manicrouge

[manicrouge]

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BLURB

A small sail boat can be seen on the horizon of Homestead, the inhabitant a man who is rough around the edges, and who also holds a peculiar grudge against your white sandals.

cw: slow burn, violence, eventual smut, angst, mentions of character death, vomit, description of wounds, grief, suicidal ideation, description of anxiety attacks, size difference, incredible yearning my goodness

(If I have missed something, please, please, please let me know!)

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CHAPTERS

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➸ PROLOGUE

➸ CHAPTER ONE

➸ CHAPTER TWO

NEXT CHAPTER: 10/08/25

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[manicrouge]

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MAKE UP - [Simon Riley x F!Reader]

[About]: Pushing Simon's buttons is so easy, how could you not?

[Wc]: 1.9k

[cw]: smut, reader is a masochist, the relationship is a smidge toxic, Simon makes some misogynistic comments, reader LITERALLY gets gagged with her panties, crying during sex, creampie, p in v sex, denied orgasm, reader is purposefully annoying

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“I told you to fix that last night. You never listen to me.” 

Those were the first words that left your mouth that morning. 

Not a ‘how’d you sleep, Si?’ or even a measly ‘good morning.’

No, it was a complaint.

You watched the man, the titan you’d (somehow) managed to wed, standing in the kitchen, cup of black coffee in his hand. Before you had so rudely interrupted his peaceful morning, he was just about to take a sip of his steaming drink, all to turn to where you were pointing: the dripping tap of the kitchen sink.

He kept his head turned, watching another droplet of water fall from the head of the tap, hitting the sink with a light thud, setting his cup down against the counter. 

Your husband approached you, lips drew together, and with a breath said, “Sorry, luvie, I’ll fix it tonight when I get back from the base – jus’ been busy is all.” You suck on your bottom lip, cherry lip gloss staining your tongue as you cross your arms and narrow your eyes. Simon sighed, “don’t be like this, sweetheart. Like I said, ‘ave been busy–”

“No!” you exclaimed, “no, it’s fine, I’ll just call the plumber; might waste money, but hey, at least I’ll save myself time.” 

You turned your back to him.

It worked to drive home your frustration, a tactic commonplace for you: a staple. It also worked stunningly well to conceal your wobbling bottom lip from his eyes.

From behind you, you heard him curse beneath his breath. None of those curses were directed towards you, no, he muted himself and kept his prickling anger at bay. You heard it in his voice, so clearly even when he was attempting to smother it with clenched teeth. 

“Don’t – I’ll do it when I get home.” 

You tutted and, before walking out the room, said, “I’ll believe it when I see it, Si’.”

Preparing for the day, you were humming sweet tunes whilst putting your make up on, grinning ear to ear as you dabbed your foundation on your face, your grin helping when it came to putting your blush on the apples of your cheeks.

A peculiar mood for a wife considering the fact that your husband left the house by slamming the door behind him.

All the products you used were from the considerably cheaper part of your collection, ruined by smudges of concealer and foundation, the powder of your eyes shadows spilling onto your cheeks as you blended them in on your eyelids.

The whole process took much longer that way; you had to wipe off the dots of red eye shadow with a wipe, reapplying some of your concealer under your eyes with a huff. 

It would all be worth it, though; it was all part of a plan. 

Funnily enough, you owned waterproof mascaras; Simon had gotten you one after remarking that you were a crier – a terrible one apparently, and he hated seeing you with thick streaks of make up running down your face whenever you left a particularly sad movie, or even if he’d surprised you with a date night.

It was just easier, had been what he’d said to you when he bought it for you during a shopping trip. You glanced at it, hand skimming over it as you retrieved the cheap mascara you’d been wearing since before you’d even met him. Cheap and cheerful, and the streaks it left on your face were something out of a movie. 

What type of movie… well, you’d never tell. 

Swiping it onto your lashes, you put it back into the pot with a couple other products, applying another coat of the cherry lip gloss (also courtesy of your husband), laughing to yourself as though you were some sort of maniacal genius.

Perhaps you were; you knew you’d planted the seed, and you knew, looking at the clock on the wall, that he was more than likely sitting across from Price in a meeting, silently stewing over what you’d said that morning. 

The thought had heat pooling in the pit of your stomach and your hand clamoring for the phone. It rang once.

“Hi, love–”

“I’ve booked the plumber.” 

“What? Sweetheart I told you–”

“You always do it,” you said with a sigh, as though burdened by his defence, “I’ll see you when you get home.” 

Setting your phone down, you pressed your thighs together, tongue swiping at the gloss you’d just put on. 

-

The door to your house opened, thudding against the wall announcing the arrival of your darling husband. You were in the kitchen, pink apron on as you stirred the pasta you’d been making, knowing that it was very well going to waste without even seeing Simon’s face. 

He resurfaced from a day at work, face scarlet, the tendon in the side of his neck protruding when his eyes fell on you. Bracing his hands against the kitchen counter, he said, “Seriously?”

“What?” you asked. 

“You booked the fuckin’ plumber when I told you I’d fix it.” 

“Yeah, cause I knew you wouldn’t.” You swore you saw his eye twitch. Turning back to the food on the hob, you sucked a breath through your teeth, “just thought I’d skip the middle man an’ call someone who’ll actually fix it.” 

Simon’s boots thudded against the floor as he crossed the room, it was a small warning, only you’d not taken into account how quickly he’d cross the floor as you yelped when you felt his hand on your waist.

Without a word, he yanked you backwards, moving so your stomach was pressed against the kitchen island, hand pressing between the blades of your shoulders, forcing you down.

You huffed when your cheek came in contact with the cold marble of the counter, hands gripping the side. Your dress was yanked up, a gasp escaping you when you heard the snagging of fabric. 

Real shame too; you liked those panties. 

What you hadn’t anticipated was for your husband to ball them up in the palm of his hand, grabbing a fistful of your hair, demanding you open your mouth.

A response: one that would leave him more angry than he already was, was brewing, it was on the tip of your tongue, and when you’d opened your mouth with the intent of further pushing his buttons, he took advantage of that, shoving your torn underwear in your mouth.

You gagged, tongue pressing against the plush cotton – you could taste yourself, and your cheeks flushed red. 

“You wanna talk about never listenin’?” asked your husband. You heard him unzipping his pants. “You never fuckin’ listen to me cause you don’t let me get a word in round here,” he continued, twisting your hair around his hand, “and y’know what? I’m sick to fuckin’ death of hearing you yammering on about the smallest fuckin’ things. I work hard, I married you so you'd sit ‘ere and look pretty. I didn't marry you for your fuckin’ opinions.” 

The tip of his leaking cock pressed against your hole, and you sucked up a breath, nostrils flaring. A bead of saliva dripped out of your mouth, and you gagged again when he pushed his cock into your cunt without any warning.

Your scalp burnt terribly from the hold he had on you and he wasted no time, rutting his hips into you like an animal, his balls slapping against your ass each time he thrusted in, your hair leverage, allowing him to keep a haste pace. A hand came down on your ass and your eyes stung, rolling back, your moans muffled by the underwear in your mouth. 

“An’ that’s what you’re gonna do, yeah? Be a good girl and keep that fuckin’ mouth of yours shut. When I say something, it’s final; I’m the one spending the money, ain’t I?”

You yelped when he smacked your ass again, eyes growing wet. His hold on your hair slipped as he moved his hand downwards, wrapping it around your throat. The pressure left your vision blurred, each blink exposing a sea of stars behind your eyelids.

“You make me so fuckin’ mad sometimes, you know that?” he asked, craning his neck, hot breath fanning against your ear, “I don’t wanna be mad at you either, luvie – fuck – but you can a whiny fuckin’ bitch sometimes.” 

Had you the ability to speak, you would have told him that you knew. Oh yes, you knew you were insatiable. It was just a shame it was quite easy to push his buttons. Your vision was growing spotty, the coil of heat in the base of your stomach tightening to the point of threatening to snap.

You were well aware, however, that you were drooling around the makeshift gag, sobbing as your lips began to tremble, your cunt squeezing around his cock. You were so close, almost to the light at the end of the tunnel, so close, just a couple seconds longer and– 

He braced his hips flat against your ass, painting the inside of your pussy with strings of his cum. Only, he didn’t do what he typically did, he didn’t fuck you through his orgasm – in fact, you couldn’t recall the last time he’d been the one to finish first.

You cunt clenched around him, moaning as he slipped his hand from around your throat, fingers fishing out the sodden underwear from your mouth, dropping them onto the countertop. You heaved, catching a proper breath, staring down at the marble countertop. 

Simon pulled out of you, leaving his cum leaking out of you, your hole clenching around nothing as you instinctively rutted against the countertop, a whine escaping your mouth. 

“Si–” you said with a pout. 

“Don’t wanna hear it,” said your husband, zipping his pants back up. Yanking your skirt back down, his hands wrapped around your waist once more, bringing so you were standing properly, “can’t believe you thought I’d let you cum after the hell you’ve been givin’ me this past week.” His hand caressed your cheek, thumb swiping across your cheek “messy fuckin’ girl.” 

You glanced down looking at the smudge of mascara on the pad of his thumb. You were unable to turn away from him as a grin beckoned on your face, and in spite of the frustration of the climax you’d been chasing, the sight of your ruined makeup had you beaming. 

“You do this on purpose.”

You blinked, voice hoarse, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answered, moving away from your husband, feeling his cum dripping down the inside of your thigh. Tugging at the bottom of your dress, you cleared your throat, “go sit down, baby, I’ll finish making dinner.”

He linger for a moment longer, hands tucked in his pockets.

Turning to look over your shoulder, you batted your eyelashes, “what? You’re not still mad at me, are you?” 

Rubbing his mouth with his hand, he let a breath past his lips, shaking his head, “no, luvie. Call me when dinners done, yeah? An' I'll, uh, I'll fix the tap after we've eaten, alright?”

"Perfect. Thank you, Si'."  

You waited for him to walk away before snatching your phone from off the countertop, snapping a couple pictures of the damage he’d done to the full face of makeup you’d put so much effort into earlier that day.

You couldn’t help but grin, looking into the lens of your phone’s camera as snapped another photograph, pressing on an icon in your gallery app. 

‘Added to ‘Makeup’.’

[manicrouge]

I got a little something cooking right now and I'm absolutely obsessed I hate not being able to say it but I know if I do, the chances are, I won't finish it.

I'm gnawing at the walls of my enclosure, I swear to you it's gonna be fire when I finish it - just you WAIT

Hope you're all well,

Min <3

(it is cod themed btw imagine it wasn't and i just turned this blog into like a mlp blog)

[manicrouge]

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WHITE SANDALS: CHAPTER TWO

John Price x F!Reader

[About]: You share an early morning with the stranger you met the day prior, finding that he has a particular disdain (not only towards your sandals), but towards the sunlight - and a good cup of coffee.

[Wc]: 2.6k

[cw]: mentions of death

PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

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JUST AS every morning of that summer had started, that morning was no different.

Rolling out of bed, slipping into another light-fitting dress, brushing your teeth, washing your face, and packing your breakfast in your small picnic basket. Before exiting, you were always sure to grab your notepad from off of your nightstand – the pen too. Then, and only then, you’d pull open the door, proceeding on your venture. 

Your feet moved around the twist and turns of the path, your eyes remaining straight ahead, opting to look at the blue sky as opposed to where you were going. After climbing the fence, wooden beams decorated with barbed wire, the incline started. Each step had your legs burning, and by the time you made it to the top of the hill, you were huffing and puffing something fierce, hands braced against your knees and sweat gathered on your brow. With your eyes drawn down to the ground, you hadn’t noticed the figure sitting approaching you  until a shadow was cast over you and a voice said, “I thought I said not to wear those shoes again.”

You snapped your head up and turned quickly, so much so, you stumbled. The man you’d met on the beach yesterday, Price, was standing in front of you, arms folded across his chest. He almost tutted at the sight of your footwear, a look of disappointment on his face. Sucking up a mouthful of air, you straightened your back, and furrowed your brows. 

“What are you doing up here?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” said the man, looking at the basket in your hand. “You planning on having a picnic by yourself or something” 

“I come up here every morning.”

“Is that so,” asked the man, scratching his chin, “well, you ought to start asking now, considering the fact that, by law, you’re trespassing on private property.” 

You turn to the small rock at the peak of the climb, feeling the breeze blow against the patch of sweat that had formed at the back of your cotton dress as you huff. Your efforts seemed frivolous as you anticipated the man turning you away, especially after slipping on the same sandals that had caused you so much trouble the day before. It was surely the punishment for going against his word. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I didn’t know.”

“How long have you been comin’ here?”

“Since I realised I could get over the barbed wired fence at the bottom of the trail,” you confessed, scratching the back of your  as you twisted your foot into the dirt below you, looking for any way to burrow your way out of the situation you’d found yourself in. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, I just–”

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’d be a bit of a prick if I stopped you from sitting and… having breakfast?”

You corrected him, “Having breakfast and writing.”

“Oh,” gasped the man as though he’d made some sort of profound realisation, “sorry. Having breakfast and writing.”

You bit back the urge to scoff at Price and his sarcasm, moving past him, all to stop a couple of feet away from him. “I always pack extra pastries with me,” you said, looking over your shoulder, deciding that you'd much rather make a new friend as opposed to an enemy. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like to.” 

In response, he grunted at you and walked away. 

The spout of rudeness had a prickling heat forming on your flesh; he hadn’t any reason to treat you with such dismissal when you had been so generous to invite him to experience the magic which was your spot – didn’t matter what the law said, no, finders keepers. Alas, the bitterness faded as you tread further down to the end of the dirt path, leaning over and dropping your basket at your feet. You took a seat on the road, legs crossed as you dug through its innards, hands brushing over all the things you’d packed for yourself, retrieving the ruby-red apple that had fallen to the bottom, then taking hold of your notepad and pen. 

It was the simple things, the food that lined your stomach, the words that lined your heart that made your grievances – that man and his attitude – fade from the world, and the bliss that came with listening to the rolling ocean waves, thunderous as they struck the ground beneath you. Everything paled in comparison as there was no light quite as bright as the sun, no song as melodic as the sound of the chirping birds, and no touch as gentle as the summer breeze. 

Living could be taxing and had been so on occasion; you’d experienced the grey days and you’d endured the storm which weathered your skin, all to come through with the light on the other side with the understanding that nature could and would (if you persevered) heal all. Everything passed, to life’s merit. 

It was just a shame a bliss like that had to leave too. 

All that said, you’d never quite felt your heart pound against your chest as it did when you heard the rustling of grass behind you, and when you turned to address the noise, a mug of freshly brewed coffee was extended out to you, Price holding his own in his other hand. You stared at the mug and then back up at him, slightly slackjawed and the heat of hatred cooled to a coldness you’d only ever associate with gutwrenching guilt. 

“You just gonna stare at me or are you gonna take it?��

His words prompted you to take hold of the handle, wrapping your hands around the mug, pulling it away from him. Price took a seat beside you, the golden light of the sunrise gracing his features, bringing out slight blond flecks in his beard. You took a sip, wincing as the bitterness hit the back of your throat. Pulling the mug away from your mouth, you turned your head away from Price as you coughed as though you’d just done a shot of vodka. 

He chuckled. “I like strong coffee.”

You grimaced, setting the cup down beside your basket. “There’s strong coffee, and then there’s a cup of tar.”

“All this fancy bullshit’s a waste – if you’re gonna have coffee, you oughta drink it like that; it’ll wake you up.”

“I had one sip, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep a wink in my life ever again.” You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, chasing the bitterness of the coffee away with a bite of the apple that had been resting in your lap. “How do you sleep drinkin’ that?”

For a moment, he was quiet. 

“Like a baby.”

Your lips curled into a smile. “Hm. Unsurprising.”

“Every engine needs its fuel.”

“Poetic… Do you write?”

“Do I look like a writer?”

You turned to address his features, pursing your lips. The absence of his hat was striking as his hair was well kept, short on the sides, slightly longer on the top – well groomed for a man who drank coffee the equivalent of dirt in a cup. His nose was large, a tad bit crooked, brows thick and bushy, and his beady eyes dug into your skin. 

“What does a writer look like?”

“You a philosopher?”

You snorted. “Hardly.” 

“You like questions enough to be considered one,” said the man, taking a sip of his coffee. You took another bite of your apple. “How long have you been working for the Paper here?’ 

“A while,” you said, opening your notepad. “Nothing interesting really goes on around here – I mostly work on editing short stories, and running ads for the local businesses,” you explained, “Can see why the owner couldn’t wait to pass the job off to me, though.”

“He not like it?”

You clicked your tongue, “He’s in it for the money,” you said, “I’m not – hence why I’m better at the job… not that I don’t like the money,” you followed up, smoothing out a wrinkle in one of the pages of your notebook. “Because it pay good, and who wouldn’t want a job where they could sit and look at the world?”

“Don’t you find it boring?”

“I see no merit in getting my hands dirty – learnt my lesson a long time ago,” you shrugged with a small laugh. “Some people want to get dirty – do something and force change with their bare hands, but since moving here, that’s never been something I’ve been interested in.” You looked him up and down, glancing at his hands. When you did so, you remembered the dirt beneath his fingernails, and with the little evidence you had, accused him of being just that. “You seem like that type, though.” 

There was a red flush which encompassed his features, a brooding reminder that the man sitting beside you did, in fact, possess a beating muscle. You imagined it to be beating as hard as yours was in that moment; you noticed how his hands shook slightly as the rim of the cup dug into his lips. 

“How was your first night here?” you asked. 

“Alright,” Price said, “took a while to get set up – had to go back and forward from the docks to here, but nothing I haven’t had to do before.”

“You must’ve had a good sleep after that.” 

You felt his discomfort – raw and blatant. 

It was an unspoken thing; something that anyone else would have missed. Like a flash in the sky during a thunderstorm, you caught it in his eyes as they flickered from the horizon to you. Brief, yes, but heavy enough to remain for a lifetime. You felt the weight of his eyes even when he turned his head away from you, delving back into the reserves of his mind. 

He was looking for something.

Had he the option, you believed he would have scoured the clouds with his calloused hands, pulled them apart like laced curtains in the hopes of finding the thing that had him sitting with narrowed eyes, and a sour expression. As you observed him, you wondered if he would be heavy handed with what it was that he was looking for, if the roughness of his hands would translate to how he held it, or if he would simply stare and do nothing else. Both seemed plausible for, when you remembered the feeling of his hands, Price seemed like a man who was restrained; like a feral dog on a leash.

“Not quite.” 

He tipped his head backwards, finishing the last of the coffee in his cup. He put it down beside his foot, bringing his hands together as he leant forward. You’d thought of standing to shield him from the sun; he was looking at it with such intent you feared he would burn his irises. Instead, you retrieved one of the pastries you’d baked the day prior, and held it out to him. 

“Here,” you said, catching his attention. 

He turned to face you and took it out of your hands, your fingers brushing momentarily. Before putting his lips to it, he inspected it as though you had mixed in a heap of rat poison while baking. Something possessed you – what it was that compelled you to do something so unruly remained unknown – as you pushed yourself forward, taking a bite out of the end of the croissant. Crumbs fell between the pair of you, sticking to the edge of your lips as you chewed. 

All grace left you as you said, with a mouthful of half-eaten pastry, “See? It’s not poisoned.” 

He was surely questioning his decisions that had led him there and then, you’d believed so as he didn’t move. But, when he did, it was to take a bite out of the pastry without so much as a flinch, all while staring at you. 

No matter what, your eyes always fell back on his. Their blueness rivaled the ocean beyond the cliff edge, and you realised that the longer you stared at him, as they glistened whenever sunlight would capture his face. Your tongue curled with the intent of addressing the concern that wrinkled Price’s brow, but, instead, you asked, “what do you think?”

Just as you had done, he answered you whilst still chewing, “Good.” 

You grinned ear-to-ear, “Thanks… but, if you want a good pastry, you should go to the bakery here, the lady there – Ana – makes the best, and I mean it, the best pastries you will ever taste in your whole entire life.”

He watched you as you talked, singing the praises of a woman he’d never met in his life. He remained unmoved, taking another bite of the food, keeping you from saying any more as he extended his hand out and pointed to the coffee he’d made for you. Immediately, you stopped and grabbed it, giving it to him. He drank from the cup, eating the last bit of the croissant. 

“She’s got competition,” he said, wiping his mouth, “as long as you don’t put poison in anything you bake, that is.”

“Hm, I’ll have to consider it; it’s my secret ingredient.” 

For the first time that morning, he laughed. 

It rumbled his chest like the key turning in a car with a dead battery. It was a great sound, you thought, no matter how rusty the cogs in his larynx seemed to be. In fact, you intended to break them of the rust entirely all for the sake of hearing that again. 

You wondered if you could be a worthy opponent against his ferocious blues, and on that note, also wondered if there had been anyone brave to weather such a brutal storm before you. If so, who had been the soldiers who had come before you and – most importantly – had they survived?  

Would you survive?

Even when he laughed, you noticed that the sadness in his eyes returned with a bloodlust, a fiery vengeance when he looked back out at the sun, addressing it like it had been the perpetrator – his betrayer. The will in his eyes was the will of a man scorned; you’d seen it plenty, knew it like an old friend. 

He wants it to die, you’d thought. 

For it to burn out for an eternity, even if it meant the end of the world. Weirdly, you had a feeling that his world had ended a while ago. How the end had come about, you were none the wiser, but what you did know was that you had seen that look before. 

Your hands clamored for your pen and, while he sat there, distracted, you scribbled: how did his world end? You closed the book over, resting the pen on top of it, eyes fixated on him. 

Neither of you spoke in your remaining time together, you finished your apple whilst tapping your pen against the cover of your book, feeling the heat of the sun slowly wash over the pair of you like a thick duvet on a winter’s night. 

It was broken when he told you he had to continue on with settling in as the wind blew as he spoke. You did nothing in the form of protest, simply nodding as you said, “thanks for the coffee.” 

Watching as he left, the air around you housed much more of a bite upon his absence and you clung to your notepad with a white-knuckle grip. 

You blamed the knot in your throat on the sip of coffee you’d taken an hour prior. 

[manicrouge]

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SOUL LOVE - [Keegan Russ x F!Reader]

[About]: Despite never being one for music, Keegan becomes encompassed by you and your music taste.

[Wc]: 8.7k

[cw]: religious discussion, mentions of Rorke (derogatory), smut with plot, smut, slight knife play, sex in a Church (is there a name for that???), public sex (sorta, kinda), p in v sex, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink if you squint, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, oral sex (f!receiving)

[Note]: THANK YOU FOR 700 FOLLOWERS WOWZA!! I wrote this to celebrate a (considerable, to me at least) milestone on here, and I hope you enjoy!!

Also, there is like 2k I cut from this cause I felt like I was doing too much, but if you like this, I'll probably drop the rest of it :3

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“Stone love, she kneels before the grave.” 

A chirp he’d heard in the silence of the night, a quaint little song.

The birds had been silent. That sound, those words were the only thing he’d heard during his time perched, back stiff from the small branch digging into the small of it, tips of his fingers numb in spite of the gloves he was wearing.

In the summer months he'd hear the occasional chirp of crickets, but with the fall of snow and the dawn of winter, the sound grew quieter and quieter until it was no more.

Yes, there was the occasional caw of a crow, but who preferred that to the sound of a songbird? As he shifted on the branch he was sitting up on, he turned his eyes downwards, hearing the crunching of footsteps in the snow. His breath fogged in the air as he plucked his cigarette from his mouth, pressing it against the branch. 

In the darkness, a figure wandered, a shadow. Sitting idle, he tucked the cigarette butt into his pocket, shifting his gun forward, peering down the site at the mass who sang a lovely tune, even if that tune had possessed a slight tremble. He sat, watching through the scope of his gun.

The figure in black stopped just to the right of where he was sitting, illuminated by the moonlight. Removing what he’d thought to be a cigarette from a packet, a few seconds went by, the hum of the tune that could have lulled even the most stubborn soldier to sleep stopped when he heard the shifting of fabric, something akin to the sound of a light, repetitive smack. When that sound quelled, the voice reappeared, “fuck.” 

The wires in the ears of the shadow were yanked out, breath fogging in the wind as though in the hopes of seeing something in the distance: a light at the end of the tunnel. It was when the shadow turned its head up slightly that he got confirmation for his suspicions – it was a cigarette.

Clearing his throat, he watched as the furrowed brow turned to a raised one, head whipping side to side, breath fogging in the air. 

“Need a light, kid?” 

A set of beady eyes were set upon him. 

The fear, that existed so briefly he was unsure if it had just been a blip in his imagination, dissipated like the moonlight when dawn broke, and you grinned, “You got one?” 

The moon took refuge in those eyes of yours. Delicious, he’d thought at the time. With a breath captured in his chest, like a butterfly in a jar, he shifted his weapon against his thigh, tucking his hand into his pocket. Retrieving his lighter, he extended his arm over the branch. 

“You ready?” 

You held your hand out and nodded, calling out, “As I’ll ever be.”

Loosening his hold, he watched as the small brick of silver slipped from his palm, all to land in yours. Spluttering followed when you put the cigarette back into your mouth. The sound of you fighting with the lighter played him down from the tree as he shrugged his rifle over his shoulder, scaling down the trunk. He landed a few feet away from you.

You turned to him, face lit by the orange hue of a flame that disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Seething curses fell from your lips as he approached you, holding his hand out, “here," he said. 

With a huff, you handed the lighter back to him. Taking a step towards you, he cupped his hand around it, pressing his thumb into the ignition of the lighter. A flame appeared, drifting to and fro in the winter breeze. 

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” 

The tip of the cigarette reddened and he pulled the lighter away, tucking it back into his pocket. “Thing’s a pain in the ass when it wants to be.” 

“Clearly,” you grumbled, taking a puff, boots shifting in the snow as you looked him up and down. Squinting, he noted you took a step back when you looked at the rifle on his shoulder. “You, uh, some secret assassin or something? What’s with the gun?”

“I’m a Sergeant in the Marines.”

“Ah,” you said, “neat.” You took another drag of your cigarette, holding it out to him. “You want a puff?” Taking it between his fingers, he placed it in his mouth, the taste of lipstick greeting him before the nicotine had the chance to. You stood with your hands settled against your hips. “I thought Marines weren’t supposed to smoke.” 

“Is it a crime?”

“No,” you said with a scoff, “I just thought cause, you run and stuff, don’t you? You need good lungs for that.”

“Everyone smokes,” he responded, taking one more drag from the cigarette before holding it back out to you. Rather than pinch it as he did, you craned your neck, wrapping your cherry red lips around it. He didn’t let go of it until you took a puff, and you did so, looking him right in the eyes, proving that it was in your mouth properly. His gloved fingers slipped from around the cigarette and it wobbled between your lips. 

“Hm, suppose you’re right,” you said with a huff, twisting your boot into the snow again. Another gust of wind swept past the pair of you, snatching the grey smoke which left your mouth, red ash falling to the ground when you tapped it. Your lips pursed to the side, moonlight graceful enough to expose a dimple on your… left cheek.

Your presence was akin to an intruder in his house: frightening, yet, admittedly intriguing.

When he turned his eyes downwards, he realised you were wearing patterned fishnet. With that realisation, the black jacket with the fur around the rim of the hood seemed pointless. Surely you were one more gust of wind from freezing to death. “Why are you out shootin’ at this time? Surely you can’t see anything.”

“Harder it is to see, the more perceptive you become,” he said, slinging the rifle from off his shoulder. You cast a look of skepticism upon him, a judgement he’d only ever seen in the eyes of the higher ups when he was called into their offices, proclaimed by his drill sergeant as: ‘the best damn sniper I’ve seen in my twenty years of serving.’ To soothe your cynicism, even though he needed not to prove himself, he pointed to the scope and said, “The sites thermal.” 

For the first time in his life, he spied faith. Opposition to the faith one would have in God, rather, this face was pretty in a way that he knew it to be wholly unique to you and your eyes. And this, this belief he captured in one fleeting moment was that you were okay with him as the weariness exited you and your eyes with a string of rapid blinks. 

Sniffing, you wiped your upper lip with the back of your hand and asked, “Can I see?” 

You dropped the cigarette onto the snow, a quiet, snake-like hiss emitting from it as the flame was extinguished. Taking a step toward him, he noted just how long your eyelashes were, it almost seemed unnatural – like you were something other than human.

He could hear the rasp on your breath, caught a scent of what might have been vanilla, or perhaps coffee – something of the sort, the apples of your cheeks greeting him. Ensuring the safety was on the gun, he beckoned for you to come closer and you did. With the gun hanging on his shoulder, he instructed you to turn around.

With a giggle, you said, “Aye, aye, Captain,” turning so your back was to him. 

Retrieving the gun, he moved it in front of you with a steady hand so the butt of the rifle was resting against your shoulder. His arms were effectively wrapped around you when he did this, but you didn’t threat or flinch, no, you accepted him as your fingers ghosted his.

“You got good form, kid,” he uttered, “your daddy a hunter?” 

You hummed, “he used to hunt buck, was a good shot – let me shoot his gun once, but never gave me proper lessons ‘cause it’s not lady-like.” He glanced at your fishnet tights, feeling you take a breath as your back pressed against his chest. “Real shame to cause,” you leant into the scope, peering through it. He heard a whispered ‘bang’ beneath your breath, the gun jerking slightly, “reckon I woulda been a hell of a shot.” 

“Surprised he lets you out at night.” 

“Oh, he don’t know about that,” you said, “he runs a camp, has me workin’ in the kitchen, and helping out anyone who might need it.”

“You snuck out?” 

“I do it every night,” you answered, letting go of the rifle. You turned to him, his hands remaining wrapped around you momentarily, “I don’t suppose you’re allowed to be out here either, are you?” 

“No,” he said, “bedtime’s 10 pm sharp.” 

“What time’s it now?” 

He shifted his right hand, glancing at the watch on his wrist. 

“One-thirty.” 

You tutted with a grin, “you’re naughty…” 

“Keegan,” he said. “Name’s Keegan.” 

He held his hand out to you and you introduced yourself with such a tune, he’d thought the introduction was scripted. Your hand settled into his, a small sigh leaving your lips. It was then he realised that you weren’t wearing gloves. He hadn’t the opportunity to say anything on the subject as you settled your hand on his shoulder, saying, “It’s been a pleasure, Mister Keegan, but I better get back before they notice I’m gone; they have routine night checks an’ I would hate to get reprimanded, even if it is for somethin’ like… meetin’ a handsome stranger like yourself,” you explained, “I’ll see ya around, soldier.” 

Your hand squeezed his shoulder and then into the night you fled. He stood watching you, face burning hot. You wouldn’t know that he’d kept an eye on you to make sure you made it home safe, staying just far enough where you wouldn’t hear his footsteps as he peered through the scope of his rifle. It was strange, he knew that well, although, something told him it was necessary – a young woman such as yourself walking around the woods in the pitch black? Well that was just a horror story waiting to happen. 

Your path led him to the camp you’d mentioned during your talk with one another. The camp was nothing special, his place of residence was bigger. What was special was how you scaled the fence. Nestled in the darkness, he watched, listening as you huffed and puffed, wriggling your way over the top of the wooden fence. He heard you hit the ground as he was quite sure he'd heard you curse to yourself about something. Hopefully it was a torn tight and not a ligament. 

Glancing at his watch, he noticed it was 2 am. Lights on was at 5 am – always was and always would be – so, he turned on his heel, heading off back to his base. While he wasn’t a man of religion, he hoped to God that he would see you again. 

You reappeared in his life maybe a day or two after your first encounter. 

The snow was showing no signs of letting up and he had been particularly keen on getting away from the base considering there was a new Task Force staying for a couple of days – or weeks, the fellow with the bandana was rather vague while addressing himself and his squad mates.

Nothing was wrong, really, with them being there; they had every right to be there and him shunning them was simply because of the men around him. Like puppies in a litter trying to get a taste of their mother’s milk, they were climbing over one another, demanding the attention of the men: can I get you anything, sir? I’m real good with shootin’, you oughta see me in action – I’d be a great addition to the group, jus’ sayin’. All while Keegan stood by, watching from the corner, arms folded, blue eyes narrowed. It was laughable.

Embarrassing. 

The night was a release from the painful behaviour he’d bore witness to earlier that day, he sat perched on a branch, listening to the cawing of the crows, and then he heard it – the song of a songbird. Shifting his scope, he turned it downwards to find that your beady eyes had scoped him out before he even had the chance to look for you himself as you stood, looking up at him. Through the lens, he watched as you lifted your arm and waved at him.

You yanked your earphones out of your ears, calling out, “Evenin’, soldier.” 

“Evenin’, kid.”

With the gun strung against his back, he scaled the tree once again, landing just before you. You were hardly dressed for the weather: fishnet tights, that thin coat of yours, and when he looked down at your hands, he remembered.

Digging his hands into the pocket of his black coat, he took hold of a balled up set of gloves, holding them out to you. You stared at them. 

“Take ‘em,” he said, “you need them for weather like this.” 

You took them from him, unravelling the mound of fabric. “You sure you don’t need them?” 

“Can always get another pair if these ones rip,” he said, looking down at his hands, “besides, you’ll end up getting sick if you don’t start dressin’ for the winter.” 

“Wasn’t aware you were the fashion police.” 

His eyes drifted down to your scantily clad legs. He shoved down a grin as though it was the head of a sworn enemy into water, hot breath clouding in the winter air. “Wouldn’t say I’m policing ya.”

Quite the opposite, actually. 

 “I brought somethin’ for you too,” you said. 

It was when you shifted your arm that he realised you were wearing a backpack. Unzipping your bag, you pulled out – what he’d thought to be – a flask. “We have tea before bed every night,” you explained, “thought we could sit ‘n talk for a while… if you’d like – I know somewhere, not too far from here that’ll get us out of the cold.” 

“Lead the way, kid.” 

With a gun on his back and his eye on you, he followed behind you, watching as your black boots trudged through the metres of snow that had fallen over the course of the day prior. The weather was always bad, below freezing, and each look he caught of you, he was surprised you hadn’t frozen to death. Commendable, he’d thought.

Moving past the large tree trunks, stepping on the occasional stick brought the pair of you to, what the moonlight allowed him to realise, was an old church. Glass windows boarded up, the rusted metal of the bell in the tower squealing as the wind howled. Your boots thudded as you both moved up the steps and headed towards the double doors. 

Setting your hand down on the handle, he caught your wrist. “You sure this is safe?” 

“I come here all the time,” you said, “no one comes out here, not at this time, anyway.” 

Pulling your hand off the door, he shifted so he was standing in front of you, his body blocking yours as he twisted the knob. The lock in the door clinked as he opened the door slowly. From behind him he heard a huff, or a curse, or maybe it was just the wind and he was imagining your mood. His gun clicked as he pulled it off his shoulder, peering through the scope. 

The moonlight permitted him to see most of the things inside the building: the pews, the altar at the very front of the building, and the cross front and centre on the wall which was tilted a tad too much in one direction.

In spite of the generous glow of the moon, there were corners completely shrouded in the darkness and he was sure to stand and wait, staring down the eye of the scope, he’d then turn to the other, and then, just in case, he looked back. Pulling the gun away, he grunted, tilting his head and stepped into the building. You followed behind him, pulling the door closed.

“You still got that lighter of yours?” 

It was in your hands in the blink of an eye and, with that, you set off down the aisle, boots leaving a dark indent of your path as you impeded onto the stage.

The lighter spluttered, just as it had done the first time the two of you met. He put one foot in front of the other, only to pause when he saw a fully formed flame in your hands. You held the lighter to one of the several large candles surrounding the altar. Once one had lit, you continued along the row of candles.

He made no effort to budge, bearing witness to the light you brought to the building. A survival instinct within told him it was irresponsible for him to be permitting such an act. It brought a risk with – did the light – the ability to see something he understood to be the equivalent, in some situations, the difference between life and death. 

Then you turned to him. 

Front and centre, you approached the podium, the lighter still in hand as you balled your fists. They thudded against the podium, your voice reflecting off the rotting walls of the Church, “Soul love!” you exclaimed, “the priest that tastes the word and told of love, and how my God on high is all love.”

Proceeding down the aisle, he asked, “that a Bible quote?” 

“Pfft,” you scoffed, “no; it’s a David Bowie song… you not familiar with him?”

“No.” When he captured a sneer on your face of such disgust, he choked on a defence, “I- I’ve heard of him, obviously, but I haven’t listened to anythin’ that isn’t any of his popular stuff.” He felt as though he was in a confessional and, in spite of the gloves on his hand, he attempted to claw at the skin on the back of his neck. “Never really been a fan of music; I like the quiet too much for any of that.”

Rounding the lectern, you wobbled slightly as you moved down the step. 

“Treason,” you said beneath your breath, taking hold of his forearm, moving him towards the Church pews. You took a seat, tucking your legs up as you slung your backpack onto the ground, retrieving the flask. Turning your eyes down to the spot in front of you, he took a seat, leaving a small bit of space for you to set the flask down between the pair of you. 

Then, you unzipped your jacket and, clipped to your grey skirt, he saw an MP3 player. “I hide it under my bunk; we’re not allowed anything like this… I’d knock someone’s teeth out if they tried to take this off me.” Pinching one of the wires between your fingers, you extended one of the earphones out to him. 

“Someone needs to keep an ear out for–”

“Stop being dramatic,” you huffed, “we have two ears for a reason, Keegan, c’mon, stop being a bore,” you demanded, grinning, “this is gonna change your life.” 

“Yeah, right,” he said, rolling his eyes, taking the earphone off you. Pressing it into his ear, he watched as you fidgeted with the player, putting an earphone in your ear. 

“You always this boring?” you asked. 

“You always this annoying?” 

“Low blow, soldier,” you said with a huff. 

He’d opened his mouth to respond. You, however, hissed a ‘shhh’, holding your finger to your lips. It was crucial, he knew that, to listen to what you were so generously sharing with him, even if he did think (then) that your determination was similar to the determination you’d seen of the soldiers back on the base talking to the higher ups. Only, you did so with a doe-eyed glare, and the voice of a songbird, while the men… they cawed like crows fighting over a corpse. 

At first, he heard the drums, thudding like a heartbeat, and then the strum of a guitar in a fluid repetition. You stared at him like a school girl with a crush when the voice of the singer came through the headphone.

He too heard the thudding of his own heartbeat, listening to the words the singer sang. Obviously, he had heard music in passing before that point, listened to his fair bit of rock’n’roll growing up when he’d accompany his father on hunting trips, even knew a couple words to those songs, although none of them struck him particularly hard. 

It was radio fodder: something to fill the void of silence because humans disliked the quiet – disliked sitting with themselves. 

He’d done nothing really that he’d regretted in his life up until that point, so the silence he sat with was commonplace. No such thing as overthinking, no such thing as a tightening in his chest or stinging eyes, it was just peaceful.

Practical.

The disruption in the form of this Bowie song, however, struck a chord in everything he had crafted as he felt his foot tapping against the ground without so much as a second thought. Yes, there was noise, he couldn’t hear the surroundings with the typical precision he’d practiced, but there was none of this… this dread he’d associated with distraction. No, every tap, every movement from his body as he listened to the song came naturally. 

It was a new strain of peace, one he had never before encountered in his life and, by the end of the song, his eyes stung as though he’d just resurfaced from the depths of the ocean. Something drastic, something so magical to live and to experience the thing he’d initially turned his nose up at and, when… When he saw this joy on your face, this wide eyed, toothy grin, he knew there and then that something had changed.

Yes. Yes things would never be the same again, and he gathered all of this through one single song. One song that meant the world to you. 

World colliding was supposed to cause peril, the destruction of both respective civilisations, leaving nothing but ash for a new world to be reconstructed. Yet, there was no death of self when you extended the flask out to him, instructing him to drink; you made the tea just how you liked it.

And you, you were wearing his gloves, him wearing your earphone as the same song replayed, while drinking from the flask you’d brought for the pair of you to share while sitting in an old, wilting Church in the middle of the forest with the winter breeze crying, banging at the boarded windows, nudging the flames of the candles on the stage in a fit of rage as it was kept at bay, kept away from the moment you spent with each other.

Taking a sip from the flask, you smacked your lips together, holding it back out to him. He took it from you, taking another sip, wincing, “how much sugar’d you put in this, kid?” 

“I like sweet tea. There’s only four spoonfuls in it”

“There’s sweet tea, and then there’s a fuckin’ milkshake,” he said.

“You’re dramatic.”

“And your pancreas is gonna give out if y’ keep drinking tea this sweet.” 

“Oh, haha,” you responded, narrowing your eyes. His gaze followed yours. You were staring at his mouth. A giggle tore through your body, causing a significant tremor as you pointed at his mouth. “You, uhm,” you continued to laugh, “You got some of my lipstick on your lips.”

Raising his hand, he swiped his mouth with the pad of his thumb, looking at you. “Is it gone?” 

Bracing one of your hands against the bottom of the pew, he watched as you moved onto your knees, “c’mere.” And he obeyed, leaning forward, neck craned slightly.

The tips of your fingers brushed against the stubble of his jaw, pressing into the bone as you used your thumb, pressing it lightly against his lips. You grunted, pulling your hand away momentarily as you pressed your tongue against your thumb pad, wetting the tip of the glove. Then, you continued on wiping the lipstick off his mouth.

“There we go,” you said, fingers slipping away from his face, “we wouldn’t want anyone makin’ fun of you in the base now, would we?” The tip of his tongue poked out slightly, and he turned his head to the side towards the door as he swiped it along his bottom lip, then, he turned back to you. “God, you’re so on edge.”

“Would you rather me be careless, kid?” 

“A little, yeah,” you said, arm resting against the back of the pew, “did you like the song?” 

His chest tightened as he plucked the earphone out of his ear. Such a pretty question from a pretty mouth, something he gave… immense thought to. The melody was sweet, the lyrics were intriguing from what he’d heard, and Bowie was talented. All of which were undeniable. 

To him, however, he seemed to be a staunch critic because none of the notes hit the same as they had when you were humming them, even when you declared them with a giggle when you'd stood on the stage.

There was a token of beauty to the sound of your joy, something voided when you’d sat there and been silent. A disruptor of his peace needed merit, he believed that, and if that disruptor of his peace was not the sound of you chirping, well, it had no merit existing. 

All that being said, he looked you in the eyes and said, “It was alright… I suppose.”

Your response was a slap to his chest, and a declaration that, singlehandedly, he was the most wrong human being to have ever existed in the whole world. He took the light blows with a smile on his face, without a single wince. 

That night in particular spawned a new tradition, something unbeknownst to the pair of you until a month had passed and November turned into December, and he took a step back from indulging for a second to realise that, when nighttime came – when he’d sneak out of his bunk, scale the fence of the base and escape to the woods – that he never so much as turned his head to address the tree that really, had grown to be his home since the second week of knowing you.

No, he stood at the base, arms crossed over themselves. In spite of this, there was an imposition that had his trusty rifle still attached to his back, pressing into the fabric of his coat as he stood and waited for you. 

Midnight came around and you’d resurface through the darkness. He’d see you first, of course, using the thermal scope on his gun, watching you weave in and out of the trees, nothing but the moonlight to guide you as you wandered until you finally met him again.

Each time, without failure, you greeted him with a bright smile, hands tucked into your pockets. All he’d do was nod towards your hands for you to pull them out of your pocket and you’d respond with a roll of your eyes, hands out in front of you and say, “I’m wearing them, Keeg.” 

“Atta girl,” he’d say as you tucked your hands back into the pocket of your coat. 

Somewhere along the line, over the days you’d been spending the winter nights together, you’d changed to only tucking one hand into your pocket, extending the other hand out to look around his arm as you walked to the Church with the same flask of tea and the same songs playing in the earphone you’d push into his ear. 

And that night was no different. 

You met a midnight, you’d showed him the gloves on your hands before he’d even motioned for you to do so, the same praise rolled off his tongue – only, this time, a heat welled in the base of his stomach when he noticed you took a short breath – plump lips slightly parted.

You waited a beat longer than usual to approach him, the tips of your fingers missing his arm completely as you reached out (almost blindly) to take hold of his arm. A humour spread through his chest, this warm, fuzzy feeling, the types of which he’d felt when he’d gotten a good shot on a particularly pesky animal during the nights he’d spent alone in the woods.

He didn’t laugh at you, no, he extended his arm out a little further and you wrapped your arm around his, and the pair of you set off on your journey to the Church. 

It had become second nature at that point, no longer having to be mindful of the frozen rivulet on the journey as both of you extended your legs out at the same time to step over it while looking anywhere but the ground.

The candles were lit the second you stepped into the Church as you’d dip your hand into his pocket, snatching his lighter without asking, skipping up the aisle. He followed closely behind you, taking a seat on the same pew you always sat on.

With his arm laid over the back of it, legs slightly parted, he eyed you, gun abandoned to the side of the pew and, if he really needed it, there was always the knife in the holster on his thigh. Your curses dissipated in the time he’d know you; you’d used the lighter so much it seemed to respond more to you than it did him. Either that, or you’d robbed it of all its fuel and he needed to refill it. 

As you worked to bring light to the room, he whistled while watching you work. You made it to the second to last candle, stopping in your tracks.

Slowly, you turned to look at him over your shoulder. 

“What?” 

“You’re whistlin’ the tune to Soul Love.” A warmth spread across his cheeks when you implored, “keep goin’ it sounds… it sounds pretty.” 

To deny you was to deny the request of a deity and so, he continued, whistling the tune, foot tapping against the ground as you lit the final candle.

When light shone in the room, you walked down the step and, instead of sitting down immediately, you knocked his legs with your knee, parting them further apart so you could stand in between them. Looking at you, he exhaled when your hands settled against his shoulders gently, the scent of the cigarette you’d smoked on your way to meet him filling his nose. 

His whistling ceased.

“Why’d you stop?” you pouted. 

“Reckon I sound like a crow. I don’t wanna ruin your favourite song, kid.” 

“I like the sound of crows,” you said, pressing your knee against the pew, “and I like the sound of you too.” 

As the song spoke, kneeling before the grave was an act in which you engaged in partially.

The tips of his fingers twitched, tongue poking against the side of his cheek, moving his head backwards ever so slightly, his Adams apple bobbing as he admired you in the beauty of both the candlelight and the moonlight.

You beauty, you temptress; so delicious in the moonlight and, as he sat there, your knee ghosting the fabric of his pants, he gulped. Rather than closing his hands around your waist, as he so longed for, his breath hitched in his throat as he closed his hands around his knees. 

He chuckled. “Is that so?” 

You moved, lowering yourself slightly as your hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling them off his knees.

Impeccable, never had someone read him so blatant as you had when you moved his hands upwards, gloved fingers skimming over the fabric of those pesky fishnets, brushing past the bottom of your black skirt until they were by your waist.

Like a key in a door, you pushed his hands in to hold you, your own hands over his to keep them from straying further. Relief exited the pair of you in the form of a sigh, although it was the furthest thing from the satisfaction that played on his mind – the satisfaction that made him feel like a sinner. 

Longing and lust cultivated an illusiveness on your expression. 

He thought he spied desire. 

Nothing else, only, and the lonesome expression on your face had his brows furrowing. He’d spoken to you to know that you weren’t anything if not a little crude – forward, was how you’d described yourself when the pair of you’d engaged in a game of 20 questions with one another.

Fear and you simply could not co-exist, but then, in that moment, with his hands around your waist, he caught you leering over your shoulder, and when you turned back to him with dilated pupils and baited breath, he’d thought you to have been scared.

If not scared, then perhaps suffering from a spell of apprehension. Walking the fine line of the relationship the pair of you’d cultivated, a man of risk was what had gotten him (accidentally, albeit) involved in a meeting with the Task Force who were still yet to leave the base – it was the thing that had the leader, Rorke, telling him just how impressive he was. 

That being said, he took the greatest risk in his life as he gently pulled you by the waist, toward him. It was a quiet invitation, this reassurance, an attempt to tell you that he was there – he wasn’t going anywhere if you did what he was hoping you'd do.

The invitation broke you free from the cuffs of doubt, he saw it when you blinked, felt it when you leant in, and tasted it on his tongue. Nicotine and lipstick, a sublime combination that had his fingers curling tighter around you.

Your hands found his shoulders, bracing yourself with a squeal when he moved his leg between yours and pulled you closer. A giggle leaving your mouth was the thing that first broke the pair of you from your kiss, lasting all of a few panted breaths before his mouth was back on yours. 

It was bold, it was messy as he was sure a few of his attempts to kiss you were on par with a teenager's first. The heart and passion was there and, if he did capture the side of your mouth, you reserved your judgement, trailing your tongue against his bottom lip – a request.

He received it fully, a tangent of tongues tangling ensuing as his hands moved upwards. Your hands shook, beating him to the zipper of your coat. With your lips still on his, you yanked the zipper down, shrugging the coat off your shoulders, tossing it to the side. 

Breaking apart, you rested your forehead against his, catching the zip of his coat between the tips of your fingers. “Y- You,” you took a breath, “fancy freezin’ to death tonight, soldier?” 

His hand pressed against yours, and with a tug, the zip of his own jacket came undone. “So long as it’s with you, suppose I don’t have any complaints.” Bracing his hand against the small of your back, he leant forward and took his coat off. Leaving it resting against the back of the Church pew, falling back against it. “There’s worse ways to die.”

“I can think of no better way, I don’t think.”

He hummed, raising his hand to hold your chin. As you had done weeks before, he pressed the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip – only, he did so with no intent of scrubbing off your lipstick (which had smudged and stained your cheek in the midst of your passion). No, instead, he pulled your bottom lip down, smirking to himself. 

“Me neither, doll.” 

The nickname that passed his lips was the ignition of your passion, he’d prodded a sleeping bear with a stick, rewarded handsomely with your teeth sinking into his bottom lip, gloved fingers sinking into his shoulders. How tender it was to feel you, not burdened by the fabric of his coat. Yes, the air was biting – goosebumps on his skin proof enough of that – although, as he closed his hands around the flesh of your ass, and felt the heat of your body against his, any care he had concerning the cold weather melted. 

“You think we’re gonna go to hell for doin’ this,” you swallowed hard, “in a Church?” 

“God’s plan, kid,” he responded, “I might finally be a believer, if that’s the case.”

A giggle left your mouth. “You’re terrible.” 

“Hardly,” he answered back, finding his feet, bringing you with him.

Your hands looped around his neck with a yelp as he brought you onto the stage, settling you down with ease. Keegan's hands toyed with the edge of your sweater and he sat back on his calves.

Fortunately for the pair of you, his common sense was the victor as opposed to the brewing lust in his gut as his fingers fell away from the knitted fabric.

Instead, his hand moved to caress your inner thigh, to which he heard a soft sigh... or perhaps it was a moan. Whatever it was, it was muted, terribly so, and when he turned his head up, he found you biting your lip. Keeping his eyes trained on you, he quickly removed his gloves, throwing them to the side.

The heat between your legs was delectable, enough to save the freezing weather beyond those walls from freezing him to death. The keen eye he'd trained stayed on you and your face, watching each twitch and, when he finally pressed his fingers against your clothed cunt, he couldn't keep his jaw from falling slightly open as, even from such a small touch, you turned your eyes towards the ceiling.

"This what you want, doll?" he asked, moving forward.

How dare you try to avoid him and his eyes? Really, it was offensive and so, he went through the trouble of planting one hand beside your head, leaning over. Only then did he press the pad of his thumb against your clit and the reaction was electric.

You squirmed below him, a cute – desperate – plea leaving your mouth, "Keegan, please... don't tease."

Pulling his hand away, he unsheathed the knife attached to his holster. You stared, wide eyed as he held it with a firm hand. Moving his hand from your head, settling back against his calves, he used his free hand to pull your skirt up. Then, he brought the knife downwards, the tip of it catching one of the holes of your fishnets.

"You emotionally attached to these?"

Your bottom lip wobbled as though to give a response. Stuttered, shy, quaint little attempts of confirmation. Your response was given in the form of an exclamation which bounced off the walls when he cut the fabric between your legs.

"Oh my fucking God."

The fabric snagged and tore on his blade, creating a hole, allowing him to see the slight dark spot in your grey, cotton panties. It was then that the heat, this redness, overcame him as Keegan used the blade, slicing through the fabric of your underwear resting at your hips. Dropping the knife, he pulled the flap of fabric down, exposing your cunt. 

In the candle light, he spied a thin sheen of slick coating your puffy lips and, with his eyes still on you, and his fingers in the shape of a ‘v’, he dragged them downwards, spreading your lips apart.

And oh, the sound was deliciously sinful, you shuddered beneath him, head turned to the side as you pressed your lips together. 

“There we go, baby,” Keegan grunted, “look how fuckin’ wet you are already. All this and I've barely touched you,” he chuckled, almost mocking you.

A sweet scent compelled him to lean forward, bowing his head. He felt you freeze when his breath fanned against your cunt, the goosebumps on the exposed flesh hardening.

And then he indulged, and God, you were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Pressing his tongue flat against your cunt, he held your legs open by bracing his hands on your knees. 

You squealed, back arching as he licked a stripe up your pussy, edging closer and closer to your hole. The noises he made: the slurping, the heaving breaths as his heartbeat rang in his ears – all of it was so filthy, so wrong, but he consumed you like a man possessed.

Whether intentional or not, you pressed yourself down further against his face, the tip of his nose pressing against your clit. Your legs stuttered, “please, please – yes – Keegan–”

Chanting his name as though it was a prayer, cute, he’d thought to himself, tongue prodding against your hole. As he did so, your hands came down, fingers curling tightly around his black locks, tugging them as though he was a lifeline – your only chance of survival – and you would be damned if you were to let your grip slip, even a little bit.

Burning lungs had him pulling away briefly to catch his breath, hooded eyes glancing up at you. You, you sweet thing, were shooting daggers at him.

How irksome to see such frustration and when he drew his eyes downwards at the mess he’d made of you, he mustered a mouthful of salvia and spat on your cunt before losing himself once more on your sweetness.

Somehow, your grip grew even tighter as you, essentially, rode his face, puffy clit grinding against the bridge of his nose, his tongue pushing past the ring of your cunt – and he loved every fucking second of it. 

The closest to God a man like him could ever get. 

You came with a yelp, blubbering his name beneath your breath as you arched your back off the stage, panting like a mutt. Thighs trembling like insecure walls, threatening to fall in and suffocate him and still, he showed no mercy. 

What a marvellous way to die, he’d thought, truly. 

Unrelenting in his execution, Keegan lapped up the juices from your orgasm like a man starved, blunt nails forming crescents in your knees, your grip on his hair causing him to wince.

With the satisfaction of your orgasm, your tight grip on his hair loosened, back falling against the floor, and you laid, sucking in heaving breaths through your mouth. 

He resurfaced, face slick with your release, pressing his lips against yours. You accepted it openly, hands pressed against his chest, drifting downwards towards the zipper of his pants. It was then he’d realised just how terribly hard his cock had gotten, more than sure he’d probably stained his pants like a horny teenager.

Any other time, perhaps he’d have some sort of shame, although, a reality where that was a case was so distant when your fingers brushed against him that an apology – or even embarrassment – was the further thing on his mind. No, his cock was pulsing, he was feverishly hungry, ravenous, and you were the best meal he’d ever had in his life. 

Uncertainty was commonplace, but not when it came to you. Especially not at that moment, either. Guiding your hands, he undone the top button of his grey cargos, you unzipped the zip, greedy little hands pulling down his pants slightly. Only, you were shaking too much in the wake of your climax, clumsy and sloppy. 

Silly girl. 

“You got it, dolly, c’mon,” he grunted. 

With the additional motivation that seeped from his mouth, you succeeded in shimmying his pants down to the point where the belt-loops sat at the lower half of his thighs, all under the view of the man who was grinning at you, enjoying your struggle.

He'd always taken pleasure in seeing his enemies helpless, never did he think he'd feel the same concerning someone who could not be further from that.

After a while, he relented, hands catching your wrists, taking them in one of his, and pinning them above your head, all while he pulled down his underwear, leaking cock springing out, hitting the bottom of his stomach. The cool air caused him to almost whimper, head dropping for a moment. 

It was then that he realised.

“Shit.” 

You blinked, “what’s wrong?”

“’ve not got any condoms with me.”

You clicked your tongue, “I’m on the pill; daddy said it’s the responsible thing to do.”

His cock twitched, “yeah?” he asked, taking his cock in his hand, guiding it to your cunt. Precum oozed from the tip as he pressed it against your clit, rubbing it up and down your pussy with a breathy sigh. “Bet’cha daddy wouldn’t be happy knowin’ his little girls sneakin’ out,” he sucked up a breath as he dragged his length downwards, closer to your hole, “letting some rando eat her pretty little pussy, an’ fuck her in a place of worship. Would he?” 

His cock pressed against your hole, and when you didn’t answer him, he smacked your cunt with it, “I asked you a question, doll. Answer me.” 

“No,” you said, “no he wouldn’t be – he’d be so angry. Never let me leave the house – hnng – fuck!” 

He pushed into you, feeling the tip of his cock breach you. It was a heat like no other, so warm, so inviting – it put any other quick fuck to shame, that was for sure. His head fell backwards as he slowly pushed inch after inch into you. 

"Keep going," he demanded.

"Never leave the... the house," you drawled, "never let me see you ever again."

"And what would you do?"

"N- Not listen to him!"

“Fuck,” he said through gritted teeth, “that’s fuckin' right, doll."

Sinful and invasive, like a virus, a heat blossomed in his stomach when he finally bottomed out with a huff. The venue and where the pair of you were in that moment meant nothing, really, in hindsight, he might have even said that he missed out on the opportunity of seeing you in the divine light, situated against the lectern whilst taking his cock in that tight little cunt of yours.

All that being said, had he the power of hindsight in that moment anyway, maybe he would have taken more time, soaked up the feeling of you clenching around him as though you’d intended to kill him there and then.

But, no matter how he carried himself, he could not escape his humanness, something which existed with a primal need to satiate whatever hunger crossed him, and when he pulled out slightly, all push back in, he swore he saw the light. 

You: the muse of all muses, were utterly baronial.

Had he been a writer, he would have written until his pen had no more ink, until his hands bled from over exertion, all for the sake of stating all of the praises that crossed his mind there and then, and every waking second afterwards. Words were not his forté, much to his dismay when he thrusted back into, earning a gasp from you.

Bracing a gloved hand against his forearm, your other hand curled around the curve of the side of his head, pulling him downwards. He smelt nicotine on your breath against his chin, your lips parted as he found a steady rhythm that had a melody of ‘ah’s’ passing your lips with each thrust. 

Then, he pressed his lips back against yours, dirty, open-mouthed kisses as he used a hand to grope at your tits.

Such a shame it was the middle of winter, what he would have done to have you stripped bare for him, to see each dimple, each mark, each scar – to see everything that made up you.

With his hand situated on your chest, he felt the thudding of your heart, rushing as though you were running a race, and when he pulled away, you let out a delighted yelp.

“R- Right there, please, please, I wanna cum, I wanna cum so bad!”

“That right, baby?” he asked through gritted teeth. 

Making no effort to quicken his pace, he settled into the rhythm that had gotten you so close to the edge in the first place, hand slipping from your chest to press against the bottom of your stomach. You grew frigid when he did that, and he caught a trail of saliva, in the shape of a tear, sliding down the curve of your chin. 

“Wanna come around my cock? That what you want?”

You nodded eagerly, whining like a bitch in heat. “More than anything, Keegah, please!"

“Beg for it then, baby,” he demanded, pressing down harder on the bottom of your stomach, “wanna… fuck – wanna hear that pretty voice of yours.” 

“Please, please, Keegan, I wanna come, I wanna come around your fat fucking cock so badly. I want you to ruin me f- forever.” 

“Ruin you?” he asked, unable to keep the chuckle that rattled his chest from leaving his mouth, looking down at you as sweat brewed on his brow, “want no one to touch you after me, uh? No one else to fuck this tight little cunt like me.” His hips stuttered as the chord in his stomach began to swell and his pace began to quicken. “Cause you’re mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine, no one else.” 

You repeated his words like a chant, nodding dumbly, “a- all yours!”

“Go on then,” he uttered lowly, “cum ‘round my cock, pretty girl.” 

His hand stuttered as your breaths grew short, hasty, your entire body trembling.

For a moment, he’d thought he’d lost you completely to the wave of pleasure that washed over you, having you scream his name, arching your back with tears streaming down your face. You soaked his cock as you came, hole constricting around him. Not once did he consider stopping, fucking you through your orgasm.

His own breathing grew shallow, the heat in his body developing into a scorching blaze.

With his hips pressed firmly against you, fingertips holding you with a bruising grip, he came undone wholly, completely and utterly with a shrill grunt, entire body trembling upon his release, spilling his load inside of you.

Still, his hips maintained some sort of fluid motion, fucking his cum in to you, forehead pressed against your shoulder. 

Keegan fell to the side of you, breathless and pulling you with him so you were lying on top of him, his softening cock still in your cunt. Your chests fought with one another, raising and falling , knocking into each other as you laid in the abandoned Church together.

A fuzziness encompassed his head, muted and dense as he laid with heavy eyes like a soldier bleeding out on the battlefield.

You shifted on top of him, hand pawing at his shoulder as his hairs stood on end, and in his ear you whispered with your hand pressed against his cheek, “A love so strong,” you said with a breath, “it tears my heart.”

The night ended soon after, the traipse through the snow accompanied with short conversation, and the complaints that he’d ruined your underwear in the heart of the moment. He patted the sheath on his thigh where the knife sat and grinned to himself, hand in yours as he escorted you all the way back to the camp grounds.

Before leaving, you cupped his face with your hand, pulling him in for a final kiss. His hand pressed into the small of your back, pulling you against him. When you separated, your touch lingered on him, breath clouding in the air, and with joy, you spoke. 

“All I have is my love of love… and you.” 

He grinned, “and love is not loving,” he stepped closer, pressing his lips against your once more, uttering, “but I am.” 

You left each other with those few lonesome, pretty words, and he made his way back to the base with the helping hand of the moonlight guiding him, knowing that his life had changed.

He just hoped it was for good.

[manicrouge]

everyone’s fav quokka in the form of a quick doodle :3

[manicrouge]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

SAVIOUR - [John MacTavish x F!Reader]

[About]: Your lovers always leave. Fortunately for you, Johnny had no intent on going anywhere.

[Wc]: 0.6k

[cw]: mentions of murder, Johnny is a psycho in this, uhhh manipulation and dumbification but no smut, mentions of blood too, yandere!Soap, toxic dynamic

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Oh, poor little lamb.

Those words are on the tip of his tongue as he holds you in his arms.

Poor, poor thing, so willing to trust, you wear your heart on your sleeve you do, and then cry when someone purposefully snags it. Rotten men, to the core they are, not knowing what beauty the possess when they have you in their arms.

That could never be something he would do - he'd never dream of it, no. Because of this, you think the world of him and he knows you do because you're here, in his arms, sobbing your little heart out.

"I- I... I thought he was different, Johnny!" you bawl, a snivelling, snotty wreck as you look to him.

Your saviour.

"It's okay, sweetheart."

"He said he loved me, a- an'-"

You're gasping for air as he pulls you away from him, holding your shoulders.

"Breathe for me, lassie," he soothes gently, his head tilting upwards, a wolfish grin on his face as you suck up a few stuttered breaths. "Tha's it, good girl."

As you attempt to compose yourself, he takes the time to admire the state you've worked yourself into. Puffy eyes, blood red and teary, bottom lip swollen from sinking your teeth into it no doubt. Each tear is like a stream in a forest - reminds him of when he was growing up - and, it reminds him of the forest he'd spent a couple of hours in last night, digging a nice deep grave for the garbage bag that had taken to squirming about on the forest floor.

"He's... he's the third one, Johnny," you say quietly, shaking like a leath in his arms, "what if I'm just gonna be like this forever, what if I'm-"

"Don't ye say that," he says starkly, "cause if no one wants you, then fuck 'em - ye know why?"

Your looking at him dumbly, wide-eyes doe like a deers in headlights. He can smell the tea he brewed for you on your tongue as you exhale gently. Bringing his hand upwards, he brushes the pad of your cheek. The smile he smiles as he looks at you is partly because of how adorable you look from crying, how pretty of a crier you are.

The other is because he'd seen a similar look in that pesky boyfriend of yours that had, undoubtably, suffocated to death by now.

You lean into his touch like a touch-starved cat, asking, "W- Why?'

"Cause y've got me," he says simply, as though such was fact. "And you'll always have me. None of this little boy shit, playin' games, you need a man, an' that's what I'll be."

The moment, what he speaks and how he holds you is romantic, and he knows it as he sees a switch flip in your mind, and in spite of the sobbing fit he'd endured, a smile cracks through, like sunlight at dawn. "Oh, Johnny," you snivel, "you really mean it?"

"Course, lovie... I love ya."

Didn't go through the trouble of scrubbing the extra blood out me clothes for ya to say no.

Your lips taste like salt and lipstick when they're on his, a ravenous heat consume his being as he holds you close, hand firmly on the back of your neck.

So delectable, so delicious, and you, you little lamb, starry eyed beauty, have no idea just how much danger you're in.

[manicrouge]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MISTRESS - [John Price x F!Reader]

[About]: John's first marriage is hard to beat. You were foolish to think otherwise.

[Wc]: 0.5k

[cw]: ANGST!!!!, break up, John is literally a cunt idk guys

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

John Price was married.

Not that he hadn't warned you of this, no, he'd told you time, and time again that, whether he liked it or not (you never quite pinned down whether or not he did like it), you would always come second to his first wife.

You took the warning as a challenge, stupidly believing that, while yes, the sanctity of his first marriage was important, surely when he slipped the ring on your finger he'd have a change of heart - he just had to; what type of man slipped a ring on someone's finger without the intent of settling down?

Well, the little thing was, he never did.

It was supposed to play out a particular way, you were supposed to be his happily ever after, you were supposed to have time together, go to restaurants, laugh, joke, have kids, and grow old.

Together.

So, when messaged you earlier that day, you thought your dreams were finally going to come true.

Meet me in Brews at half eight.

You took your time, finding the perfect dress, doing your makeup, fixing your hair all for, when he finally did decide to show, him to be in his typical work attire: cargos, boots, and a tight fitting top.

You felt your stomach twist, but ignored it as he pulled his chair out and took a seat.

"I ordered you your favourite," you said with a smile, "is everything okay? You're late."

"Only by fifteen," he said, sucking a breath through his teeth. And with the promptness that had started your relationship said, "this isn't working."

Your fingertips froze above the napkin to your right. "What?"

"Us," he said, clearing his throat, "were not working." The setting made sense; he hadn't wanted a reaction. As though to absolve himself of blame he said, "I told you this would happen when we first started seein' each other; works got me too busy-" he stared at you, "are you listen' to me?"

You wetted your lips. "Break up," you said stiffly. "You wanna break up?'

His nostrils flared and he nodded. "Yeah. I do."

You blinked. One minute you were there, and the next, he was standing in front of you at the alter, grinning as he took your hands in yours. You woke from the brief daydream when you pinched yourself. No, you weren't at the alter, you were sitting in the dimly lit room, and he wasn't smiling.

Not one bit.

"Okay," you said, in spite of feeling your eyes growing wet. "Yup, okay, that's, uh, that's fine."

You'd expected him to say something, anything else - apologise, feel sorry. Instead, the chair squealed as he pushed out with a squeal. He looked down at you, and bid your farewell as though you were a colleague, not his partner of two years.

You didn't look at him, didn't blink, hardly even breathed.

Just stared at the empty space in front of you, feeling the mascara you'd bought especially for the date running down your cheeks, crossing your legs beneath the table as the world around you seemed to freeze around you.

No, you weren't married, and he was, just not to you.

You were the mistress, his job his first, and only wife.

And the only proof he'd ever been there was not a ring on your finger, rather, a pint of beer destined to remain untouched which was placed across from you by a waiter who gave you an awkward glance.

[manicrouge]

OMG I NEED THE ALDER PIN :OOOOOO

Hey guys!

So, I'm finally going to be reopening my new shop on Tuesday August 5th!!!! I've been working away at getting it made haha and all the listings up. Here's a sneak peak of a couple NEW items that'll be up - acrylic pins of the Soap and Ghost eyes, as well as some CoD buttons from my recently acquired button maker ahahahah

First up on Tuesday will be all of my Call of Duty items. Squid game stuff will come later in the week, and then Star Wars and other fandoms the week after! Staggering the drops is just easier to manage for me and less pressure. 😊🧡

Will let you know when my shop goes live and share further photos. 😊🧡🧡🧡

[manicrouge]

hes so cosy i cant

Cozy

[manicrouge]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

BLURB

A small sail boat can be seen on the horizon of Homestead, the inhabitant a man who is rough around the edges, and who also holds a peculiar grudge against your white sandals.

cw: slow burn, violence, eventual smut, angst, mentions of character death, vomit, description of wounds, grief, suicidal ideation, description of anxiety attacks, size difference, incredible yearning my goodness

(If I have missed something, please, please, please let me know!)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

CHAPTERS

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

➸ PROLOGUE

╰┈➤ [About]: A brief introduction to the small town of Homestead.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

➸ CHAPTER ONE

╰┈➤ [About]: You set off to investigate a boat on the horizon.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

➸ CHAPTER TWO

╰┈➤ [About]: You share an early morning with the stranger you met the day prior, finding that he has a particular disdain (not only towards your sandals), but towards the sunlight - and a good cup of coffee.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

[manicrouge]

If the guys were in a world like DND what would their classes be? And would they all be human… or something else? I saw your name and thought: Hmmmmm… I wonder if they like DND

Fun fact: I've actually never ever played DND in my life but I have friends who are OBSESSED with it, so I can't answer this without fearing I'd be horrifically wrong about it - which I'm very sorry about!

I'm very open to writing about it/ learning about it/ having discussions about it, however!! So if you're willing to be patient with me while learning, it's totally something I'd be interested in exploring :3

[manicrouge]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

WHITE SANDALS: CHAPTER TWO

John Price x F!Reader

[About]: You share an early morning with the stranger you met the day prior, finding that he has a particular disdain (not only towards your sandals), but towards the sunlight - and a good cup of coffee.

[Wc]: 2.6k

[cw]: mentions of death

PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUST AS every morning of that summer had started, that morning was no different.

Rolling out of bed, slipping into another light-fitting dress, brushing your teeth, washing your face, and packing your breakfast in your small picnic basket. Before exiting, you were always sure to grab your notepad from off of your nightstand – the pen too. Then, and only then, you’d pull open the door, proceeding on your venture. 

Your feet moved around the twist and turns of the path, your eyes remaining straight ahead, opting to look at the blue sky as opposed to where you were going. After climbing the fence, wooden beams decorated with barbed wire, the incline started. Each step had your legs burning, and by the time you made it to the top of the hill, you were huffing and puffing something fierce, hands braced against your knees and sweat gathered on your brow. With your eyes drawn down to the ground, you hadn’t noticed the figure sitting approaching you  until a shadow was cast over you and a voice said, “I thought I said not to wear those shoes again.”

You snapped your head up and turned quickly, so much so, you stumbled. The man you’d met on the beach yesterday, Price, was standing in front of you, arms folded across his chest. He almost tutted at the sight of your footwear, a look of disappointment on his face. Sucking up a mouthful of air, you straightened your back, and furrowed your brows. 

“What are you doing up here?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” said the man, looking at the basket in your hand. “You planning on having a picnic by yourself or something” 

“I come up here every morning.”

“Is that so,” asked the man, scratching his chin, “well, you ought to start asking now, considering the fact that, by law, you’re trespassing on private property.” 

You turn to the small rock at the peak of the climb, feeling the breeze blow against the patch of sweat that had formed at the back of your cotton dress as you huff. Your efforts seemed frivolous as you anticipated the man turning you away, especially after slipping on the same sandals that had caused you so much trouble the day before. It was surely the punishment for going against his word. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I didn’t know.”

“How long have you been comin’ here?”

“Since I realised I could get over the barbed wired fence at the bottom of the trail,” you confessed, scratching the back of your  as you twisted your foot into the dirt below you, looking for any way to burrow your way out of the situation you’d found yourself in. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, I just–”

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’d be a bit of a prick if I stopped you from sitting and… having breakfast?”

You corrected him, “Having breakfast and writing.”

“Oh,” gasped the man as though he’d made some sort of profound realisation, “sorry. Having breakfast and writing.”

You bit back the urge to scoff at Price and his sarcasm, moving past him, all to stop a couple of feet away from him. “I always pack extra pastries with me,” you said, looking over your shoulder, deciding that you'd much rather make a new friend as opposed to an enemy. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like to.” 

In response, he grunted at you and walked away. 

The spout of rudeness had a prickling heat forming on your flesh; he hadn’t any reason to treat you with such dismissal when you had been so generous to invite him to experience the magic which was your spot – didn’t matter what the law said, no, finders keepers. Alas, the bitterness faded as you tread further down to the end of the dirt path, leaning over and dropping your basket at your feet. You took a seat on the road, legs crossed as you dug through its innards, hands brushing over all the things you’d packed for yourself, retrieving the ruby-red apple that had fallen to the bottom, then taking hold of your notepad and pen. 

It was the simple things, the food that lined your stomach, the words that lined your heart that made your grievances – that man and his attitude – fade from the world, and the bliss that came with listening to the rolling ocean waves, thunderous as they struck the ground beneath you. Everything paled in comparison as there was no light quite as bright as the sun, no song as melodic as the sound of the chirping birds, and no touch as gentle as the summer breeze. 

Living could be taxing and had been so on occasion; you’d experienced the grey days and you’d endured the storm which weathered your skin, all to come through with the light on the other side with the understanding that nature could and would (if you persevered) heal all. Everything passed, to life’s merit. 

It was just a shame a bliss like that had to leave too. 

All that said, you’d never quite felt your heart pound against your chest as it did when you heard the rustling of grass behind you, and when you turned to address the noise, a mug of freshly brewed coffee was extended out to you, Price holding his own in his other hand. You stared at the mug and then back up at him, slightly slackjawed and the heat of hatred cooled to a coldness you’d only ever associate with gutwrenching guilt. 

“You just gonna stare at me or are you gonna take it?”

His words prompted you to take hold of the handle, wrapping your hands around the mug, pulling it away from him. Price took a seat beside you, the golden light of the sunrise gracing his features, bringing out slight blond flecks in his beard. You took a sip, wincing as the bitterness hit the back of your throat. Pulling the mug away from your mouth, you turned your head away from Price as you coughed as though you’d just done a shot of vodka. 

He chuckled. “I like strong coffee.”

You grimaced, setting the cup down beside your basket. “There’s strong coffee, and then there’s a cup of tar.”

“All this fancy bullshit’s a waste – if you’re gonna have coffee, you oughta drink it like that; it’ll wake you up.”

“I had one sip, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep a wink in my life ever again.” You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, chasing the bitterness of the coffee away with a bite of the apple that had been resting in your lap. “How do you sleep drinkin’ that?”

For a moment, he was quiet. 

“Like a baby.”

Your lips curled into a smile. “Hm. Unsurprising.”

“Every engine needs its fuel.”

“Poetic… Do you write?”

“Do I look like a writer?”

You turned to address his features, pursing your lips. The absence of his hat was striking as his hair was well kept, short on the sides, slightly longer on the top – well groomed for a man who drank coffee the equivalent of dirt in a cup. His nose was large, a tad bit crooked, brows thick and bushy, and his beady eyes dug into your skin. 

“What does a writer look like?”

“You a philosopher?”

You snorted. “Hardly.” 

“You like questions enough to be considered one,” said the man, taking a sip of his coffee. You took another bite of your apple. “How long have you been working for the Paper here?’ 

“A while,” you said, opening your notepad. “Nothing interesting really goes on around here – I mostly work on editing short stories, and running ads for the local businesses,” you explained, “Can see why the owner couldn’t wait to pass the job off to me, though.”

“He not like it?”

You clicked your tongue, “He’s in it for the money,” you said, “I’m not – hence why I’m better at the job… not that I don’t like the money,” you followed up, smoothing out a wrinkle in one of the pages of your notebook. “Because it pay good, and who wouldn’t want a job where they could sit and look at the world?”

“Don’t you find it boring?”

“I see no merit in getting my hands dirty – learnt my lesson a long time ago,” you shrugged with a small laugh. “Some people want to get dirty – do something and force change with their bare hands, but since moving here, that’s never been something I’ve been interested in.” You looked him up and down, glancing at his hands. When you did so, you remembered the dirt beneath his fingernails, and with the little evidence you had, accused him of being just that. “You seem like that type, though.” 

There was a red flush which encompassed his features, a brooding reminder that the man sitting beside you did, in fact, possess a beating muscle. You imagined it to be beating as hard as yours was in that moment; you noticed how his hands shook slightly as the rim of the cup dug into his lips. 

“How was your first night here?” you asked. 

“Alright,” Price said, “took a while to get set up – had to go back and forward from the docks to here, but nothing I haven’t had to do before.”

“You must’ve had a good sleep after that.” 

You felt his discomfort – raw and blatant. 

It was an unspoken thing; something that anyone else would have missed. Like a flash in the sky during a thunderstorm, you caught it in his eyes as they flickered from the horizon to you. Brief, yes, but heavy enough to remain for a lifetime. You felt the weight of his eyes even when he turned his head away from you, delving back into the reserves of his mind. 

He was looking for something.

Had he the option, you believed he would have scoured the clouds with his calloused hands, pulled them apart like laced curtains in the hopes of finding the thing that had him sitting with narrowed eyes, and a sour expression. As you observed him, you wondered if he would be heavy handed with what it was that he was looking for, if the roughness of his hands would translate to how he held it, or if he would simply stare and do nothing else. Both seemed plausible for, when you remembered the feeling of his hands, Price seemed like a man who was restrained; like a feral dog on a leash.

“Not quite.” 

He tipped his head backwards, finishing the last of the coffee in his cup. He put it down beside his foot, bringing his hands together as he leant forward. You’d thought of standing to shield him from the sun; he was looking at it with such intent you feared he would burn his irises. Instead, you retrieved one of the pastries you’d baked the day prior, and held it out to him. 

“Here,” you said, catching his attention. 

He turned to face you and took it out of your hands, your fingers brushing momentarily. Before putting his lips to it, he inspected it as though you had mixed in a heap of rat poison while baking. Something possessed you – what it was that compelled you to do something so unruly remained unknown – as you pushed yourself forward, taking a bite out of the end of the croissant. Crumbs fell between the pair of you, sticking to the edge of your lips as you chewed. 

All grace left you as you said, with a mouthful of half-eaten pastry, “See? It’s not poisoned.” 

He was surely questioning his decisions that had led him there and then, you’d believed so as he didn’t move. But, when he did, it was to take a bite out of the pastry without so much as a flinch, all while staring at you. 

No matter what, your eyes always fell back on his. Their blueness rivaled the ocean beyond the cliff edge, and you realised that the longer you stared at him, as they glistened whenever sunlight would capture his face. Your tongue curled with the intent of addressing the concern that wrinkled Price’s brow, but, instead, you asked, “what do you think?”

Just as you had done, he answered you whilst still chewing, “Good.” 

You grinned ear-to-ear, “Thanks… but, if you want a good pastry, you should go to the bakery here, the lady there – Ana – makes the best, and I mean it, the best pastries you will ever taste in your whole entire life.”

He watched you as you talked, singing the praises of a woman he’d never met in his life. He remained unmoved, taking another bite of the food, keeping you from saying any more as he extended his hand out and pointed to the coffee he’d made for you. Immediately, you stopped and grabbed it, giving it to him. He drank from the cup, eating the last bit of the croissant. 

“She’s got competition,” he said, wiping his mouth, “as long as you don’t put poison in anything you bake, that is.”

“Hm, I’ll have to consider it; it’s my secret ingredient.” 

For the first time that morning, he laughed. 

It rumbled his chest like the key turning in a car with a dead battery. It was a great sound, you thought, no matter how rusty the cogs in his larynx seemed to be. In fact, you intended to break them of the rust entirely all for the sake of hearing that again. 

You wondered if you could be a worthy opponent against his ferocious blues, and on that note, also wondered if there had been anyone brave to weather such a brutal storm before you. If so, who had been the soldiers who had come before you and – most importantly – had they survived?  

Would you survive?

Even when he laughed, you noticed that the sadness in his eyes returned with a bloodlust, a fiery vengeance when he looked back out at the sun, addressing it like it had been the perpetrator – his betrayer. The will in his eyes was the will of a man scorned; you’d seen it plenty, knew it like an old friend. 

He wants it to die, you’d thought. 

For it to burn out for an eternity, even if it meant the end of the world. Weirdly, you had a feeling that his world had ended a while ago. How the end had come about, you were none the wiser, but what you did know was that you had seen that look before. 

Your hands clamored for your pen and, while he sat there, distracted, you scribbled: how did his world end? You closed the book over, resting the pen on top of it, eyes fixated on him. 

Neither of you spoke in your remaining time together, you finished your apple whilst tapping your pen against the cover of your book, feeling the heat of the sun slowly wash over the pair of you like a thick duvet on a winter’s night. 

It was broken when he told you he had to continue on with settling in as the wind blew as he spoke. You did nothing in the form of protest, simply nodding as you said, “thanks for the coffee.” 

Watching as he left, the air around you housed much more of a bite upon his absence and you clung to your notepad with a white-knuckle grip. 

You blamed the knot in your throat on the sip of coffee you’d taken an hour prior. 

[manicrouge]

[manicrouge]

John Price who is so used to living below his means (the job sorta requires it, y'know, no fine dining in a warzone), who, instead of using milk in his cereal, settles for water.

For the most part, he's surrounded by people who do similar things - it had been Johnny who'd had the genius idea of water in weetabix when they had no milk on site, and ever since he's seen no reason to use milk; waters cheaper, it all tastes the same, and he can get it whenever and wherever.

Meanwhile, the intellect of the Scot renders you speechless after spending the night at John's place as he takes his bowl of weetabix, and holds it under the fucking tap.

And then, he turns to you as though you're the one committing what is (really), a crime, and asks, "What?"

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

» CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

» CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

» CHAPTER FIVE: THE PANZER

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ

» CHAPTER SIX: A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴜʀɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ

» CHAPTER SEVEN: AMIENS

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴍɪᴇɴꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

» CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

» CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

Champagne Problems

[ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴍᴀᴄᴛᴀᴠɪꜱʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ]: 07/02/24

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: Reminiscing about the past always leaves a bitter taste in Johnny's mouth. Especially when those memories include you.

[ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ]: 5,814

[ᴛᴡ]: hurt and absolutely ZERO COMFORT!!! Mentions/ implications of alcoholism, angst, implied family issues, suggestive content.

[ᴀ/ɴ]: Pain, suffering and agony. You are welcome.

THIS IS A REPOST !! I've had few issues with shadowbans and have moved accounts a few times (tumblr thought I was a bot). Also I would like to have all my work in one place rather than spread across other blogs to avoid confusion !!

ENJOY !!

Please do not post my work to any other platforms, thank you.

He finds it difficult to stomach as he looks out of the window on a train. 

The return from deployment is always bittersweet. In particular, knowing he can return back to his hometown for a short while before having to eventually go back to the base.

But, all of that disappears as he’s sitting on the train, looking out the window as rain bats against it. His eyes can hardly make anything out, it’s far too dark for his eyes to make it much further than the outline of a mountain in the distance. His arms aching and he’s unsure how long he’s been looking out of it. He’s quite sure the sleeve of his jacket is completely soaked from the condensation dripping down the window, pooling on the window sill his elbow is resting on. Still, nothing changes his position, not even the shifts of the cart as it storms along the tracks. 

In his chest, he feels his heart murmur at the thought of getting closer to home.

It’s been a while. 

The silence on the train is unnerving as he turns his eyes away from the window for a moment. Across the aisle from him, there’s another traveller. His head is pressed firmly against the back of the chair as quiet snores escape his open mouth. As he focuses on him, he notes a glistening trail on his chin and grimaces, turning his eyes away from the man, directing his gaze back to the window.

Trains during the night-time are always strange, he was familiar with them when he first joined the army. Travelling to and from always seemed worse during the day, so, he'd opted to stay at the base for an extra day, leaving in the dead of night to catch the last train available home. There was no reason to leave during the day because at night, he knew he could sleep away all the worries, arriving home well rested. 

But then something changed.

After another op, he returned to his schedule of sitting on the train at night, looking down at the sketchbook resting against the table in front of him. Holding a pencil in his hand, he busied himself with a sketch of a familiar face. There were the remains of a mistake engraved into the paper, odd rolls of the rubber sitting on the bend of his notepad as he readied the eraser in his hand in preparation for another.

His tired eyes were heavy as he observed the features of the man on the page, a small grin forming on his face as he thought about the reaction from the man when he saw him again. He’d probably only nod his head at his attempts of drawing him, noting that the details of his mask were a little janky, but that wouldn’t matter; the eyes were perfect. But Johnny knew he would still lie to him because being sincere was not one of his lieutenants specialities. 

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ 

Setting the pencil down, he raised his head to see you standing in front of him. You smiled at him with a small glass in your hand, holding the seat opposite to him to keep yourself steady. ‘It’s just cause there’s no one else here and my phone died,’ you explained, ‘I won’t make a peep, I promise,’ you added. 

With a short nod, he motions towards the chair opposite to him, moving the pencil tin above his notepad so you had some space to place down your belongings. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘be my guest, bonnie.’ 

So, you took a seat, placing your backpack on the chair beside you, setting your glass down. He observed the colour of the liquid, the colours faint as the bubbles raise from the bottom of the small glass, dispersing at the top. He recalled how odd he thought it was when he had first seen the funny little drink on the table, only knowing the train-line to serve water and the occasional cup of tea.

‘Champagne,’ you answered, following his eyes to the glass, ‘thought I’d treat myself.' 

‘What’s the special occasion?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow, picking his pencil back up, resuming his portrait of the moody lieutenant. The train creaked at the cart turned slightly, and he caught your hand steading the drink. ‘Ye get a promotion?’ 

Looking at you again, he noted how you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip. Your eyes fell to the aisle and your chest rose as you took a deep breath. There was something about your apprehension that troubled him, the way your flushed cheeks paled left him wounded for a short while before he realised that he had no clue why he was thinking in such a manner.

It was her eyes, he reminisces while keeping his eyes trained on the window beyond the cart.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, the memories of you still wrapping around his mind as a kids train set does a families Christmas tree during the holidays. Looping round and round and round until it's put into a box. The season in his mind has lasted longer than the measly length of the month of December, spanning years (it seemed). It's torture, yet, despite it being so cruel, he dreads the arrival of the day where he finally has the courage to box you up and shove you to the back of his mind because that would be when he could begin to forget you.

Even after all the years that have passed, he finds his mouth moves as he recalls your response to his question when you had sat opposite to him on the train.

‘Moving out, actually.'

It was just as well everything happened for you on that day, you moved out the day he got the train home. Had anything been different, neither of you would have crossed paths and while agonising, he looks at the stars in the nights sky with an air of gratitude.

You admitted after a while, your eyes falling back onto him as you heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Been stuck in a shitty situation for a while, been sitting around waiting for a chance to get out of it and tonight just so happens to be the night that everything fell back into place.’

Your words haunted him during the night, appearing like a phantom in his dreams, calling out to him. The glint of gratitude in his eyes wavers.

Your words are soft as you spoke and he likened the look you gave him to one of the valleys he had witnessed when he had taken the day train home after his first deployment. A valley with a river right below it in the midst of shrubbery and trees. The water was blue, he could see it when he looked at her. The reflection of the sun reflecting off of the surface, mirroring the rocky trails of the mountains. The sight of such had left him breathless, just as you did when you took a deep breath, reaching out for her glass, bringing it to you mouth. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling a stranger my problems,’ you mumbled. 

‘It’s nae an issue, lass,’ he responded, ‘happy to hear y’ got outta whatever was making ye so miserable,’ he confessed, ‘and Scotland, eh? Pretty place if y’ ask me,’ he said with a short laugh. You laughed with him before taking another sip from your drink.

He watched as you did so, noting the glint in her eyes as you moved your eyes away from him to his notebook. Pulling the glass away from your mouth, you placed it down with a hum, swallowing the last of the drink in your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. It's a charming sight, clumsy and amusing.

‘You’re good at drawing,’ you noted, pointing at the drawing, ‘is he a character of yours?’ you asked, motioning to the drawing of the man with the skull face. A short chuckle passed his lips as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. 

‘Guess ye could call him that,’ he said, 'someone I know, actually ,' he confessed.

Your brows furrowed, wrinkles forming on your forehead as your eyes grew wide. Your hand ghosted the glass, wetting your fingers with the condensation dripping down the outside as you looked at him with glossy eyes. Fingerprints marked the glass as you forced your hand away.

'I'm so so sorry- I didn't mean it as an insult it's just-'

'Keep the heid, lass,' laughed the man.

You stared at him.

'Relax,' he said, noting the confusion on your face. Your tensed muscles softened as your picked up the glass off of the table, taking a big gulp, finishing the last of the contents in it. He frowns when he notices you shaking. You thought you had done so much wrong with a single observation. 'you weren't to know.'

'Does he really wear that mask?' you whispered as though Simon was right behind you, and had he been, Johnny could say with his heart that he wouldn't have been surprised; the damn man appeared out of nowhere all the time.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Is it part of his job?'

Your intrigue was adorable.

'No, he just prefers to hide his face,' he explained, 'suppose it makes work easier,' he said, nodding to himself. Despite his time knowing Simon, he never did know why he covered his face. Of course, it kept the human version of the man from the man who committed countless atrocities in the name of justice, yet, the point you brought up left him thinking for a short moment.

'You work together?' you asked, 'what do you do for work?'

'Part of the military,' he told you frankly, 'he's my lieutenant,' he added, although, he didn't care to tell you much more as he looked at the you with a furrowed brow, not wanting to leave you with enough time to respond to his confession, 'what about you, lass?'

'I write,' you said, 'I got a remote position at a publishing company, that's whats given me the money to move out.'

'I enjoy writin' from time to time,' he responded, 'not that good at it though, prefer drawing,' he uttered.

You were though, he didn't even bothers to think of your response because, truthfully, your humbleness in terms of your own talent was wounding to his own love for writing. As he would with advertisements, inwardly, he skips by all the small talk in his mind. It's cruel the way the mind works; memory was a burden to hold, yet as entertaining as a late night TV show which was to only be watched in secrecy.

'What's your name?' you asked, picking up another cup of champagne. He watched as you did so, lifting his own cup that you had gotten for him when you had excused yourself to the bathroom.

He kept his distaste of the beverage to himself, besides, it was free.

'Johnny,' he answered, ' and y'urself, bonnie?'

You answer accordingly, stating your name with a smile. Repeating your name, he finds it rolls off his tongue well and the longer he observes you, the more a conclusion dawned upon him.

'Suits ye well,' he complimented with a wink.

Rubbing his face with his hand, his breath fogs against the window of the train and he turns his head away, absentmindedly wiping down the window with the sleeve of his puffer jacket. In the meantime, he busies himself looking at the empty seat opposite to him.

In the blink of an eye, you're there, sitting across from him.

'When do you get off?' he asked.

'Last stop,' you answered, 'staying at a hotel for a few days before my place is ready... was eager to leave,' you said. As soon as the words passed your lips, he felt compelled to be a gentleman. That, alongside taking into account the trouble that could have occurred if you did walk to the hotel alone, besides, the least he could have done for you buying him a drink and keeping him company was help you find you way to your hotel.

'We can share a cab if ye want,' he offered, 'put my mind at ease, wanna make sure you get there safe, besides, far too cold for ye to be walkin', bonnie,' he said, biting the inside of his mouth as he awaited your refusal, only, you nodded your head and smiled.

'I'd appreciate that, Johnny.'

His memories blur for a while after that, and his cheeks flushed red as he recalls how you looked at him before you got out of the cab. Glancing at the same hand that paid the fare only far enough to go to your hotel he curses as he watches the memory of him getting out of the taxi to chase after you.

You waited for him at the entrance in hope he'd have a change of heart, and he recalls how delighted you were when he walked through the door and caught you standing there, waiting for him.

Truthfully, he knew he was in deep shit when he felt the way you wrapped around him, the way you called his name, and how pretty you looked underneath him. Even after years, it was difficult to escape the thought of your first night together. Perhaps it was the entire being strangers thing that made the sex much more enthralling than any other one night stand he had had, or maybe it was just you.

Shoulda never let her have me number, he thought to himself.

It was difficult to deny that there were only ever terrible times. Resentment bubbles and it turns the fondest of moments to the worse; there was something there for him to miss when he thinks fondly of you. Fondness makes forgetting a hell of a lot harder, at least it does for him, anyway.

He hardly even thinks about Graves anymore and he resents him.

He resents you too.

But whenever he thinks of you, he thinks of your laughter. And then the guilt seeps in and he curses himself for ever thinking so lowly of you in the first place. How fucking dare he do something so terrible. You deserve it, though, for all the shit you put him through: the bruised heart thats still bandaged up, the sleepless nights as he waited for you to come home, the drunken phone calls he would get while on an op.

All of it.

Then there was everything else: the moments you shared together, the sound of your laughter which would seemingly travel down the halls of your apartment and wake him whenever you spent the night together, the sight of you in his shirt while cooking breakfast in the morning and your excitement when you finally persuaded him to dance with you.

The last one was particularly difficult to forget. His fondness will never let him let it go, he's convinced.

In the depths of the night, you danced together. He acknowledged the look on your face as he held you in your arms, the laughter as he spun you around in a circle, pulling you away just for you to end right back in his arms. He'd never let you wonder too far, scared that if he lost grip of your hand, you would have disappeared forever.

It became a routine and he recalls all the times he had held you in his arms while dancing to a song by Sinatra or Aretha Franklin and all the times he saw you smile. All of those happy moments moulded into one, while only a few stuck out.

During that night in particular, he couldn't look away from your eyes.

Whenever he looked at you, he was started by the glint of colours in your eyes, reflective of the colourful lights you had decorated your Christmas tree with. Rather, instead of decorating the tree, the lights in your eyes worked well in decorating the brambles you called eyelashes as you looked up at him. Every time you blinked, he found the same glossy sheen he had seen that night on the train. Every blink seemed to edge you closer to tears, as though your eyelashes were antagonising your poor eyes constantly.

Then he smelt the liquor on you breath and was reminded of the underlining truth of everything.

You were always emotional whenever you had something to drink. It couldn't have been helped, it was simply who you were, and he was going to resent you for something you couldn't have helped.

'Yer oot yer face,' he mumbled, speaking softly to you as you swayed with one another to the low hum of music from your vinyl player. Neither of you noticed how the song skipped, far too busy with one another to notice such a flaw.

'English, MacTavish,' you answered, your tone gruff as you recalled the story he had told you about the man with the skull mask and the city soaked in blood. He chuckled, pulling you closer, resting his head against your shoulder, looking at you. You turned your head to the side to look at him too.

'You're drunk,' he said quietly.

'I only had a glass,' you answered abruptly. You tensed in his arms when you responded to him and he felt his head sink further down until it sat, burning in the acid of his stomach. 'I had it while I was making dinner; the sauce had some of it in,' you explained, turning in his arms so your chests were pressed against each others. placing your hand against his face. You looked worried in that moment, observing his features. 'You're not mad at me, are you?'

Placing his hand over yours, he sighed, 'nae, bonnie, just don't want ye to hurt y'urself,' he explained, pulling your hand from off of his face, planting a kiss atop of it, moving his other hand from the small of your back to hold your waist. 'Love you too much for ye to do that,' he said, letting go of your hand to place his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your head up so you were looking at him. 'Y'know that.'

'I do,' you weakly answered.

The only bastard 'I do' he ever got from your lips. It was laughable really as he looks back on that night, how the pair of you had been so close in your home, dancing together as though you were an elderly couple celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary together.

Think I'll live that long?

Probably not.

Had anyone from 141 been there to witness how he fell to pieces with you in his arms, they very well would have laughed until they were blue in the face. And the longer he looks out the window out on the Scottish countryside, he concludes he too would laugh at that man dancing with you for being such a smitten fool.

'Good,' he hummed, pressing a kiss against your lips. The were chapped, dry, but he didn't care. Instead, he deepened the kiss as the pair of you stumbled backwards, muffled laughter escaping you as you loosely wrapped your arms around his neck while he kept the pair of you from falling.

Moments of happiness seemed so common in the beginning.

The night trains shifted to day trains again.

He'd hit the ground running after returning from an op, only showering because he didn't want you to smell the remnants of war which stained him and his skin. Nothing kept him from seeing you, not even his distaste for the day train.

All of it meant that he could get home sooner; he recalled the sinking feeling in his chest whenever the trains were delayed by a measly twenty minutes. Love made him a different man, he realised, a man who enjoyed the day train and the man who loathed the night train.

'I thought you weren't going to be home for another couple of days,' you said, opening the door to see Johnny standing there with a bag on his arm. Dropping it, he pulled you into a tight hug, resting his hand against the back of your head as he swayed you from side to side. 'Did you get the day train for me?' you asked.

Pulling away, he caught sight of the smile creeping onto you face as he nodded his head slowly, 'didn't wanna wait longer than I had to,' he answered, 'saw a photo of ye in me wallet an' knew I needed to be here with you sooner,' he added, pressing a kiss onto your lips as your cheeks flushed red.

'You have a picture of me in your wallet?' you quietly asked when he pulled away for you. He smiled.

'Of course I do, bonnie,' he responded as though such was an obvious fact, 'need to see that face of yours every day, ye like medicine to me.'

'Really?'

'Aye, lass.'

Everything moved so quickly and it wasn't long before you were well acquainted with his mam.

Meeting his mother was the confirmation he needed to say that he wanted to marry you. No one else in the world mattered when he saw how you and his sisters bonded, and while sitting alone on the train, he clenched a his fist at the emptiness of the palm of his hand while imagining the light weight of the ring his mother had placed in the palm of his hand while he stood in the kitchen helping her prepare the Christmas dinner. It had been over two years since the pair of you had started dating when she did so, working well to convince him that the timing meant that something else in the universe had willed it to happen.

'Mam?' he asked, looking down at the ring in his hand.

The band was quaint, golden as an green gem stared him in the eyes as he squinted, holding it up to the yellow light of the kitchen. The elderly woman in front of him chuckled, patting his shoulder as she walked past him to open the oven.

'Well, she's the one, ain't she?' she said, speaking into the heat of the oven as she grabbed the tray of duck-fat potatoes with a stained tea towel.

'Ye think?'

'Gonnae no’ dae that!' exclaimed his mother.

'Don't do what?' he scoffed.

'Act surprised,' she scolded, 'it's in ye eyes, son,' she chuckled. 'Yer nana told me to give ye the ring when I thought ye'd found the right one,' she confessed, 'and with your father gone, 'ave got no reason to wear it, but she has,' she uttered, looking from out of the kitchen into the living room.

His eyes followed hers and he watched as you sat with his youngest sister. The pair of you chatted away, though his stomach twisted at the sight of you holding a glass in your hand.

'She's a good girl, Johnny.'

'Aye, mam, I know.'

'So, marry her.'

With his mam's words echoing in his mind, the memories always came to the one that caused all the air in his lungs to escape.

Nothing wants to stay whenever he thinks of that, and he's sure if he was wounded, all his blood would leave him in a second in order to stay out of the cycle in his head that always brings him back to this one thought.

He supposes, in hindsight, it was terribly foolish what he had done. His ignorance to pressing issues was immature and irresponsible, only, they were easy to ignore when he had his mothers ring in his pocket. But he noticed, years down the line, how you had dropped his hand when the pair of you had been dancing, all to go and get another drink because the glass in your hand was running dry.

The party was one you both had planned, only, you had done so to celebrate a win himself and the boys had had during their time away, and he had invited everyone with the intent of proposing to the love of his life.

In the moment, he had been so crushed. He recalls how his mouth was dry, the dull ache in his cut knee as he awkwardly remained kneeled as you stood and stared. The speech he had prepared disappeared when you turned your back on him and rushed away, leaving his ego bleeding as everyone looked at him in horror.

'I just... I don't know why you would do it,' you mumbled when you heard him walk through the door into the kitchen away from the guests.

He was silent as he looked at you, traces of a storm in his eyes as he fought off the urge to cry. His chest hurt as he looked at you with a glass in your hand, and he couldn't do anything but stand there and watch as you drank from it. 'I told you, Johnny, I fucking warned you and-'

'I thought ye would've had a change of heart, love-'

'Well I haven't!' you angrily snapped, slamming your glass down onto the counter, glaring at him. 'What, did you think just because I'd have a ring on my finger all of our fuckin' issues are going to disappear? You're a smart man, Johnny, stop trying to play the role of the fool. It doesn't suit you and it never will.'

You were just as embarrassed as he was. He curses himself while sitting on the train, thinking back to your flushed cheeks and teary eyes. It wasn't only because of the booze that time, it was because of him too.

'I- I'm trying, John, can't you see that?' you croaked, 'I'm trying but I can't be everything you want. I don't wanna get married... at least not yet.'

'Ye don't love me,' he blurted.

You snapped your head up, furrowing your brows as you looked at him with wide eyes. 'Is that serious what you think?' you shakily asked, disbelief etched into your features. 'So what? You think all the fuckin' nights I've spent worried that you're not gonna come home when you're away working were for-'

'All the fuckin' nights you spent with a bottle in your hand too, eh?' he quickly cut you off, retorting in a manner that had left you breathless, draining all the colour out of your face. 'Don't pull that card on me, bonnie, don't you fuckin' dare do it 'cause I worry more about you and your drinkin' habit than I do my own life when I'm out on the field- tell me how you think that's fair!'

You stared at him, your eyes drifting to the empty glass abandoned on the counter. It was unfair for him to pull that card, he was aware enough in the moment to understand it, but he was so utterly devastated that he chose to stand his ground. An apology wouldn't have mean anything even if he had said it.

'If ye loved me... you'd stop goin' to the bottle every time ye have an issue,' he bleakly said, 'but am not even sure if you would pick me over the drink anymore, bonnie.'

'How would me saying yes to you fix any of that?'

He stayed silent.

Reflection allows him to find that he only ever proposed out of love. He was aware of your issues, noting it was never always smooth sailing from either of you, but he supposes he just wanted to have proof that at least once, you would pick him rather than the liquor.

But he was stupid for ever thinking you were more than your champagne problems.

'Getting married would only complicate things between us, John. You know that,' you said after a while of silence, 'and clearly, we don't listen to each other... I'm sorry I embarrassed you today, and I'm sorry I keep causing you to worry- I'm sorry for being such a burden to you but you don't make it easy for me,' you uttered, rubbing your face with your hands, wiping away the tears that fell down your scarlet cheeks.

There was nothing else for him to say to you, and he's ashamed at the very fact that, in the moment you needed him the most, he walked out of that room and left you there crying, alone.

As the train turns on the tracks again, he ponders what would have been different if he had stayed there with you, only, he finds his mind drifting to the words on a page which confirms exactly why he was thinking.

He was only prolonging the inevitable.

As he turns to the final page in his notebook, he finds it difficult to breath as he retrieves the piece of paper he had pushed to the back of it, unfolding it. Pressing his hand against it, he leaves it to sit on top of the page marked with splashes of the drink you had spilled, unable to find the strength as he stares down at the words scrawled on the page.

A crude reminder of what became of his engagement.

'Johnny,

In time, I hope you'll forget about all my problems and find someone who you deserve. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused and I'm sorry for not being ready for you.

Give your mums ring to someone who deserves it and put the special ladies picture in your wallet instead of mine. For the sake of yourself and me.

I love you, Johnny, nearly too much, and while you will see my absence as cruel, know I see it as necessary and that's the issue; we never have seen eye to eye on a lot of things.

We're not ready for each other, I know you think it but you're too scared to say it, so I'll bite the bullet and say it for you. We're not ready for each other, Johnny.

Love shouldn't be a tug-of-war, and I grow tired for you watching as you always try and pull me to you. Besides, I heard your mother after you left the room, she said I was fucked in the head for not agreeing to your proposal and it leaves me wondering what type of person you've made your family believe I am.

I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you wanted, but know that everything I'm doing: leaving, writing this letter, not saying goodbye to you in person, is for you. You always said you hated goodbyes; they were the hardest part of your career, and I can't promise that I wouldn't run back into your arms the second you'd open your mouth and beg me not to go.

But I'm prolonging the inevitable by staying with you.

I'm making you miserable with my problems and that is not what I want you to do. You have a life, and you had a life before we met on that train.

All I ever did was make you worry and I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want you to worry about me, I just want you to move on and love and be loved. I'm going to work on myself and I'm going to get better because I know that that is what you want, and in truth, it's what I want too.

I love you and I fear I always will, but I can't have you, and I'm punishing you and myself by staying here.'

He turns his head away from the letter, looking back to the window at the small dots through the foggy water as he utters the last part of the letter under his breath. 'One day, we may meet again, perhaps the stars will align and you'll see me on a nighttime train back to your home town. And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

A breathy laugh escapes him, repeating 'And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

How appalling it would be when you realised that you leaving only resulted in the reversal of roles. At least, he likes to think he would have the strength to refuse you if he's to ever see you again.

When he turns away from the window, relieving himself of the pain of remembering all that has gone wrong in his life, he takes the letter from off of his notepad, folding it along the worn edges, pushing it back in a small slip at the back of the notepad.

Shrugging off his jacket, he put it on the seat beside him with a hard sigh, turning his attention back to the notepad in front of him. The nights long and his journey proceeds to drag his feet and he's unsure if he even wants to be back home or if he should have just stayed in the base until Price needed him next. But it's Christmas and he couldn't have left his family because of his own sorrow about something that happened years ago.

He just misses you more in the holidays, but he supposes that's okay as long as he doesn't let the phantom you left him with ruin everything. So, he picks up the pencil and pursues what he was doing the night you two met, only this time, there's a ghost sitting opposite to him, not the living thing that greeted him many moons ago.

His ignorance to the world around him keeps him from hearing the footsteps storming up the aisle after the train stops at a station. Even when the voice of a woman announcing the last stop enters his ears, he doesn't lift his head. All the noise culminates into a twisting storm, similar to how he imagines the billowing smoke exuding from a chimney on a winter night swirls in the wind. It's deplorable and he grunts as he attempts to chase the flurry of emotions away.

His efforts result in even more tension at the front of his mind as he looks into the eyes of the drawing he's sketching, realising just whose eyes he had depicted in the midst of his worry. Even after all the time has passed, he's impressed by the fact that he still remembers your features so well.

Always so difficult to forget, he supposes his contemplation proves such.

Then he hears it.

The very thing that works to break him free.

A quaint shaky breath.

A shadow covers his bulky frame, light peering from either side of the mass standing on the aisle holding onto the seat opposite him. Lifting his head, his lungs rattle in his chest as he realises the eyes he had been sketching in his notepad are right before him in human form, staring right back at him.

'Johnny?'