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lesservillain · 1 year ago

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inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but, despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed.

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up.

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.”

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you.

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.”

Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

October 7th, 1994

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work.

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter.

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper.

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously.

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it.

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

“I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.”

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at.

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.”

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you.

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters.

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher.

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again.

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!”

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills.

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students.

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid?

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind.

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.”

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle.

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…”

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued.

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.”

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right?

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic.

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.”

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.”

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front.

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!”

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared.

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards.

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body.

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later.

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading.

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

Eddie.

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle.

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.”

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period.

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed.

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted.

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune.

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door.

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you.

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face.

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!”

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else.

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?��

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin.

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?”

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too.

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.”

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.”

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles.

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school.

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face.

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts.

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin.

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?”

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you.

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?”

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.”

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest.

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon.

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end.

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise.

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar.

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing.

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you.

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it.

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself.

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it.

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get.

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely.

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in.

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground.

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped.

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what.

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother.

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash.

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab.

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face.

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips.

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x teacher!reader #eddie munson x yn #inmate!eddie munson #inmate!eddie munson x reader #inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader #oto!eddie #eddie munson series #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson st

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nylaboon · 5 months ago

Note

hi there! can you please write akito with a reader that has a crush & its suuuuuuper obvious about it, so he can't help but tease reader and get them super flustered? thank you!

Rabbit Hole — Akito Shinonome

"Gonna be a smitten mitten till the day you die?"

— in which An gets you to confess to Akito.

akito shinonome x fem!reader

tags: fluff, characters might be a little ooc, probably shit lmao i wrote this at one in the morning, cut me some slack

note: i literally squealed when i read this request i love akito sm

You've been in school for nine years, yet you still struggle with paying attention in class. It wasn't just the teachers who had poor teaching tactics, which didn't help you activate your brain for the remainder of the day, but it was also the lack of sleep you got each night. You spent more time scrolling on social media than you did working on your homework. It was the poor attention span that troubled you. It was your fault, though. You knew you should've been responsible enough to better yourself in these situations. You were getting to that age, anyway. Soon, you would be independent and no longer under the wing of safety connected to your parents.

But until then, you would continue to feed off your friends.

It helped you get things done faster, so it couldn't have been that bad. You weren't entirely dependent on them, but only just a little. Both An and Mizuki were in the same class as you, so that gave you even more of a reason to slack off whenever they attended. They didn't really mind, either. It just gave you three another reason to hang out after school, therefore it was more of a blessing than a curse. Sitting in the corner booth of Weekend Garage, sipping on piping hot coffee, chowing down on sweet treats, and praying to whatever god up there that one of them had the answers to the homework. It was the highlight of your year.

This afternoon was the same as any other. You rested your chin against the table, tapping the end of your pen against your workbook and staring off into space while An yapped Mizuki's ear off about whatever the hell they were talking about. Another part of your guys' "study session" was that it always took at least thirty minutes for you all to actually get to work. It was a lengthy process, but you still somehow managed to get work done.

After yawning and raising your head from the table to lean back comfortably against the booth seat, An switched her attention from Mizuki to you. She smirked pridefully and played with a strand of her hair. "Y'know, y/n, me and Akito did some talking during practice yesterday, and—"

"What did you do?" You asked in horror, slowly sinking down the seat. An shook her head, a sign that your fear was unnecessary. "I didn't say anything, okay?" She took a large gulp of her coffee before continuing her explanation. "We just played a little game of 'what if'."

"By 'we played' do you mean you forced him to answer your questions while he tried to get work done?" Mizuki interjected, to which An rolled her eyes playfully. "Yes, but that's not the point. The point is..."

She paused, leaving you in suspense. Her mouth stayed open for a bit, before shutting—but there was still a smirk on her face. You raised an eyebrow. "The point is?"

She shrugged. "Actually, I'll let you find out on your own."

You couldn't help but get butterflies from that sentence alone. Whether they were good or bad was unknown, but it made you feel nervous, nonetheless. "C'mon An," you begged, "don't be evil..."

You turned to Mizuki, desperation written on your face. "Do you know anything?"

"No," she answered, "nothing for sure. But can I offer my two cents?" You nodded eagerly and waited for her to speak again. "He never snaps at you, but he sure does tease the hell out of you. Odd, don't you think?"

"Right?" An agreed. "He even snaps at Toya sometimes, and that's his best friend."

"What if I just get Ena to put you on?" Mizuki questioned, to which you immediately declined her offer. You chuckled humorlessly and played with the hem of your shirt. "Absolutely not! She would totally make fun of me until the end of time. Maybe even criticize my taste in guys, if she's feeling extra mean..."

Mizuki scoffed and mocked you. "As if she can't already tell you're crushing on him."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you can't act normal around him for the life of you," the bluenette answered for her. "He doesn't even have to be in the room. We could just be talking about him and you'll start giggling like a little girl."

"No, I don't! I didn't even giggle today!"

"Yeah, because you were too busy trying to not have a panic attack over whether I told Akito about your feelings for him or not," she countered, to which Mizuki agreed.

"Yeah, it's, like, painfully obvious how bad you have it for him. I wouldn't be surprised if he already knew. Maybe that's why he teases you so much."

If that was the case, you wouldn't know what to do. If he already knew, then why wouldn't he just tell you instead of making you wait so long for a fifty-fifty answer? The thought made you want to throw up. Not that it was bad, but it was nerve-wracking. It would be nice if he did know, but what if he didn't feel the same? What then? You placed your hand on your stomach and pouted subconsciously. "All this stress is making my stomach hurt."

"And all this pussying out is making my head hurt," Mizuki joked. Meanwhile, An was scrolling on her phone, barely paying attention to the conversation now. "C'mon, y/n! I'm sure if you tell him, he'll be nice about it."

"No, he won't," you whined. "Guys are never nice about this stuff. The last time I confessed to a guy, he told the entire class and they all made fun of me for a month."

"That was in primary school, y/n..."

"So what? It still happened!"

"Y'know what?" An spoke up as she tidied up her area, putting her books and pens back into her schoolbag. "What if we help you practice a confession?" You raised an eyebrow and asked what she meant. "Mizuki will cover your eyes, and I'll pretend to be Akito. Then, you work your magic and confess!"

"Why does Mizuki have to cover my eyes—?"

"Because it'll help you focus on envisioning his presence." It didn't take a genius to know that she completely pulled that claim out of her ass, but you chose to just let her get away with it. "C'mon, y/n! It's getting sad watching you drool over him without knowing if he feels the same or not."

You let out a defeated sigh and threw your head back. "Okay, okay. We can practice, or whatever."

Little did you know that agreeing to her idea would be the best and worst decision you've ever made.

As to why you were doing this outside was a mystery. Maybe it was to avoid getting weird looks from people inside the cafe, but it was equally as bad—and probably worse—to do outside the building. You stood in front of An, awkwardly rubbing at your arm to distract yourself from the pure embarrassment you felt every time someone walked past you three. Mizuki and An, however... You really needed their confidence, because they did not seem to give a shit about gaining people's attention.

"Alright," An said cheerfully, "close your eyes and just imagine that I'm Akito. Mizuki, you cover her eyes so she can't see for sure." Mizuki did as she was told, lightly cupping her hands over your eyes. With that, An cleared her throat and spoke up a second time. "Are you imagining him?"

"Uh," you muttered nervously, "sure, I guess." It took a while for her to speak up again, but you assumed that she had gotten distracted by her phone again. "Now say what you have to say. Don't think about it; just let it flow out."

"...An, this is stupid."

"Trust me! It'll help!"

You sighed and took your time to think. Let the words flow out, you thought. It couldn't be that hard. It was like you were talking to yourself. All you had to do was just forget about An and Mizuki, and you were good. You imagined a world where everything was perfect. A world where it was just you and Akito, for the time being. A world where no one could make fun of you for expressing yourself. A world where everything went your way. You clenched your hands into fists and swallowed hard, preparing to vocalize your thoughts and feelings.

"...since you're totally Akito," you began sarcastically, still finding the whole concept to be ridiculous, "I guess now's the time to finally tell you about how much I'm soooo in love with you, and how annoying it's been to have to deal with these feelings, knowing damn well that I was way too scared to actually tell you about them without my friends forcing me to. And I guess I have to talk about how irritating it is to have to deal with your teasing without knowing if it's platonic or not. And I guess I have to talk about how this is probably a huge waste of time because I know that I'll just pussy out when I actually want to try to confess to you."

You could hear Mizuki sigh behind you. "You're not taking it seriously, y/n!"

"What's the point? It's not like I'm gonna tell him anything anytime soon, so what's the—"

During your mini-rant, you pulled Mizuki's hands away from your eyes and opened them. Instead of An standing in front of you, she was beside Akito, who was now where she stood before. You felt your entire body freeze up at the sight of him. Not only that, but your heart fell all the way down to your ass. He was smirking at you, seemingly finding the situation to be amusing.

"—That's the point," Mizuki finished for you. Not that you were even listening. You were too busy trying to not start hyperventilating. "Why are you here?" You timidly questioned. He was supposed to be at work, so why the hell was he here now?

"I'm on my break and An told me to come here," he answered smugly, not once breaking eye contact other than to blink. "What was that about you being soooo in love with me?" Your jaw clenched and your head became light. Is this what dying felt like? Because, honestly, you were hoping that your next breath was your last.

"It was just a joke," you blurted out and internally cursed at how stupid that lie was. Akito sneered and let out an 'uh-huh'. You weren't getting out of this easily, so you might as well just give up. "Akito," you muttered, "don't do this to me."

"I already knew before this," he admitted nonchalantly. "I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to tell me."

"It would've taken longer if An didn't set me up..." Maybe your crush on him was obvious, as much as you didn't want to believe it. "Can you just, like, tell me what you think so I can rest easily tonight?" He nodded and laughed a bit with that same annoying grin on his face. "I think you're cute, or whatever."

An let out an excited squeal before you could even process what he said. "And I think that you should come clean about this beforehand so we could actually…y'know."

"I don't know," you replied, to which Mizuki quickly spoke up with a grin of her own. "He wants you!" Akito sent her a glare but didn't deny it.

"You're making this a lot less enjoyable for me," he advised the girls. "But I guess that's one way to put it." It felt like the entire world was crumbling beneath your feet but in a good way. You couldn't help but play with your fingers as a nervous tic, but despite your anxiety, you were smiling. Wide. Before you knew it, you walked up to him and pulled him into a tight hug. Akito was caught off guard, but only for a bit. He eventually wrapped his arms around you as well and applied a sweet kiss on the top of your head. It was like a dream.

"Thanks, An…" you mumbled against his chest. You totally owed her after this.

written by @nylaboon

#akito shinonome x reader #akito shinonome #vbs akito #akito shinonome x y/n #vivid bad squad #project sekai x reader

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moonselune · 5 months ago

Note

Ooh okay here's an idea, headcanons for the origin companions writing (or trying to write) poetry for their tav s/o?

Okay so this took me forever to write because I had to consult a friend on the poetry as it's basically her degree. However, she had no idea about BG3 so I ended up sucking her into the fandom and she then went on a BG3 spiral because she loved it ahaha

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

Karlach sits at a makeshift table, her broad shoulders hunched, brow furrowed as she tries to capture her feelings on paper. She’s never been much of a writer, and the pen feels clumsy in her large hand. Every so often, she mutters a curse under her breath when the words don’t flow the way she wants them to. You watch from a distance, curiosity piqued.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally hands you a crumpled piece of parchment, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Alright, don’t laugh,” she warns, though there’s a hint of nervous excitement in her eyes. The poem is simple, a little messy, but it’s so undeniably her.

“Your smile’s like a sunrise, That burns brighter than any fire, Every time you’re near me, You’re all that I desire.”

You can't help but smile as you read it aloud, and Karlach groans, covering her face.

“I know it’s not fancy or anything,” she mumbles, “but it’s from the heart, alright?” You reassure her with a kiss, letting her know it’s the best poem you’ve ever received.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

Minthara’s approach to poetry is far more methodical. She’s a creature of precision, used to battle tactics, and this is no different. Late at night, she sits cross-legged, a flickering candle illuminating her sharp features as she writes with a quill dipped in ink. Her expression is one of deep concentration, as if she’s strategizing for a battle rather than composing a love poem.

When she finally presents it to you, there’s a certain pride in her eyes. Her poem is intense, each word chosen carefully, each line sharp and cutting but with a hint of tenderness beneath the surface.

“Like a blade you cut through darkness, Your light, a beacon in my night. I am drawn to you, fierce and wild, My heart laid bare, my soul in flight.”

She watches your face closely as you read, searching for any hint of your reaction. When you look up, your eyes filled with emotion, she gives a small, satisfied smile.

“Words are often a poor substitute for action,” she says softly, “but I hope they convey even a fraction of what you mean to me.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel

Lae'zel’s attempt at poetry is… complicated. She’s never been one for the softer arts, and the idea of capturing her emotions in words frustrates her to no end. You catch her muttering Githyanki curses under her breath, crumpling up piece after piece of paper in irritation. Still, she refuses to give up, determined to prove that she can express herself in this foreign way.

Eventually, she storms up to you, shoving a piece of parchment into your hands with a scowl.

“Read it,” she demands, crossing her arms defensively. The poem is blunt, almost aggressively so, but there’s an earnestness to it that tugs at your heart.

“You are strong, like steel forged in battle, Yet soft, like the flesh I crave to touch. I fight for you, bleed for you, You are the only war worth winning.”

You look up to find Lae'zel watching you intently, her expression guarded.

“It is foolish, yes?” she asks, and you can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

You shake your head, telling her it’s perfect, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Good,” she mutters. “You deserve nothing less.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart

Shadowheart is not one for flowery words, but she sits by the campfire one night, her brows furrowed as she scribbles on a piece of parchment. You catch her biting her lip in concentration, an ink smudge on her cheek as she mutters under her breath. She startles when you approach, hiding the paper behind her back.

“Are you writing?” you ask, trying to peek around her shoulder.

“It’s nothing,” she says, but her blush gives her away. Eventually, she relents and hands you the parchment, its edges crumpled from her nervous fingers. Her handwriting is elegant but stiff, like she’s forcing each word into line.

“Your eyes hold secrets, like shadows at dusk, A puzzle I’ll never solve but can’t help but trust. You laugh like moonlight; it’s foolish, I know, But I’m drawn to you, where else could I go?”

She looks away as you read, her arms crossed defensively.

"It's terrible," she mutters, but you shake your head, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. When you tell her you love it, Shadowheart rolls her eyes but can't hide the small, pleased smile tugging at her lips.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira

Jaheira isn’t one for frivolous things, but there’s a moment one morning when you find her sitting at a table, a quill poised in her hand. She’s been staring at the blank parchment for what seems like hours. You approach her, and she huffs, clearly frustrated.

"I thought poetry would be simple," she grumbles. "It's just words, isn’t it?"

You offer to help, but she shakes her head, determined to do this herself. Later, she hands you a folded piece of paper with an almost bashful expression. You can tell she’s put thought into it, the parchment creased from how often she’s held and rewritten it. Her words are unpolished but heartfelt:

“You are the root, the bloom, the green, The calm in storms, where I’ve been seen. Your laughter’s warmth, your eyes’ sweet glow, A love that’s strong, a fire that grows.”

You glance up at her, and Jaheira shrugs, trying to look indifferent.

“I’m no bard,” she says, “but I meant every word.” You kiss her, and she finally allows herself a small, proud smile.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale

Gale takes his poetry seriously, but he tends to overthink it. One evening, you find him surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper, muttering incantations under his breath as though the right words might appear with magic.

He looks up at you, exasperated.

“You’d think after all my years of studying the Weave, I’d be able to put together a few coherent lines about the one I love.” He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Poetry is far more difficult than conjuring fireballs, I’ll have you know.”

Finally, he hands you a piece of parchment, hesitant but eager for your reaction. His script is elegant, each word carefully crafted:

“You are my star, my whispered spell, The echo of dreams where I long to dwell. No magic can bind what I feel inside, A love that transcends the flow of the tide.”

Gale watches you with bated breath, and when you smile, he lets out a relieved sigh.

“I was afraid it might be a bit too… much,” he admits, and you laugh, telling him it’s perfect. He grins, pulling you into his arms. “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to write more.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion

Astarion has always been one for grand gestures, but poetry? That was a challenge he couldn't resist. He sits across the campfire, quill in hand, and a smug grin plastered across his face as he begins. You catch glimpses of him mouthing words, pausing, then crossing things out dramatically.

When he finally reads it to you, his voice is smooth, velvety, dripping with exaggerated passion:

"Your eyes, like twin moons, glisten in the night, Soft curves that tempt and beckon, a dangerous delight. Your lips, a sweet nectar, I long to devour, You’ve ensnared my heart, my soul, in this midnight hour."

He pauses, looking at you expectantly, and you can’t help but giggle. “Astarion, that’s very… intense.”

He rolls his eyes, though there's a playful glimmer there.

“What? Did you expect anything less from me, darling? I don’t do things halfway.” Despite his teasing, you catch the faintest blush on his cheeks, and it’s clear he truly wants you to like it.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll

Wyll spends hours sitting under a tree, tapping his quill against his lips and muttering to himself as he scribbles. His brow furrows, and he occasionally sighs heavily, clearly struggling to find the perfect words. He wants this to be right, to be perfect.

When he finally shares his poem with you, he does so with a bashful smile, his eyes never quite meeting yours:

"You are the light in the darkness, my beacon, my guide, A flame that warms even the coldest night tide. In your laughter, I find peace, in your touch, I find home, With you by my side, I’ll never be alone."

Wyll rubs the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly.

“I know it’s not much, but… I meant every word.” You reach out, taking his hand, and he relaxes, the tension melting away from his shoulders as you thank him for his sincerity.

“You really mean that?” he asks, the disbelief clear in his voice, and you nod, kissing his cheek. He beams, the kind of smile that lights up the whole camp.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin

Halsin takes his time with his poetry. He’s not one for flowery words, but he wants to put his feelings into something beautiful, something worthy of you. You find him surrounded by parchment, his handwriting neat and flowing, and he looks up with a warm smile when you approach.

“There’s something I’ve been working on,” he confesses. “It’s… well, it might not be poetry in the traditional sense.” He clears his throat, holding the parchment a little awkwardly as he begins:

"You are the earth beneath my feet, steady and true, The river that runs deep, with life that renews. In your embrace, I find the peace of a forest at dawn, And with you, I’ve found where my spirit belongs."

He looks up, his eyes searching yours. “It’s simple, I know, but—”

You cut him off with a kiss, feeling the warmth of his words wrap around you just as surely as his strong arms do.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, and he laughs, the deep, rich sound resonating through you, making you feel as if you’ve always belonged right there, in that moment with him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shoutout to my friend (who wishes to stay anonymous) for the beautiful poetry, and I hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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mrshesh · 2 years ago

Note

hi! do you have any general hcs for the cod:ghosts boys?

general headcanons - call of duty: ghost's

overview: general headcanons of the call of duty: ghost's boys!

pairing: none!

genre: fluff, pure tomfoolery

a/n: hi anon! i'm thrilled i finally got a request for these boys. i love them so much, it's getting a bit unhealthy. you're truly the best for requesting them! i hope you love it!

x logan walker

He sucks at puzzles. He’s smart and tactical, but puzzles are on another level of difficulty for him.

He likes doodling a lot. If he has a pen and a surface to draw on, he will sketch a small smiley or a caterpillar. It has become such a habit that he doesn’t even think about it when he does it. It got so bad that once, Keegan called him out on it mid-doodle, leaving Logan embarrassed for a week.

He loves the ocean, but beaches annoy him. He hates sand. (I firmly believe his hate for them is from Hesh throwing sand in his face as children.)

He has a picture of him and Hesh as kids in his wallet. He feels calmer when he looks at it, getting into the habit of peeking at it when stressed.

He’s an avid Deftones enjoyer. He loves Beware and Diamond Eyes.

He likes caramel-scented things, but he doesn’t like the taste of it.

He has some insane dirt on Elias, and, of course, Hesh knows all of it.

For some odd reason, he’s phenomenal at parallel parking.

x david "hesh" walker

He loves movies. He can watch any genre! Horror? Great! Action? Love. Romance? Cute! Comedy? Perfect! He loves it all. Shows, however? Nope.

He takes pride in his nails being clipped and filed at all times. He was a nailbiter in his teens, so he cares about his nails more than he should today.

He can’t cook to save his life.

Eminem is his go-to artist. He loves and respects many artists, but Eminem will always be at the top of his list. He loves Stan.

He’s respectful in general.

He’s extremely secure and confident, yet he’s still pretty nervous when he talks to girls.

He loves long car rides. Driving around in his car while listening to his favorite songs brings out a unique joy in him.

He, unlike Logan, loves beaches! (He wasn’t the one who got sand thrown on him, so he’s thriving.)

He hates coriander.

x elias "scarecrow" walker

Unlike his son, Elias is great at puzzles! He’s disappointed Logan didn’t inherit that quality. He mourns it every day.

He loves pickles. (Same.)

He manipulated himself into liking beer many years ago.

People call him DILF all the time. It has happened too many times to count. He finds it funny, while Hesh and Logan are horrified every time.

He doesn’t know how to put on chapstick. He puts it between his lips and swipes it back and forth, not on his lips.

He got so much action when he was a teenager/young adult. He tells Logan and Hesh to “live a little” so they can experience that life, too.

He doesn’t listen to music often, but when he does, he listens to either Korn or Chris Isaak.

He adores Riley, sometimes stealing him from Hesh without warning.

x keegan russ

He secretly enjoys ASMR. It helps him unwind and de-stress, but not sleep, surprisingly.

He’s excellent at the game Mafia.

He has made way too many people giggle excitedly because of his voice. He finds it amusing but disturbing at the same time. He knows it’s attractive, but that many people? He has even made Elias giggle like a schoolgirl because of his vocal folds.

Keegan strikes me as a Slipknot fan. He finds Killpop and Vermillion to be sexy.

He loves grocery shopping.

He talks to himself a lot. He’s antisocial and quiet around others, but when Keegan’s alone, he keeps having full-on conversations with himself. Merrick caught him doing it once - he never brought it up again.

He enjoys lasagna a bit too much.

He had a motorcycle phase as a young adult. It got so bad he learned how to do a wheelie on them, but his love for them has died down in the many years he’s been alive.

He thinks wine is gross.

x thomas merrick

He cannot stand bananas. Everything about them makes him gag.

He gets such a rise out of being a bitch. He’s already annoying by default but strives to be even more insufferable for the fuck of it.

He, Alex, and Keegan smoke while being sentimental together at least once a month. (It’s always with Keegan and Alex - Elias, David, and Logan get left out.)

He listens to underground metal like Sold Soul, and he thinks it makes him superior to everyone else. (And he gatekeeps it.)

He’s immune to pretty much all physical pain except for waxing. It’s enough to make him cry.

He loved trains as a child.

His comfort song is Toxicity by System Of A Down.

His appetite is insane. This man can eat a horse and still be hungry by the end of it.

His calves are huge for some reason.

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rafescherie · 20 hours ago

Text

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY — RAFE CAMERON

synopsisᝰ.ᐟ best friend's brother!rafe decides he'd lend a helping hand to reader when the stress of college becomes too much for her to handle

warningᝰ.ᐟ 18+ MDNI. perv!rafe, brother's best friend trope (reader is topper's sibling), pent perversions, manipulative tactics for sex, fingering + naive/inexperienced reader

cherie's note — best friend's brother!rafe is so yummy i had to try writing for him

the creak of the old hardwood floors were barely audible as the tall blond wandered the dimly lit hallways of your home, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes. he wasn't sure why he was awake — maybe the lingering effects of the party earlier, or the exhausting heatwave humidity that flooded the outerbanks.

he passed by a door, half-open. he had been here hundreds of times, his best friend topper, your brother, inviting him over to your home since before the pair were in middle school. he knew whose door it was before he even had to look.

yours.

leaning against the doorframe, he peered in, careful not to make a sound. you were lying on your stomach, completely focused and unaware of who creeped through the cracks, your laptop casting a faint blue light over your features. headphones in, brow furrowed, fingers lazily twirling a pen between them.

rafe smirked. of course, you were still up.

you were such a good girl. rafe knew this better than anybody — taking any chance he could to just watch as you stayed up for hours studying. unlike your brother, you hardly went out to the parties, or the bonfires — more concerned with the previous lecture or some stupid upcoming test.

for a second, he considered just watching — just like every other time. but the temptation was too strong. he rapped his knuckles lightly against the oak door of your bedroom.

"you always stay up this late?" his voice was low, rough from sleep.

your head snapped up, eyes widening slightly before you pulled out an earbud. "jesus, rafe." you huffed, setting your pen down. "what are you doing?"

he shrugged, testing the waters by taking another step closer, leaning against the doorframe. "couldn't sleep." his gaze flickered over your screen before settling back on you.

the loose pajama shorts tickled against the soft skin of your plump thighs, leg hoisted up just enough for rafe to see that lacey pair of panties hidden below. it was much more than your brother's best friend should ever see, but that was the last thing on your mind as your head pounded from all the homework. his blue eyes filled with exhaustion and curiosity at your state, taking another step onto the fuzzy carpet rug of your room.

"i'm uh-" you stutter, heart thundering against your chest at the advance, "i've been studying, s'why i'm still awake."

rafe quirked an eyebrow, finger dancing along your dresser — littered with trinkets of all sorts. his eyes linger on one item in particular, familiar to him as he remembers the time he had stolen a cheap hand carving at the flea market and gifted it to you. he could still remember the day he had gotten it for you — after finding out how your recent obsession was centred around seahorses, when his young eyes captured sight of the hand carving, he knew the goal in mind. after all these years, he was surprised you still had it.

"studying, huh?" a teasing smirk played at the corner of his mouth as his gaze dropped briefly to the scattered textbooks and notes covering your desk before meeting your eyes again, "at this hour? you're a real diligent student."

he stopped at the foot of your bed, hands shoved casually in the pockets of his low slung sweatpants. the thin fabric did little to conceal his strong, lean physique. up close, you could see the glint of mischief in his sleepy blue eyes.

"i know you've got a big test coming up soon..." he dragged out the words teasingly.

"mhm," you hum, scrolling through what felt like hundreds of digital pages of notes. your gaze flickers nervously between the laptop, and the man stood in front of you. "been studying for it all week, brain is starting to mush."

rafe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "mush huh? well, we can't have that..." in two long strides, he closed the distance between you, reaching out to gently shut the lid of your laptop. his fingertips brushed against yours, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

"how about you take a break, hm?" his voice was a low rumble, almost hypnotic in the quiet of the night. "i bet all this studying has you wound tighter than a coil. might do you some good to... relax."

the suggestive edge to his tone doesn't go unnoticed, "it's late, rafe..." you practically stutter, crimson blush flooding your cheeks at the thought of spending time with rafe alone. "besides, top's probably gonna be wondering where you are, soon."

rafe's lips curled into a roguish grin at the mention of your brother, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. "topper? nah, he's dead to the world right now. passed out cold after that last beer."

his hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering to trace the delicate shell. "plus," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave, "what top doesn't know won't hurt him. it'll be our little secret."

the air between you crackled with tension as rafe's gaze raked over your form, taking in the way your thin pajama tank top clung to your curves. he licked his lips unconsciously, "c'mon, sweet girl, live a little. promise i don't bite."

the moment of hesitation is apparent on your face — wide doe eyes staring back at the man who waits almost painfully for you to say something.

"alright," you start, voice a little too timid, unsure of yourself, "what do you have in mind?"

rafe's grin widened at your question, a flash of triumph in his eyes. "well, for starters..." he reaches out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin to meet his heated gaze. "how about i help you work out some of that pent=up tension? i've got a few ideas that might clear your head better than cramming."

his other hand found its way to your thigh, squeezing gently as he inched higher. "we could start with a nice, relaxing massage. get rid of all that stiffness from hunching over your books all night." his voice vibrates through you in a low purr, dripping with suggestion.

this felt wrong — so wrong. having rafe's hands on your bare skin, knowing your brother, his best friend, was only a few bedrooms down, the heat within your stomach pooled as the thrill of anticipation roared throughout your entire body. his touch was hot against your skin, leaving burning fingerprints in its wake. still, as his hand trailed up your thigh, you felt your body relax as you gave in to his suggestion.

his touch was electric as his hands began to knead the tense muscles of your shoulders and upper back. he worked slowly, deliberately, thumbs digging into knots you hadn't even known existed. leaning down, his breath ghosted hot air against your ear as he whispered, "that's it, just relax. let me take care of you."

his fingers traced the line of your spine, slipping beneath the thin straps of your tank top. with agonizing slowness, he pushed the flimsy material down, exposing more of your soft skin to the cool night air and his heated gaze.

continuing his sensual massage, his wandering hands seemed to 'accidentally' brush against your most intimate areas. his fingers grazed the curve of your ass as he reached for the small of your back, calloused fingers kneading deep within the plush flesh of your body.

lost in the new sensations, you barely register the inapprorate touches — his knuckles so clumsily skimming over your clothed mound, the brief contact sending a jolt to your core. too inexperienced to realize the significance, you had only played it off as a 'mistake', but rafe knew better.

the whimpers you let escape were hardly recognized internally as his calloused hands dug into the dimples of your back, working his magic at releasing the tension built up within your overworked muscles. each purr out of your throat had his hands slipping further and further, just like he had planned.

unbeknownst to you in your innocent state, rafe allowed his touch to linger longer on your clothed mound. his palm grazed the front of your panties as he adjusted your position, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

there was nothing wrong with this, you thought — rafe was helping you. his hands worked skillfully against the soft skin, eliciting the most delicious moans out of you with each touch. he was giving you a massage, this was as innocent as it could get, right? it wasn't like he gained anything from helping you out.

wrong. the foreign feeling of his fingers rubbing against your covered cunt, rubbing the slit between your puffy lips had your eyes shooting open in confusion, head rounded to look at him from over your shoulder, "rafe?"

rafe froze for a split second when you stuttered his name, fingers stilling against your clothed sex. but then, emboldened by your lack of immediate protest, he pressed on. his middle finger began to trace slow, deliberate circles over your covered pussy, feeling the heat emanating from your core.

"just relax, princess," he cooed softly, free hand sliding up to rest on your hip, holding you in place. "let me make you feel good."

he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin. all the while, his finger continued its maddeningly slow movements, rubbing you through the dampening fabric of your panties. the rough pad of his fingertip caught on your clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

the whine you let out was almost feral, worry spreading through you quickly at the thought of your own family walking in and seeing the situation in front of them. “t-this feels wrong, rafe..” but it felt so right at the same time.

a dark chuckle rumbled in rafe's chest at your conflicted words, his finger never ceasing its torturous dance over your weeping pussy, as if studying the anatomy of your body. "wrong?" he murmured huskily against your ear.

to punctuate his words, he hooked a finger in the waistband of your panties and tugged them aside, finally making direct contact with your slick folds. rafe groaned at the feel of your wet heat, stroking through your arousal with teasing lightness. "fuck, sweetheart... you're so wet already. your body knows what it wants, even if your pretty little head is confused."

his other hand slid up your torso to cup your breast through your tank top, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled beneath the thin fabric.

you knew the blush on your cheeks was bright red as the warm feeling flooded your cheeks. it felt so foreign — his fingers exploring your sloppy folds, thumb occasionally sending firm strokes against your swollen clit.

"i-" you begin, the words breathy which each word you spoke, "i've never done this before, rafe."

your eyes meet his, blue eyes dark and blown with anticipation, with pure lust. he groans out at the confession, a wicked grin spreading across his face, "never? fuck, you're like the perfect little virgin sacrifice."

his fingers continued their relentless exploration of your untouched folds, circling your clit with the pads of his two fingers, applying just enough pressure to have you practically squirming beneath him. his free hand pushed the fabric of your tank top up to expose your breasts, his head dipping to capture one rosy peaky between his teeth, sucking greedily as he rolled the other nipple between his fingers.

"don't worry, baby. i'll teach you everything," he promised darkly, working to slowly pump two fingers inside of your tight pussy. "gonna ruin you for anyone else. by the time i'm done, this sweet cunt will only crave my touch."

moaning out at the sound of his words, his hand roughly slaps against your mouth, hips rutting desperately against yours as his thick fingers continued to fuck into you, "they'll hear us if you keep that up, angel. gotta be quiet for me, can ya do that?"

his thumb found your clit again, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he curled his fingers just right inside of you. he groaned out at the feeling of your walls pulsing around his digits, cock hurting against the fabric of his boxers at the feeling of how tight you were. rafe swallowed your needy whimpers with a deep, filthy kiss, tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours.

you nodded frantically at his question, almost desperate. the chuckle he lets out is dark and primal, coming from a place of pure ego. nevertheless, the walls of your cunt fluttering and clenching around his plunging fingers. he wanted nothing more than to push you over the edge, to watch you come undone completely. he craved the feeling of freeing his aching cock and burying it deep inside your tight, virgin heat.

but even in his lust-addled state, rafe recognized the risk you were taking, hand still clamped over your mouth tightly to drown out the sounds of your pathetic whines. he could tell you were close, the way your eyes rolled and you clung onto his wrist — he was going to make damn sure he'd never forget this sight.

"you're so fucking wet for me, baby," he murmured appreciatively, voice low and husky. "this pretty pussy is practically begging for my cock."

despite his earlier restraints, rafe found himself unable to resist your needy pleas. he increased the pace of his touches, fingers pumping steadily in and out of your tight heat as his thumb rubbed firm circles on your poor clit. the obscene sound of your arousal filled the room as he fingered you, the obsessive mixture of squelching and subtle whining ringing through his ears like a song, destined to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

"feels so fucking good," you moan out, hand trailing down your soft body to make contact with your own clit. the action sent a groan through the man, adorning the way you worked yourself out of pure desperation for him.

"yeah?" he rasps, curling his fingers inside of you once more. "fuckin’ filthy slut, getting off with your brother's best friend? dirty girl..."

one of rafe's hands slid up to cover your mouth again, ready to muffle any loud cries as he pushed you over the edge. you were experiencing pure ecstasy, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his warm breath tickled your neck. his hips rocked subtly against yours, seeking some much-needed friction for his own aching arousal.

"c'mon, be a good girl and cum on my fingers," he urged in a low, commanding tone. his words alone were enough to elicit that delicious high out of you, whines muffled against the warm palm of his hand. he held you tightly as your body shook and convulsed with the throes of your first orgasm, fingers still buried deep inside your tight velvet walls. he swallowed each keening cry that fell from your swollen, plump lips, muffling the sounds of your pleasure. rafe's own hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against your thigh as he watched you come undone.

"that's it, baby. cum on my fingers, just like that..." he praised breathlessly, voice strained with barely contained desire. even as your climax began to subside, rafe continued to slowly pump his digits in and out, drawing out every last wave of bliss.

finally, as your breathing stilled, he carefully withdrew his fingers from your overstimulated folds, coated digits slipping past his own lips as he made a show of licking them clean. your poor cunt clenched around nothing at the sight, eyes flickering down to the bulge in his sweats.

tugging your hand suddenly, he brings your open palm to the prominent tent below his torso, groaning at the contact. "feel what you do to me? how fucking hard i am for you?"

his hungry lips capture yours once more, tongue exploring the inside of your mouth like he was on a feverish mission — breathy sighs falling from his lips each time you stroked him through the cotton fabric of his sweatpants.

with great effort, he practically dragged your hand from his straining erection. his lips pressed a soft kiss to your warm forehead, dipping his head between your thighs to place the softest kiss to the tender, sensitive skin of your inner legs.

the mattress shifts underneath you, rafe standing back on to the fuzzy carpet of your bedroom. a pout flooded your features at the lack of sudden satisfaction, your body already eager for more. "i'll text you, yeah?"

it wouldn't be for a few days later that you'd receive that infamous, long-awaited text from your brother's best friend — audibly gasping as your eyes land on the perverted video of himself he had filmed for your eyes only.

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sukuna-ryo · 3 months ago

Text

Jjk Men College Au

Headcannons

Nanami Kento

Finance Major

Blonde neatly styled hair, sharp cheekbones, thin lips, light brown eyes, glasses pushed up the nose bridge, dark circles, well-groomed and tidy, looks more professional than the professor, you thought he was a professor when you first saw him, calm and composed, stoic, mature, responsible and reliable, emotionally intelligent, good with people, helpful, no-nonsense-adult attitude, pragmatic, cynical, intelligent, tactical, tech-savvy.

Early morning lectures, blue dress shirts, khaki trousers, leopard print ties, networking, finance club, seminars, workshops, turns in assignments before due date, stockbroker internships, libraries, desk lamps, late night study sessions, midnight snacks, ink pens, vintage cars, leather seats, cracking knuckles, strained shoulder muscles, working out, not compromising on physical health despite having a demanding major, does jujutsu as hobby.

College-personal life balance, strength of character, disciplined, organized, heartthrob (unaware), husband material, would probably fall for someone just as diligent as him.

Ryomen Sukuna

Kinesiology Major

Red hair, fiery personality, strength, endurance, gym, MMA fighter, training, late night MMA matches, muscles, tattoos, tattoo artist best friend, frat parties, alcohol, girls, messy sex life, doesn’t do relationships, toxic, fans and fan clubs, future MMA champion, media coverage, athletic, strong-headed, willpower, intelligent, calculative, cunning, missing lectures, top ranker despite not studying much, arrogant, crazy, borderline criminal, don’t try to date him pls.

Leather jackets, ripped jeans, cologne, smirk, loud, reckless, always on the move, fights, wins, clubs, stays up late, doesn’t care, bad boy persona, high status, no commitments, love for chaos. Tension in the air when he enters, always the center of attention, fans everywhere, no time for weakness, doesn’t need to try.

Tattoo sleeve, arms covered, history of fights, scars, reputation, strength, untouchable, doesn’t play by rules, barely attends class, still aces it. Smirks, keeps moving, doesn’t stop. Drinks, casual, no relationships, cold heart. Only more battles ahead, all eyes on him, unpredictable, dangerous, charming.

Geto Suguru

Philosophy Major

Long black hair, weird side bangs, manbun, hidden tattoos, sharp dresser, classic casual but always expensive, calm and composed, mysterious yet friendly to those who matter.

Religious studies, top student, always reading something deep, debates with professors over lunch, having lunch with professors, doing pottery in his free time, sharp opinions, loud thoughts, a little racist, has a vision for an ideal society, probably loves Pythagoras and his cult, wishes to have something similar, always scribbling down ideas in random places, likes to keep things classy but low-key, sharp, calculating, deeply invested in his beliefs.

Volunteers at orphanages, good with children, art hobbies, loves to talk about philosophy, sometimes found debating late at night in the library, always in deep thought, a bit of a perfectionist, not easily impressed by others, enjoys challenging people intellectually, likes to put effort into his appearance, always carrying books on ethics, metaphysics, and society.

Popular amongst women, Gojo’s best friend, your grandma would probably like him, friendly but keeps a bit of distance, doesn’t open up easily but will be there for you when needed, composed around strangers, warm to those he’s close to, respects loyalty, his ideal partner would be someone with similar intelligence and values.

Gojo Satoru

Business major

6'4, blue eyes, trust fund guy, loud, jolly, eccentric, talented, arrogant, sarcastic, wants to make friends but misunderstood by those around him, comes off as off-putting, rich family, only heir, prodigy, diamond spoon kid, first in everything, Geto's best friend.

Gets bullied because of his white hair, shades, blindfolds, people think he has some weird kink, has fangirls regardless, popular loner, sharp dresser, stands out, hates attention, smirk always in place, makes people uncomfortable with his confidence, carefree but secretly lonely, sharp-tongued, cracks jokes all the time.

Easily gets on people's bad side, works to keep up his image, loves challenging authority, doesn't care about consequences, fiercely protective of his friends, holds grudges, always first to show up, leaves last, high-profile business role in his future, a bit of mystery that draws people in, keeps everyone at arm's length.

Wants to be understood, still pushes people away, walks into a room and demands attention, but doesn’t say a word, people notice him immediately, no one dares challenge him, but it’s not for lack of trying, takes classes seriously, skips boring ones, coffee in hand, shades indoors, professors secretly like him, students admire or fear him.

Doesn’t attend study groups, pulls through with perfect grades, natural intelligence, picks up info quickly, a bit of a mystery, high-profile events, networking, parties, center of attention at social gatherings, random comments that leave people laughing or wondering, doesn’t care about others, secretly craves connection but too prideful to ask for it.

---

Do not copy, plagiarise, translate or repost any of my content.

Likes, reblogs, and feedback is appreciated <3

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haikyu-mp4 · 9 months ago

Note

Congratz for the milestone!! Your event is soo cute btw! If you dont mind i am applying with tsukki, i am organized and flexible* Idk if i did it right but i hope you enjoy writing it!

thank you very much!! you're hired, lovely individual <3 *I only intended for suggestive to be used in coworker scenarios and it didn't fit the idea I had, so please excuse the lack of suggestiveness:)

Pressure point

Tsukishima is your friend and accidentally confesses, for the now hiring! event

word count; 618 – f!reader

Many young adults got a part-time job next to their university studies, and a lesser part of them enjoyed said jobs. You, however, had figured out a way to maximise your profit.

Not only that, but your best friend, Tsukishima Kei, usually spent the evenings you worked in the cafe, studying by the table closest to the cashier so you could throw subtle insults at each other whenever the line cleared up. In your eyes, it couldn’t get any better.

Tsukishima might seem calm, but he had just about had it, watching you flirt with these pathetic men who thought they genuinely caught your attention.

At first, he found it amusing how you coaxed them into throwing whatever change might be found at the bottom of their backpacks into your tip jar. Your brain was one of your many attractive qualities that made him stick around for so long and develop some feelings along the way.

Unfortunately, it bothered him as he listened to how you could flirt so effortlessly. He was jealous of how they got to bask in your, albeit fake, attention for even a few seconds. It had cost him a couple of study hours, where he would harshly press his pen into the same spot on his paper, trying to shut out the sound of your giggles.

As you were about to lock the door for the day, Tsukki was already standing behind you with his bag hiked up on his shoulder. “You don’t want to wait around today? I won’t take that long,” you queried, slight furrow between your brows.

“I’m not feeling well,” he said, trying not to sound too cold, but he couldn’t help it.

You tilted your head, letting out a small discontent sound. “Then why did you stay for so long?” you asked, and Tsukki looked away from your face.

He mumbled something under his breath and you huffed, locking the door before turning to him with your hands on your hips.

“What was that?”

“How will you flirt when you actually like someone? When you’re not just pretending for some cheap tips?” he asked, hiding his feelings behind a dry laugh.

“Who said I don’t like them?” you challenged, confusion diffusing after Tsukki’s resolve unravelled.

“Oh stop it, there’s no way you’re that tasteless,” he argued, looking like the thought left a nasty taste on his tongue.

You pursed your lips, nodding your head as you decided to switch from your first thought to a more tactical response. “I suppose if I did like someone, I would ask him to hang out with me while I’m at work. Annoy him when I can. Push up his glasses when he’s being a smart-ass,” you insisted, emphasising by lifting your pointer finger to push his glasses up his nose bridge, something you often did to annoy him.

Tsukishima readjusted his glasses and stared at you blankly for a second. He didn’t know what came over him, and he’d forever deny it to anyone you tried to tell the story to, but he put one hand on each of your cheeks and pulled you in for an awkward touch of lips one might call a kiss.

When his hands left your cheeks and he pulled away, you stared at him in amused shock. “Tsukki!”

“I’ll cover the tips with whatever food you want, just stop flirting with anyone else,” he demanded with a frown, while his eyes were flitting between your eyes and your lips.

“Are you asking me out?” He let out a flustered sound, about to turn around and pretend like nothing happened when you got on the tips of your toes to give him another, slightly better kiss.

masterlist

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nightingale-ghost-writer · 2 months ago

Text

Possibly [Ghost x Fem!OC]

Summary: Ghost wouldn’t know love if it shot him in the face… or comfort, for that matter. A certain pretty medic could change that.

Author’s Notes: A companion piece for Maybe, with 10.7K words! Reading Maybe isn’t necessary, but provides bits of context for this toward the end. And again, a HUGE thank you to my beloved @uselsshuman for proof reading this for me. ❤️

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Modern Warfare

Warnings: language, canon-typical violence, extremely suggestive content

Ten years ago

“Stay with me, Simon! Shit, shit, I need help!”

Ghost could hear Price yelling for the medical team, but he couldn’t make his mouth work enough to tell him to bloody stop. It was making his already splitting headache twice as bad. There were searing pains in his chest and abdomen that he was pretty sure came from bullets, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He tried to focus on the pain to keep him awake, but he could feel his consciousness slipping.

“Shit, Kate! I need that medic!”

Laswell did respond, but Ghost couldn’t hear what she said over the commotion of being lifted out of the chopper. “C’mon, Simon. Stay with me,” Price muttered. The older man patted his cheek somewhat less than gently, shaking his other arm. “We’ve got too much work to do for you to go dyin’ on me now.”

Ghost tried to snort, but what came out was more of a wheeze. He opened his mouth to retort, but couldn’t seem to get enough air in to say anything. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to compartmentalize the pain. The stretcher he was on bounced along with the footsteps of the men carrying it, making the throbbing in his torso worse.

His eyes snapped open when he heard metal doors slam against the wall. A pretty medic jogged to the stretcher, carefully shining a light into his eyes and running her hands down his body. He could tell when she found the bullet wounds, fingers prodding gently at their edges. He wheezed again.

Ghost was still fighting to stay conscious while she asked Price what had happened, one hand lifting to his mask. A last vestige of strength surged through him as he reached up to grab her wrist. Her eyes snapped to his, questioning.

“No,” he croaked weakly. His grip on her wrist had already loosened, despite his panic, and he feared she would pull the mask off anyway. But she only looked at him for a moment before pulling a pen torch from her coat pocket and shining it in his eyes. He squinted, trying his best to follow the light as it moved.

“Alright, you don’t have a concussion,” she said. “You can keep the mask on.” Ghost’s hand fell back to his side as she produced a pair of trauma shears and sliced through his tactical vest and shirt. The chilly air on his bare skin made him shiver. He slipped in and out of consciousness as the stretcher was carried into a surgical room and he was lifted onto a table.

Something cold swiped along his chest and in the crook of his arm. He felt a pinch as an IV was inserted, then a light tingling throughout his body. Then an agonizing pain pierced his chest.

He blacked out.

When he woke up again, bright sunlight shone through the window. It was cracked open to let in a fresh, cool breeze, and he could hear birds chirping outside. A soft beeping drew his attention to a heart monitor near his headboard. The pretty medic was at it, making notes on her chart.

Without looking toward him, she said “Good to see you’re finally awake.” Now that he wasn’t fighting for his every thought, Ghost took a moment to study her while she worked. She had delicate features; high cheekbones, a pointed nose, and a small chin. A deep cupid’s bow accentuated her full, upturned lips. Wisps of strawberry blonde hair framed her pale face while the rest threatened to spill out of a massive bun at the back of her slender neck, and he could see in the light that freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Pale, seafoam green eyes sparkled at him as she tilted her head, studying him back.

Bloody hell, he’d been caught staring.

He cleared his throat, preparing an apology, but she cut him off before he could start in.

“You took quite a beating. I pulled out a couple of bullets and got your lung reinflated, but you’ll need to take it easy for a few days. I’d prefer a couple of weeks, but Captain Price told me I’d be lucky to keep you at all once you woke up.” She smiled wryly at him. “I’m hoping you’ll work with me, here.”

As if hearing his name, a soft knock sounded at the door and Price stepped in. He smiled at Ghost from the doorway before turning to the medic. “How’s he doin’, doc?” he asked.

“Oh, he’ll be right as rain in no time. He just needs to take it easy for a while.”

Price snorted, glancing toward Ghost. “Good luck with that,” he muttered. The medic giggled, an echoing wind chime sound in the otherwise cold room. Ghost rolled his eyes, half because it’s what he would have done in the first place, half to stop from laughing himself. As he did, his grin dropped and his hand darted up to his face, instantly relieved to feel the fabric of his balaclava still there.

The medic arched one slender brow and smirked. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t come off.”

Ghost looked to Price for confirmation, who nodded slowly. “You can trust her, Simon.”

He looked back to the medic again, blinking at her. “I don’t even know your name,” he finally said. The realization had taken him too long to come to.

“I’m Cat,” she said cheerily. “Nice to meet you, Simon.”

Ordinarily, Ghost would have flinched. Only Price called him by name. Maybe it was because Price trusted her, maybe it was because he thought he might have some small amount of trust in her himself. Just a bit. He didn’t flinch. He sighed, feeling something almost like defeat sag his shoulders. Exhaustion.

“Nice to meet you, Cat,” he murmured.

She hummed in response, ushering Price toward the door. “You should get some sleep. If you need anything, just hit that call button.” She gestured to a small device on the bedside table as she checked his monitors one more time. “I’ll be back after I make some rounds, but hopefully you’ll be sound asleep by then.” She turned to leave, then looked back over her shoulder at him. A smile spread across her pretty face when he held her gaze. “See you tomorrow, Simon.”

He slept peacefully that night for the first time in years. He decided when he woke up that it was from battle fatigue, not Cat’s presence in his room. She sat in a chair in the corner, curled up under a throw blanket, utterly engrossed in a book. For a long moment, Ghost just watched her. He couldn’t see what book she was reading- the back cover was facing him. The paperback spine was so worn that he couldn’t read the faint lettering on that, either.

“What’re you readin’?” he finally asked. His throat was hoarse, his voice even more gravelly than usual. Cat’s head snapped up and she beamed at him, scrambling out of the chair. She poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the countertop and moved toward him slowly. Giving him time to tell her to stop.

“The Great Gatsby,” she answered, handing him the cup. Carefully, he raised himself onto his elbows, taking the cup as he scooted back toward the headboard.

“‘Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known,’” quoted Ghost. Cat’s eyebrows shot up, eyes widening as a smile spread across her face.

“You’ve read it?” she asked.

Ghost gulped the water she’d brought him, nodding as he gestured to her tattered copy. “Not as much as you, though.”

Cat looked toward the book with a fond smile. “It’s my favorite book,” she said softly. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I could read you some, if you’d like.” Ghost blinked at her. After a moment of silence, she glanced back up, suddenly nervous. “O-or not, I’m sure you-”

“I’d like that,” he said. Her smile came back full force instantly.

“Well before I do, how do you feel? All of your vitals are looking good, but are you in pain? Collapsed lungs are no joke. And, y’know, neither are bullets.”

Ghost rolled his shoulders carefully. His stitches tugged, his joints ached, and there was a dull burning sensation where his wounds were. “I’ll live,” he said gruffly. Cat snorted.

“That’s kinda the poiiiint,” she sing-songed, grinning at him. She dragged her chair up to the bedside, leaning back and crossing her feet near his at the foot of the bed. She read softly, deliberately, voice lilting over the words. Ghost thought that if this was what taking it easy looked like, he could possibly get used to it.

Four years ago

Ghost hissed as he peeled his gloves off, tender skin protesting at the friction. His hands and arms had been burned pulling men out of a crashed helicopter.

“Half an hour and you’ll be with the medic,” rumbled Price as he passed by.

“I’m fine,” Ghost muttered back. Price stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly on his heel to stare.

“Half an hour,” he said deliberately, “and you’ll be with the medic.” Ghost stared for half a second before remembering himself, dropping his gaze, and mumbling a quiet acquiescence.

He didn’t need help like some of these men, but Price was unlikely to be swayed. Besides, there was nothing else for him to do when he got back to base. The mission had been quick and simple, a rescue for a downed bird. Price wouldn’t need him in the debrief and he’d only end up licking his wounds himself in the privacy of his own quarters. Besides, the base had a full medical team. The other soldiers would get medical care regardless of him.

When their plane landed, he made his way to the infirmary. He watched as several men were carried in on stretchers and slunk to the back to wait in the corner of the room. He stood for what felt like both ages and only minutes, watching soldiers come and go.

“Simon?” called a soft voice. He turned his head to see a petite woman with a mass of strawberry blonde hair. Cat.

“Cat,” he answered gruffly. She beamed at him, and even though she couldn’t see it, he smiled back. He was pleased to see her. After she’d treated his punctured lung some years ago, she’d come back to read to him every day of his recovery. He wasn’t sure if Price had specifically requested her presence, but he hadn’t been seen by any other medics during that stay.

It had settled his frayed nerves more than he’d ever admit.

Cat turned on her heel, motioning for him to follow her. He did. She’d treated various wounds and injuries since their initial meeting, and Simon had grown to trust her as Price did. She was competent and professional, gentle and compassionate. She seemed to know how much space he needed and she had never tried to insert herself into that space.

They reached a room, and Cat gestured for him to sit on the exam table while she shut the door behind him. He pulled off his hoodie as she slipped a pair of exam gloves onto her hands, back to him..

“So, Price tells me you’ve changed professions,” she said. Simon raised an eyebrow.

“He what?”

She turned to face him, eyes twinkling. “He says you’re a firefighter now.”

Simon scoffed at that. “That’s because the old man is losing his marbles.” Cat snickered.

She pulled a tray with various items across the room and stood directly in front of Ghost. He saw ointments, bandages, and several metal tools he didn’t like the look of.

He nodded toward the tray as she took one of his hands, lifting his arm to better look at it. “What’s all that?”

She glanced at the tray before turning her gaze back to his arm. “The tools? They’re for debridement, but I shouldn’t need them. They’re just standard in burn kits.”

Simon nodded, relieved. Cat cocked her head at him. “I… do kinda need you to take off your shirt. Well, preferably most of your clothes.”

He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, holding her gaze. She waited patiently as he stood, unbuckling his vest and pulling his shirt over his head. She busied herself with examining the tubes of ointment and opening the bandage packages as he untied his boots, removing those and his pants and sitting back on the edge of the exam table in his boxers and mask.

Simon cleared his throat, and Cat turned back to him, smiling gently. She murmured questions about his pain level as she examined the burns on his arms, smearing various burn ointments across them before wrapping them gently. She worked her way up his arms, across his chest, down his torso, and finally down his legs, periodically using ointment and wrapping patches of skin she deemed needed attention. When she was satisfied with her work, she strode across the room and washed her hands.

“You can get dressed now. You should be okay in the next week or two, just try to keep those covered.”

Simon blinked, standing to pull his clothes on. “That’s it, then?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Cat turned to look at him, gaze piercing. He knew what was coming. He knew he’d opened the door. Why, he would never know.

“Well,” she said softly. “I really should look at your face. Lots of your burns are thermal, and there could be more under that mask.” She continued when he stared blankly at her. “Thermal burns are basically like steam burns. There’s no actual contact with fire, but the skin heats up so much that it still causes damage.They can be painful.”

Simon sat again, looking toward the wall. His eyes snapped back when she said “It’s up to you.”

He studied her. He’d studied her a lot since he’d met her. She held his gaze, but not in challenge. He could see concern, built up from all the times she hadn’t asked him to take off the mask. She seemed nervous; she leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around herself. Her shoulders were hunched slightly and in that moment, she looked much smaller to Simon than he knew she really was. She was as nervous to ask him as he was to consider her request.

He weighed the choice in his mind, gauging how much he had come to trust this woman. Her eyes flickered anxiously over his hands, his chest, the bandages she couldn’t see now that he’d put his shirt back on. Anywhere but at his eyes. She hadn’t wanted to ask.

He looked down to his hands. “Alright,” he said softly. He said it so softly that for a moment, he thought she might not have heard him. He raised his head. When he caught Cat’s eye, she was watching him carefully. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Slowly, as though he were a scared animal she didn’t want to frighten, she placed her clipboard on the countertop and picked up a new pair of gloves.

She stepped toward the bed, pausing as she reached his side. With one hand, she tapped his knee. Simon froze for a moment, then parted his legs. Cat stepped between them, carefully raising her hands to the edges of the mask at Ghost’s throat. She glanced up at him, a final request, waiting for his tiny nod before touching the fabric.

Her fingers were feather light as she tugged up the fabric slowly, revealing his face centimeter by centimeter. Ghost held his breath, eyes unfocused somewhere near Cat’s elbow. She pulled off the last of the mask, laying it on his thigh lightly. Reverently.

He met her eyes and felt stripped bare. More naked than he had been moments before without his clothes. She smiled at him, small and somehow relieved. Slowly, she reached up, turning his head in her hands. Her fingertips brushed against tender skin at his temple, then again at his jaw. She turned, opening another tube of ointment, and dabbed it onto where he assumed the skin was red. Simon’s eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched so tenderly, if he ever had been at all. He was overwhelmed with the abrupt desire for more of this gentleness. More of her.

Before he knew it, Cat withdrew her hands. He opened his eyes to watch her pull her gloves off before picking his mask back up. With as much care as one might handle a fine and delicate piece of art, she lifted the mask, rolling it carefully over his face. She leaned back just a bit, eyes soft. Simon instantly and viscerally missed her fingers on his cheeks.

“There you go,” she whispered. Then, before he could even gather his thoughts enough to thank her, she was gone.

Three months ago

Ghost breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. He had to remind himself to do it, lest he lose his cool. Soap’s shoulders weighed inordinately heavy in his arms. Gaz held the Sargeant’s feet as they hustled down the halls, trying to find a functional elevator. Daniela ran from door to door, mashing buttons furiously, swearing under her breath in Spanish Ghost wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

He couldn’t believe he’d shot his subordinate. His friend.

“Take the shot, LT.”

“Soap, I can’t get a clear-”

“Take. The shot.”

“-I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. What kind of sick, twisted-

“Aquí!” shouted Daniela. She’d found what seemed to be the only functional elevator in the building, and the 141 crammed into it. The tight space forced Ghost to hoist Soap further up, resting the younger man’s head on his shoulder. Daniela reached up, stroking his cheek and humming shakily. Ghost leaned back against the elevator wall, letting his eyes drift shut. He fought to keep a clear mind.

“He’ll be alright,” rumbled Price. Ghost’s eyes snapped open. The Captain was leaning heavily on the elevator wall, eyes boring into Ghost with an intensity he was much more used to giving than receiving.

Ghost didn’t answer him.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. The exfil chopper landed and they loaded in, strapping Soap in as comfortably as they could. Daniela’s hands stayed on him the entire flight. She worked to stabilize him, alternately whispering prayers and curses. Price had stayed back to deal with Hassan’s body, but radioed a safehouse location to Gaz, who passed it to the pilot and graciously didn’t try to talk to Ghost. One look had told him all he’d needed to know.

When they landed on a hospital roof, Daniela held bandages against Soap’s chest as Ghost and Gaz carried him toward the door. Just before they reached it, it burst open and Ghost’s whole body sagged with relief. Cat. Her eyes met his and the two shared the briefest nonverbal conversation before she scanned his body, then Soap’s.

Cat took charge instantly, ushering her team forward to move him onto a stretcher, and the whole group rushed inside as Daniela nervously detailed to Cat what she had done to treat the wounds. Gaz was pulled to another room to be examined. Another medic motioned for Ghost, but he shook his head. He caught Daniela’s arm when she tried to follow Soap’s stretcher into the operating room. She tried to wrench out of his grip, but he had been expecting it and held her tightly.

She screamed, fighting him as he lifted her bodily to carry her away from the door. She swore at him, kicking his shins and clawing at his arm, throwing her inadequate weight in every direction in an attempt to break free from his hold before realizing that she couldn’t. She sobbed brokenly in his arms. If Ghost hadn’t been numb from his own worry, listening to her whimpers and cries would have broken him, too.

When she finally quieted, the two sat together in the hallway, backs to the wall, waiting on any word. Gaz joined them shortly after, wearing several bandages but otherwise looking no worse for wear. He sat across the hall, stretching his legs out to touch his boots to Daniela’s in solidarity. She sat curled into Ghost’s side, head resting on his shoulder, while he sat ramrod straight next to her. Gaz raised an eyebrow, shocked that she hadn’t been pushed away, and Ghost shrugged the shoulder her head didn’t rest on.

He didn’t know how to comfort her, wouldn’t even begin to try- but he owed it to Johnny to allow her this. Especially since it was half his fault he was here in the first place.

It had been at least several hours when Gaz suggested that they find something to eat. His expression was nonplussed at the immediate “no” he received from Ghost and Daniela, even when he offered to wait outside the door, but he accepted it in stride and rose to his feet to find something himself.

He returned not long after, carrying chairs and followed by two nurses carrying steaming trays of food. Ghost gratefully moved to a chair and accepted the food, eating it robotically. If anyone had asked him later what he’d eaten, he wouldn’t have an answer for them.

The three were dozing in the hall when Price arrived, Ghost the only one to open his eyes when the Captain pulled up a chair of his own to join their silent vigil. They both nodded off, and everyone bolted upright when the door opened hours after his arrival. Cat walked through, offering quiet reassurances all around that their teammate would be fine. When her team rolled out the gurney, Daniela’s hand was on Soap’s before anyone could react. Ghost followed as their little convoy made its way down the hall into a recovery room, pulling a chair to the bedside for Daniela. She thanked him softly, laying her head on Soap’s hip and watching his face intently as she stroked his hand.

Cat touched Ghost’s elbow, bringing his attention to her upturned face. “Has anyone looked at you yet, Simon?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I’m alright.”

Cat’s brows came down worriedly. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He raised a hand to hers, squeezing lightly. Cat’s face relaxed just a bit. “I’ll let you look at me once he wakes up, how about that?”

She rolled her eyes, smiling up at him. “If that’s the best you’ll give me, I’ll have to take it,” she teased. Ghost relaxed, squeezing her hand before moving to the other side of the room to sit in a chair in the corner. He watched the sun and moon dance across the window, watched Daniela doze and wake, took another tray of food from Gaz, and then another later from Price.

He and Daniela hadn’t uttered a word to each other since walking into the room. It was over a full day later when Ghost gently rested a hand on her shoulder, waking her from her fitful slumber. “You should go sleep in a real bed,” he said gruffly. Daniela shook her head violently.

“No,” she said. “I’m not leaving him.” They both watched Soap’s chest rise and fall several times before Daniela spoke again. “You should take your own advice, Lieutenant.”

Ghost shook his head. “No. I’m not leaving him, either.” He turned to the window, staring out across the water. “It’s my fault he’s here in the first place.”

The scoff that Daniela uttered was enough to turn his head. She leaned forward, stroking Johnny’s cheek. Her eyes were glued to his face. “No. El idiota se lo hizo a si mismo,” she said softly. Her words weren’t particularly kind, but her tone was affectionate. “It’s not your fault.”

Their eyes locked, sharing a moment of fear and regret for the man in the bed. Then Ghost nodded. “If I go shower, will you go when I come back?” Daniela had begun to shake her head. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes. You’ll feel better,” he pressed. She hesitated, then nodded.

The shower did wonders to help rejuvenate Ghost, and he was grateful for the clean clothes that had been left for him. Even though he’d been virtually unscathed in the mission, he felt filthy. Guilty, and disloyal. The hot water helped to wash some of that away. Some. His mind had raced, the last day or so, over every detail he could have used to protect his subordinate. Johnny had told him to take the shot, but damnit, he should have found another way. There was no other way. If he hadn’t, Johnny would have been thrown to his death and they might have lost Hassan, anyway.

When he got back to the room, he called Daniela’s name quietly from the doorway to wake her from her drowsing. Despite her agreement, he still had to pry her fingers from around Johnny’s to get her across the hall. Ten minutes later, she was back in the same chair, head back on his hip as she stroked his skin.

Cat had been by several times to check on Johnny’s vitals, saying nothing to disturb the peace. She’d only looked over first Daniela, then Ghost, concern written across her features. She hadn’t tried to convince either of them to leave. The next time she came after they’d showered, though, she walked to Simon’s side, fidgeting with something behind her back. She glanced back to Daniela’s sleeping form, then looked at her feet.

“What is it, Cat?” Ghost asked softly.

“I, um, thought you might like something to read,” she stammered. She pulled a book from behind her back, holding it out to Ghost to take. He recognized the tattered paperback before he even saw the cover. The Great Gatsby. He took it from her outstretched hand, suppressing a shiver when their fingers brushed.

Something had changed between them the day she’d seen his face.

It was like she couldn’t bear to look at him any more if it wasn’t a medical conversation. Ghost felt ill at ease in her presence, nonsensically longing for physical hurts to match his injured soul, just to have her benevolent gaze and gentle touch again. He found himself mourning the easy banter they’d shared, her quiet presence being enough to quiet his mind. He was both cynically unsurprised and stupidly, deeply wounded by the shift in her demeanor around him.

He broke from his rampant thoughts when she stroked a finger down the side of his hand, and he realized he hadn’t actually withdrawn it. He snatched the book toward his chest. “Yeah,” he started hoarsely. “Yeah, thank you. That’s nice.” He glanced up, meeting her stare briefly before dropping his eyes. “That’s really nice. Thank you.”

“Of course.” She lingered for a moment, and Ghost held his breath. She seemed to want to say something. He hoped she did. But she turned and walked away, murmuring a quiet goodnight from the door.

He sat for a long while, staring at the place she’d been, before opening her well-loved book reverently and beginning to read. Upon opening the worn pages, he was surprised to see notes scribbled in most of the margins. He felt as though he’d been brought to a secret, special place- reserved only for Cat’s deepest thoughts. He felt honored. He read by the moonlight, storya nd notes alike, wondering briefly if he was like Gatsby- craving the idea of Cat rather than who she really was. But he put that thought quickly aside, not truly believing it for even a moment.

He devoured the book, and around the time of Gatsby’s grand declaration of love, Soap stirred. Ghost sat bolt upright, watching closely. He barely dared to breathe. Then, Soap’s eyes opened slowly.

“Johnny?” Ghost whispered.

Slowly, Johnny turned his head. As he did, Ghost rose to his feet from his chair, taking two quick steps to the bedside. Soap opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ghost scrambled to pour a cup of water, then gently helped Soap lift his head to drink. He saw the younger man’s eyes settle on Daniela before swallowing several times to clear his throat.

“What happened?” he finally asked.

Ghost’s gaze dropped to the floor, dreading this very question. “Do you want the short or long story?” he asked. His voice sounded exhausted to his own ears.

“How about the short one, for now?”

“I shot you,” said Ghost. He let that statement hang in the air before looking up to meet Soap’s eyes. “I shot you, Johnny. Because you told me to. Because you’re the best of us, and you’re clever.”

Soap nodded, eyes drifting shut, as though this was the answer he had expected. Ghost wondered if he’d really heard him.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. “You’re lucky I’m such a good shot,” he grumbled. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to ease tension only he felt, or create tension on his friend’s behalf. He shouldn’t be so okay with this.

Soap chuckled softly, wincing as he did. “That I am,” he said. “Hassan?”

“I shot him, too. Twice, actually.”

“Through me the first time, eh LT?”

Ghost deadpanned. This wasn’t funny. But when Soap grinned at him, he softened. Good that he could find humor in even this. “That’s right, Johnny.”

“Perfect shot, LT.” “You called it, Sargeant.”

“The best of us, huh LT?” Of course he’d heard that.

“Can it, Sergeant.”

For a moment, the two shared a companionable silence. Then, Ghost spoke so softly that he wondered if Soap would even hear him. Almost hoping he wouldn’t. “I almost didn’t take it.”

“The shot?” Of course he’d heard. Again. “Why not?”

“There was no shot,” Ghost exploded, throwing up his hands. His frustration was finally breaking the surface. He glanced at Daniela, lowering his voice as he continued. “He had you directly in front of him, and he would have thrown you out that window before I had time to move.” He had been scared for the first time in who knew how long. Soap’s calmness was making him angry, because he shouldn’t have been okay with this. He should have been angry. Ghost was supposed to take care of him, not shoot him.

Almost as though he could hear Ghost’s raging thoughts, Johnny let his eyes drift shut again. “You still got him, LT. I’ll call that a win.” Just like that, Ghost’s anger abated. Only weariness remained. “We got him, Johnny.”

“I’m starting to think you really have taken a shine to me, Simon.”

Ghost hung his head before looking back up. He most certainly had. Johnny had been one of only two people he’d let himself learn to trust in the last decade. “Maybe I have,” he relented. He turned, picking up his chair, and sat it right by the bed as quietly as he could. “That one has, for sure,” he said, nodding to Daniela.

Soap looked down at her. “How long have you both been here?”

“Since you got here,” Ghost mumbled. Soap’s head snapped back to him.

“And when was that?”

Ghost shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Four days, give or take.” Soap stared at him. Finally, he threw up his hands as irritation bubbled back to the surface. “You, Sergeant, should have died.”

He lifted one gloved hand, ticking off fingers as he spoke. “You have a field-treated gunshot wound to your right arm, which was in fact infected. Thank your lucky stars that Daniela saw through your idiocy.” Johnny, at least, had the decency to look sheepish at that. “A bruised bone in your hip. Three cracked ribs. A grade four concussion. Multiple hairline fractures in your legs. And a shredded left pec from a 50 caliber bullet. Might I add that last one only missed your heart by centimeters?” By some miracle.

Soap snorted. “Well, that explains a lot about how I feel. Hell, how I’ve been feeling.”

Ghost just shook his head, dumbfounded by Johnny’s casual reaction. Most men would have been in an uproar. Then again, Johnny wasn’t like most men. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Thought we lost ya. Again.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, LT.”

“Good,” grumbled Ghost. He looked toward Daniela. “I had to pry her off of you,” he said softly.

Soap looked down at her again. There was a softness in the way he looked at her. Simon had only seen it a handful of times before- when Daniela looked at Johnny, when Price looked at Laswell, and when Cat looked at him. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Mhmm,” murmured Ghost. “Could hardly get her across the hall to shower.” He was tired all over again just remembering arguing with the feisty woman.

Soap let his eyes drift shut, looking exhausted. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Amsterdam. Laswell has friends here. We’re in a private hospital.”

“Price? And Gaz?”

“They’re trying to find a lead on Shepherd.”

Soap nodded sleepily. “She kissed me,” he murmured.

Ghost rolled his eyes. “Doctors say she saved your life with that.”

Soap hummed, cracking one eye open to peer at Ghost. He shrugged.

“Something about the adrenaline helping to push off the shock.” It made sense to him, in a strange way. He wondered if Cat would ever kiss him like that, if she thought he was dying.

He banished the thought quickly as Soap hummed again, letting his eyes slide shut.

“Sleep, Johnny.”

He didn’t answer, and within moments, his breathing had evened out as he rested. Ghost waited for a while, watching the monitors beep steadily. Then he stood, stretching before he made his way to the door. He padded down the hallway to Cat’s office, then stopped outside her door. He rolled his shoulders, bracing himself, and then knocked.

He’d barely lowered his hand when the door flew open, Cat looking anxiously up at him.

“Is he..?” she asked.

“He’s fine. He woke up for a few minutes, but he’s asleep again. All of his vitals looked good.”

Relief washed over her face. “Good, then we’ll let him sleep.” She stepped back, gesturing Simon in. “Now let me take a look at you.” He shuffled past her, sitting on the chair in front of her desk. On a wild impulse, he pulled his mask off and ran his hand through his mussed-up hair. Cat froze for a moment when she saw him. Then a wide smile broke over her face.

“Nice to see you again, Simon,” she said. He flushed.

Under his breath, he murmured “It’s nice to be seen.” He’d thought it when he pulled off his mask days ago, standing alongside Price and Johnny and Daniela and Kyle and Alejandro. He thought it again now as Cat stole glances over her shoulder at him while she donned gloves and gathered instruments.

She came around the desk, slowly moving between him and it, to perch on the edge between his knees. He spread his legs, leaning toward her, and let her check his pupils and inspect him for injuries. She ran her hands over his face, his arms, and his torso. Her soft words didn’t do enough to prepare him for the cold of her stethoscope on the skin of his chest as she reached under his shirt to listen to his heartbeat.

He leaned involuntarily closer as she reached around his back to listen to his lungs, raising his arms to rest on the desk on either side of her thighs. He hadn’t realized he’d shut his eyes until Cat ran a gentle thumb along his cheek. He blinked up at her.

She looked angelic in the soft lamplight. Her hair seemed to halo around her head, and Simon belatedly realized that it was in a long braid over her shoulder instead of her usual copious bun. Her skin looked velvety and he longed to touch it. Her eyes roamed over his face as her thumb smeared the grease paint under his eye.

“How are you really, Simon?” she whispered.

“Tired,” he answered truthfully. He felt so exhausted from the past week that he wasn’t sure any amount of sleep could restore him.

Cat studied him for a moment. Then she firmly pulled his head down to rest on the top of her thigh. She threaded her fingers through his hair and scratched gently at his scalp, reaching her other hand up to squeeze his shoulders.

Simon nearly purred.

He shifted his arms so that they circled her waist, burying his face in the crook of her hip. Cat lifted her legs, crossing her ankles behind his back and pulling him closer.

For the first time he could remember, he felt at home. Comfortable, safe. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep. When he woke up, Cat was half folded over him. Her arms were around his shoulders and she was leaned forward, cheek resting against the top of his head. He didn’t want to wake her, but he was sure she couldn’t be comfortable. He disentangled himself as smoothly as he could, but as he lifted her arms, her eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” she said sleepily.

“Hey yourself,” he answered. She reached up to scrub her eyes, wincing as she straightened out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Don’t be silly,” she yawned, leaning back and raising her hands above her head. “You need the rest.”

“So do you,” Simon retorted. Cat smiled lazily at him. He looked to the ground. “I should go check on Johnny.”

“I’ll come with you.” Cat reached behind her on the desk, then held out a small, black piece of fabric to him. His mask.

He took it from her gratefully. Once he’d pulled it on, he extended a hand to help her off the desk. The short walk from Cat’s office to Johnny’s room gave Simon enough time to fully wake up, but he still wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him when he opened the door.

Johnny had clearly woken up while they’d been gone. He half lay, half sat, propped up on one elbow as he held Daniela tightly to him. She straddled him, one hand bracing her as the other ran through his hair. Her mouth was on his collarbone, and his eyes were shut in bliss. Simon blinked and the image of himself in the same position with Cat seared itself into his eyelids and his brain before he could stop it.

He coughed sharply, to shake both the lovebirds and himself out of the haze they all seemed to be in, and looked to the ceiling. He could feel his face burning under his mask. Daniela sprang up, scrambling off the bed with one hand covering her mouth. Johnny’s head whipped toward the door.

Simon could hear Cat’s amusement as she quipped. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Sergeant. My name’s Cat, I’m a friend of Kate’s. Mind if I take a look at you?”

Johnny must have given some indication that he didn’t mind, because Cat moved toward him while Daniela retreated to the corner of the room. Simon refused to lower his gaze from the walls.

“Would you two-” started Cat.

Johnny cut her off. “They can stay. Nothing they haven’t seen already.”

Simon glanced at Johnny as Cat helped him out of his gown. He flinched internally at the mottled bruising, angry broken skin, and the two bandaged bullet wounds. He looked back toward the ceiling.

“So Cat,” asked Johnny. “How did you meet Laswell?”

“Oh, she and I met probably fifteen years ago. She was still on the field, back then. I was still in training, working in a field hospital. I patched her and John up after a rough mission. I guess she decided she liked me, because as soon as I graduated, she snapped me right up.” She turned to Simon, who had turned his gaze to her as she spoke, and smiled. “Good thing, too. I’ve fixed this one up more times than I can count, and Kate tells me he won’t let anyone else touch him.”

Simon looked away again, focusing on a scuffed tile halfway between the chair Daniela sat in and Johnny’s bed. He hadn’t expected her to know that.

“Oh, is that so?” teased Johnny. Simon shot him a warning glare. He didn’t like that tone. The younger man’s eyes twinkled with a mischief Simon hoped he was imagining, but knew he wasn’t.

“I trust her,” he muttered.

Cat beamed at him. She looked back to Johnny, smiling conspiratorially. “Quite the compliment, eh?”

“That it is,” he answered smugly. Simon held his stare, unamused. Johnny looked back toward Daniela, eyes softening. She smiled back at him. Then Cat smiled at Simon, and he thought she might have looked at him the same way Daniela had just looked at Johnny. He blushed even more. He was so absorbed in his own bashfulness that he missed most of what Cat said to Johnny.

“Alright, well I’ll be back tonight to check in with you again. Simon, would you walk me out?”

He saw Johnny’s head whip in his direction, but refused to look at him, holding Cat’s gaze instead. He nodded at her, holding the door for her on their way out.

“He’ll be fine,” she told him as they walked. Simon nodded, relieved. “It might take a month or so, but he’ll be back on the field in no time.”

“That’s good,” breathed Simon. He held her office door open, following her in.

“You need to sleep,” she said. “Why don’t you take my cot over there?”

Simon glanced at the cot in the corner of her office. “I don’t want to put you out,” he began, but Cat’s cheshire-cat grin stopped him in his tracks.

“Who said you’d be putting me out?”

Simon’s face flamed. He’d seen Johnny and Daniela in a too-small bed together twice now, and he’d by lying if he said it didn’t make him crave sharing his own space. He’d never wanted to be close to anyone before, but Cat was like a magnetic force to him. He wanted to be close to her, and after today’s display, he was having flashes of desires less innocent than simply being close to her.

“I- I don’t-” he stuttered. Cat took mercy on him, reaching out to lay a hand on his.

“I’m only kidding. Sleep for a while. I have some paperwork to fill out, and you need the rest much more than I do.”

He looked longingly at the cot again, and Cat took the opportunity to shove him toward it. Her determination was rather cute, really. He moved because she wanted him to, not from the force of her physical strength. But she got him to the edge of the cot, sat him down, and rested her hands on his shoulders. He looked up at her, hoping she would stay. But she only smiled, turning to walk toward her desk.

“Will you wake me up when you’re ready to sleep?” he called.

He sounded desperate to himself, but Cat gave no indication that she thought so when she said “Of course,” to him. He lay back, closing his eyes as his body tensed and then relaxed into the cot. He could faintly smell something like the ocean, and realized it was Cat’s pillow. Before he could overthink it, he turned his face, pulling his mask up over his nose, and breathed in. He drifted off not long after that.

Today

Ghost breathed deep, forcing himself not to panic even as he felt it bubbling through his stomach, searing up his throat. Even as his mind threatened to grow fuzzy from it.

A week ago, Price and Laswell had briefed the 141 on a new mission far behind enemy lines. It would be unsanctioned and unsupported. They’d have no backup if anything went wrong. It would be just the four of them- Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost- and one medic.

Cat.

Ghost had asked Price privately if it had to be her. Price kindly didn’t question his Lieutenant questioning orders, only assured him that it did have to be her. She was Laswell’s most skilled and trusted medic, and this mission called for the highest level of skill and trust.

She’d gravitated to him on the bird in, and he’d helped her secure her parachute and pack and tactical vest. She was to post up in an abandoned bunker two klicks from the site they were infiltrating. She was nervous, but not too nervous. She’d be alone, but she’d be safely away from the enemy. At least, that was the plan.

The plan didn’t pan out.

Somehow, the enemy soldiers knew they were coming. They were met at the gate of the facility by at least ten men, all of whom were quickly and quietly gunned down. Soap made good on his call sign, Gaz made good on his excessive target practice, Ghost made good on his hand to hand combat skills, and Price made good on his leadership skills. Within ninety seconds, all ten bodies were hidden and the 141 pushed silently forward.

Ghost was grateful for the radio silence Price had called for on their way in. It meant he got a break from Soap’s incessant pestering and teasing about the way he acted around Cat.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, LT.”

“Had what, Sergeant?”

“Love.”

Ghost had scoffed. “Love? I acquiesced to taking a shine to you, but I wouldn’t call that love.”

“‘M not talkin’ about me, LT.”

“Who then?”

Soap’s face had been unimpressed.

All throughout Soap’s physical therapy and rehabilitation training, Ghost had listened to this. Any time Cat walked away, Soap would joke about Ghost hating to watch her go. Any time she passed them in the halls, Soap would get her attention, trying to set up awkward encounters for Ghost to wriggle out of. At one point, he got so far under Ghost’s skin that the Lieutenant said something he instantly regretted about Soap projecting his missing Daniela. The joking had stopped then, and Ghost had felt guilty. But the reprieve hadn’t lasted, so neither did his guilt.

He’d rebuffed his friend over and over, denying any feelings for Cat other than comfort.

“I trust her, Johnny, but I wouldn’t know love if it shot me in the face,” he’d huffed after a particularly long session of rebuttals.

He’d never seen Johnny look so unconvinced.

He’d have never told Johnny, but he was honestly confused about his feelings for Cat. He’d never loved anyone before, and he’d only been half joking when he’d told Johnny he wouldn’t know love if it shot him. Ever since she’d seen his face, the air had shifted when they were together. Ever since falling asleep in her lap, he craved her presence. Ever since watching Johnny with Daniela, his thoughts would race to imagine himself with Cat like that.

He’d dreamed about her, after that. Often. Mostly, the dreams were innocent. She’d read to him, they’d have picnics, or he’d just be in her office, spending time with her whenever he could.

Some dreams weren’t so innocent. Her hair spread out under her, cheeks flushed as she moaned his name. One hand on her mouth, one on her belly, holding her against him and keeping her quiet as they moved together in his cot with the rest of the 141 only meters away. He did his best not to think about those. It felt wrong, as though he were betraying her trust. He felt ashamed. He told himself it was just pent-up lust, manifested in her because he cared for her as a person. As a friend. It couldn’t be love.

Now, as he stood with his hands raised, kicking his gun away, he knew- deeper than anything he’d ever known, better than he knew himself- that he had been wrong.

He did love her. More than anyone he’d ever loved before.

He wondered- as tears streamed down her face to the gag in her mouth, as he put his hands on his head, as he was roughly shoved to his knees- whether he’d ever have come to the realization on his own. Probably not.

The squad had known they were coming because Cat’s bunker hadn’t been abandoned. The enemy team had sought refuge there after a mission of their own gone wrong, found Cat, and dragged her back to this base to warn their fellow soldiers.

Ghost had breached the room he stood in now, ready to eliminate any target who showed his face.

Only one had. From behind Cat’s back.

He held a gun to the side of her head, wrenching her back by her cuffed hands, and screamed at Ghost not to come any closer.

Four more men flooded the room, all guns on Cat.

“Drop your weapon,” snarled the first.

He did.

“Hands on your head!” yelled another, while the first shouted for him to kick his gun away.

He did those things, too.

Cat shook her head violently back and forth, sobbing around the gag in her mouth. Blood dripped from her temple into her coral hair, and her normally pale skin was bone white. She shook in her captor’s grip. Whether it was from fear or pain, Ghost couldn’t tell.

“Ghost, how copy?” came Soap’s whisper in his ear. “I can hear men, are you in that room?”

Ghost said nothing.

“Alright,” breathed Soap. “How many?”

Ghost turned his head almost imperceptibly. Then, as softly as he could, he clicked his tongue five times.

“Five?” said Soap. Ghost made no sound, hoping beyond hope that the Sergeant could put together a plan. He was quiet for almost too long, then “Cat?” Clever, Johnny.

“Cat,” he said softly. “Are you injured?” She shook her head quickly. He breathed out a sigh of relief, even as the man behind him kicked his legs, pushing his shoulder to drive him to his knees. Another yelled and stepped closer, cocking his gun. Soap cursed quietly in Ghost’s ear. Cat wriggled, wide eyes still on him. His eyes hadn’t left hers since they’d met two minutes prior.

After another long silence, Gaz spoke in his ear. “Ghost, I’m in the building across. I have sights on the bastard who’s got her. When I fire, you go get her, alright?”

Ghost nodded a tiny nod.

“We’re right behind you, hermano,” came Soap’s low rasp. “We’ll get the other ones.”

“On my mark,” whispered Price. There was a beat, then two, then three.

Ghost breathed in.

“Mark.”

A loud crack rang out as glass exploded and the man who held Cat dropped. She spun to look at his body in shock, ducking instinctually. Ghost launched himself from his place on the floor, tucking her under him as he wrapped his arms around her head. Heavy fire rang behind him as Soap and Price burst into the room, taking advantage of the other soldiers’ surprise to put them down.

Cat whimpered, shaking, and Ghost tilted his head to be closer to his ear. “Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

By the time he got the words out, the gunfire had stopped.

“LT!” called Soap. He’d jogged the two steps forward, extending a hand to pull Ghost up. “Y’alright, sir?”

“Solid,” rumbled Ghost. He tucked his hands under Cat’s armpits, hauling her to her feet less gently than he’d have liked to. He reached for the gag, dragging it down and out of her mouth, and she gulped in the stale air.

“Simon,” she whimpered. He hauled her to his chest with one hand around her waist, the other stroking the back of her head.

“I’ve got you, Cat,” he whispered. Then, over his shoulder, “Price! Have you got keys?”

“I’ve got ‘em!” called Soap. He’d turned away the moment Ghost had pulled Cat forward, his small gesture of granting what little privacy he could. He’d made good use of the time, patting down the bodies of the fallen soldiers as he went. He tossed the tiny key to Ghost, who caught it deftly and spun Cat to release her hands from the cuffs. “Got the flash drive, too.”

Ghost glimpsed Soap handing the flash drive to Price as Cat rubbed at her wrists, still shaking. He still had a hand on her elbow and he wasn’t keen to let her go quite yet. He’d be damned if he let her out of his sights again, that was certain.

“Alright, move out! Gaz, how soon can you get to the rendezvous?”

“Three minutes, Captain.”

“Right, let’s go then.” Price and Soap raised guns to move out, and Ghost turned to Cat.

“C’mon, petal, let’s go.”

She nodded, but as she moved toward him, she lurched forward. Ghost’s hands flew to her shoulders to steady her as he looked her over frantically.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I am concussed,” she said softly. Her lips were pursed, eyes narrowed as she thought to herself. She looked up at him, and nodded. “I am concussed.”

Simon leaned down, wrapping one arm around her waist and one under her knees, and hefted her up. “Thought you said you weren’t injured,” he grumbled.

“Well I was a little too busy getting dragged away to think about it at first, and then they-”

Ghost glanced down at her as he rushed down the hall after his teammates. They were halfway down the staircase, carefully checking each landing and doorway. When he looked back to Cat, she was staring at him with an intensity he’d only seen a handful of times over the years.

“I thought they were going to kill you,” she whispered. She reached up, stroking her fingers across his cheek over the mask. Her eyes were watering, her bottom lip quivering, and her hair had long since abandoned the tight-wound bun she’d put it in before they flew in. Simon curled his arms up until he could touch his forehead to hers, allowing himself one brief moment to close his eyes and thank the powers that be that she was okay.

“I thought they were going to kill you,” he murmured back, moving quickly through the building again. Price had just breached the door at the ground floor and Soap made his way to an abandoned truck. Gaz jogged out of the building he’d positioned himself in, meeting Price and Soap as they popped the hood of an abandoned truck. “Never would’ve forgiven myself if anything happened to you.”

Cat’s voice was soft when she said “It wouldn’t have been your fault.”

Ghost only looked at her as he climbed into the chopper.

The flight back was filled with quiet chatter as Price assessed Cat’s concussion, Gaz filled in Laswell, and Soap watched Ghost watch Cat.

Ghost was just grateful the Sergeant kept his mouth shut.

Cat leaned heavily on Simon’s shoulder as they stepped off the chopper, but was able to walk on her own. Price dismissed him from their debrief and he walked her to the med bay to be checked over by a colleague, then back to her office, opening the door for her and helping to ease her into her chair.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” She grimaced even as she said it, reaching up to rub her temples.

Simon froze, watching her. “I… I can go, if you want me to-”

“No! I mean, I didn’t mean it like that,” she stammered. She looked down to her hands, picking at her cuticles. “I just meant I’m sure you have more important things to do than babysit me.”

“I don’t.” Cat’s eyes flicked up in disbelief and he shrugged. He pulled a chair around from the front of her desk to sit facing her, taking her hands in his. He studied them as he struggled to choose his words. His palms dwarfed hers, fingers nearly fully looping her wrist to touch his thumbs where they stroked the backs of her hands. “There’s nothing more important to me than you. Not even the mission.”

The silence was tense enough to snap, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Like a tripwire about to set off a grenade. Simon’s heart pounded in his ears as he stubbornly refused to look up, keeping his eyes locked on his fingers. He had to get the words out before he buried them too deeply to ever be found again.

“I make out like I think Johnny’s pretty daft most of the time, but he’s one of the most clever people I’ve ever met.” He paused, steeling himself. “He annoys me, but he knows how to read people. He’s been telling me for months that I’m in love with you, and it took today for me to realize he’s right.” Cat inhaled a sharp breath, but he still kept his gaze glued to their hands.

“It took being scared for the first time in…” He thought of Las Almas. He’d been scared then, too. But nothing like this. “I’ve never been afraid like I was today. Afraid that I could lose you without telling you that I love you. And that I’ve loved you for… probably years, now.”

Simon finally tore his gaze from their joined hands. Cat’s eyes shone with unshed tears that he reached up to wipe away. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way-”

“I do,” she cut him off.

They stared at each other for a moment before Simon said “I think that’s your head injury talking.”

Cat’s head whipped back and forth as she shook it emphatically. “It’s not the concussion, Si.”

With that single syllable, Simon’s heart seemed to melt in his chest, seeping between his ribs and pooling in his stomach with a warmth he’d never felt before. He let his eyes drift shut as he pulled Cat’s hands up, laying them on his masked cheeks and leaning heavily into her touch.

“I’ve known for a long time, too, but… I didn’t want to scare you off,” she admitted softly. He opened his eyes to find her watching him, eyes shining again. Her fingers twitched against the fabric of his balaclava. “I know you have a hard time trusting people.”

“I trust you.” The words came unbidden, instant. He’d never meant anything more. He leaned further against her hands, turning his face to nuzzle her palm. As her fingers fiddled with a loose string, he whispered “Take it off.”

She froze. Then, slowly, she ran her fingers down his cheeks, across his jaw, down his neck to lay against his collarbones over his hoodie. She grasped the zipper, waiting for him to protest, and tugged it down when he didn’t. She only lowered it enough to tuck her fingertips under the edge of the balaclava, pulling up gingerly.

She paused again when she reached his mouth, fabric bunched under his nose. Suddenly, Simon couldn’t help himself any longer. He leaned up, quickly closing the gap, and kissed her softly. She tugged the rest of the mask off, tossing it onto her desk and pulling him closer by his hoodie’s zipper and the back of his neck.

Their lips slid together, insistent and firm. Cat’s lips yielded when his tongue traced them, allowing him entrance. He groaned quietly as her grip on him tightened, pulling him nearly out of his chair. His hands ran from where they’d rested on her shoulders, down her sides to grip her waist, and he pulled her forward.

She let out a squeak of surprise, but spread her legs as he dragged her onto his lap, body flush against his. She gathered herself quickly, tilting his head up with her thumbs on his cheeks, and bent down to kiss him again. Simon squeezed her thighs as she kissed him feverishly, pressing him back until his head hung over the back of the chair. When she broke for air, Simon wrenched his head up to attach his lips to her neck, just under her jaw, sucking lightly. When his tongue ran over the flesh there, she keened, throwing her head back and holding him tightly in place by the back of his neck. All of those less than innocent dreams and thoughts came flooding to the surface.

His heart stuttered in his chest and he doubled down, desperate to hear that sound again. To drag it out of her. He sucked harder, tongue flat against her skin, and wrapped one arm around her waist tightly. He reached up with the other hand to grip the back of her neck and then leaned forward until Cat was nearly parallel with the floor, held up only by his hold on her. She clutched at his shoulders, gasping as his tongue laved the tender skin just under her jaw. No dream could ever compare to this.

When he leaned back again, pulling her up with him, she held his head and kissed him sloppily, sucking on his bottom lip. His breath caught in the back of his throat, and then she released him and took her turn at kissing his neck. When she licked the underside of his jaw, his hands fell to his sides, vision blurring around the edges. She took full advantage of his ragdoll state, pressing herself forward and squeezing her thighs around him as she sucked a spot that made his head spin. She reached up to his hoodie again, pulling down the zipper, and Simon came back to himself like he’d been hit by a truck.

He reached up, grabbing both of her wrists in one hand, and held her upright with his other as he leaned forward. Cat stared at him, wide-eyed and panting. Simon squeezed his eyes shut. The only sound in the room was their labored breathing.

“I’m sorry-” Cat began, but he shook his head to cut her off.

“No, I’m sorry.” Then he whispered “I can’t take any more from you than I already have.”

Cat wriggled a hand out of his grasp, stroking his cheek with her knuckles. “It’s not ‘taking’ if it’s freely given.”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “Wouldn’t be freely given if you knew what you were getting yourself into with me. Who I am, what I’ve done.”

Cat pulled her other hand free and held his face. “Look at me,” she commanded. Simon opened his eyes, holding her gaze. “I know who you are, and I don’t care what you’ve done. I’ve loved you from a distance for years. And if you’ll let me, I want to love you from a little closer now.”

Simon searched her face for any sign of uncertainty, but there was none. His heart beat wildly as he reached up to stroke her cheek.

“And if I don’t come back one day?”

Cat’s eyes watered, but she still gave him a shaky smile. “‘‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’,” she quoted.

Simon let out a breathless chuckle. “‘Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?’”

Cat beamed down at him through her tears. “You know Alfred Lord Tennyson?”

Simon reached up to tuck a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. “‘Course I do. I grew up 200 kilometers from where he lived.”

Cat hummed, turning her face to kiss the palm of his hand. Again, he wondered at the lovingness with which she touched him. He wondered at his killing hands, touching her with the same love. He leaned forward, laying his head on her chest and clutching her waist, and rocked them slowly. They stayed that way for a long time until Cat finally leaned back, taking his face in her hands again.

“Don’t shut me out, Simon.” Her stare was heavy, sincere. “Think you can do that?”

He leaned up, kissed her temple, and then rested his forehead against hers. He smirked slightly.

“Possibly,” he teased. The smile Cat beamed at him wiped away any fears he had for the moment, and he leaned up to kiss her again.

#nightingale writes #call of duty #cod #cod mw ii #modern warfare ii #cod mw2022 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley x fem! oc #ghost x oc #ghost x fem! oc #repost from my alt account

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bulletswithribbons · 9 months ago

Text

"Fucking hate journalists"

Kai Anderson X Fem!reader // NSFW

Warnings: Kai Anderson. You guess it. Very little plot, degrading, non-con/dob-con, mentions of murder, implied masochism, rough oral sex (m receiving), gun play, slut shaming, hair pulling, let me know if I missed any.

Summary: Kai breaks in your house to teach you your place after non-stop asking him back handed questions during the interview. Events eventually take a twisted turn, you were never that much of a good girl anyways.

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: This is my first ever fic, I've read plenty and wrote smut before so I'm pretty confident. But first time publishing so here we go.

Interviewing Kai right after his campaign was not the best call at all, especially the way you kept pressing him. You knew you shouldn’t have but this is war whether he knew it or not. You took a vow on yourself to make him expose himself on his own. You’ve always been suspicious about him but you had no proof of your accusations, and calling someone out based on your gut is not really professional, especially as a journalist.

Even though someone had to confront him about his mistakes and fear mongering, your questions only made things worse, for you at least. You pushed too hard, making him feel small in front of the media. He could sense your suspicion with every question, and it's clear you put a big dent in his ego.

You were sitting on your desk, ticking your pen as a form of anti-stress. A bit of a mess actually, papers scattered, pens strewn about. Newspapers and magazines pile up, post-it notes plastered everywhere and a coffee cup long forgotten. Your desk lamp sits on the edge, casting a soft, warm glow in the room. You've always preferred gentle lights especially when working, it helps you think.

Your thoughts spiral around making your headache worse than it already is. How could you possibly put him down, once and for all..?

A bone-chilling breeze whispers over the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You enjoy it while it lasts, a refreshing breeze in this stifling hot night. It must have come from the window behind you, although you don't remember leaving it open... It doesn't matter. Nothing does as long as you still have work to do.

Your slender fingers reach for your white blouse, unbuttoning it. Once removed, you toss it aside, letting it fall to the floor, trying to cool your temperature down. You're digging through Kai's files, searching for a gap to use against him. It wasn't your job to do so. But as a journalist of course, you'd investigate and research to report the facts and keep people up with the facts.

Perhaps it's because you take what he says in the media personally. After all, a part of you is a feminist, a part you're not ready to let go of, at least for the sake of all the women who fought for their place in this world. You see through his manipulation tactics because you've seen them before. You know a narcissist when you see one.

"Fuck!" You shout as you throw the papers off your desk.

"Hm, come on now, how dare you throw these papers. We don't want little big mouth to lose her temper." He tsks, with an overly sweet tone dripping with sarcasm.

Shocked, you recognize the voice as you feel something hard poking you in the back of your head, trailing down to your neck, detaching your hair that was hardly holding up in the messy bun. Cold, metal. Sudden realisations hit all at once, but most importantly is the outsider in your house -your room- you pissed off earlier this day holding a gun to your head.

"Mr. Anderson, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. What the fuck are you doing in my house?!" you ask, your voice rising towards the end. You're trying your best to stay calm. One mistake, and you’re dead. Young lady in her 20s corpse’ found shot in her bedroom because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Mr. Anderson?”He repeats after you, chuckling. “They’re always respectful when fearful.” A sinful smirk tugs his lips, a look of pride in his dark cold eyes after hearing his last name coming from your trembling lips. “But I would have to politely decline your offer. I’m here to fix the mess of a situation you’ve just created for yourself. After all, I don’t want to lose voters over something so foolish. Especially this… close to the election.”

"Like hell I—or anyone with a brain that knows right from wrong—would vote for you!" You yell as you stand up from your seat.

His jaw clenches and nostrils flare, showing his annoyance. His grip on the gun tightening as he lifts the gun up to your temple, his finger twitching on the trigger. His voice, on the other hand, remains eerily sweet. “I really think you should keep your voice down.”

You swallow, your throat drier than ever.

His voice lowers to a whisper, "I see you started learning. Good girl, I'm proud of fast learners." He takes a step towards you, his free hand stroking your chin and cheek, his touch alone giving you goosebumps. The gun rests on your temple, his eyes darting around the room.Then his focus shifts back to you. "Get on your knees," he orders and pulls his hand away from your face.

“I’m sorry?” You rush out, your eyes widening.

“Now,” he responds, his tone dripping with impatience as he jerks his gun to signal his order. “Expecting company?” He inquires looking down at your —bra only— chest.

You crouch down on your knees, his gun still pointing to your head. “No,” you respond short and clearly. For a minute, you believe you saw him smile slightly. A smile of pride..

“You’re such an obedient slut, aren’t you?” He pauses, “You defied me, made a fool of me in front of everyone. That doesn't go unnoticed.” He whispers, his voice pitch getting higher towards the end.

“So you’re going to shoot me? Because I hurt your little pathetic ‘man ego’? Because I’m small and vulnerable while you’re big and strong?” You retort, fake amusement hiding your fear.

“You’re smart. Most girls aren't smart. Well, that was the plan.” His smirk widens, his tone sounding even more sadistic as he slowly traces the gun barrel around your jawline— tracing it slowly with the tip of his gun. You notice him staring at your lips. “But now, seeing how big of a mouth you have, I’m going to show you what whores like you are made for.” He informs, his tone bled dry of emotion.

“The kitchen and carrying useless men’s babies. I Get it, trust.” You lash out. Although you know keeping your mouth shut is probably the better option, especially in this exact situation. But that never really happens, at least not most of the time.

Kai’s grip tightens on the gun as his rage begins to seep through his body. His other hand darts out to your face and before you even notice it, a slap lands with a sharp crack, sending a jolt of pain rippling through your cheek and leaving you on the floor. It stings, you can feel a red mark in its wake. Leaving you feeling shocked and humiliated.

You were lying down there on the floor, your body stretched out, limbs motionless. There was no sense of ease in your posture nor the room, rather a stillness that borders on tension. Even the air itself felt stifling.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his free hand darting to his zipper, pulling it down tooth by tooth. “You see, you just know how things work.” His tone becomes condescending, he pops the button and grip the waistband of his pants pulling it down until it’s enough to pull his dick out. “You have such a delicious looking mouth. I'm sure it has been put to good use for the benefit of passing by men. I'm guessing you've had a lot of fun.” He grabs the elastic of his boxers, lowering them down over his balls and pulling out his half hard cock.

You stare at him, your face frozen in shock. “You’re sick!” you shout.

“Am I now? You're the one who's been around so many men in your life. You should be used to it by now.” He grins, his hand holding his gun and moving it from your cheek to beneath your chin, pulling it up, so you were looking at him. “You should be grateful I'm bothering to even look at you.”

Although the men you’ve been with aren’t that many, you don’t bother to waste your time explaining. He believes what he wants to believe.

“Get back here,” he orders as he starts to pump his cock, the veins bulging beneath his grip. A bead of precum glistening from the tip.

You crawl back to him on all fours, doing as he says, and getting back on your knees, looking up at him. “Are you going to hurt me?” you ask.

He pauses for a moment before tilting his head with a small grin. “Isn’t that what you deserve? Do you want me to hurt you? Is that it? You like pain? Is that what you crave, y/n?”

Fear… Regret.. Along with arousal.. Unwanted arousal specifically. You always knew you had a thing for troubled —twisted— men, but this is beyond fucked-up. Not to forget, he’s your worst enemy. He’s any woman’s worst enemy. Feeling your pussy weeping in response to his tall figure towering over you is not really something to be proud of. The heat between your thighs only grew bigger every second and you knew you needed to get rid of the feeling.

He stops pumping his cock, his hand darts to your head caressing your hair with —almost— a soft touch.

“Suck,” he orders.

Your eyes widen, your tongue ready to curse at him, “I’m not going t-”

“I won’t ask again, suck.” His hand darts up to your face squishing your cheeks painfully together. “You run your mouth a lot, might as well put it to good use. I’ll show you what exactly happens to smart mouths. Suck it like the slut you are.” His eyes burn with anger while he’s squeezing tight, his voice dripping with venom. The tip of his heavy warm cock caresses your soft lips, tempting you to bite it off.

He roughly lets go of your face, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head to the back to force your mouth open.

He forces the tip past your teeth, hatred spewing from your eyes.

“Wider,” he demands, but you want him to beg. Beg for it on his knees and switch the table, be the one with the gun ordering him around like a house pet. Getting back your dignity sounded good but not enough if you compare it with its consequence, having your life taken away from you.

You ignore his request. Making him reinforce his hold in your hair, pulling at it harder making your jaw drop so he can get deeper to your throat. The salty taste of precum evades your taste buds.

You loved the taste of him, your mouth watering with his cock inside it. But you couldn't admit it, of course you never would. It didn’t take too long for you to wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft.

Your head bobbing up and down. A breathy moan escaped him.

“Do enlighten me,” he breathes out, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Your tongue massaged the veins that swelled on his thick cock, flattened out on the thickest one underneath and flicked at the tip.

Ragged breaths escaped his mouth as you began to inch your way down, taking in more of him. The tip of his cock bumped against the back of your throat. Kai tightens his grip around your hair, and shoves your face down against his cock, making you gag around him, violently forcing you to deep throat his dick, making you gag. His length occupying your whole mouth down to your throat. You were practically choking, but he didn’t really care about it, he’s there for one reason and one reason only, teaching you to know your place.

“Fucking whore. You thought you were so smart with those non stop questions?” He pauses panting as he thrusts harder into your throat, the sound of you gagging and the wet thrusts echoing through the room. “Fucking hate journalists. Tell me… Who got the upper hand now?”

You can't help but ignore him once again. It's not like you would give him what he wants and come undone beneath him, right? Of course you can’t answer him, after all you’re his number one hater. But even haters would give in when it’s the most mouthwatering cock a man can ever have.

When you avoided answering, or maybe couldn’t answer since you were basically choking on his cock. His dick alone is enough to murder you if he wanted to. It only made him thrust faster, the asshole didn’t stop mouth fucking you even when he noticed your cheeks turning to a bright red and your eyes watering. Your cries turned him even more on. Kai forced his cock further into your throat, until your nose was pressed in the bush of his pubic hair.

Finally, you gave him a wobbly nod, motioning that he has the upper hand.

His head fell back to his shoulders, “That’s good to hear.. You’re learning, you’re such a good girl…Fuck…”

You smile at the praise. Surprisingly, him being somewhat ‘sweet’ only made him ten times hotter.

Tears keep running down your red cheeks, your cries echoing through the room.

“Just so you know, I’m enjoying this. Your whimpers are music to my ear.” He groans. “But god dammit don’t whine like a fucking bitch.” He spits at you and it lands on your cheek. Add it to the list of body fluids covering your face, along with the sweat gathering at your forehead and drool drenching your chin.

You moan around his thick cock, sending him vibrations through his whole body. After all, you’re not putting on an act, you are enjoying it which is something you, yourself, are afraid of. But mostly you were focused on getting oxygen into your lungs. And maybe he is right, as always. Maybe there really is a part of you that enjoys the pain. That burning stinging sensation in the back of your throat. It’s scary because it’s true.

His thrusts then began to lose their rhythm, but still managed to keep up with his pace. You knew what was coming for you. You shut your eyes, dramatically accepting your fate. Your jaw was already tired from him using you. His shaft was heated up, thrusting in and out of your red swollen lips. His hand gripped on your hair even more tightly holding you in place while his hold on the gun loosened.

“My cock is a reward, tasting me is a blessing. Fucking thank me for letting you suck me off.” He says between breaths.

No response, just a wet sticky cough. But afraid of his reaction, you choke out with a full mouth, “thank you.”

You could promise that you felt the disgusted face he did, “what a filthy bitch didn't your parents teach you not to talk with a full mouth?” He says while non-stop grunting like a wounded animal. That's probably what he is anyways... A wounded animal.

Few seconds later, ropes of cum spurt out from his dick into my throat, milking it after the abuse it went through when he was hammering into my mouth. He pulls out from your mouth and tug his dick back into his boxers then his pull his pants back up.

“Swallow,” he orders. “Fucking swallow my cum.” Kai grabs your face and presses his fingers into your cheek flesh.

Desperately, all you wanted to do was spit it at him, right in his face, but you don’t. You actually swallow like the obedient little slut he said you are. His seed slides down your throat, alongside your dignity and maybe your hatred towards him.

Your fingers reach to your face drying up the tears that ran down your cheeks and the saliva running down your chin along with lines of cum. Looking up to him, you see him breathing heavily. His body working hard to get the oxygen he needs from how hard you sucked him off.

He looks at you up and down, judging you, it can't be anything good.

You expected him to do something, whether beat you up, shoot you, the least of it is spit at you telling you how much of a filthy whore you are.

But he didn't, and you were grateful for that... For him..

The taste of him still lingers at the tip of your tongue. You lick your lips unintentionally and in the most discrete way possible. Last thing you want is having him know you liked it and boost his ego, not that it could possibly needed any more promotions. But he already knows, you're sure of it. The way you sucked the life out of him like it was the best thing you laid your lips on, you can't hide that from anyone.

He turns and walks to the door, completely silent. What could he be possibly thinking about...?

He pauses at the door, turning his head to see you, he’s sweaty.

“If I see you run your mouth about any of my work, newt time will be much worse.” He promises, which you thought was kind of cute.. Promises…

Zipping up his fly, and slipping his gun in his pants, he finally turns away and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

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