect your bag and follow him out the chapel doors, sulking down the path to lick your wounds in his car.
Everything that could go wrong on a mission had gone wrong.You should have known the day was going to sour and fizzle off into another regretful mission when you woke up with a splitting headache and a sore throat that hadn't faded with the countless glasses of water you chugged down.
"Recon," Tim had said, "scoutin' for a new hole to hide in."
You couldn't argue with Slenderman. Not even when he chose you to head out with Tim instead of Brian, Toby, or anyone else you thought could handle an outing better than you.
Now, nearly eight hours later, you're stuck in the same car you left in. Tim stands outside the open hood, hands bracing himself against the rain-slicked metal.
Every now and again you heard him curse and knock something around, speaking in a hushed tone to himself. Your signal had cut out miles ago, and the dark sky outside was nonetheless comforting to your situation.
You're pulled from your thoughts when the hood slams shut, sending droplets of rain splattering across the windshield. The driver side door creaks open and in slides Tim, peeling off his soaked jacket and tossing it into the floorboard of the backseat.
"Any luck?" You try, though you know the answer by his demeanor.
He doesn't respond, instead busying himself with fishing a half-smooshed pack of cigarettes from his front pocket.
"Right." You mumble, tiredly exhaling.
"You know, if Brian were here he'd damn sure get this piece of shit started up again."
You furrow your brows, glancing sideways at him. Tim cracks his door, extending a boot outwards to keep it open as he flips his lighter.
"I'm sure he would." You mutter, leaning your chin against the palm of your hand.
The smell of cigarette smoke permeates through your nostrils, leaving a sour taste in your throat. Outside, the rain barrels down harder. Clouds pass over the moon, blocking the light and leaving the empty stretch of road to be illuminated by scarce starlight. The 'recon' you'd been assigned to had been a bust. In the area you were sent to look, a couple hours from the mansion, stood what looked to be an old church in shambles. The only thing of value left inside was an old radio, surrounded by ruined furniture and sloping walls that looked as if they were melting. It would have been decent, you think, if it weren't for the fact that you were attacked. Neither of you knew whoâ or what, for that matter, was there, but it certainly was powerful enough to knock you off your feet and leave Tim with a small gash across his shoulder. At the thought, you speak.
"How's your shoulder?"
"Fine." He answers, too quick. He takes another long pull from his cigarette, and when he pulls it away from his mouth you see how hard he's been biting the bud.
"What was that thing back there?"
Tim takes another thoughtful drag before throwing the bud out the door, slamming it shut.
"Don't you think I would have told you if I knew?" His words are pointed, tone sharp.
"No reason to take it out on me, dude."
"You know, I don't even know why you were allowed to come in the first place."
The words hit you like a brick, breath caught in your throat.
"Even Toby could have handled that. Brian could have- matter of fact, literally anyone else could have taken that." His tone is steady, though his voice rises with a high inflection.
You've heard enough. You kick your foot into the floorboard as you wrench your door open, stepping into the cool night-air with a huff. The door slams shut behind you, and inside the car you hear a smack against the dashboard. Tim was intense, Tim could be a dick, but fuck. If you didn't think you were friends, or atleast something more than acquaintances you'd have taken it in stride.
You stare into the dark line of trees ahead of you and grit your teeth, contemplating if you should walk away and take a breather or not. The rain has thinned out into a light drizzle, tapping gently against your hair and shoulders. The driver's side door opens and then slams shut, heavy footfall thumping in a line behind you before Tim enters your peripheral.
"You know damn well it's true. Don't act all bratty with me just because you cant handle someone telling you the truth." He spits, rounding the hood until he's standing directly beside you.
You turn to face him, scowling. "How the fuck was I supposed to know any of that would happen?â
"I tell you- we tell you every time we're out to pay attention." He punctuates the words with a poke to your shoulder. "All you had to do was keep an eye out, yeah? And you couldn't do that?"
"You're just mad that your boyfriend couldn't come with you. I didn't do shit wrong, Tim, and you know that. What's your deal? Huh? What did I do to you?"
Tim scoffs, giving you an incredulous laugh. "Unbelievable."
"No, I'm being serious. What's your issue with me?" You step closer, eye-level with the stout figure in front of you.
"Ain't no issue with you, is there? Naw, you're just perfect, ain't you?" His lips twitch, chin tilting to the side.
Tim's attitude is confusing you. Just the other night, you and Brian were sitting on the back porch with Tim sharing a 6-pack, reminiscing on times before you wound up under the same roof.
"You're fucked up." You hiss, clenching your fists. "Want me to have eyes on the back of my head? An- I don't even know what, jumps on me and you expect me to be ready for it?"
"Nothin' going on in that pretty head, huh?"
You narrow your eyes and purse your lips, ready to spit in his stupid face or dig your fingers into his wrapped wound.
"You- you fucking-" You're so mad you can barely think, fighting the urge to wrench your hand in his hair and punch him square in his jaw.
Like you could ever win that battle.
"Can't even talk right. Can you do anything right?" Tim's lips split into a smug little smile, and for a second you catch as his eyes flick to your lips before landing back on your eyes.
"I hate you." You seethe, feeling as your teeth squeak together at the pressure you apply.
"I'm sure you do." It's his turn to narrow his eyes, chest puffing as he steps closer. The space between you suddenly grows smaller, your chest nearly grazing against his. You notice it fast, the red dusting his cheeks and the flush in his neck. His chest rises and lowers in a deep motion, nostrils flared in heavy exhales.
"You're annoying. You're so fucking annoying." Is all you can manage, suddenly aware of just how close he is to you. Tim takes note of your faltering expression, his gaze dropping to your chest in the same manner you did only seconds ago. Suddenly, he snatches himself away as if an invisible force rips him backwards. His demeanor hardens, smile dropping into a scowl, bushy brows turning downwards until his face is pinched into a bitter expression.
"Says you. I don't have time for this shit." He scathes, turning on his heel.
You barely register the words before they're out of your mouth. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't, shortstack."
It's as if the air had been sucked out of your lungs. Tim wrenches himself backwards immediately, turning his body like the snap of a branch. You step backwards, the color drained from your face at his deathly look. His eyes are dark, mouth twisted into a snarl. If looks could kill, you'd be dead right where you stand.
His hand shoots out and snatches your wrist, the pressure nearly crushing the fragile bones in his grip. He yanks you forward until you're nearly standing on his dirty boots, nose nearly touching his. Your stomach twists into something nasty, disgusting as fear blossoms in the base of your spine and petals upwards to your chest.
"Don't. Fucking. Call me that." He growls through gritted teeth, his hair falling messily in a way over his eyes that they look impossibly darker.
You take in quick, sharp breaths, blinking rapidly as you scan his face. His thumb presses into the veins on your wrist, hold faltering ever so slightly. You can't think, you have to say somethingâ
He stands completely still, his blown pupils never leaving yours.
You don't know why you say it, but the minute the words leave your parted lips you want to curl in on yourself and stay there.
"O-or what? You gonna hurt me, shortstack?"
He's on you immediately, wrenching a hand in your shirt and snatching you up until you're hovering off the floor. The impossible show of strength is uncomprehendable to you, until he takes it a step further and whips you around until your back is slammed into the car. He's so close that you can feel the heavy puffs of air pushing out of his nose and fanning your neck. Your wide eyes are unfocused on the tree line, his hair and shoulder bordering your vision as he presses himself into your ear and huffs.
"You just don't know when to stop, d'ya?"
"Tim- I'm-" You stammer, pressing your hands against his chest, shoulders, neck, anywhere you can get a grip. He lets out a low grunt when you brush over his wound, and presses a knee between your thighs to brace himself against the car and your body. You gasp, nearly squealing, fingers digging into his shoulder and neck.
"You gotta lot of nerve. Testin' me something fierce. Seems like you want me to hurt'cha. That right?" He releases his grip on your shirt, but never lets go of the fabric, only allowing you to sink low until you're forced to sit over his knee and stand on the tips of your toes.
You gape at him, unable to form a sentence. The situation is shocking, nearly unbelievable. You try your best not to put weight on his leg, but it's nearly impossible at the height he's got you moved to.
"Answer me." He grunts, pulling you off the car slightly by the collar of your shirt before bouncing you off it. You let out an 'oomph!' as the air escapes your chest, and quickly scramble to answer.
"No! Tim, let me go-!" You claw at his hand, but it remains unmoving. "This is-"
"No? Naw, I don't think so. I told you not to say it, and you did anyway. I think you want this, dolly. Want me to get it into your empty fucking head that you need to listen." He hisses, pulling you close to his face until your noses bump.
Oh fuck. He's gonna beat your fucking ass.
Tim straightens out his knee and lets your legs buckle, but never allows you to fall with the hold he has on your shirt. You push off the car, trying to stand up straight, but he steers you like a ragdoll to the side and snatches open the backseat.
"Watch your head." Is the only warning he gives before he shoves you inside, knocking you flat on your back. He pushes the heap of your legs dangling from the car into the seat, climbing overtop you and slamming the door behind himself. His weight knocks the air out of you, pressing into your stomach until your lungs can take in nothing. Your heart is beating so fast it hurts, chest squeezing painfully as your body tries to keep up with the motions.
"O-okay, okay! I'll listen, Tim, I swear-"
"Yeah, you'll fuckin' listen." He chortles, scooping his hands under your shoulders and manhandling you until your head is slammed against the glass of the opposite door. You're both too big for the backseat, but Tim uses the space in the best way possible. One of his legs boxes both of yours against the backseat, the other straddling your knees and forcing you to curl them to your chest. He forces himself between them, leaning inwards so they're braced under his arms and his pecs are pressing into your inner thigh.
He doesn't give you time to speak as he wrenches a hand in your hair and pulls you into his face, teeth clacking painfully together as his lips clash with yours in a heavy, angry kiss.
You whine into his mouth, your hands coming to brace yourself against his broad chest. His fingers falter in your hair, easing his grip into something like a heavy-handed caress. His lips move against yours in a battle, sucking your lips between his teeth like he's trying to subdue them. You breath in desperate inhales through your mouth as best you can, the car filled with wet smacks and heady breaths. Tim moves a hand from the seat to press into the back of your knee, sliding it upwards until it just about rests on his injured shoulder before pressing it up over the headrest. You feel the stretch in your thigh, the muscle twitching with exertion. At the new space his hips move instantly, slamming into your pelvis until the button of your jeans clacks against his.
The pressure is immediate. He's painfully hard in his jeans, the fabric doing nothing to shield the imprint as it rubs over your groin. You gasp into the kiss, mouth widening, and he tilts his head and presses you harder against the window as his tongue invades the new space.
You suck on the wet muscle, your tongue glancing against his. You can feel the spit gathering against your cheeks and his chin, little moans and grunts pouring so vigorously from your mouth that you're not sure if they're his or yours.
Tim pulls himself off you with reluctance.
"Fuck. You shouldn't haveâŠyou're making me do this."
"What?" You pant, head spinning.
"I'm so sick of you. Always with the questions, never understanding anything you're told. You never, ever listen. Now look what's happening."
You swallow thickly, your mind so scrambled it brings tears to your eyes. "Y-yeah, yeah I'mâ" you don't even know what you're saying, doomed to whatever space Tim has pushed you into. "Can't help it, Tim."
"We're gonna fix that."
You nod, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds his hips painfully against yours.
"Take off your pants." His voice booms over you, your back sinking down until only the crown of your head touches the glass. It's uncomfortable, the hard plastic of the door digging into your spine and neck. You try to reach for your button, but your arm is at such an awkward angle between your body and the seat you struggle. Your other arm is bracing against the back of the drivers seat, holding yourself up from sliding into the floorboard.
Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Can't even do the first thing I ask you."
You whine, trying to push yourself up and on your elbow.
"Fine." He grunts, rough hands flying to your zipper. The rough fabric pinches against your sensitive skin as he grapples with it, pulling it up to your knees and shoving them downwards until they bunch at your ankle. It hurts, the angle he's contorted you in, and you can't help but whine. At the sound, he smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"All you do is whine."
He presses your legs back down, all the way up to your chest. Your face grows hot, like you've stuck it in a fire. Your panties are tacky against your cunt, exposed to the stuffy air of the car. You press your eyes shut as Tim's hand comes to squeeze the skin of your thigh right beside your pussy, his head tilting to inspect the newly exposed skin.
"ShitâŠyou're really into this, ain't'cha? Fuckin' soakedâŠ" He grumbles, pressing a thumb against your clit as his palm rests on your mons. Then, he pulls his hand away just as quick as it landed there. You yelp as his hand lands across your ass, leaving goosebumps sprawling across your skin.
"Open your eyes." He commands, and you follow, brows pinched upwards in shame.
"Don't look away from me. Understand?" He grunts, raising his brows expectantly. You nod, hair getting pinched by the doorhandle.
You find it hard to follow his command when he pulls out his cock, laying the heavy thing on top of your cunt. You can't stop your eyes as they flick to it, briefly, but enough to make out the wide, dripping head of his angry shaft. It's as big as the rest of him, just as you imagined. Wide, intimidating, heavy.
A slap lands across your cheek, ripping a yelp from your throat.
"I said look at me. Don't be stupid." His dark eyes narrow, frown twitching as he stares down at you. It's then you notice his angle, his large frame hunched over you to keep you bunched in a tangle between him and the seat. You can't believe this is happening, can't believe that Tim is sliding his dick over your panties and making you take it.
The head of his cock nudges against your clit, and your hips jerk up uncontrollably to chase the friction. Your eyelids flutter as he pumps against you, and even though he's touching you through the thin fabric of your underwear, it feels better than anything your finger could ever do. He exhales roughly into the air, chest rumbling in what almost sounds like a purr. Your cunt pulses around nothing, clit twitching in desperation to get more, more, anything that he can give, you want to take. Tim doesn't look away from your eyes, your face, and you don't dare try to look away from his. His face, however stoic he may try to keep it, falters when he slides his length fully flush between his hand and your clothed slit.
The realization that he's bigger than he looks dwindles in the forefront of your mind as he grabs the crotch of your panties and slides them to the side, revealing your weeping cunt to the air.
"Oh, fuckâŠ" He whispers, but you don't think you were meant to hear it. Your body flushes with the knowledge that you're exposed, fully exposed to Tim and there's nothing you can do about it. As if hearing your thoughts, Tim stretches your legs open further until your pussy parts at the seam and cold air invades the wet flesh.
"Wait-!" You start, but Tim makes a noise like one would give to a misbehaving puppy.
"None of that. Did I say look away?"
You shake your head, lips quivering. The muscles in your face twitch as he scans your expression, his eyes softening as if observing a masterpiece. Thoughtfully, he looks downwards to where your hips meet his jeans. You sniffle a little, internally cursing yourself for the pitiful way he makes you feel.
His clammy palms knead the flesh of your thigh in their descent to where you need them most, fingertips ghosting over the sensitive area above your clit. You gasp when his middle finger slides over the hood of your clit, roughly circling the turgid bud.
Your spine snaps at the contact, bowing your back off the seat, hips rolling to meet his hand.
"Oh! Fff-uck- Tim-" You mewl, hands clenching into tight fists as he rubs your clit in tight circles.
"Yeah? You like that?" He drawls.
"Yea-ah, yeah," you suck in a hiccuping breath, bending your head to face him as your thighs twitch and jerk against his ribs.
"You want me to keep going?" His voice is soft, surprisingly gentle in the face of his demeanor. He keens forward, curling over your torso to hover his face above yours. He drops his hand from your leg, tracing it upwards until it rests loosely around your neck while his other hand continues to finger you.
"Yes, please." You nod, voice shaky and small.
"Yeah?" His hand squeezes your throat, lightly at first, then tight. Too tight.
Your eyes widen, lips parting. His hair falls across his brow, face fallen flat in a mix of focus and distant frustration. His hand slips from your clit to the tight ring of muscle at your entrance.
"Then you need to fucking listen." He pushes his middle and index finger inside you without a second thought, lips curled into a snarl as his hand tightens further around your throat. You let out a choked sound, and his eyes fall to your reddening lips. His fingers fuck into you harshly, rough fingerpands scraping against the pliant, soft flesh.
"I gave you one fucking thing to do. What was it? Huh?"
You can't speak. Even if his hand wasn't around your windpipe, squeezing it shut until you can barely get a breath in, the pressure of his fingers pumping into you like a machine knock the oxygen from your lungs. His legs shift against you, pressing tighter against your hips, forcing you to feel how hard he is against you.
"Can't even answer. Dumbass." He huffs. You almost cry when he rubs his thumb over your swollen pearl, fingers curling so deep inside of you that it touches a spot you didn't know you had. It burns, the girth of his fingers, and the thought crosses your mind that you wouldn't be able to fit his girth if you couldn't take his fingers. Your vision grows fuzzy in the sides of your eyes, yet you do your best to focus on his face. Beads of sweat dot his brow, red tongue darting to wet his lips, vein of his neck bulging beside his bobbing adam's apple. The nibbling fear that he wasn't letting go begins to grow, your muscles tensing around his hips and fingers.
"All you had to fucking do was keep your eyes on me. I barely touch you, and you forget that?"
He releases your neck, and your chest expands with an uproar of oxygen. Tears spill down your cheeks, your chest heaving with rough, wet coughs.
Tim pulls his fingers out of you, smearing your slick across your lower belly.
"F-fuck you!" You pant, little hiccups and sniffles pouring from your lips as you glare up at him.
Tim raises his brows, straightening himself over you. Wordlessly, he lifts you up until your legs are over his shoulders, hissing through the pain as he drops your weight over them. Your ass hovers over the seat, backs of your legs pressed flush into him. He watches your face, never looking away even as he pumps himself over your cunt.
His hands come to hold your hips, relinquishing some of the weight from his shoulders as he pulls you upwards. You realize when the thick head of his cock taps against your ass what's happening.
Your eyes grow wider, hands coming to grip at his stomach. You're not ready, you cant take him.
"Don't forget, you asked for this."
Tim punches the air from your legs as he splits you open, the stretch burning through your body unlike anything you've ever felt. Electricity zips through your spine, snapping your back like a bow before curling you in on yourself. You jerk, squirm, anything to get away from the overwhelming burn between your legs. You wail as he presses deeper, clapping a hand over your mouth as your hips snap down and your head falls limply to the fabric beneath you. His meaty hands pull you down on his fat cock, his body bending over you in a way that nearly folds you in half.
He sinks all the way in, inch by painful inch, a broken moan spilling from his mouth.
"No, no, move your hand." He rasps, his breath dusting over your face. You nod, limply, whimpering quietly as he brings a hand to brace himself beside your head.
"What happened to that big mouth, huh?" His hips snap into yours, his v-line flush against your skin. He's deep, so fucking deep, you can feel his pulse against your walls. It hurts, it's too much, it's-
He taps your cheek, coming to grip your jaw. Tim pulls your face forward, forcing you to face him. He presses his lips to yours, not quite kissing you yet. He drags his cock out of you slowly, until only the tip remains. You moan unabashedly, eyes nearly rolling out of their sockets.
"You-sân-no con..condom! Fuck-"
He shakes his head, smiling a little to himself. "Not like you care."
Tim slams into you, pulling you up by your hips so that you meet his.
"Oh fuck! Fuck-" You cry, nails digging into his biceps. Tim grunts through his teeth, bending his head to watch where his girth slips into your wet cunt.
"Shit, you should see how you suck me in."
"I can't, it-! Feels so..so good, Tim s'good-" You babble, head lolling uncontrollably.
"Yeah, yeah." He whispers, pistoning in an out of your pussy like he was mad at it. "Tell me about it."
You sob, clamping around him like a vice. He punches into you rough, and you feel like you're heart will come out of your chest. You ball your fist against his shirt, your body squirming uncontrollably beneath him as he continues his brutal assault. If Tim is trying to stay silent, he's not doing a good job.
Grunts, small moans, and curses billow from him, his hands gripping so tightly into the soft skin of your hips you're afraid he'll break the flesh. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're aware that you're fucking Masky in the back of his car on the side of a road.
The seat creaks beneath as he pounds into you, barely audible with the mix of your cries, Tim's moans, and the nasty slapping of skin against skin.
"Hear how wet you are? How long have you- fuck- wanted this? Wanted me to fuck you?"
Your brain stopped stringing thoughts together the minute he slid his dick into you. You lift your head up, clacking your forehead against his.
"L-long time. Realllly lo-long time." You squeak, heels digging into Tim's back. He slams into you again, lifting your hips, and kisses your cervix. You yelp, clawing at his arms as he fucks into you like it was his purpose.
"Yeah?" He responds, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead.
His hand slips down to where your bodies meet, fingers dancing around your stuffed hole.
"You're real tight, know that? Takin' me all in, made f'me." He huffs, fingers coming to lazily and roughly rub at your sensitive clit.
In a devastating blow, Tim reels back and spits on your ruined cunt. It's all it takes to send you over.
Your orgasm hits you like a truck, ripping sobs and shaky little moans from your spent body. Horrifyingly, Tim keeps going.
"Comin' on my cock like a fuckin' slut." He drawls.
He fucks you through it, prodding at your clit as you convulse around him.
You try to stop the sounds forced out of you, but you can't.
"Please! Oh, fuck-pleasepleaseplease-"
"Stop complaining." He spits, ripping his hand from your clit to your throat. He squeezes, thumb pressed hard against your windpipe, and your eyes roll back.
Tim fucks all his weight into you, the feeling unbelievable. Your mind teeters on the edge of collapse, the pleasure nearly unbearable as it slinks onto the line of pain.
"All your good for. Takin' my cock, yeah? Can't listen for shit, but sure can beg for it."
Tim's hips falter, his grip tighter, eyelids fluttering shut.
It's all too much, now, you don't think you can take it anymore. You can't catch your breath, he's so deep you think he's actually in your guts, and Tim's weight is the only thing keeping you grounded.
"'M sorry! 'm s-sorryâŠT-Tim- can't..'m-"
"Oh, you're sorry? For almost gettin' us killed, callin' me names?"
You nod frantically, hopeful that your apology will let him off you and give you room to breathe.
He hums, thoughtfully, slowing his hips to a slow roll against your puffy cunt.
"Such a brat." He whispers, taking his hand from your hip to wipe away the tears pooling at your lips. His gaze softens momentarily, watching as your wet eyes search his and your swollen lips tremble.
Then, he pulls himself out, thumb on your neck rubbing comfortingly across your heartbeat.
Tim slams into your cunt, fucking you so violently it makes you nauseous. His eyes are glazed over, hand hooked around your throat squeezing so hard you can't breathe. He leans down to your ear, all the while punching vigorously into you, and whispers against the shell of your ear.
"I know you're sorry. I don't think I care." He bites at your jaw, pummeling into your so hard you think it'll bruise.
You're going to pass out. Your vision is hazy, your head is pounding, and you can do nothing to stop it. Fuck, you're close again.
Tim grunts something, your legs flailing pitifully around his wide torso. He releases your neck, instead turning his hand to squeeze the very base of the muscle so that you can get a few breaths in. You sputter and gag, sobbing into his shoulder.
"Take it, take it all. Fuck-" He growls, hips stuttering as he grows still. He spills into you, painting your insides with his seed before collapsing fully on top of you.
He pets your hair as you cry, trying to catch your breath. After your tears titter off into quiet, swallowed whimpers, he peels himself off you.
"'M sorry." He offers, rubbing a thumb over your red, puffy cheeks. "You did so good f'me." Tim presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, and finally your lips.
"You're rough." You sniffle, bringing a hand to rub his sweaty face.
"I know. I'm sorry."
He stands, rolling his shoulders. The wound secretes fresh blood, earning a shallow sigh from Tim. You sit up, pulling your underwear from around your ankle back to its right position.
"Are you okay? You're bleeding."
Tim nods, silently maneuvers around the console and into the front seat, digging through the glove box to pull out a handful of diner napkins. He pats down your face and your inner thighs, offering a quiet apology when you hiss.
"Does your shoulder hurt?"
"Nah, barely deep. Didn't wanna stop s'all."
The two of you sit in silence for a while, the rain returning and pattering down gently on the roof. When the silence is finally broken, it's by Tim.
"I'm sure Brian'll show up in the mornin." He drawls, running a hand through his hair. "We don't- um, have to do this again. If you don't wanna."
You smile at the floorboard, shy despite already having been wrecked.
"No, I wanna. If you wanna."
"I wanna." He smiles, reaching a hand behind the seat to rub your knee.
Sleep makes your eyes heavy, head thumping lighting against the window as you lean into it. Tim climbs back into the backseat beside you, leaning his back against the opposite window and sprawling his body out. He pulls your arms lightly, guiding your sleepy body to lay between his legs. Your head comes to rest on his chest, and Tim leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. Despite the cold rain, Tim's car will remain warm tonight.
hi everyone, some of you may have seen my old comm post, but it was accidentally deleted, so hereâs my new one.
iâm coming on here to say that some really unfortunate things have happened. i found myself in an abusive living situation with my aunt in a completely different state, where she was the only person i knew. she took all of my money, overworked me, and forced her responsibilities onto me cleaning her entire house and caring for her child all while i was working 10â12 hour shifts every day, not including the hour it took me to walk to and from work. there were also times she purposely sabotaged my job and made me late so i could take care of her child. every day i came home and had to clean everything, including the messes her child had made. i was verbally abused and belittled by her and her husband daily. she even allowed her husband to throw things at me, and attempt to hit me. i wonât go into further detail other than to say i was eventually kicked out and left homeless with no money. she took hundreds of dollars from me every single week, so i wasnât able to save anything. on top of everything else, i was completely exhausted.
iâm now back in my home state, while i do have a place to stay my living situation isnât ideal, and i donât have a strong support system. iâm actively searching for a job but havenât had any luck yet. itâs especially difficult since i donât have reliable transportation and canât drive. i grew up in an abusive family, and my auntâs husband was supposed to help me learn, but instead they only wanted to take my money and make me do their responsibilities for them.
right now, i have very limited resources and support, and iâm doing my best to get through each day while also dealing with declining mental health because of everything thatâs happened. iâve struggled with serious mental health issues that have impacted my entire life, and coping with them alongside all of this has made this time especially hard. iâm trying to move forward, but itâs difficult given my circumstances.
with all of that said, my commissions are open. these are emergency commissions so i can somewhat support myself, as finding a job right now is extremely difficult and this is currently my only source of income.
if youâre able to send anything during this time, it would help more than i can put into words. here is my ko-fi if youâd like to send any tips or donations to support me and my work.
buy me a kofi!
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if your fic requires research it's an additional $10 for every hour of research.
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if you are interested, please send me a dm on tumblr so we can start discussing your idea! thank you for reading this far and for your consideration + kindness:) if you want a commission but are unsure of an idea, or simply have a bunch of ideas floating around i can always help with ideas, and plot! if you don't want a commission and simply just want to send some support, my kofi is always open to accept tips <3 i'm immensely grateful for anything that's sent and always try to say thank you. if you're not able to support or commission me, please consider reblogging or sharing this with anyone you think may be interested. i'm so incredibly thankful for any help, truly.
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hey guys, if youâre following me for my dexter fic i just accidentally permanently deleted the fucking fic đđđ i have to restart from scratch im actually so fucking mad dude i had worked genuinely so hard to pull chapter 3 together
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ ready to start - arcade fire
ââ .⊠do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
⊠. Summary: (No correlation to other parts, only prologue) The bottle lands on Tim.
⊠. Characters: Tim Wright (Masky) x Reader
⊠. Warning: Alcohol, cigarettes, erotic asphyxiation, breath control play, semi-public sex, dirty talk, oral fixation, blowjobs, choking, risky sex, nicotine high, dizziness, hair pulling, fingers in mouth, spit, oral sex, rough oral sex, first time blow job
⊠. Words: 12.1k
⊠. Note: Please do not hang me and kill me for how long this took to post. Apologies! Hopefully the length makes up for it! School is officially over, so now I can dedicate my time to writing more, so be on the lookout! For all my blow job lovers (I see you and I appreciate you), this is for you!!!
It was ironic watching your fate be decided by a lousy beer bottle you hadnât even gotten to drink out of yet.
But everything in this lousy mansion is out of your hands anyway.
The bottle spun on the coffee table, wobbling through the leftover alcohol and cigarette ash stains before it slowed and finally stopped.
It landed onâ
You looked up.
Tim.
Before the room could go completely silent, Jeff let out a loud, ugly laugh.
âWell shit,â he crowed, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. âLooks like Timmy gets the consolation prize. Try not to bore her to death in there, old man.â
Tim didnât snap back. He just stared Jeff down from across the circle, his eyes dark and narrowed. There was something almost smug in the way he tilted his head, like he already knew exactly how much this was eating Jeff alive, how he could practically see right through his asshole demeanor.Â
He stared at Jeff long enough for the boy to sink back into himself a little, but not without rolling his eyes and crossing his arms as he broke the stare down to glare out the window.
But then Tim turned and walked straight past you, his boots thumping on the floorboards as he headed down the short hallway toward the closet like he had all the time in the world.
You stayed seated for a beat, your heart suddenly kicking harder than it should.
Nina wasnât having it. She popped up behind you with a bright, mischievous laugh and hooked her arms under yours, hauling you to your feet.
âNope! Donât be a baby, babe. Go on!â
She gave you a firm shove toward the direction Tim just went. A couple of the others whistled and clapped as you stumbled forward, but as you looked back one final time in anxiousness, all you saw was Jeffâs wide eyes watching you fade around the corner. In amongst the distraction, Brian had moved from his spot and was now leaning against the wall nearest the hall towards the closet. As you approached, he rummaged into his jacket pocket and fished out a silver flip lighter, pushing it into your hands before you could pass.
You looked down at it, feeling the cold weight in your hand, before looking at himâonly for the blond to give you a very confusing nod before he let you go. You shoved it into your back pocket.
Tim was already at the closet door. He yanked it open, reached up, and pulled the chain for the single bare bulb dangling inside. Weak yellow light spilled out over the hanging coats and junk boxes, flumes of dust floated out, and you had to wave the air in front of your face to keep from coughing. He stepped aside, one hand still holding the door, and tilted his head toward the inside.
You hesitated. âTim, I can justââ
âGet over yourself,â he cut you off, keeping his face flat and unreadable. Before you could retort again, he stepped in close, using his body to herd you forward until you were inside the cramped space. The door pulled shut behind him with a final click.
The muffled music and laughter from the living room dulled instantly, only the floorboard thumps under your shoes to keep you company.
Tim reached down and fiddled with the dials on his wristwatch, setting the timer with a few soft clicks. Seven minutes. The little hands began ticking immediately.
You both stood awkwardly about a foot and a half apart, your backs pressed against opposite walls of the cramped closet. You kept your eyes glued to the floor, occasionally fiddling with the hem of your shirt or picking at your fingernails. Tim, on the other hand, didnât even try to hide the fact that he was watching you. His gaze was steadily honed on you, occasionally flicking toward the closed door like he was listening for footsteps or somebody snooping outside. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, digging around until he found his trusty pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and slid it between his lips like he always did.
Then he started patting his other pockets.
âShit,â he grunted under his breath. âLeft my lighter with Brian.â
âOh, wait.â
You hesitated for a second before reaching into your back pocket and pulling out the worn silver lighter Brian had given you moments ago. You held it out to him without a word.
Timâs eyes flicked down to the lighter, then back up to your face. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took it from your fingers, his hand brushing yours.
He flicked it open, lit the cigarette, and took a long, deep drag. The tip glowed bright orange in the dim light. He exhaled a thick plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it curl and drift in the stale air, pockets of smog dancing like little ghosts around the lightbulb.
You raised an eyebrow. âYou really think itâs smart to smoke in a closet this small?â
Tim shrugged one shoulder, completely unbothered. He took another drag, then lowered the cigarette, smoke pooling from between his lips as he spoke.
âProbably not.â His voice was gravelly. âBut I've already decided to be in here with you. Might as well add this to the list of bad choices tonight.â
You laughed.
He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes never really leaving you. The smoke continued to drift lazily between the two of you, filling the small space with the sharp scent of tobacco.
You shifted your weight against the wall under the intensity of his stare, your arms loosely crossed. The smoke was already starting to make the small space feel even stuffier.
âDo you think Jeffâs gonna retaliate at all?â you asked one-offedly, reaching for anything to conversate about.
Tim took another slow drag, then exhaled through his nose. âNo.â
He sounded sure. Almost bored.
âJeffâs emotional and jealous and got a nasty fucking temper,â he continued, flicking ash onto the floor. âBut if heâs actually mad, heâll turn that shit on somebody else. Heâs too scared to come at me.â
You let out a laugh, nodding. âYeah⊠that sounds about right.â
Tim tilted his head slightly, studying you. âWhyâre you concerned?â
âNo reason,â you said quickly, shrugging. âJust⊠you two seem like youâre in some kind of secret competition. Itâs weird.â
Tim went quiet for a long moment. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking two slow puffs while he thought. Smoke curled up between you like a hazy curtain.
âMaybe we are,â he finally admitted.
You shook your head. âYouâre not the type to do childish shit like that.â
Tim let out a short, rough laugh, almost like he was surprised by your response.
âFor the right person?â he said, âI might.â
The silence that followed felt heavier than moments before. The muffled noise from the living room seemed to fade even further away, only the cadence of the speakers thumping enough to let you know the party was still happening. You were both just⊠looking at each other.Â
Then Tim pulled the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to you, offering it between two fingers.
You took it carefully. When you brought it to your lips, you could still feel the warmth from his mouth on the filter. You took a puff, the smoke filling your lungs with that familiar burn.
Timâs gaze stayed locked on your mouth, watching the way your lips wrapped around the same spot his had just been. His head tilted slightly, something unreadable shifting in his face as he tracked the motion.
When you lowered the cigarette and exhaled, he was still staring. So you stared right back at him, no longer pretending to study the floor.
Tim looked⊠different tonight, even if only slightly. His clothes were his usual thick jacket and jeans, but they were cleaner than normal, no random gunpowder smudges, no dirt or dried blood. His hair was a little more put together, and that ever-present stern, gruff expression sat heavy on his face like it always did.Â
It was nice seeing him without his mask amongst so many people, but that also meant that he couldnât hide behind it, that he had to face you and everyone else with his whole selfâno Masky there to save him.
âYouâre being tense,â he said bluntly, breaking the silence.
âWell, yeah,â you answered, letting out a short breath.
Tim shrugged one shoulder, reaching out to take the cigarette from you and promptly taking two deep drags. âWeâve been alone together plenty of times before. This isnât any different.â
âIt is different,â you countered. âThis isn't a mission or some supply run or something. This is⊠this.â You gestured vaguely at the cramped space left between you.
âI didnât know context mattered that much to our relationship.â
You let out an awkward little laugh, shifting against the wall. âItâs funny youâre even calling it a relationship.â
Tim raised an eyebrow. âWhy?â
You just shook your head, laughing again under your breath, unsure how to answer. He was being so blunt tonight, more direct than usual, like the straightforwardness was a shield. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw kept flexing, but he wouldnât relax. It was like he was ready to punch you and run at any moment, if he wasnât going to yell at you first.
ââŠAre you nervous?â you asked quietly.
Tim didnât answer right away. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, studying the little ticking hands.
âSix minutes left,â he said instead, completely sidestepping the question.
You let out an awkward laugh and shook your head.
âItâs okay if youâre nervous, you know,â you told him. âThis is weird, but itâs just a stupid game to embarrass everyone. Itâs not serious.â
Timâs eyes narrowed. âI know that.â
He passed the cigarette back. You brought it to your lips and inhaled, mostly just to give your hands something to do. The smoke filled your lungs, but it did nothing to ease the thick tension sitting between you, even if it did make you a little lightheaded.
The two of you kept staring at each other.
You finally spoke again. âAre you only playing because Jeff egged you on?â
Tim let out a dry laugh and looked down at his boots for a second before his gaze returned to yours.
âNo,â he said simply. âIâm playing because I wanted to.â
âWhy would you want to play something like this?â
âWhy would you?â he asked, turning the question right back on you.
The air felt heavier. You swallowed. âIâm⊠not sure.â
Timâs eyebrow lifted slightly.
âReally?â It seemed like he was almost teasing you.
You held his gaze for a long second, then let out a breath.Â
âNo.â
He took the cigarette back when you offered it, but he didnât bring it to his lips right away. He just kept watching you, smoke curling slowly from the tip.
The timer on his watch continued its quiet ticking. Five minutes left.
Tim finally spoke again. âGood. At least weâre being honest now.â
You narrowed your eyes at him.
âYou think Iâm not being honest?â
Tim shook his head slowly. âNot with yourself.â
You let out a short, disbelieving breath. âWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?â
âYouâre not being honest with what you want.â
âOh, so you know what I want now?â you shot back, irritation rising fast. âYou know whatâs best for me?â
âYeah,â he said simply, like it was obvious. âIâve got a pretty good idea.â
That irritated you more than it should have. You pushed off the wall slightly, glaring up at him.
âYouâre just being rude now, man.â
âYouâve never had a problem with my rudeness before.â
âContext,â you muttered, reiterating the idea he couldnât seem to grasp.
âAh, yes,â he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. âContext.â He took one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. âLike the context of Jeff pretending heâs got some kind of claim over you⊠and you going along with it.â
Your stomach twisted. âJeff does not have a claim over me.â
The words had barely left your mouth before Tim took a single, big step forward.
The already cramped closet shrank instantly. He loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the weak light from the bulb overhead. The smell of smoke and pine and that familiar warm scent that always clung to him filled the air between you, almost overwhelming you. You pressed your back against the wall once again.
He stared down at you, almost looming.
âThen who does?â
His face was close now, close enough that you could see the thick stubble on his jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He wasnât touching you, but the sheer presence of him made your back press harder against the wall.
You glared up at him, your heart kicking against your ribs as the silence stretched, but after a long moment, you finally answered.
âNobody.â
You caught it.
For just a split second, Timâs dark eyes flicked down to your mouth as you said the word, watching the shape of it on your lips. He snapped them back up to yours almost immediately, probably hoping you didnât catch it. But you did.
You swallowed, then added, âNot even Slenderman.â
Tim let out a short, rough laugh.
âHe wouldnât like hearing you say that too much.â
âWellâŠâ you tilted your head slightly, still staring up at him, âheâs not here, is he?â
This time, Tim didnât even try to hide it. His gaze dropped to your mouth again and stayed there longer. You watched his jaw flex, the muscle ticking under the skin as his eyes traced the curve of your lips.Â
It felt like it was getting harder to breathe.
When his eyes finally dragged back up to yours, they seemed darker than before.
âNo,â he murmured. âHeâs not.â
Before you could say anything more, Tim reached into his jacket pocket again, pulling out the same pack of cigarettes.
You huffed. âSeriously? Itâs been, what, two minutes since your last one. Can you really not take a break?â
He didnât answer. He just shook another cigarette out, lit it with the same silver lighter youâd handed him earlier, and took two puffs. The tip burned bright orange, and exhaled the smoke through his nose.Â
Then his hand moved.
He reached out and clasped your jaw firmly, his thick fingers pressing into your cheeks and smooshing them together until your lips puckered. Your hand flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist and tugging down, but he didnât budge an inch. His grip was strong.
âTimââ your voice was a little muffled against the strain of his grip. For a second you wondered if youâd actually pissed him off.
âOpen.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âOpen your mouth.â
You searched his face, looking for any sign that he was joking, but there was nothing playful there. You didnât know if you could laugh out of caution of making him more mad, so⊠you did what you were told.
When he was satisfied, Tim leaned in and placed the lit cigarette between your puckered lips, then used his thumb to close your mouth around it.
âYou know what to do,â he murmured.
He didnât let go of your jaw.
You had no choice but to inhale. You took a normal, comfortable drag, the smoke filling your lungs before you exhaled it through your nose. You stared up at him, confused, waiting for some kind of explanation. Was this supposed to be degrading? Some weird power move? Or some weird one-off joke that youâve never known him to make?
But his grip stayed firm on your cheeks, and his expression didnât change. He didnât look satisfied.
You started to squirm, pawing at his arm. âTimââ
âMore,â he said.
You tried to speak around the cigarette, fumbling the filter between your teeth. âWhatâs happening right nowââ
He stepped even closer, one of his boots planting between your feet so your legs were forced to part slightly. His other hand came up to tilt your chin higher, making you look straight up into his face. The overhead light cast harsh shadows over his stern features.
âKeep going,â he grunted.
You furrowed your brows, but obeyed, taking another drag. Then another. He watched every inhale with utmost interest.
âCâmon,â he said quietly, almost coaxing you. âDonât stop.â
You inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling harder on the cigarette. The smoke burned hotter going down. Your head started to feel light.
âAgain,â he continued. âAs much as you can.â
You kept going, breath after breath, the nicotine hitting harder with every pull. Your vision began to swim. A heavy, dizzy fog rolled over your mind as the rush flooded your system. Your knees felt weak. The hand you had on his arm tightened, trying to steady yourself as the world tilted slightly.
Timâs grip on your jaw stayed iron-still, holding you in place while he watched your face closely, seeing every detail of your flushed cheeks and drooping eyes and your steadily relaxing muscles.
âThatâs it,â he muttered, soothing, almost. âOne more. Big one.â
You whimpered softly around the cigarette, head spinning badly now, but you did it anyway. You pulled long and deep until your lungs were burning and the dizziness crashed over you like a wave. The nicotine buzz was overwhelming and sharp and heady, and making everything feel floaty and too warm.
Tim finally pulled the cigarette from between your lips.
You immediately exhaled hard, right into his faceâa thick cloud of smoke rushing out as you tried to empty your burning lungs. The motion triggered a coughing fit. Your eyes watered, your vision became blurry, and you felt completely dizzy and messy, probably looking a little disheveled.
But Tim kept his hand firmly on your jaw, holding your face in place. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you struggle, not out of malice but he was clearly satisfied now.
Your head was still swimming badly. You tried to steady yourself, taking shaky, deep breaths of the thick, smoggy air in the tiny closet. The nicotine buzz was intense, making everything feel too floaty and too warm and too out of your body.
âTim⊠I feel really dizzy,â you managed, a little breathless.
You heard him chuckle, âI know.â
His thumb slowly dragged across your bottom lip, wiping away the spit that had gathered there from coughing and your heavy breathing. His eyes followed the motion.
Then, without warning, he brought the cigarette back to his own mouth, took one long, final drag, and dropped it to the floor. He crushed it under his boot right next to the first one.
Before you could even catch your breath, Tim leaned down and kissed you.
He grabbed both sides of your face with his rough hands, holding you firmly as he brought your faces together. Your hands shot up and pressed against his chest, bracing yourself against the embarrassment that was breaking through your mental haze. This was ridiculous. It was some weird, controlling kink thing⊠but your brain wasnât working well enough to care.
All you could focus on was how warm his hands felt against your cheeks and how good his mouth felt on yours.
Then his tongue pushed past your lips, and he breathed the smoke from his lungs into your mouth.
The sudden rush made your head spin all over again. You let out a muffled groan and gripped the front of his jacket tighter, your fingers twisting into the thick fabric. Tim responded by dropping his hands to your waist and yanking your body flush against his.
Oh.
He was hard. You could feel him clearly through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. For a split second, nervousness flared in your chest.
Should you be nervous? Probably.
But the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it came.
Fuck it.
You kissed him back harder, desperate to feel something solid amongst all of your dizziness. Tim groaned in his throat and tilted your head, kissing you like he was starving for it, like this was all heâd ever wanted.
It became too much.
The smoke, the nicotine, the heat of his bodyâyou couldnât breathe. You pushed against his chest with both hands. Tim pulled back just enough for you both to gasp for air.
Thick smoke wafted out of both of your mouths, curling between your faces and up into the muggy air. You noted how Timâs face looked, how the smoke parted around his jaw and up above the dark hair in his head. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at you. His hands stayed locked on your waist, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically under your palms.
It was getting hard to tell if Tim had always looked this good, or if the overwhelming amount of nicotine in your bloodstream was making your brain go numb.
But after a minute of panting, you felt your senses returningâmost notably, the loud pulse of the music from the living room vibrating through the walls and into your shaky bones. You slowly started regaining your steadiness, the dizzy fog beginning to lift. Tim slid a flat palm up your back.
âDeep breaths,â he hums.
You obeyed without thinking, too deep in whatever headspace heâd pushed you into to pretend it didnât feel ridiculously good. Each inhale felt almost euphoric, your chest rising and falling as you breathed in the thick, smoky air. You gripped the shoulders of his jacket, and after a moment you noticed he was breathing in time with you, drinking down fresh air as you did.
You glanced up at his face. The usual stern mask he wears had fallen into something lazier, almost hazy. He looked a little lost just staring at you with his half-lidded eyes.
When you blinked long enough to reset your vision, you met his eyes again, and he began to lean in toward your lips, his eyes dropping to your mouth in time with his movement. You let him come to you, tilting your chin up to meet himâ
His watch started beeping sharply under his sleeve, knocking the moment right off kilter.
You both jerked back, staring at each other like youâd completely forgotten why you were even in the closet in the first place. Whatever obnoxious spell you both were under vanished. From outside, the music in the living room suddenly cut off. You could hear laughter and the sound of people scrambling down the hallway toward you.
Tim stepped back, putting space between you again. He adjusted his jeans, and tried his best to smooth his jacket out. By the time the door flew open, you were both standing roughly where you started with your backs against opposite walls, trying (and failing) to look casual.
The closet door swung open and you were immediately hit with fresh air and very nosy faces.
Tobyâs was the only one you registered, though. The thick cloud of smoke rolled out past them into the hallway. He wrinkled his nose dramatically, grimacing at you two.
âJ-Jesus, man,â he laughed. âYouâre really smm-smoking in h-here? In a fucking clo-closet?â
Tim just blew air through his nose, clearly unimpressed. He shoved Tobyâs head to the side and stepped out, brushing past the group without another word. He didnât even glance back at you before heading down the hall.
You tried to follow, but Tobyâs eyes locked onto you and he let out a shrill laugh.
âHo-ly shit. You donât loo-look too hah-hot right now.â
âShut up,â you groaned, brushing past him as he started firing off questions.
âWhatâd h-he do? D-Did he make yo-you cry? Why do you smell like an ahh-ashtray? Waitâdid you guys actually do an-anything orââ
You ignored him and made a beeline for the kitchen, desperate for something cold to drink. Your head was still swimmy and light, the nicotine making everything feel slightly tilted as you stumbled through the still-trashed house.
You passed Tim on the way. He had already found his usual spot right next to Brian, the two of them leaning against the wall like they were physically incapable of being more than three feet apart for more than ten minutes. Timâs eyes flicked to you as you walked by, but he didnât say anything. Brian, however, didnât take his eyes off of you as you passed, gathering all the information he needed just from the state of you.
You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first beer you saw, and popped it open. You drank nearly half of it in one go, the cold yeasty liquid soothing your raw throat and helping ground you a little.
Unfortunately, you werenât alone for long.
Toby wandered in after you, Natalie right beside him and EJ trailing quietly behind them. The three of them formed a little triangle, watching you like a very nosy, very abrasive little troupe of bastards.
Most of the party in the living room had devolved into loud chugging contests and some money-gambling version of Go Fish that involved way too many rules and even more yelling. You were grateful almost everyone else was too distracted to notice how obviously rattled you wereâexcept for these dipshits.
Toby leaned on the island counter, grinning wide enough to make your blood boil a bit. âSo⊠you guh-gonna tell us what hah-happened in there or do w-we have to guess?â
Natalie tilted her head. âYou look like you just got punched in the face⊠but, like, not in a bad way.â
You opened your mouth, ready to snap something mean and defensive, but before you could get it out, Brian walked into the kitchen.
âAlright, thatâs enough,â he waved a hand at the trio. âMove along. Go have your little orgy somewhere else and leave people alone.â
Jack let out a raspy little laugh, which was rare enough that it surprised you into laughing too. Toby whined dramatically but let Natalie tug him away. The three of them shuffled out, Toby still throwing questions over his shoulder until they disappeared back toward the living room and out of your field of vision.
Once they were gone, Brian opened the fridge, rummaged through the junk and pulled out a beer for himself, then popped the tab. He leaned against the counter across from you and took a sip as he studied your face, which you were trying very hard to make seem normal.
âYou alright?â he asked quietly.
You nodded, sipping at your beer if only to give your hands something to do. âYeah⊠just a little⊠shaken up.â
Brian gave an understanding nod. âTim can be a little intense sometimes. Heâs either completely honed in or not interested at all. Sometimes he forgets that not everybody is like that, too.â
Your face burned with embarrassment, but if there was anyone you could talk to about this, it was Brian. He knew Tim better than anyone.
You tapped the cold glass of the bottle in your hands for a second, then asked, âDo you think he only did it because he was pissed about Jeff?â
Brian shook his head immediately.
âNah. Tim doesnât work like that. Jeffâs just an annoying, loud mouth kid to him. He doesnât lose his head over shit like that.â
You stared down at your beer, chewing on your lip. âThen⊠why?â
Brian took another sip, then jerked his chin toward the back door.
âHeâs out on the porch right now. Andâheâs not smoking.â Brian raised his eyebrows. âWhen Timâs not smoking, it means heâs thinking. Thinking real hard.â
He pushed off the counter, nodding toward the fridge.
âGo take him a beer. Thatâll ease him up.â
You watched Brian disappear back into the living room, then immediately pressed the cold beer bottle against your forehead and closed your eyes. The chill helped a little, but your stomach was still doing nervous flips. Not scared-of-Tim flips. Just stupid, schoolgirl-crush, heart-in-your-throat flips. Barf. It was embarrassing as hell.
âGet it together,â you muttered to yourself.
You popped open the fridge again, grabbed the last beer, and started heading for the back porch.Â
But the second you reached the kitchen doorway, you froze.
Jeff was standing there, leaning against the frame, and blocking your path. He didnât say a word. Just stared at you. And it was so⊠unreadable. His eyes flicked over your face, your slightly messy hair, the flush still lingering on your cheeks.
You stared right back.
The silence stretched uncomfortably. For a moment it felt like neither of you would move, but for as much ruckus as Jeff had caused tonight, you were more-than-willing to be rid of him right now. You had bigger things on your plate.Â
You squared your shoulders and shoved past him, knocking his arm out of the way with your shoulder.
He didnât try to stop you.
You moved quickly through the hallway, the noise of the party fading behind you as you pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the wrap-around back porch.
The night air was cooler out here compared to the thick mug of coffee alcohol and smoke inside, trading the damp smells for fresh pines and wet dirt. Most of the party had moved or stayed inside, so the porch was vacant for the most part. But at the far end, where the railing curved into shadows and no one could see if they didnât come outside, stood Tim.
He was leaning forward on the railing, staring out into the dark tree line like he was looking for something. He didnât turn when he heard the door open. He didnât glance over as your shoes creaked across the wooden planks. But you knew that he knew it was you.
You walked up and stopped beside him, setting the unopened beer on the railing near his hand, little beads of condensation dripping onto the wood.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of crickets and the low hum from inside. You looked out into the treeline too, seeing how the dark shadows gave way to a black void beyond where the porch lights could reach. There were so many creatures and monsters out there, but none of them even came close to shaking your nerves like the man standing right next to you.
âHey.â
Tim finally turned his head, his eyes sliding over to meet yours.Â
Timâs stare had always been like iron, so sharp and guarded and prickling with intensity that kept almost everyone at armâs length. But right now it looked⊠weary? Tired in a way that seemed deeper than just the late hour and the shitty beer.Â
Then his gaze dropped to the bottle in your hand.Â
âWhatâs this?â
âPeace offering,â you said, pushing it toward him a little further. âYou looked like you could use one.â
Tim looked at you again, then at the bottle, before taking it. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull. Almost immediately his face twisted and he huffed through his nose.
âJesus Christ, thatâs awful.â
You couldnât help but smile as you took another drink from your own. For a while, the two of you just leaned against the railing side by side, listening to the crickets and the distant rustle of the woods. The party noises inside felt miles away.
Eventually Tim huffed again, almost like he was annoyed with himself.
âIâm sorry for overstepping in there,â he said quietly. âI got lost in the theatrics of it all.â
You shook your head. âI wouldâve told you to stop if I didnât like it.â
âŠ
You both caught it at the same timeâthe admission, the way it lingered. Your eyes met again.
Tim turned his head fully toward you, that weary look sharpening into something more focused.
âDid you like it?â he asked, and itâs like the words turned to static as they reached your ears.
You looked down at your shoes for a minute.
It had thrown you off, sure. The tightness of the space, the weird dynamic between you two, even the sheer amount of embarrassment from having to play this game at all made your brain feel like mush. But you couldnât deny it.
It felt good.
The dizziness. The way your head went fuzzy and floaty. The way he took control of you completely and didnât let you hide from it. The way every thought in your brain is stamped out the moment oxygen is absent from you.
Yeah⊠it felt good. A lot better than you were ever going to admit.
You took a big drink to buy yourself time for something witty to say, only to realize youâd already finished the entire bottle and there were only droplets left. You sighed and met his stare again.
âItâs a weird question,â you grimaced with an awkward little laugh.
Tim didnât laugh with you.
He pushed off of the railing and stepped closer, close enough that you were suddenly the same distance apart as youâd been in that stupid closet. And who wouldâve thought, but the fresh air out here suddenly became thicker in your lungs too.
His free hand lifted slowly. You watched it rise, your heart kicking off its rapid thumps like shoes in a washing machine once again. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, and he was sure to feel the goosebumps that were rising there, before they slid from their position to lace around either side of your throat. His palm rested just under your chin.
You stalled completely. Went stock-still.
Heat flooded your face so fast you were sure you looked ridiculous. That familiar, stupid nervousness rushed back over you like a wave, making your breath catch and the tips of your fingers feel numb.
âDo you know your answer now?â he grumbled.
You stared up at him, completely dumbfounded. The words wouldnât come. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Before you could find your voice, Tim reached down with his free hand and pried the empty beer bottle youâd forgotten about from your fingers. He set it on the railing beside his own, then closed the last bit of distance between you until your noses almost bumped.
His fingers flexed against the sides of your neck, applying the easiest amount of pressure to your airway.
You gasped sharply and your hands flew up on instinct, grabbing his wrist tightly.
âIs this okay?â he murmured.
You didnât answer right away. The pressure made your breath go shallow, a warm, heavy feeling blooming in your head. It wasnât painfulâjust intense. Overwhelming. Your pulse hammered against his palm.
After a second, you gave him a small nod.
That was all he needed.
Tim leaned in and kissed you, his beer-tasting lips sliding to meet yours, while his hand squeezed a little harder around your throat. It pinpointed your senses onto himâonto how labored he was making your breaths, how fuzzy he was making you feel, how warm and mushy and light all at once.Â
You whimpered against his mouth, the sound embarrassingly whiny and needy as you squeezed your eyes shut. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, doing little to keep yourself afloat as your knees weakened.
Timâs other hand slid down and grabbed your hip firmly, fingers digging in as he pulled you tighter against him.
You tilted your head up further, sliding your hands from his wrist all the way up to the collar of his jacket. You tugged at him, yanking his chest flush against yours. Tim grunted, growling into the kiss and pushing his tongue between your lips, invading your senses.
Things started to get muggy really quick.
His hand around your throat tightened just enough to make your airway feel suddenly shallow. Every breath came out smaller, sweeter, turning your little gasps and whines into something embarrassingly needy between kisses. The more you whimpered, the more Tim chuckled warmly against your mouth.
He finally pulled back just enough for you to gasp in a proper breath, but his hand stayed glued around your throat firmly. Spit glistened on your swollen lips. You were the picture of bliss right now with your hazy eyes and flushed cheeks and lightheaded demeanor. Tim studied your face for a second, then shook his head slightly, like he wasnât satisfied.
âYouâre still too coherent,â he grumbled.
His hand left your hip and rose to your mouth. His thumb traced slowly around your wet lips, smearing the spit across them until they shone. Then he pushed his thumb between your parted lips, sliding it over your tongue.
You tasted the salt of his skin and sighed.
He gently bobbed his thumb in and out of your mouth, teasing, his eyes locked on the sight. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively and started licking, swirling your tongue under the pad of his thumb like it wasnât completely desperate and embarrassing.
The effect on Tim was immediate, though.
âFuckâŠâ He pressed his thumb deeper for a moment, then pulled it out slowly, dragging it across your bottom lip. His hand around your throat flexed again, applying that perfect amount of pressure that made your head swim even more and your blinking grow more rapid.
âYou have no idea what you look like right now.â His hips pressed forward against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was. âHow good you look.â
Tim dipped his thumb back into your mouth, sliding it slowly over your tongue. Without thinking, you started bobbing your head, sucking on it with gently eager pulls.
âGood job,â his voice dripped with approval.
The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding low in your belly.
He pulled his thumb out, dragging it across your bottom lip and leaving your mouth open and wet. Then he latched his mouth back into yours, kissing you deeply while his hand squeezed tighter.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound snagged as your air began to dissipate.
The kiss turned heated, your tongues sliding hot and messy, teeth nipping each other's lips, both of you breathing hard through it. Tim growled against you, devouring every little sound you gave him.
He pulled back just enough to speak. âIf you wanted this the whole time, you couldâve just asked, sweetheart.â
Then his grip on your throat tightened hard.
Your eyes widened. A sharp, shrill sound escaped you as your airflow suddenly cut off completely. Your hands flew back to his wrist, gripping tight. Your eyes fluttered with tears and rolled slightly as the pressure built fast in your head.
âThatâs it,â he kept his voice steady. âDonât be too loud now, canât have anybody seeing what a mess you are, now can we?â
In your haze, everything felt overwhelming. The rush of blood making your face burn hot. The tight, rigid tension in your body. The floating sensation in your head. It was turning you on so badly you could barely think, could barely keep tabs on the rest of your body.
So, you gave in.
Your body went a little limp in his hold, trusting him, melting against his chest. Failed little breaths turned into choked, whimpering moans that rumbled against his palm. Your thighs pressed together as heat throbbed between them horribly. Tim groaned in time with your sounds, pressing his hard cock against your hip and grinding away, letting you feel how much this was affecting him too.
âDoes it feel good?â his lips brushed your cheek as he kissed you almost tenderly. âYou can let go. Iâve got you, doll.â
You were clawing at his wrist now, not to pull him off, but because the pressure in your head kept building at a staggering rate, a bright white heat spreading through your senses, numbing everything else. It felt so fucking good. So freeing. Like every nerve in your body was lit up and floating at the same time.
You felt warm lines of tears roll down your cheeks.
âAwh⊠poor thing,â he breathed. âDonât you know anybody could walk around this porch right now and see you? Anyone can see what a⊠fuck⊠what a mess you are.â
He stilled up after he said that, like he realized something, like he just had the air punched out of him.
Then he finally let go.
The rush of air back into your lungs hit you like a truck. You coughed violently, your chest doing great swoops as you gasped and choked, desperately trying to pull oxygen back in and getting interrupted by your own coughs. Your legs buckled, but Tim caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you upright against his chest.
He grumbled his support through it, âThere you go. Take it easy.â
When you finally felt steady enough, you lifted your head from its position of staring blearily down at your shoes. Your cheeks were wet with tears, and you could still feel the mess of spit on your swollen lips. The embarrassment tries to wash over you, but is ultimately overpowered by the thumping ache in your stomach and head.
Tim tilted your chin up with his thumb, studying your face carefully.
âYou alright?â he asked, glancing from one eye to the other, registering how much wider your pupils had become.
You took a shaky second, then nodded. ââŠYeah.â
It was silent for a moment, before you both spoke again:
âYou satisfiâ?â
âCan you do it again?â
Tim groaned. âFuck.â
He grabbed your arm and tugged you backward along the porch, moving you both around the corner of the house where the wrap-around deck tucked against the wall. It was much more private hereâsomeone would have to step fully outside and round the corner to see you.
The second you were hidden from view, Timâs hands landed on your shoulders and pushed you down.
Your knees hit the wooden planks without any resistance. The dizziness was back full tilt, so you swayed a little as you settled, fighting the fog in your head to look up at him. Tim towered over you, broad and dark against the night sky, the porch light casting sharp shadows across his burly face.
Jesus Christ, heâs hot as fuck.
He stared down at you for a moment, breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling in big pulses. He brought both hands to either side of your face, cupping your cheeks and curling his fingers under your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your tear-streaked skin, wiping some of it away.
You broke eye contact and looked straight ahead, right at your eye level.
Fuck.
Timâs bulge was obvious, straining hard against the front of his jeans, the thick outline pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. Your lips parted on a shaky gasp. Even with your vision still a little blurry from the lack of oxygen, it was so evident, you couldnât look away. Your mouth watered.
You wanted it. Horribly.Â
Tim slid one hand to the back of your head, cupping it to keep your limp, oxygen-deprived body from tipping over. Your skin felt prickly all over, your nerves buzzing and firing off in little shivers.
You dragged your gaze back up to his face, swallowing hard.
âI want it,â you whispered, your voice so small you barely even heard it.
Timâs lips curved into a grin, his eyebrows raising in mock question. The sight of it made your stomach flip.
âYeah?â he murmured, stroking your cheek with his thumb. âYou want it so bad⊠then youâre gonna have to take it for yourself.â
Your eyes dropped back down in front of you, then up to his belt. Your hands felt weak, but you raised them anyway and you worked at his belt buckle, the metal clinking as you pulled the leather through the clasps, fighting to get it open.
Tim didnât help you. He just stood there, letting you struggle with the button and zipper, punctuating every step of the way with little sighs or grunts of approval.
âThatâs it,â he said when you finally got the zipper down. âGo on, then. Show me what you want.â
Tim leaned his shoulders back against the side of the house, the wood creaking under his weight as he rolled his hips forward just slightly, like he was offering himself to youâor asking you to hurry upâyou werenât sure.
He was wearing dark navy boxers, and right at the tip of the very prominent bulge there was a small, damp spot where the fabric clung to him. Heart hammering, you shifted higher on your knees. Your hands were still shaky from the lack of oxygen earlier, but you reached up anyway, curling your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. His skin was warm, almost hot, under your fingertips. You noticed the dark trail of hair starting just below his navel, leading down and disappearing beneath the fabric.
You swallowed hard and tugged his boxers down.
The second you pulled them past his hips, his cock sprang free, so heavy, bobbing once right in front of your face.
Oh my god.
He was big. Not porn-star scumbag long, but thick like the rest of his body, girthy in a way that made your stomach tighten with nervous excitement. The flushed head was already glistening with pre-cum, a shiny bead forming at the slit and threatening to drip right there in front of your lips. He was thickest in the middle, the length curving a bit where a prominent vein snaked the underside, throbbing every few moments. You could see it twitch slightly in time with his pulse. All to lead to a dark, messy patch of hair at his pelvis.
Everything felt hazy. You were a little awestruck and more than a little intimidated.
Tim let out a relieved huff when his cock finally fell free, almost like heâd been holding his breath. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the musk of his skin and the air from the night. Your thighs pressed together instinctively as another wave of dizzy heat washed through you.
Timâs voice groveled from above you, âYou gonna just stare at it all night?â
There was a punch of amusement in his tone, but mostly it was strained, like he was trying very hard to stay patient while you knelt before him, wide-eyed and visibly overwhelmed.
His cock gave another twitch right in front of you, another bead of pre-cum forming at the tip.
âI⊠Iâve never⊠I meanââ
Tim chuckled. âUse your words.â
You swallowed over the lump in your throat, your cheeks burning hotter. âIâm nervous,â you mumbled. âIâve never done⊠this before.â
Tim raised an eyebrow, tilting his head so he was looking down the bridge of his nose at you. The corner of his mouth twitched.
âNobodyâs used this mouth before?â he asked, almost disbelieving.
He slid his hand from the back of your head to cup under your chin, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip before tugging it down and parting your lips for him. His brows furrowed as he stared at your open mouth.
You licked your lips nervously. âWill you⊠be easy?â
Tim let out a chuckle, the sound warm in his chest.
âAs much as I can be,â he grinned.
Then both of his hands moved to either side of your head, cupping your jaw and cheeks. You placed your hands over his, clutching his fingers tightly as he guided your head forward. Your heartbeat was so violent in your chest you thought heâd be able to hear it.
âOpen up.â
You parted your lips wider, your eyes fixed on his tip as it disappeared under your nose and he eased the head past them. The tip bumped your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum spreading across your mouth. You let out a shaky breath through your nose, squeezing his hands harder.
The thick head of his cock slid over your tongue as he pushed in slowly. You opened your mouth wider on instinct, trying to make room for him. He tasted warm and a little gritty, exactly like how he always smelled naturally. Your eyes fluttered closed as you tried to relax your jaw, breathing quickly through your nose.
Tim let out a groan above you, âFuck⊠so wet,â his voice tight with restraint.
He angled your head a little more with both hands and pushed forward again. The tip bumped against the roof of your mouth, making you jerk slightly. Tim hissed through his teeth.
âWatch your teeth, sweetheart.â
He adjusted the angle and pushed a little deeper. You felt your lips stretch around him as roughly the first third of his length filled your mouth. It was a lot and heavy on your tongue, stretching your jaw in a way that made your head spin even more.
You ran your tongue slowly along the sensitive underside of the head, licking at the leaking slit.
âShitââ Tim cursed sharply, his hips twitching forward on their own.
He shifted his weight, steadying himself against the wall, then tugged your head back and forth, bobbing you along the first few inches of his cock. The motion was slow, letting you get used to the size and weight of him.
âThatâs it,â he breathed. âJust like that. Relax your jaw⊠good. Suck a little harder when I pull you forwardâmmhâyeah, fuck, just like that.â
He guided your head forward and back, daring to pull you a little deeper on his length every time.
âEasy now,â he instructed, stroking your cheek. âDonât try to take too much yet. Just focus on relaxingâgood. Yeah. Youâre doing good.â
You could feel his hesitance in how he grabbed you, how he was holding himself stiff to not jar you too roughly. But you asked for this, so he shouldnât hold back for your sake.
So when he pulled your head back, you scrunched your brows and pushed forward instead, taking more of him into your mouth. Tim groaned, his thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks as you stretched your lips wider around his size. Nearly halfway now.
You coughed around him, your eyes watering as he filled your mouth so completely. The stretch burned pleasantly at the corners of your lips and your jaw ached from the awkward stretch, but you didnât pull away. Instead, you let go of his wrists. One hand braced against his pelvis, feeling the tense muscle straining there, while the other wrapped around the thick base of his cock and gave a tentative squeeze.
Tim cursed sharply under his breath, his thumbs digging harder into your cheeks. âThere you go,â he grunted.
You leaned in and took him deeper, sucking on the first half of his length as best you could. The hand wrapped around his base made it easier to angle him, letting you slide your lips further down his shaft. You bobbed your head slowly, trying to find a rhythm, your tongue pressing and sliding along the underside as you worked him.Â
Tim's hips tried to buck forward before he caught himself.
âShit⊠you sure youâve never done this before?â he breathed, staring down at you. âYouâre a fucking natural.â
He slid one hand into your hair, gripping just tight enough to guide you, and started pulling your head back and forth rhythmically. You let him set it, relaxing your jaw as much as you could while your hand continued stroking what your mouth couldnât reach. Your spit was already coating him, making everything slick and messy, dripping down his shaft as your tongue ran over every inch you could reach.
Timâs breathing grew ragged, broken up by low grunts and curses every time you sucked harder or swirled your tongue around the sensitive head.
âThatâs it⊠ahhâfuck,â he murmured when you choked a little. âWho wouldâve thought youâd be this good.â
He rocked his hips in time with the movement of your head, fucking shallowly into your mouth while his fingers stayed tangled in your hair. The obscene wet sounds coming from your mouth were the only noise rivaling the crickets and bugs in the woods, besides Timâs heavy breathing and the mumbled jump of music from inside. Please let it be loud enough so nobody can hear, you thought.
You tried to take more of him, pushing forward eagerly, but the thick head of his cock nudged against the entrance of your throat and you immediately choked, coughing hard around him. You had to pull back, gasping with watery eyes.
Frustration burned in your chest. You wanted thisâwanted himâso you tried again, forcing yourself deeper. Same result. Your throat closed up, and you gagged, pulling back with a wet, embarrassing sound.
One more try. You opened wider, shoved your face forward, and immediately choked again. Lewd, messy noises spilled from your throat as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
Timâs hands tightened on the sides of your head.
âEasy,â he cooed. âSlow down, doll. Youâre pushing too hard.â
He guided you back until just the swollen tip rested on your tongue. You sucked on it obediently, apologetically, swirling your tongue over the leaking slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that kept dribbling out. Tim let out a moan, gritting his teeth as he watched.
You tried again anyway, your jaw aching in protest as you shoved forward, furrowing your brows in concentration. The wet sounds that came out of you were filthy. Tim groaned again, but this time he pulled you off completely, his cock slipping from your lips with a slick pop.
You gasped for air, spit and tears smeared across your chin and cheeks as you recollected your senses. Tim wiped at your face with his thumb, smearing the mess even more as he looked down at you.
âYouâre doing perfectly,â he strained. âWhatâs the matter?â
You swallowed, still catching your breath, staring at his throbbing, spit-slick cock hovering in front of youâwhich you wanted so desperately.
âI want you to go harder,â you choked over a hoarse voice.
âYouâve barely started. You need to get comfortable firstââ
âI donât care,â you cut in, looking up at him with watery eyes. âI want you to use me. Like how you choked me earlier⊠I want to feel that. I want you to make me feel that way.â
Tim stalled, staring down at you. His cock gave a big twitch right in front of your face, drooling another thick bead of pre-cum that slowly dripped down the shaft. You could see the conflict in his eyesâthe careful, controlled part of him warring with raw want.
Then something in his expression shifted.
He reached down and planted his hand firmly on the crown of your head, his fingers curling tight into your hair. He jerked your head back so you were looking straight up at him. His face was dark now, eyes laden with lust.
âIâll tell you what to do,â he gripped. âBut you listen to me. You fight me and youâll hurt yourself. Understand?â
You nodded quickly, your heart racing.
Tim gripped the base of his cock with his other hand and pulled your head forward. He tapped the glistening tip against your bottom lip a few times, teasing the spit that gleamed there.
âOpen.â
You parted your lips obediently, slipping your tongue out to meet him. He slid the head into your mouth, letting you close your lips around it. Then his hand moved to the back of your head, planting a base there.
âRelax,â he ordered. âDonât fight it.â
Before you could even nod, he pushed forward, sliding deep in one smooth thrust until the head bumped the back of your mouth and pressed against the entrance of your throat. You gagged instantly, but he pulled back just as fast, only to push in again, setting a relentless rhythm.
âOh, there we go,â he grumbled through his pleasure. âGood fucking girl. Just let me use this pretty mouth.â
Tim didnât hold back anymore.
He tightened his grip in your hair and started fucking your mouth with punctuated thrusts, his hips snapping forward to push deeper into the wet heat of your mouth with deep grunts and growls. You grabbed onto his jean-clad thighs for balance, digging your fingers into the rough fabric as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying your best not to fight the constant intrusion despite how your body wanted to.
Every forward snap of his hips made his belt buckle jingle beside your ear. Lewd gags and choked little noises escaping you with every thrust as the thick head of his cock battered the back of your mouth.
âFuckâŠâ Tim hissed through gritted teeth, tugging your hair. âThatâs itâjust take it. Christ, your mouth feels so goddamn good.â
He moaned when you gagged harder around him, his hips stuttering for a second before he pushed in again, a little deeper this time.
âShitâeasy, sweetheart, easy,â he panted, even as he kept thrusting. âI know itâs a lotâmmhâbut your choking is so pretty. Câmon, try again.â
You grunted around him with every deep push, spit dripping down your chin as your throat convulsed. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now, but you didnât pull away. You held onto his thighs tighter, trying to take deep breaths of air through your nose whenever he pulled back.
Tim cursed under his breath, half at you, half at himself.
âFuck, I shouldnât be doing this to you⊠not like thisâah, shitââ He groaned loudly as you swallowed around him. âBut you feel too fucking good. This greedy little mouth⊠sucking me like you were made for it.â
Tim slowed his hips, easing you forward until just the thick middle of his cock rested between your lips. He let you suck him slowly, dragging your wrapped lips from the middle of his shaft all the way up to the swollen, leaking tip.
âRelax,â he sighed. âDonât fight it. Youâre gonna take all of me.â
A sharp jolt of nervousness shot through you like electricity, but it only made the heat between your legs throb harder. You blinked slowly with glassy eyes, and nodded around him.
He cupped the back of your head firmer. âLean your head back a little⊠yeah, just like that. Open wider for me, doll. Relax your throat. Let me give you what you want.â
You did as he said, tilting your head back and opening your mouth as wide as you could, sucking gently on the tip while your tongue swirled around it.
Tim started pushing in again. This time he didnât stop where he had before.
You felt the prominent vein along his shaft slide over your tongue as he fed more of his thick cock into your mouth. Your jaw ached from the stretch, especially when he reached the widest part of him. You coughed around his length as the head pressed firmly against the tight entrance of your throat.
âEasy⊠easy,â Tim breathed, holding you still. âJust breathe through your nose.â
He abused that spot, shallowly fucking the head of his cock against the beginning of your throat with small, insistent nudges that made you gag and choke wetly around him. Spit dripped down your chin in messy strings.
âRelax your throat,â he grit out. âLet me in. Come on, sweetheart, open up for me. I know you can take it.â
You whimpered around his cock, tears slipping down your cheeks again, but you triedâfocusing on his voice, on relaxing your throat even as your body instinctively fought the intrusion, on every buzzing nerve in your head.
He pushed forward again, feeding more of his thick cock past the uncooperative ring of muscle at the back of your throat. The stretch burned, and you choked around him, again and again, but Tim didnât pull back.
âCâmon,â he growled. âLet it happen.â
You tried. God, you tried. But the deeper he went, the harder it became. It was like he was pushing into your brain. You couldnât tell if you were more frustrated that you werenât being choked on his cock, or that him choking you like this wasnât working.
âLook at me.â
You forced your watery eyes to peel open and up to his. The intensity in his stare was almost too muchâyou had nowhere else to look. Only his tan skin, dark hair, and everything you never knew you wanted so badly.
âJust focus here,â he muttered. âKeep lookinâ at me.â
He kept pushing, inch by inch, until the widest part of his cock forced its way past that tight ring. Your throat spasmed violently around him. You coughed and gagged, your body jerking and trying to pull away, but Tim held your head firmly in place, refusing to let you pull away.
âShh. Relax⊠just relax,â he growled, trying to be soothing even as his own breathing grew ragged. âYouâre doinâ⊠so good. Takinâ me so deep. Fuck, I can feel your throat squeezinâ meâŠâ
Finally, with one last slow push, he bottomed out.
Your nose pressed flush against his pelvis, buried in the coarse patch of dark hair. His length throbbed deep down your throat, completely cutting off your air. The fullness was overwhelming to an alarming rate.Â
Tim let out a long groan, his hips jerking and settling as he held you there.
âJesus Christ⊠all the way. You got every fuckinâ inch.â His voice was hoarse, something youâd never really heard before. âGood. Such a good fucking job for me.â
You were getting lightheaded fast.
The world blurred at the edges, a warm, floaty haze settling over everything. Your throat fluttered and squeezed around the thick length of Timâs cock, every tiny twitch and throb pulling another noise from him. But underneath the strain, the ache, the burning stretch⊠you felt nothing but bliss.
Heâd bottomed out completely. The heavy head of his cock nestled deep in your throat like it belonged there. It felt like a bell had rung somewhere inside your skullâa deep, resonant thrum. The pressure, the fullness, the way your body fought and then haphazardly surrendered⊠it was overwhelming in the best way. You couldnât breathe. You were gagging softly around him, tears streaming down your face, but none of it mattered. It felt too good. Like being choked from the inside out. Like something filthy touching a part of you no one else had ever reached.
Timâs hand slid tenderly over your wet cheek, his thumb brushing away some of the tears as he looked down at you.
âSo pretty,â he rasped. âSo warm.â
His hand drifted lower, cupping under your jaw for a moment, petting you almost sweetly. Then it kept going.
You felt his palm settle over the front of your throat.
Your dazed eyes blinked into focus.
Timâs fingers curled around your neck, squeezing with a good amount of pressure while his cock stayed buried. Your hand flew up and gripped his forearm where you felt it. A muffled whine vibrated around his length as your vision began to tunnel, black creeping in at the edges. Your head felt like it was floating, pulsing with white-hot heat, but the lack of air made everything sharper and softer at the same time. Everything was contradictory.
âSettle down⊠Iâve got you,â Tim murmured. âLook at you. Youâre doing great.â
He kept the pressure steady, not crushing, but firm enough that every shallow, failed attempt at breath turned into a weak, pathetic gag that made your head strain further. Your body trembled. You felt like you were burning aliveâevery nerve lit up, body aching, head spinning so badly you thought you might actually pass out.
And you didnât care.
It felt too good. The numbness, the heat, the overwhelming fullness, how Tim was looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world⊠it was addictive.
Timâs thumb stroked over the front of your throat, feeling the way his own cock bulged there as he held you pinned.
You gazed up at him through puffy, tear-blurred eyes, barely separating where his face began and the porch lights ended. But what you could see was flushed raw, his stern mask cracked open to leave nothing but visceral need.
He gave one involuntary bump of his hips, nudging just a little deeper, and cursed sharply under his breath.
âShit⊠Iâm not gonna last like this,â he growled.
Then something shifted in him. Anxious, restless energy took over, and his hands moved to either side of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he carefully dragged his cock back. You felt every thick inch sliding out of your throatâthe sudden rush of air, the wet, obscene pull, the way your throat shuttered and clenched around nothing once he was almost all the way out.
You barely had time to breathe before he thrust back in.
Fuck.
The stretch burned as he pushed deep again and bottomed out. Then he did it again. And again.
Tim started fucking your throat in earnest.
He was growly now, almost animalistic with deep, frustrated grunts escaping him with every rough snap of his hips. Heâd pull back halfway, just enough for you to feel the head drag across your tongue, before slamming back in, forcing himself past that tight ring and burying his cock to the hilt.
âFuckâthatâs it,â he rasped, voice breaking. âTake it. Just fuckinâ take it all.â
Your jaw had gone completely slack, your lips stretched wide around the base of him as he used your mouth. Every thrust punched a wet, choked gag out of you. Spit poured down your chin in messy strings, dripping onto your chest and the wooden porch below. Your hands stayed clenched tight on his thighs, holding on for dear life while he fucked your throat with growing urgency. Your body fought desperately for air that never came, but your brain couldnât be more happy.
Timâs hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his rough palm surprisingly gentle as he brushed away some of the tears still rolling down your skin. Then his thumb slipped into the corner of your mouth, hooking inside and pulling your lips open even wider, exposing your tongue for him buried under the weight of his length.
You blinked slowly and let your head go completely lax in his hold. You wanted him to use you exactly how he needed.
âIâm close,â he rasped, groaning as his thrusts turned sharp and frantic. âFuck⊠Iâm gonna cum.â
You looked up at him through wet lashes. His usually neat hair had fallen forward, dark strands messy and sticking to his forehead, hanging into his eyes. He looked completely undone.
âShitâfuck,â Tim cursed sharply.
He pulled his cock out of your throat in one smooth motion. You gasped in wet, raw breaths, your chest heaving as fresh air finally rushed back into your lungs. Before you could even steady yourself, his thumb tugged your bottom lip down, holding your mouth wide open for him.
He pressed the swollen, leaking tip of his cock right against your tongue and started stroking himself in fast, frantic strokes. His body shook with how close he was.
You whined loudly around him, the desperate sound vibrating against his tip as you looked up at him with teary, needy eyes, silently begging the best you could.
That did it.
Tim practically growled when he came.
Thick, hot ropes of cum spilled across your tongue and flooded your open mouth. He kept stroking himself through it, gritting his teeth hard to stay quiet, his shoulders shaking as pulse after heavy pulse poured over your tongue. You moaned, the taste so satisfying and evidence of your hard work.
âAh, God⊠swallow it all,â he growled through clenched teeth. âSwallow what I give you.â
Even as he came, he kept his thumb hooked in the bottom of your mouth, holding you open so he could watch every rope land on your tongue. His whole body trembled with the force of it, his hips twitching as the last few weak spurts dribbled onto your lips.
âChrist.â
When the last of his release had spilled across your tongue, you closed your lips around the sensitive head of his cock and gently sucked.
Timâs hips twitching at the overstimulation. âMmnh⊠youâre gonna kill me.â
You pulled off, then swallowed, feeling the warmth of him slide down your throat. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, so salty and warm.
Exhausted, you slumped down, your chest heaving as you dragged in deep, full breaths. Your head was still spinning, and you could feel the mess of yourself, all the spit and tears drying on your face. You lifted a hand to wipe at your chin, but Tim caught your wrist and swatted it away.
âI got it,â he muttered.
He slid down the wall, his back pressed to the wood as he tucked himself back into his boxers and jeans, quickly fixing his belt. Then he leaned forward, using his rough hands to haphazardly clean the mess from your cheeks and chin. When he was satisfied, he wrapped his hand around your arm and tugged you forward to turn your back against the wall too, your shoulders leaned against the otherâs. The warmth of his body grounded you amongst all the haze.
For the first time you could hear it over the rush in your head, the party was still kicking inside, random yelling and loud music still evident against the quiet out here now.
âYou okay?â
You looked over at Tim, whose face was the picture of exhaustion, mental and physical. You nodded, bumping your shoulder against his playfully.
He watched you for another second, then turned his head to stare out through the porch rails into the dark woods. The crickets kept chirping like nothing had happened.
âI shouldnât have done that to you,â he muttered. âNot out here.â
You let out a tired laugh, leaning your head back against the wall.
âYouâre dumb if you couldnât tell how badly I wanted it,â you said, your voice a lot more hoarse than it had started. âIâm more disappointed you didnât pull something like that sooner. You clearly wanted it, too.â
Tim quietly chuckled, a bit of light breaking through that dark stormcloud that always hovered above his head. For a moment the two of you just sat there, catching your breath and relaxing again. Then you both turned at the same time, your eyes meeting together. You leaned in slowly, and he did the same, faces drawing closer until your lips were barely a breath apartâ
âWhoops.â
You both snapped your heads toward the voice.
Brian stood a few feet away, looking mildly awkward but mostly amused, three open beers clutched between his fingers. He was trying and failing to hide the smirk on his face.
âAm I interrupting?â he asked, tone far too innocent.
Tim let out a long, exhausted sigh and dragged a hand down his face. âCâmon, man.â
Brian stepped closer anyway and handed over two of the beers. Tim took them, passing one straight to you without a word. You accepted it gratefully and took a big, long drink. The cold, bitter liquid felt like heaven on your raw throat.
âToby had a whole stash under his bed,â Brian explained, leaning against the railing across from you. âPartyâs kinda revived itself since you two disappeared. People are doing chugging contests again.â
He took a sip of his own beer, eyes flicking between the two of you with barely-hidden amusement.
âSo⊠had a good time mingling?â he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Tim shot him a flat look. âHow much did you hear?â
Brian shrugged, the picture of innocence. âI donât know what youâre talking about. I was just guarding the door like a responsible friend looking out for his pals.â
You nearly choked on your beer. Tim just shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he took a long drink from his own bottle.
The three of you sat there for a moment in surprisingly comfortable silence, the distant chaos of the party drifting through the walls while the cool night air brushed over your heated skin and wore off the strain. Brianâs smirk never quite went away, but he didnât push it.
Timâs shoulder, however, stayed pressed right against yours.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didnât want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didnât remember how he got every scar on his body.Â
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.Â
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. Heâd long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.Â
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.Â
Survived.Â
And soulmates shared scars.Â
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasnât quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didnât belong to him originally. Â
He didnât like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.Â
Itâs ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they werenât just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadnât been afforded one.Â
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe heâd been left out of the whole thing.Â
Better he was alone.Â
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.Â
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldnât be alteredâto know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn. Â
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.Â
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.Â
But, sometimes, he wondered.Â
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.Â
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.Â
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical. Â
It was a cruelty he couldnât imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.Â
Simon didnât want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât want him either.Â
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.Â
He didnât particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didnât relish the thought of something he couldnât control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.Â
It wouldnât happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.Â
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.Â
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnnyâs that he couldnât stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soapâs mind, not for the first time. Heâd always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldnât all come to nothing yet.  Â
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.Â
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
âLucky that way, Lt,â Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. âFindinâ âem will be easier.âÂ
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that heâd acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. âWhat do you mean?âÂ
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. âKnow âem straight away, wouldnât I?â Â
Simonâs own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.Â
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.Â
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.Â
But heâd always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.Â
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them allâthe field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.Â
Each place had caveats.Â
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.Â
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.Â
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.Â
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.Â
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.Â
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.Â
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilaritiesânames, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the buildingâs irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasnât information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didnât often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.Â
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.Â
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.Â
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.Â
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.Â
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.Â
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.Â
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.Â
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.Â
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. âSorry, sir. I didnât see you there. Can I help you with something?âÂ
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.Â
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.Â
He would know his own face anywhere.Â
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.Â
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.Â
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didnât ruin the brightness of it.Â
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.Â
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.Â
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.Â
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.Â
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didnât avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.Â
You saw him.Â
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didnât get caught, didnât freeze.Â
Didnât feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.Â
Not anymore.Â
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silentâ
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.Â
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing heâd ever seen.Â
âSir?â
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.Â
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.Â
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.Â
You hadnât recognized what he was.Â
And he was going to keep it that way.Â
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.Â
He didnât love you, thatâs not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.Â
Better yet, through you.Â
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.Â
One sure way to free himself was your death.Â
It was unusual, but it happenedâheadlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldnât tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.Â
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.Â
Which irritated him. Things like that didnât bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.Â
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.Â
It was wrong.Â
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing. Â
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didnât know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing. Â
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and itâd be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.Â
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.Â
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadnât left him. It had never happened beforeânot on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling. Â
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.Â
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.Â
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.Â
Fuuucking hell.Â
Couldnât see, couldnât hear, back toward the entry point of the room.Â
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.Â
He waited, but you didnât turn, didnât seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.Â
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.Â
You yawned, eyes still closed.Â
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldnât admit it then, but he half hoped you would.Â
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.Â
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.Â
He went back the next day.Â
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.Â
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.Â
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.Â
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didnât.Â
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.Â
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.Â
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.Â
You didnât drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didnât show, but Simon could tell. He didnât like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.Â
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you werenât going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.Â
Absolutely bloody foul.Â
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.Â
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.Â
You nearly always had headphones onâwired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.Â
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you werenât being particularly loud. He didnât need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.Â
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.Â
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.Â
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.Â
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once heâd left you for the day, replaying things heâd heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.Â
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.Â
That used to be more important.Â
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.Â
Distracted.Â
He didnât do well with it.Â
He didnât like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasnât near you, suffocating him. Heâd felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.Â
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat. Â
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.Â
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.Â
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.Â
It was enough to be where you had once been.Â
That was as close as he cared to be.Â
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.Â
.
.
.Â
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.Â
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.Â
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.Â
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadnât been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.Â
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.Â
Fear, afterward, of course, that youâd missed some kind of order or request.Â
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since youâd felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldnât have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmateâs scars better than their own, and you were no exception.Â
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didnât stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. âThatâs just Ghost. He probably didnât say anything. You get used to it.âÂ
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, âOkay.âÂ
Laswell had smiled. âYouâll do well here.âÂ
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldnât say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.Â
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.Â
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.Â
You sensed that heâd been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.Â
âHi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?âÂ
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.Â
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didnât leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
âHave I passed?âÂ
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. âPassed?âÂ
âYour test?âÂ
âThink Iâm testinâ you?âÂ
âYou moved my desk.âÂ
He didnât answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldnât answer at all. âPractically had your back to the door,â he said eventually, as though that explained it.Â
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.  Â
You nodded and then shrugged instead. âI guess I donât think about things like that.âÂ
âShould.â
âMaybe.âÂ
âEspecially in the field.âÂ
âI donât do field work.âÂ
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.Â
âWelcome to sit,â you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. âGhost.â Â
He didnât sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.Â
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.Â
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.Â
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.Â
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, heâd come back.Â
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.Â
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.Â
His boots were so silent that you often didnât know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasnât an uncomfortable feeling.Â
You didnât feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him. Â
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.Â
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things youâd seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasnât actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office. Â
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasnât the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.Â
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.Â
You didnât comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.Â
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.Â
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweetsâ which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.Â
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.Â
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didnât eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. âDonât have to,â he always said.Â
âWant to,â you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.Â
He didnât appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon. Â
âSorry,â he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone. Â
âOh,â you answered. âYou didnât have toââ
âDid,â he said simply. ââave you eaten?â
âYep. Got something for you, too.âÂ
He settled back. âNeighbor still botherinâ you?âÂ
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. âOh. . .IâYou were listening.â
He tilted his head. ââCourse I was, bird.â He leveled you with a look. âSo?â
âNot recently. Not in a couple days.â
âGood. Let us know if he does, yeah?â
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.Â
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.Â
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.Â
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.Â
In his usual chair, youâd laid a gift.Â
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.Â
âItâs for you. I knitted it.âÂ
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. âJust in case you were cold. Youâre always so buttoned up after all,â you joked. âAnd you fixed my radiator this winter. So itâs a thank you, too.â
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadnât expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. âHow dâyou know it was me that fixed it?âÂ
âWho else would have?âÂ
He grunted. âYou knit?âÂ
âWhen I canât sleep,â you answered. âKeeps my hands and brain busy.â
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didnât want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.Â
âCanât sleep?â His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. âMust seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.âÂ
Ghost considered this for a long moment. âItâs not.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âSilly.âÂ
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.Â
âCould I ask you something, Ghost?â
âReckon you just did.âÂ
You rolled your eyes. âAm I allotted only one question?âÂ
âJust two.âÂ
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. âGuess Iâm shit out of luck.âÂ
âAnd out of questions.â
You laughed again.Â
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. âGo on, then.âÂ
âWhere are you from?âÂ
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. âWhy?âÂ
You shrugged. âJust curious. Iâm not good with all the accents yet. Just canât place you.âÂ
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.Â
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.Â
âWhy do you come here?â You asked instead.Â
This question he answered readily. âItâs quiet.âÂ
âThatâs one way to tell me to shut up.âÂ
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. âNot the kind of noise I mean.âÂ
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.Â
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.Â
âHungry?â You asked. Â
âTryinâ to see my face?âÂ
You smiled. âNever,â you answered, âNot sure I want to see what youâre hiding under there.âÂ
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off. Â
âWhy are you here?â He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. âFairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.âÂ
He sighed, a long suffering sound. âEngland, smartarse.âÂ
You smile and dig your fork into last nightâs spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. âIâm on loan to Laswell.âÂ
âOn loan?â He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didnât move it.Â
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning. Â
âTemporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,â you explained. âShe needed someone quickly, who she could trust.âÂ
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. âHow long are you on loan for, then?âÂ
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. âItâs unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.â You smiled, âHopefully not through another winter, though, I donât think Iâm cut out for the rain and cold.â
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it werenât for all the hours heâd passed in your office, you werenât sure you would have caught it at all.Â
âFrom somewhere warm?â
âWarmer than here. Especially in the winter.âÂ
âMust be nice, that.âÂ
âHas its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.âÂ
âOne you enjoy.âÂ
âBut of course. I like feeling like Iâm baking alive.âÂ
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.Â
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, âManchester.âÂ
âHm?â
âWhere Iâm from.â
His voice was low; he wasnât looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.Â
âManchester,â you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. âAnd do you all sound sort of likeââ
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. âAre you laughing at me?â
âItâs your fucking accent.â
âMy accent?â You asked incredulously. âHave you heard yourself?âÂ
âGot a thick one, bird.â He imitated your voice. âManchester.â The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.Â
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. âTakes one to know one, I guess.âÂ
âSuppose it does.âÂ
âFucking Brits,â you said, without any venom. âI canât do anything right according to you all.âÂ
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. âWhoâs tellinâ you you canât do something?âÂ
You sighed, long suffering. âMy coworkers. Canât make tea, apparently. I donât care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.â
âThey make it wrong too.âÂ
You groaned. âNot you too.âÂ
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.Â
âIâll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.âÂ
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. âBig fan?âÂ
âI love tea.âÂ
It made you laugh. âOf course, English afterall.âÂ
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. âGhost?â You called.Â
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. âFor you.âÂ
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. âDidnât have to.âÂ
âI know.â You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. âI always want to.âÂ
Ghost moved so silently that you didnât hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.Â
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.Â
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.Â
But it didnât sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume youâd be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.Â
âLaswell.â
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.Â
âGhost,â she sighed, âDonât do that.âÂ
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. âHow long has she got?âÂ
âWhat do you mean?â
âSaid sheâs on loan. I want to know how long.â
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldnât explain himself, and Laswell knew that.Â
âMaybe as long as a year.â She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. âWhy?âÂ
Ghost didnât answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.Â
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.Â
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.Â
He walked you to your car around midnight.Â
âTell us if youâre here this late again,â he said, not looking at you.Â
âGhost,â you said. âItâs almost enough to make me think you like me.âÂ
âDonât get ahead of yourself,â he answered.Â
You just laughed.Â
.
.
.
âTea?âÂ
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didnât go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.Â
It would need remedied.Â
But first, this.Â
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home. Â
âJesus Christ.âÂ
âUnfortunately not.âÂ
You laughed; his shoulders eased. âGhost,â you said. âTo what do I owe the pleasure?â You tilted your head. âIâm starting to think youâre spying on me.âÂ
âWhatâre you still doing âere?âÂ
âWhat are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?âÂ
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
âOfferinâ to make you a tea,â he answered. âObviously.â Â
âObviously,â you echoed. âOf course.âÂ
âYouâre supposed to tell me when youâre stayinâ late.âÂ
âGhost,â you said seriously, lifting your brows, âIâm here late again today.âÂ
âHilarious, you are.âÂ
You giggled again. âAre you really offering to make me tea?âÂ
He nodded. âCâmon then.â
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where heâd observed the many cups of tea youâd politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.Â
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own. Â
âSo,â you prompted, leaning against the counter, âHow does one make a proper cuppa?â
âNot bad,â he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. âLittle posh.âÂ
âIâve been practicing.â
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but heâd make due with what was available.
âAh, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.âÂ
He involuntarily made a pained sound. âFucking hell,â he muttered, âThat your usual method?âÂ
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. âI scandalized a data analyst with that joke.â You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. âI do know how to boil water, Iâll have you know.â
âGot a head start then.âÂ
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didnât know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.Â
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.Â
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.Â
Simon ignored it. Â
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didnât mind the scrutiny in it. He didnât mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.Â
âI like being able to see your eyes,â you said, just as the kettle clicked off.Â
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. âWhy?âÂ
âYou have pretty eyes,â you shrugged. âAnd itâs hard to see you with the other mask.â You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag heâd dropped into it.Â
âYou can tell me to fuck off, if you want,â you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. âWhy do you wear it?âÂ
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. âFive minutes,â he nodded at the tea. âDonât touch it. None of that dunking shite.âÂ
âYes, sir,â you agreed. âFive minutes, no touching.âÂ
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.Â
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
âTo hide my face.âÂ
âYour identity, you mean.âÂ
âMy identity,â he agreed.
âWhy?âÂ
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how youâd take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?Â
Instead, he said, âThere are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.âÂ
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.Â
âYouâve seen more of them than most,â you said. âI would guess.âÂ
âPart of the job.âÂ
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. âHm. But yâknow something? I think Iâd know you anywhere,â you said, without a hint of shame or irony. âItâs all in your eyes.âÂ
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. âEven if this is gross,â you indicate the tea, âAt least it will keep me awake.âÂ
âI take offense to that.âÂ
You laughed again. âHm. Sorry, Lieutenant.â You leaned in, âIt smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âIâll make you a coffee if itâs shit.âÂ
âYouâre kind.â This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain. Â
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way youâd take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.Â
âThere you are,â he said, âCup of tea.âÂ
âA proper cuppa,â you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.Â
He huffed. âBetter all the time.âÂ
âAnd I have you to thank.âÂ
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.Â
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.Â
âThanks, Ghost.âÂ
ââS just tea.âÂ
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. âOne good thing has come of this,â you said after a moment of contemplation.Â
âWhatâs thaâ?âÂ
âI know how to make tea for you now.âÂ
âLike it?âÂ
âI love it.âÂ
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. âI mean that really.âÂ
He breathed out, through it. âI donât take honey.âÂ
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.Â
âNoted.âÂ
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.Â
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.Â
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.Â
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.Â
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you werenât meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone elseâs. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.Â
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.Â
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldnât be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you werenât sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.Â
âWould you like to go out sometime?â He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. âJust round the pub for drinks?âÂ
âOh,â you said. âIââÂ
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. Youâd only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.Â
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still werenât used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.Â
âYeah,â you answered firmly. âSure.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he grinned. âHow about tonight?âÂ
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. âIâm free.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he said again. âIâll text you.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.Â
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadnât gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.Â
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasnât just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldnât work.Â
âSomeone out there is really looking for you,â he said. âYouâre lucky.âÂ
âNo more than anyone else,â you countered. âYou know thatâs not how it works.âÂ
âI know,â he said, pulling on his shirt. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âItâs okay,â you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.Â
Still, you didnât sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.Â
You didnât hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didnât have one at all.Â
.
.
.
Monday.Â
There was a knife in Simonâs pocket.Â
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.Â
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.Â
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.Â
It wasnât quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.Â
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.Â
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnnyâs eyes hadnât turned away.Â
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.Â
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didnât reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, âHey, Ghost.â Â
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.Â
âAll right?âÂ
âHm?â
âYouâre quiet.âÂ
âOh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?â You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. âWhat âappened?âÂ
You looked up again, and shook your head. âIâm just tired.âÂ
âTry again.âÂ
Frustration crept into your features. âWho said I want to tell you?â With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.Â
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. âJesus, GhostââÂ
âNice weather.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âAnd you arenât out there sunninâ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.âÂ
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. âI. . .Iâm just being dramatic.â
âCâmon, then.âÂ
You blinked up at him. âWhere are we going?âÂ
He didnât answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket youâd knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.Â
âLunch.âÂ
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.Â
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.Â
Just his luck.Â
Didnât matter though.Â
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.Â
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.Â
âSo, what are we doing?âÂ
âWalking.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âWhyâre you askinâ, then, bird?âÂ
You huffed but didnât ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.Â
The sky was a flawless robinâs egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.Â
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.Â
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. âYouâve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.âÂ
He didnât deny it.Â
âWhat are we doing back here?âÂ
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. âA usual haunt?âÂ
âSometimes.âÂ
âSecretâs safe with me.âÂ
âMind if I smoke?âÂ
âNo.â Then, âI wonât look.â Â
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.Â
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.Â
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.Â
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.Â
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.Â
Heâd like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldnât have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.Â
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.Â
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.Â
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage heâd inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe heâd hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didnât know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.Â
âWhat âappened?â He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. âYouâre like a dog with a bone, you know that?âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. âI brought something for you.âÂ
âStalling.âÂ
âPushy,â you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. âI went on a date this weekend.âÂ
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. âBad date?âÂ
âNo,â you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. âNo, it went really well.â You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. âUntil he saw myââ You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. âMy marks. My scars.âÂ
âHeâs a prick.âÂ
âNo, he wasnât,â you shook your head. âItâs happened before. They see the extent of it, and itâs like something biological clicks. Iâm off limits.â You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. âEven though Iâm no more likely to find mine than anyone else.âÂ
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.Â
âI know itâs not my soulmateâs fault,â you said quietly. âI know that. I know that. And I donât blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I justâI wishâI wish I didnât have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.â
The chill spreads outward. Â
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.Â
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.Â
You glanced up and smiled tightly. âBut Iâm a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.â You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. âThis helped, though,â you said. âThank you, Ghost.â You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.Â
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.Â
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.Â
âHave you found yours?âÂ
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. âDonât think someone like me is meant for one.âÂ
You nodded. âMe either.â
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.Â
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.Â
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.Â
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.Â
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.Â
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.Â
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.Â
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.Â
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. âWhatâs this?â You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side. Â
âA knife.âÂ
âOh, really? I've never seen one before.âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âItâs for you. Iâll teach you how to use it.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âIn case you need to.â
âIs this about me staying late?âÂ
âNo.â He did not elaborate.Â
âYou know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isnât a knife a littleââÂ
âBut you donât carry a gun.âÂ
âNo,â you agreed. âI donât.â Â
He nodded as though that explained it. âRight.âÂ
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You werenât sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
âOkay.â
His shoulders loosened. âTomorrow.âÂ
âTomorrow,â you agreed.Â
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didnât know Ghost very well.Â
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.Â
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away. Â
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldnât begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.Â
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, youâve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.Â
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.Â
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. âWhat do you imagine is going to happen to me?âÂ
Ghost didnât answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.Â
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. Youâd swear it was a blush if you didnât know better. âGhost?âÂ
âBetter to be prepared, yeah?âÂ
âFor what?â All the same, you turned with a sigh.Â
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.Â
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?Â
Rough, warm. Safe. Â
Itâs a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasnât supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.Â
Stupid, silly.Â
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.Â
âWhatâs the goal today?â You asked, feeling a little like you couldnât breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.Â
âSame as always,â he answered drolly. âTo get away.â
âHm. I keep thinking youâll challenge me,â you teased. Â
âNot a game, bird.âÂ
âBut what am I meant to do? I canât fight.âÂ
âGet out of the bindings. Get to the door.âÂ
âIs that it?âÂ
You would swear heâs smirking. âSimple enough, aye.âÂ
It wasnât easy.Â
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.Â
Ghostâs weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.Â
âOn your feet.âÂ
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. âYou wonât be getting away from me,â heâd said once, âso youâd have a chance.â It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.Â
It didnât feel like you were doing good now.Â
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasnât fun; it wasnât sparring. You couldnât manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything heâd taught you without your hands.Â
âYouâre hurting me,â you gasped.Â
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadnât been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.Â
But you knew instantly that youâd made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.Â
âShit.âÂ
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.Â
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. Youâd been wandering off without him recently.Â
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. âGetting sun, she said,â he said. âSir.âÂ
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.Â
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. âGhost, youâre blocking my sun.âÂ
âNot much sun to speak of.â You grimace and frown at the sky. âYou werenât in your office.âÂ
âSorry, should have left a note.â You patted the blanket next to you. âSit.âÂ
Simon sat on the concrete steps. âWhereâs your lunch?â
âForgot it.âÂ
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.Â
âCanteen,â he said. âLetâs go.âÂ
âItâs okayââ
âWasnât a suggestion.âÂ
âYouâre bossy,â you said but didnât move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. âIâll have a big dinner.âÂ
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.Â
âGonna rain,â he commented.Â
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wristsâthatâs a mistake he wonât soon forget.Â
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. âReady now?â He asked, pulling down his mask again.Â
âI can see you wonât leave it alone.âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.Â
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.Â
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. âYour lead,â you said. âI havenât had the privilege.âÂ
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.Â
As Simonâs misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.Â
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. âAch so this is where youâve been off to LT.â
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didnât seem to notice.
âHavenât been off anywhere,â he grumbled.Â
âWhoâs this then?âÂ
You smiled and offered your hand and name. âItâs nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.âÂ
âJohn MacTavish,â Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. âCall me Soap.â
âSoap,â you giggled. âIâve seen you in my reports.âÂ
Soapâs gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldnât be in the canteen. âAre they yours?âÂ
âSergeantâ,â Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.Â
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. âNo. None of them belong to me. Theyâre nice though, right?âÂ
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
âVery becoming, lass.âÂ
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. âYours?âÂ
âAye, all mine.â
âAh, luck.âÂ
âLucky indeed.â
Johnnyâs eyes shifted to Simonâs, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
 âAm I going to get food poisoning from this?â You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.Â
âProbably not,â Johnny answered cheerfully. âBeen mostly fine.âÂ
âYes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.âÂ
âThatâs for sure, bonnie.âÂ
âBonnie,â you said, giggling. âAre you calling me pretty?âÂ
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. âYou wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.â
âSimon,â you said softly, glancing up at him. âI didnât think anyone knew your name.âÂ
Ghost didnât answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnnyâs head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongueâ Â
âItâs need to know,â he snapped.Â
Your expression folded and you glanced away. âRight, of course. Sorry.â
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. âThis way, lass,â he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.Â
âOh,â you said weakly, âThatâs all right. You donât have toââ
Ghost couldnât help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.Â
Soap wasnât listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.Â
.
.
.
âFuckinâ hell,â Soap muttered when theyâd safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. âDâya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? Youâve got yours right under your fuckinâ nose and havenât even told her yer name!âÂ
âShe doesnât need to know.âÂ
âYer name?âÂ
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.Â
Soap gaped at him. âSteaminâ Jesus. You arenât planninâ to tell the lass at all?âÂ
âStay out of it, MacTavish.âÂ
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. âYou know it can kill you?â Simon kept walking. âSimon.âÂ
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. âDo ya?â
âIt wonât.â
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. âThereâs a pain, they say, under the ribs whenââ
âStay out of it, Sergeant,â Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. âItâs nothing.âÂ
âItâll corrode,â Johnny said to his retreating back. âSheâll feel it eventually.â
Simon ignored him.Â
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if youâd feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours. Â
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didnât sit well with him.Â
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.Â
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gazâs face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.Â
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.Â
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadnât wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didnât deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.Â
But the way youâd tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.Â
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.Â
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.Â
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.Â
He didnât know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simonâs chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which youâd turned back so both of you could see.Â
Your eyes found Simonâs when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. âHi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?âÂ
A groan from Soap. âBloody Americans.âÂ
âSorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?âÂ
âHorrendous,â Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didnât quite reach your eyes. âYou should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.âÂ
âAye and you did lass,â he said solemnly. âYehââÂ
âSergeant,â Ghost interrupted loudly. âArenât you due for PT?â Â
âAch, right,â he muttered, getting to his feet, âThanks for the reminder, LT.âÂ
âOh, Soap,â you said, âHold on.â You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. âYour favorite, as requested.âÂ
âYou sweet on me or something, bon?â
You rolled your eyes and said, âOut of my office.âÂ
âYes, maâam.âÂ
Ghost took Soapâs vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.Â
The silence was suffocating.Â
âAll right?âÂ
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. âI wanted to apologize.â Your voice hitched a little.Â
He blinked, taken aback. He didnât like that you could surprise him. âFor what?âÂ
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. âYour name, I guess. You didnât want me to know.â Your mouth twisted to the side. âAnd your team bothering you hereââÂ
âYouâre apologizing for Soap?âÂ
Your brow furrowed. âWell I encourage itââ
âNo.âÂ
âNo?â You shook your head, âand that day in the gymââ You opened and closed your hands anxiously. âI think I upset you.âÂ
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. Heâd hurt you, and youâd taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. âDidnât. I should have been more careful.âÂ
âRight,â you said carefully. âSo if itâs not that, why are youââÂ
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. âI like you to myself,â he admitted. âNot the best at sharing.â Â
âOh,â you said, voice tender. âOh.âÂ
âMm.âÂ
âIâll make space.âÂ
He didnât quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.Â
âYouâll come to the gym later, yeah?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âGood.â He stood, deposited your knife, which heâd snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. âAnd donât tell bloody Soap.âÂ
âAye, LT.âÂ
He chuckled. âTake care of that.âÂ
âTeach me how?âÂ
He nodded.Â
âThanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.Â
ââCourse you do.âÂ
.
.
.
Simon couldnât stop thinking about pain.Â
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didnât think could hold pain.Â
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.Â
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. Youâre hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didnât, after, but he didnât relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.Â
Youâre hurting me. Â
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.Â
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. Heâd rather die; heâd rather be burned alive; heâd rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.Â
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.Â
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men heâd ever known, every bloody fist. Simonâs scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.Â
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.Â
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.Â
âJohnny.âÂ
Soap jumped and glanced around. âSpooky fucker. Should put a bell on yeââÂ
âDoes she feel it?â
âWhatââ
He exhaled long and slow. âMy pain. If Iâm shot tomorrow, would she feel it?â
âNo, the lass doesnât feel it.â Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. âNot mine. Watched it fade in one morninâ. Didnât feel a thing.âÂ
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. âThaâ why you havenâtââ
âNo.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âDeserves better.âÂ
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. âThing is, LT. She doesnât. Thatâs the point.âÂ
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.Â
Fucking perfect.Â
.
.
.
Two months deployment. Â
The pain in Simonâs chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldnât sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.Â
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasnât fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.Â
Maybe, he didnât really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.Â
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because youâd been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.Â
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.Â
Not as empty as they thought.Â
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.Â
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.Â
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.Â
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.Â
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didnât exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.Â
âI thought you said they couldnât feel it,â he barked.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âSoulmates.âÂ
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.Â
âThey canât, LT,â Soap said without glancing at him. âItâs noâ that. Itâs justââÂ
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.Â
It wasnât pain she was feeling, it was the absence.Â
âGhost,â Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.Â
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.Â
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.Â
Just to be sure.Â
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.Â
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.Â
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.Â
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldnât pinpoint the origins of.Â
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.Â
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.Â
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps youâd been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turnâ
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip. Â
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. âGhost,â you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, âYou arenât supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.âÂ
âThat disappointed to see me?âÂ
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. âSurprised to see you. Glad to see you.âÂ
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. âNice work.âÂ
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. âYouâre making me paranoid, I think.âÂ
âGood. Paranoid keeps you alive.âÂ
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldnât be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.Â
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. âGhost,â you said gently, carefully. âAre you okay?âÂ
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.Â
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.Â
âWhy donât you cover âem?â
Your belly clenched. âCover what?â you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.Â
âScars.âÂ
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.Â
It wasnât anything he hadnât seen before.Â
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.Â
âWhy would I?â You rubbed your wrist. âI donât want to. They belong to my soulmate.â
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. âYou actually believe in that shite?â His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. âItâs a bloody childrenâs tale.â Â
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. âWell,â you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, âthese arenât mine, so I guess I have to.â Â
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didnât move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle andâanger? Irritation? You couldnât tell. âWhat the fuck do you care? Maybe youâre ashamed of yours,â you said roughly, âBut not all of us are.âÂ
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. âOh, come off it.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âYouâre tellinâ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldnât hate him?âÂ
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. âYou donât get to do that,â you said lowly.Â
âYou didnât deny it,â he said. âYou would.âÂ
âNo,â you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. âNo, of course I wouldnât. It wasnât done to me, itââÂ
But Simon was determined, his mind set.Â
âHe hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. Youâll hate him for it, love.âÂ
âFor something he went through?â You asked incredulously, defensively. âDo you know how scared I was?âÂ
Ghostâs eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. âOf him,â he said viciously, like something terrible heâd always known had been confirmed.Â
âNo,â you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. âYou arenât listening. For him.â Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.Â
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.Â
He blinked, looked down at you again. âHeyââÂ
âI was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid Iâve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldnât have meant that heâso that he wouldnât have beenââ Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights youâd sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.Â
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.Â
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.Â
âOnce,â you continued shakily, âthey just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didnât know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldnât help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.âÂ
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.Â
You arenât sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.Â
It suddenly didnât feel like you were talking about someone you hadnât met yet.Â
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin youâve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.Â
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after youâd been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghostâs face looked like.Â
âNo,â you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.Â
You opened your eyes. Â
âGhost?â you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.Â
He jerked back. âDonât do that,â he warned. Â
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.Â
But if he was yoursâ
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.Â
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.Â
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. âI see you,â you said gently. âThatâs all Iâve ever wanted.âÂ
âYou donât understand,â he rasped. Â
âYou survived.â You backed away. âThatâs enough. To know youâre okay.âÂ
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you havenât seen him. He has to let you in.
âWhen youâre ready. If youâre ever ready. I'm here.â
He finally returned his gaze to yours.Â
âDid it hurt?âÂ
âDid what hurt?â You tilted your head but he didnât answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. âOh, you wouldnât know, I guess.â You shook your head, âNo I was just scared. Just worried. It didnât hurt. Youâve never hurt me.âÂ
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted. Â
âYou donât have to. You never have to. I donât want to take anything else from you.âÂ
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. âDo I have any of yours?â The question was quiet, almost reverent. Â
You nodded, ââCourse you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.âÂ
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. âSee? Youâll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since youâre so pale.âÂ
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
âItâs not fair to you.âÂ
âWhat isnât?âÂ
âTo bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?âÂ
You didnât admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldnât help anything. âWhen have you ever cared about fair?âÂ
He made a pained sound. âDonât.âÂ
âIâm okay. I donât need anything from you. I donât want anything from you.â
âYouâre supposed to need things from me.â Â
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like youâd been running a marathon. âGhostââÂ
âSimon,â he said. âPlease, call me Simon.âÂ
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. âLook at me, sweetâeart.âÂ
âI canât.â Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.Â
âCan.âÂ
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.Â
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. âNo point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.âÂ
âHow long?âÂ
âThe whole time,â he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. âFirst time I saw you.âÂ
âYou have had this pain for almost a whole yearââÂ
âNot your fault,â he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. âNot your fault.âÂ
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. âIâm sorry anyway.â You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didnât want to let you go. âIs there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âWould. . . would you want to come to mineââÂ
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.Â
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.Â
You werenât sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.Â
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.Â
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simonâs fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. âNo.âÂ
âJust turning on the lamp.âÂ
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghostâs self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.Â
âCome âere,â he muttered. âSit down.â
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.Â
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.Â
âGod,â you muttered. He didnât seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didnât want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. âHow have you dealt with this?âÂ
âWorse now,â he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.Â
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. âIâm sorry.âÂ
Simon didnât answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.Â
âNothinâ tâbe sorry for.â He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.Â
âYou donât want me.âÂ
It wasnât a question.Â
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.Â
âYou donât have toâWe donât have to bond,â you tripped over the last word. âItâs okay.âÂ
âObviously itâs not, bird.âÂ
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
âIâm sorry,â you murmured again. âGhost, Iâmââ
âSimon,â he corrected. Â
âSimon,â you echoed.Â
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. âI didnât want you,â he said plainly. âI never wanted you to know.âÂ
You swallowed and nodded. âIâm sââÂ
âNo.â
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You donât expect a speech and he doesnât give you one. âYou deserve better,â he said. âBut Iâm all you get.âÂ
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didnât feel close enough.Â
You wished it were all different.Â
That he didnât feel forced, that you were what he wanted.Â
âI deserve you. Isnât that the point?âÂ
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.Â
âGo on, then.âÂ
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.Â
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes youâd loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.Â
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.Â
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. âShould be able to separate now. Shall we test itââÂ
You didnât get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.Â
âNo,â he said, sounding, for the first time since youâve known him, breathless. âNo.âÂ
âI donât want to.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
âCan I touch you?âÂ
âCan do anything you like to me, bird.âÂ
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. âWell, I wonât. Not anything.âÂ
He made a content noise of agreement.Â
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that youâd never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. âYouâre beautiful.âÂ
âLookinâ in a mirror, are you?âÂ
âSort of,â you answered. âA little.âÂ
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.Â
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. âStop trying to bloody move.âÂ
âWhatââÂ
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours. Â
âNo more pain?âÂ
âNone.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
âYouâre all I want,â you admitted quietly. âI think I knew. I think everyone knew. Iâm sorry,â you finally said, âthat Iâm not who you need.â Â
His hand squeezes your neck and then heâs pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldnât climb into his chest, nest among his veins.Â
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.Â
âYou are, sweetâeart,â he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.Â
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.Â
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
âSimon,â you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed. Â
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
every so often I come across a kink post about like being kidnapped and tortured or held at gunpoint or begging for ones life for sexual purposes and I understand its going for a very haggard frail thing being taken advantage of vibe but in my mental image it really just comes off the same as that picture of wolverine strapped to a nuke
This is the funniest image Iâve seen in years like this is probably the very worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone ever and the artist somehow perfectly conveyed the correct level of emotion heâd be feeling like dude itâs over but what else are you supposed to do
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, âOh, look what I gotâ or âLook at what all my work has amounted to.â
Thatâs never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know youâre worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldnât be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.Â
Itâs not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.Â
And it happens that way with your heart too.
Thereâs a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.Â
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them youâve even grown to recognize over timeâstudents bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
Theyâre harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choiceâsome boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.Â
Then, to him.Â
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.Â
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.Â
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that thereâs a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.Â
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.Â
Itâs no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that youâll cross paths again.Â
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.Â
That isnât unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that youâve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; youâre no different. Neither is he.Â
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when youâve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but itâ
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.Â
You donât entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear youâve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as himâbroad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.Â
Heâs objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man youâve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?Â
You donât know what to do with yourself when he doesnât show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that youâve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesnât owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesnât, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. Itâs pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that youâve become infatuated with wasnât at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.Â
Forgive yourself though. Nothing youâve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you donât expect is for him to finally notice you.Â
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as youâre about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and heâs already pushing on the other side.Â
âTraffic jam,â he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. âHere, Iâve got you.â
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you canât move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.Â
That wasnât part of the plan. Itâs thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.Â
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mindâthe crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.Â
The only problem isâ
Now he knows who you are.
You donât expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. Heâs not the one thatâs been pining these past few weeks. Heâs not the one thatâs been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.Â
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time heâs in.Â
Itâs one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. Itâs what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zenoâs Achilles never could.Â
âHey stranger, no dance today, huh?â he asks, clearly addressing you. Â
You donât know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks youâve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadnât considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.Â
âSorry?â you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. âFrom the other day, remember?â
You donât know how youâll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. âRight. Haha. I guess the dance floorâs closed today.â
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.Â
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. Itâs too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.Â
And he will figure you out. You havenât exactly played it subtle.Â
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you donât even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.Â
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right. Â
Kyle doesnât seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you. Â
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.Â
At first, itâs nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didnât realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe youâre imagining it.Â
âSo when are you gonna let me take you out for real?âÂ
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you canât seem to suppress.Â
âFor real?â you repeat.
âOn a date,â Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone werenât enough to wreck you.Â
âOh.âÂ
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, heâs already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).Â
This isnât what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.Â
Itâs everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldnât want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you canât quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.Â
Youâll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.Â
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you canât do this anymore. You need to leaveâgo anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But thereâs a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.Â
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isnât what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.Â
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. Itâs the having thatâs dangerous.Â
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly itâs too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because heâs deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldnât allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.Â
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one youâve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.Â
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.Â
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before youâ
âA long time,â you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?Â
Kyle doesnât seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. âI must be one lucky man then.â
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.Â
You assume he means a drink at a bar until youâre standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.Â
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.Â
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. Itâs not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.Â
âDo you have, umâŠany plans tomorrow?â you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.Â
âNope,â he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.Â
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.Â
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your doubleâs ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. âIf I give you an inch, youâre going to run a mile, arenât you?â he murmurs.Â
Thereâs a lump in your throat when you swallow. âNo,â you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.Â
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.Â
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they canât gather themselves enough to retreat.Â
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.Â
He eats pussy like he hasnât had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost donât know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.Â
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.Â
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesnât seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.Â
When have you been someoneâs âpoor babyâ? Someoneâs darling, sweetheart, honey, thatâs it, Iâve got you, that felt good, didnât it? God, youâre so pretty, I canât believe you let meâ
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.Â
âItâs still sensitive,â you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.Â
âSo what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means Iâm not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?â
âNo,â you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.Â
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.Â
They donât stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.Â
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
âYou are the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen,â Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than youâve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
âDonâtâdonât say that,â you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. âYou canât tell me that. You canât tell me what to do.â
Whatever this is, itâs nothing like anything youâve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.Â
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.Â
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, andâ
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.Â
What you donât expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
âThatâs right, baby,â he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. âIâm not going anywhere.â
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.Â
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. Heâs entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.Â
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.Â
âI can feel your heart racing,â Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldnât he? Your heart is racing after all. âIâm nervous.â
âI know you are, baby,â he murmurs. âThis is hard for you, isnât it?â
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. Youâve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.Â
âWant me to make this easier on you?â he asks gently. Youâre not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.Â
And wouldnât it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?Â
You nod.Â
âOkay, honey. Then you donât have to do it. No telling me to go away. Iâve got it from here.âÂ
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you donât stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.Â
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.Â
So be it. What use is there in protecting something thatâs already his?Â
Are there any kinks you like writing about in particular?
absolutelyâ i really really like gross and nasty and perverted fics sooo much. i think more than anything else i like writing noncon, especially when the char has this infatuation with breaking reader đ€€đ€€ i love hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, and whump scenarios like captor/captive and deranged char/reader
Pls Crow spoil us with some snippet of Dexter btw the filth you wrote about him is one of the best smuts I've read and I CAN'T believe there are so little smuts of him like wth he's so sexyyy
dude omg i canât believe i didnât see this one earlier đ of fucking course you may have a little appetizer!
hope itâs to your standards so far, dear reader! MUAH
hai guys i wanted to make a little post or whatever, if you havenât noticed i changed my username!! i kinda got tired of looking my old one and also because âthe crowâ happens to be a popular character đ
so basically iâm going through a big change and will be posting request fills/fics soon! itâs been a weird couple months, and im sure im not the only one. i really hope to get these out super soon for those who are following and asking for updates!
this also means iâm way open to more requests, so feel free by all means!
