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fireya-x · 18 days

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family dinner

AO3 Link (for the full tag list) || masterlist

John asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night, to save himself from annoying questions from his family. Turns out, you're actually who he really wants.

[9k+ words]

cw: smut, piv sex, cowgirl, handjobs, come eating

Embossed golden script on cream white card paper - it was an invitation to his grandmothers' birthday party, alright. A subtle attempt at elegance from a woman who thought tea and a tin of biscuits solved most problems. John sighed.

He already knew the drill; his mother, every aunt and uncle, cousins and second cousins twice removed would be there, armed to the teeth with baby pictures and probing questions to make him wish he’d stayed in another country in some godforsaken warzone.

The phone ringing cut through John’s meager dinner of takeout curry, one of his favorites, when he was back in his flat for a short time leave. He picked it up and answered before checking, as he usually did, expecting it to be Laswell – but that voice wasn't Kate.

“Jonathan, my dear boy, did you receive the invitation?” His grandmother’s voice was a robust cackle for her age, a force of nature that kept her so fit at ninety.

“Just held it in my hands seconds ago, Nan.”

“Ninety years young, can you believe it?”

“Never a dull moment,” he answered, picking at the takeaway container lid.

She laughed lightly, then cleared her throat. “Listen, dear. The caterer is extra fussy. Your opinion is special to me, you know that. It’s not like I get to plan this every day”

Here it comes.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m asking you what you want, John. I have everything else planned.” Of course she did.

“It’s your birthday, Nan. I’ll eat anything,” he sighed. “Toffee pudding can’t be missing from any birthday, though.”

“Of course, that’s a must! Especially with you visiting! You’ve always loved it as a little boy. Now tell me, is your girl more a partial to fish or chicken?”

The fork clattered onto the styrofoam. John almost choked.

“You’ll be bringing someone, aren’t you?”

He should have said no. He should have clarified, for the thousandth time, that his occupation left no room for romantic walks on the beach and candlelit dinners. Maintaining relationships wasn’t something John did, especially when his job included more explosions than birthday candles on her birthday cake. And apparently, eliminating terrorists and global threats was not a suitable substitute for great-grandchildren.

But there was something in her voice. Hope? Excitement to finally see her grandson with a woman at his side? It was her 90th birthday, after all. Who knew how long John would have her still? Seeing him happy was the greatest gift he could give her, and he knew that.

John sighed. “Yes, I will bring someone.”

That she didn't squeal was unexpected, but he knew his mother was right there with her, listening to everything.

Fuck.

What was he supposed to do? Try Tinder, maybe? How hard could it be to find a woman who’d go on a date with him? But John hated every single aspect of using his phone for anything other than texting and calling — and he gave up when the app asked him too many questions about himself.

That’s when he heard footsteps outside his apartment. He remembered that beautiful, chatty neighbor of his. You'd watched his flat and watered his plants a few times when he was deployed. You’d only met briefly, but given John’s sparsely decorated way of living, he wasn’t worried you would steal anything. But his grandmother's plants were something holy to him, and you kept them alive, and that made you a trustworthy person in his book.

And he would be lying if he didn't admit he'd stolen a glance at you here and there, always hidden in a hoodie or a way-too-big raincoat that obscured your figure, and something about it intrigued him.

Before his brain could even process what his feet were doing, he stumbled to the front door and opened it, revealing you, arms full of groceries, struggling to get the key into the door.

“Need help with that?” A low, grumbling voice startled you, and you almost dropped the bag full of fruits and veggies.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

John chuckled, then took the bag from you as if it was something he'd casually do all the time. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, putting the key in the lock. You took the bag from him and wanted to escape this awkward situation with your way-too-good-looking neighbor as fast as possible. But before you could close the door, he intervened.

“Hey, uh, I have a question.” John’s hand ran through his hair, a nervous gesture that betrayed his usual confidence.

“Yes?”

“I – I kinda promised my grandma that I’d bring a girlfriend to her 90th birthday party, and, well –”

“You don’t have one?” The question came out sounding more shocked than you intended. You were certain he had women lining up for him.

“Yeah, I mean, no, I don’t.” His gaze dropped to the floor for a fleeting moment, as if suddenly embarrassed by the admission. You tilted your head, looking at him expectantly.

“So, you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend? What’s in it for me?”

“Free fancy food?” He smiled crookedly, and you were done for. How could you say no to that smile? The same smile that had been haunting your thoughts ever since he’d given you his keys to his apartment? Your heart was pounding.

“It’s a date,” you said, the words slipping out before you could overthink it. The relief that flooded his eyes made something inside you flutter.

“Thank you, I owe you one. Six p.m. on Friday, alright?”

“What should I wear?”

John wasn’t prepared for that question. And he didn’t mean to check you out – but he did. His eyes wandered from your boots, over your hips, up to your breasts – where his gaze lingered a second too long— and then to your face.

“It’s a garden dinner. I’m sure you’ll look nice in anything,” he said, the words feeling ridiculously inadequate the moment they left his lips.

“Very helpful, thanks.” He braced himself for a sarcastic retort, but you chuckled, shaking your head. “I’ll figure it out. Have a nice evening.”

You retreated to your apartment, leaning back against the closed door, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your heart was still pounding. Did John, your neighbor, ask you out? The same John who seemed so unapproachable, wrapped in that aura of intensity he always wore, who disappeared for weeks on end to go on “business trips” and returned with a deep shadow under those blue eyes?

What did he even do when he disappeared? You'd never asked. Even when he'd given you his keys so you could look after his flat while he was gone, there was nothing that gave away what exactly he did or where he went.

The small conversations you’d shared had always been just that— small nothings, polite exchanges with your friendly neighbor. Still, those infrequent encounters always sent your stomach into a nervous frenzy.

You rummaged through your closet, trying to find something that screamed “I'm a cool, collected woman who casually dates mysteriously handsome men ” without looking like you’d overdone it. A garden party could literally mean anything, especially since you knew nothing about his family. Were you supposed to pick a nice, flowing dress or stick with casual jeans and a shirt? You had no idea.

You stopped your mind from spiralling further. It wasn’t a real date. It was a fake date .

What were you thinking, agreeing to this? You were doubting your own sanity — but then you remembered the crinkled corners of his eyes when he smiled, the warmth that radiated from him when he’d helped you with your groceries – saying “no” to him wasn’t even an option. There was something about him that drew you in, a gravitational pull you couldn’t resist, even if it meant playing pretend.

The sundress you wore – he couldn’t even pinpoint the colour, something soft and warm, summery, like the sky just before dusk – hugged your curves in all the right ways, the delicate straps showcasing the elegant line of your neck and collarbone. His gaze traced the gentle swell of your breasts beneath the thin fabric, the way the skirt flowed over your hips, his mind already picturing how it would look bunched up around your waist when –

Fuck.

A wave of heat - he knew it so well, yet hadn’t felt it in what seemed like forever - crashed over him, settled deep in his gut, tightening his muscles, making his cock twitch.

He shifted uncomfortably, desperately hoping you hadn’t noticed the way his pants suddenly felt about two sizes too small.

He’d usually never been one for flowery dresses and delicate gold jewellery like the earrings that decorated your ears. They clashed with the brutal reality of his world. But on you, it was devastating. You were an innocent, oblivious creature walking straight into his hardened, cynical world without even knowing it. And somehow, against all logic and years of self-preservation, he wanted to corrupt every part of you.

His gaze snapped to the flesh of your delicate thighs that left little to his imagination, those toned legs wrapped around his waist while he pulled you closer and –

Jesus fucking Christ, get a grip.

He forced himself to look away, clenching his jaw so hard he thought he’d pull a muscle.

This was his neighbour. You , who’d watered his plants, borrowed his toolbox, offered a smile whenever you met in the hallway. The one who’d agreed to this incredibly stupid idea. You were doing him a favour, for God’s sake.

“Ready?” He shoved the word out harsher than he’d intended, the sound completely alien to even his own ears. But before you could answer, he shut his door and ushered you towards the exit. He needed air. He’d preferred an ice bath, preferably yesterday.

You didn’t mind adapting to roles and play pretend at all, but as soon as you arrived at the estate, your confidence got humbled. The house was huge, and the driveway alone was already filled with floral arrangements and all sorts of birthday wishes – an enormous ninety made out of entirely blush pink roses and lavender decorated the front yard.

The garden party was in full swing already when you two arrived. The air buzzed with the sound of laughter and chatter, clinking glasses and the distant beat of a live band. John seemed oddly out of place in between the flowers and the brightly dressed guests, like a lone wolf who had been dragged to a tea party.

But as soon as you stepped further into the event, the warm air surrounding you, the scent of freshly cut grass and citrus, the smiling faces all around you, your anxiety about the whole thing lessened.

“Don’t worry too much," John's arm brushed against yours as you navigated through the clusters of guests. He reached out to grab two drinks from a passing waiter’s tray. “The worst they could do is show you my childhood photos.”

He offered you a drink, and you took it from him, smiling. “Somehow, that’s not as reassuring as you think it is.” You earned yourself a deep chuckle that rumbled through his chest and did decidedly inappropriate things to your equilibrium.

When John took your free hand into his like it was the most normal thing in the world, you felt like this was going to be the easiest task. For a fleeting moment, it was easy to forget you were living a lie.

Until dinner.

The seating arrangements were strategically orchestrated, it seemed, to maximize family bonding - or torture, you hadn’t decided which. You found yourself sitting between John, radiating a mix of polite restraint and his usual natural intensity that set your pulse racing, and a woman with the same kind eyes as him.

“This is my mother, Eleanor,” John had introduced her earlier, her smile so warm and welcoming you’d almost forgotten you were supposed to be playing a role. She seemed almost too impressed when you'd introduced yourself, as if she couldn't quite believe he was telling the truth about having a girlfriend.

You'd prove them wrong, not for their sake, but for your own growing satisfaction at seeing John surprised.

You were no stranger to the barrage of questions about your single status and lack of a partner from your own family, so you knew how tiresome it could get. You braced yourself for a similar interrogation.

Across the table, John's grandma beamed at you with a delight that melted your heart. You understood then what this was all about for him — fulfilling his grandmother's wish to see him happy, settled.

On impulse, you reached out to grab John’s hand beside yours, your fingers threading through his, offering him a reassuring smile, pretending to bring out your best I-am-so-in-love look you could muster.

He seemed taken aback, his entire body stiffening for a split second as if your touch were an electric shock. But then he recovered quickly, his fingers tightening around yours with a gentle pressure that sent goosebumps dancing up your arm. He raised your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against your knuckles that lingered a heartbeat too long.

Your breath caught in your throat, your gaze fixated on the curve of his lips, the way his beard scraped against your skin. Your stomach did a somersault, your senses flooded with a rush of longing that was as unexpected as it was undeniably thrilling.

“So,” John's aunt leaned across the table, her voice a bit too loud, as if intended to break the spell you’d fallen under. “What do you do?”

You blinked, momentarily disoriented, your gaze reluctantly leaving John’s hand and focusing on the plate of food a server had just placed before you. Shepherd's pie. But not just any shepherd’s pie. This looked like a culinary masterpiece compared to the frozen meals you were used to eating all the time.

“I work in healthcare,” you answered, your mouth already watering at the sight of the culinary heaven before you. “I’m an ER nurse.”

“Oh, wow,” his grandma chirped from across the table, her eyes twinkling with genuine interest. Her comment, however, was quickly drowned out by his aunt's next, slightly more probing, question.

“I'm amazed you two met with such busy schedules. To be fair,” she added with a sly smile directed at John, “I'm shocked Jonathan managed to find someone at all with his occupation .”

Your fork, laden with a generous portion of creamy mashed potatoes and perfectly seasoned mince, froze halfway to your mouth. Your earlier questions about the nature of John’s job came rushing back. What exactly did he do? You knew he was often away for extended periods, you even kept his plants from dying a slow death from time to time, but his reasons had always been vague. “Business trips,” he’d called them, with a shrug and that infuriatingly handsome smile.

“Right,” you managed, forcing a light laugh as you carefully set your fork back down, your appetite momentarily forgotten. “We make it work. We talk a lot on the phone."

“You do?” His mother, ever the perceptive one, turned to John, her brows raised in what you could only describe as disbelief. “How come you always tell us you can’t contact us?”

John cleared his throat and his hand reached for his beer, his fingers wrapping around the cold glass. “Kate makes some exceptions,” he explained, his gaze fixed on the drink.

Kate? Your mind scrambled for context, your internal “John’s-Life” file coming up short. “Kate” let him make exceptions? Who was Kate, and more importantly, what kind of job required someone to ask permission to make personal phone calls? And why did you feel jealous - you had absolutely no business to feel this way.

“Who’s Kate?” You asked, reaching for your champagne flute, unable to hide the accusatory edge creeping into your voice.

“My boss . Sort of.” The golden liquid got caught halfway in your throat. First name basis with his boss? His family knew his boss? So many questions came up, and you were slowly starting to panic. You were supposed to be a believable girlfriend, but you were scared the mask was slipping away by the second.

“Oh, right, Kate. Sorry, darling. You know how my weeks have been lately. It's a wonder I can remember my own name half the time.”

“She must be happy for you, too,” his mother commented, delicately spearing a piece of fish with a precision that made you suspect years of etiquette training lay beneath her impeccably polite facade. “Finding someone special, I mean. Might even spare her some of your, shall we say, moods .” She glanced at John, her eyebrows arched as if she was sharing a private joke with the entire table, except you.

Moods? You’d always found John to be quiet, reserved, perhaps a tad intimidating at times, but never moody.

You glanced at John, who was pointedly studying his plate, the faintest hint of a flush creeping up his neck. You wouldn't have thought the man capable of embarrassment. It made him seem unexpectedly human, and somehow even more attractive.

You were about to ask for clarification when Nan seized the conversational reins. “So, darlings,” she asked, her gaze moving back and forth between you and John, her smile widening expectantly, “How long have you two known each other?”

“I think six months?” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips.

At the exact same moment, John declared, “Almost a year now,” his voice deep and steady, completely contradicting your rushed estimation.

You froze. The silence that descended upon the table was deafening.

“Has it already been that long?” you exclaimed quickly, forcing a bright smile and injecting as much wonder and mock surprise into your voice as you could muster. You prayed that your sudden rush of amnesia would be enough to distract them from the giant, elephant-sized hole you’d just blown in your story. You reached over to slightly squeeze his hand. “I suppose time flies when you’re in love.”

You snuck a peek at John, expecting to see panic, maybe even annoyance, but what you found in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. He was watching you intensely. And that smile playing at the corner of his lips? It made something dangerous and delicious twist low in your belly.

“I believe that,” John’s grandma chimed in, her voice warm with the wisdom of nine decades lived. “You two are very lovely together.”

Eleanor nodded in agreement. “She’s good for you, Jonathan. Maybe having someone special to come home to will make those long missions away a little easier.”

"Speaking of which, how’s that new posting treating you, lad? Heard it’s a bit of a hot zone, eh?” John's uncle boomed across the table.

“It has its challenges,” John replied, taking a long sip of his beer as if to fortify himself for the inevitable round of inquiries. “But it’s good to be back in the field.”

You frowned. Field? Posting? What kind of job involved working in a “field”? And what exactly made it a “hot zone?” You felt more and more confused by the conversation, it was as if they spoke an entirely different language, a language riddled with code words and shared experiences you weren’t privy to.

“That I believe,” his uncle answered, also reaching for his beer as if to toast to a shared understanding. “Bet your rank will get you far, though.”

You felt John tense beside you, his hand tightening around yours, not letting go. His family's casual acceptance of his frequent — and apparently lengthy — disappearances made you increasingly curious. You knew by now he often travelled for work, but something about the way they spoke, the underlying thread of concern laced with pride, hinted at a world you were only just starting to glimpse.

“I imagine those long stretches apart must be difficult, darling,” John's aunt commented, her gaze fixed on you with a sympathy that only deepened your bewilderment. “But I’m sure you’re used to it by now, working in a hospital and all. Those long shifts must be a challenge, too.”

You smiled, still confused about what was going on—but you also saw an opportunity. It was time to take control of the narrative, to steer this conversation into a territory you could navigate — even if it meant bending the truth further than it had already been twisted.

“Speaking of long stretches,” you interjected, shooting John a look that was equal parts challenge and playful invitation. You’d gone from wanting to bolt to wanting to play this game, see how far you could push him, how convincingly you could both lie. “Remember that road trip we took last fall? The one where we got hopelessly lost in the Scottish Highlands and ended up sleeping in the car?”

As you spoke, you noticed that everyone else at the table had dived into their food, the initial round of introductions and polite inquiries fading into a comfortable murmur of conversation. Nan beamed at you both, her fork hovering over a generous slice of shepherd’s pie, her eyes twinkling with the quiet pleasure of seeing her grandson – even a pretend version of him – happy.

Beside you, John stiffened, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of surprise and what you could only interpret as wary amusement. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, like velvet draped over steel. “Scotland. Beautiful, isn’t it, love?”

“Beautiful?” you countered, tilting your head and letting out a soft laugh that you were fairly certain sounded far more genuine than it should have. You couldn’t help but admire his quick thinking, the way he effortlessly picked up on your cue and played along. “Those winding Highland roads. They were more treacherous than romantic, if I’m being honest. I was certain you were going to drive us straight off a cliff at least a dozen times.”

His smile widened, revealing a flash of teeth that made something deep inside you melt a little. “I assure you, love, my driving is impeccable. You were simply distracted.” His gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long.

A delicious warmth flooded your cheeks. “Distracted? I seem to recall you being the one with wandering eyes," you countered, your voice dropping to a low murmur as you met his gaze head-on. You weren’t sure if the heightened awareness you felt buzzing between you was a product of the lies you were weaving or something more.

“That’s because you are quite the sight to behold, love,” he said, his voice husky, the words brushing against your senses like a caress.

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to process his words, their unexpected sincerity throwing you off balance. Had he just complemented you?

“You are—” He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering on your chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. You held your breath, waiting, as the air thrummed with a sudden, unexpected intimacy.

“Breathtaking.”

What was he doing? you thought, your heart pounding. Was he still playing the part, or was there something more simmering beneath the surface? And why did the possibility excite you?

The air thickened, the sound of his family’s conversation fading into the background as the world seemed to shrink, the space between you charged with an energy that was impossible to ignore. You weren't sure if you wanted to laugh or lean across the table and kiss him senseless.

Just as you felt yourself leaning into that dangerous impulse, Eleanor cleared her throat delicately.

You both startled, like students caught whispering in the back of the classroom. John's cheeks, you noticed with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction, were flushed a faint shade of pink. Even a man like John wasn't immune to a mother's watchful gaze.

“Those rolls are delicious, dear,” Eleanor commented, and turned to you, her tone light but her eyes sharp with amusement. “Why don't you have one?”

You reached for a roll, suddenly starving, the earlier tension dissolving into a relieved chuckle as you caught John's eyes. He winked at you, a playful glint in his blue eyes. You winked back, feeling a warmth spread through you caused by the man sitting beside you, a man who, despite your best efforts to resist, was quickly becoming more than just a convenient prop in this game of play pretend.

You'd managed to escape the clutches of the dinner table without completely blowing your cover, even when, at some points, you weren’t so sure how nobody saw right through you. But then came the real challenge — mingling. The party had moved inside the house, and you were separated from John.

You silently cursed yourself for agreeing to this whole fabricated scenario. What if you told completely different stories to his relatives? What if someone asked you about his work, for God’s sake?

Glasses of port in hand, John’s extended family seemed very determined to catch up on months’ worth of news in one evening. You did your best to smile politely at every occasion, your inner monologue continuously reminding you to simply not say anything stupid.

Suddenly, a very chipper and well-dressed woman intruded on your personal space, waving her phone in front of your face. “You must be John’s girl!” she exclaimed, and before you could even answer, she swiped through numerous photos. “Look at her – isn't she adorable!”

You leaned in, attempting to make eye contact with the child in the photos while subtly taking a step back, her perfume a bit overwhelming. “Absolutely adorable,” you agreed, putting on a wide grin, and the woman beamed. “Oh, I can’t wait to see what children you and John will bring into this world. Aren’t they the greatest thing?”

Children? Your smile faltered. You opened your mouth to respond, to stammer out some vague response about “one step at a time”, but before you could even get a word out, the woman had moved on, already excitedly showing off her offspring to the next unsuspecting relative.

Note to self: Avoid eye contact with anyone holding a baby photo, you thought, your internal panic rising. This whole “fake girlfriend” thing was rapidly becoming a high-stakes obstacle course, and you weren’t sure you were agile enough to navigate it without falling flat on your face.

You were trying to reach John, a plate of sticky toffee pudding on your plate, wanting to show off that you were going to try his favorite dessert – when a booming voice cut through the chatter, catching your attention. “There he is!” A tall, older man with curly hair approached John and shook his hand with a force that could crush granite. “That last mission you pulled off? Absolute textbook. A captain leading his own task force? The old man would be bloody proud.”

John’s posture stiffened ever so slightly. “Cheers, uncle,” he responded, raising his glass, his gaze darting towards you for the briefest of moments.

Mission? Captain? Task force?

The people around you, completely oblivious to your internal meltdown, continued chatting, casually dropping words like “deployment,” “classified,” “weapons,” and all other sorts of military jargon as if they were discussing the weather.

Suddenly, everything fell into place.

All those late-night departures, when you heard heavy footsteps echo through your shared hallway; the vague explanations about “work trips” when you met him outside your apartment; those calls he received at odd hours, his voice tight, his tone clipped, echoing through your shared walls; those calls that always seemed to coincide with a breaking news report or some global crisis. John, your sweet, infuriatingly attractive, seemingly normal neighbor – was leading a deadly task force.

Not that it was any of your business what he did. He owed you nothing.

Then why did this feel like such a blow? That he didn’t tell you beforehand, throwing you into the midst of his family who were clearly all about that life, and leaving you in the dark, making a complete idiot of yourself?

You had been looking forward to trying the famous dessert all evening, but suddenly, your appetite completely vanished. The plate that you held suddenly felt as appealing as cold porridge.

“Everything alright, love?” John approached, noticing the shift in your mood.

You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing. “Peachy,” you replied. “Just, fascinating, hearing everyone’s stories.” You stabbed the pudding with your spoon, not sure where the feelings of anger came from.

You shoved the plate into his chest, forcing him to take it from you. “I just need some air.” You turned and made your way towards his Nan’s beautiful rose garden.

He’d lied to you.

Well, maybe not lied, exactly. Maybe it was the sudden awareness of the danger that shadowed his every move, who he really was, who he was compared to you.

You had every right to feel foolish, to even agree to such a stupid idea. But betrayal? You had no idea where it came from, it seemed like an overreach for a situation that had been, from the beginning, just a constructed lie.

Stepping out into the cool of the garden, you breathed a sigh of relief. The scent of flowers seemed to calm your racing mind a little, a welcome contrast to all the voices you just escaped. You found your way to a small bench underneath an old oak tree, sinking onto the cool wood, straightening your dress doing so.

You didn’t hear John approach, but then again, stealth was probably part of his many talents. You didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, stopping right next to you, an arm leaning on the backrest of the bench.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, frustrated by all these emotions you were feeling. “Well, the food is excellent, your grandma is adorable, and I haven’t witnessed any international incidents first-hand - yet. So that’s a win, I guess?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, a welcome contrast to the tension that had been knotting your stomach ever since you’d pieced together the things about his life. You’d grown accustomed to that sound, to the way it rumbled deep in his chest, unexpectedly gentle for a man who, apparently, spent his days navigating a world far removed from yours.

He shifted slightly, settling beside you on the bench. You felt the heat radiating off him in the cool air of the evening, an awareness that lingered even though he wasn’t touching you.

“Look,” he began, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, a gesture that was strangely endearing on a man who usually was so confident. “My life –” He gestured vaguely towards the party, the house. The unspoken explanation – “ my life is a full-blown, military-grade soap opera ” – hung in the air between you.

“You know,” you interrupted him, turning to face him. “A little heads-up about what you do would have been nice. Especially that it’s such an important thing in your family.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t fair to throw you into that without a warning. I guess because it’s so normal to me, I just completely forgot about it.”

“I’m a nurse, I don’t really specialize in disarming bombs or whatever it is your uncles like to do for fun.”

He laughed then, a full, hearty laugh, that made your heart flutter faster in your chest.

“It’s not funny.” You said, looking away. “And I know I have absolutely no right to feel – ” you struggled to find the right word.

“To feel –?” he prompted, leaning a little closer.

“Disappointed,” you breathed. “It’s silly, I just felt like I was left out of inside jokes during dinner. I tried so hard to not let this lie slip, but it could have been so much easier if I had known.” You took a deep breath. “So, while I was keeping your plants alive," you added, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, "You were out there doing what exactly? Neutralizing threats? Saving the world? I missed that chapter in the ‘Good Neighbor Handbook.’”

You couldn’t help the edge that crept into your voice. At first, it had just been a fun little game, a chance to play dress-up and enjoy delicious food. But now, now it felt different. You were, suddenly, uncomfortably aware of just how much you didn’t know about the man sitting beside you.

The silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the gentle chirping of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves overhead. John stared at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

“You probably think I am a complete idiot,” you continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, a jumble of emotions you couldn’t quite decipher. “I'm sorry, I'm being absolutely dramatic –”

The words died on your lips as his hands shot out, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with a touch that was both possessive and unexpectedly tender. His gaze held yours captive, those blue eyes burning with a fierce intensity that stole your breath away. And then, without a word, without warning, his mouth crashed down on yours.

His lips were hard, demanding, hungry, devouring yours as if he couldn’t get close enough, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, unyielding dance.

It was primal, raw, untamed. It was the kind of kiss that stripped away the pretence, obliterated the boundaries, and left you gasping for air, your mind reeling, your body aching for something you couldn’t name but craved with every fibre of your being.

Time seemed to stand still — the garden, the party, the lie — it all faded away. There was only the feel of his lips on yours, the light scrape of his beard against your skin. The taste of him was intoxicating, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves.

Eventually, he pulled back, his breath mingling with yours in the night air. His hands lingered, resting on your face, slightly tracing the lines of your jawline. His gaze was wild, eyes dark and burning into you with an intensity that made you want to melt into a puddle.

You stared back, your mind racing. This was the moment the lines blurred. There had been something there — you felt it. It was more than pretend, more than just playing a game. Desire. Interest. Even though you felt like you no longer knew this man at all, you wanted to get to know him all over again. Taste him, touch him — you blinked, trying to collect your thoughts.

“Would you prefer to leave?” John's hand, still warm from its possessive grip on your face, gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture both intimate and oddly reassuring.

You shook your head. “It’s your grandma's birthday. You can’t just leave because I feel uncomfortable.”

“I think we’ve both had enough of the party for one night,” he murmured, a quick smile flashing across his face. “I’m going to let her know you aren’t feeling too well. Alright?”

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your cheek, then, with a low rumble, he whispered in your ear, “Wait here.”

In front of both your apartment doors, the silence was an awkwardly long stretch. It felt like you were both trying to understand what had just happened, unsure where to begin.

“So, um,” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that you found strangely endearing. “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded and smiled, “Of course. It was nice to get the dust off this dress again.”

He leaned towards you slowly, and your breath hitched. For one heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you again – would he? Was what happened in the garden just an impulsive decision?

But he hesitated, the moment frozen, and there was something indecisive happening between you. But you didn’t mean to push, neither did he.

He cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Good night,” he said, his words careful, as if he were holding back from saying something else.

“Good night,” you echoed, your voice barely a whisper. The small hope that you'd taste him one more time evaporated.

You turned, your hand reaching for your door, keys almost to the lock, when strong hands grabbed you, spinning you around in a dizzying motion. Before you could even register what was happening, his lips were on yours again — silencing all those unspoken doubts and hesitations.

This was real. You felt it; your heart screamed it; the way his mouth was devouring yours, displaying a hunger and desire that shouted it from the rooftops.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding on for dear life, as his tongue traced the seam of your lips with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. You felt the rumble of his groan against your mouth as he backed you against your apartment door, his body moulding against yours as if he was starving for the feel of you. You were breathless, lost in the heat of his touch, the way his hands roamed your back and finally settled on the curve of your ass.

You realized then that you had always dreamed of kissing this man, silently, secretly, whenever his eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long right there in the hallway. You’d always dismissed those fantasies as wishful thinking, but clearly, he’d been wanting the same.

You heard a click as the lock on your door was turned, and you felt as his hand fumbled with the doorknob behind your back – all while his lips were still on yours, occasionally wandering to kiss your jaw and giving you an opportunity to breathe. He cursed under his breath, and before you even processed what was happening, he shouldered the door open and pushed both of you back into the darkness of your apartment.

The familiar space of your home was suddenly transformed, and John's touch was the compass guiding you. He didn't release you, keeping you close to his body as if you might slip away. With a smooth movement, he shoved the door shut, tossing your keys somewhere onto the floor.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up flush against him, the gasp that escaped your lips quickly swallowed by his next kiss. He carried you, your legs wrapped around his waist, until he reached your couch, where he gently laid you down, his body hovering over yours, his eyes devouring you, making you feel incredibly vulnerable.

The sofa dipped as he planted his knees left and right next to your legs, and he leaned to hover over you. You were both breathing hard, the only sound in the silent room. The only light illuminating you was the sliver of moonlight spilling through the window above.

“Is this still pretend?” you managed to whisper, your voice a shaky breath.

His eyes locked onto yours, the slight smirk on his face sending a thrill to your core. His hands moved to your hips, deliberately grinding them against his groin. You gasped as you felt the hardness of his arousal pressed against you, hyperaware of the thin fabric separating your most intimate parts.

“Fuck, no,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. He moved his hips again, his hands slowly but intentionally pushing up your dress.

Your skin felt like it was on fire; your head was spinning.

One of his hands moved up to the line of your dress, and with a rumble in his throat, he pulled the fabric aside, exposing the swell of your breasts to his hungry gaze.

His pupils dilated, his eyes dark and intense, as he stared at you like a starving man presented with a banquet. You'd never been so incredibly turned on, no man had ever made you feel this way— John’s simple gesture of delicately tracing the skin around your nipples made you moan so loudly you immediately threw a hand over your mouth, slightly embarrassed.

“No, let me hear it all. You sing so beautifully, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hand gently moving yours away, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and unexpected tenderness.

"John,” you breathed, your voice a shaky sigh.

“This bloody dress,” he groaned. “Wanted to rip it off you the second I saw you standing at my door.” His voice was raw, unfiltered – gone was the nice, gentle neighbor; this was the Captain coming through, the darker, more commanding side of him that should have scared you, but only served to intensify the desire swirling inside you. You wanted to know all about the man he left behind as soon as he stepped into this building.

“Every fuckin' time I saw you in the hallway, those quick hellos were never enough,” he confessed, one hand tightening on your hip, the other slowly trailing down your skin beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was agonizingly slow, leaving a trail of heat in its wake that made you lose your mind. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His words were so honest, it caught you off guard completely. It must have shown on your face right then, because he smiled in return. “Never thought I’d stand a chance," he admitted. "You always seemed out of reach.”

You frowned. “Out of reach?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Figured I’d never stand a chance against the queue of blokes lining up at your door.”

“John, what? A queue, for me?” You laughed, your disbelief genuine, gesturing towards yourself.

He sighed, sitting up, his fingers playing with the lace trim of your panties as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re beautiful, and tonight, I learned it’s inside and out. You're you, and that's fuckin’ wonderful."

You shook your head in disbelief. His words made your entire body tremble. He wasn’t just looking at your body; he was seeing you. And it felt extraordinary.

He watched you intently, his eyes filled with a longing that mirrored your own. “I kept thinking about what you were hiding underneath those baggy clothes,” he confessed, his voice a husky whisper, his fingers slowly sliding your panties down your legs. He felt you shy away from him a little, a smirk on his face stole your breath, as he pushed your legs apart with his calloused hands. “Like I said, so beautiful.” He whispered, his voice so rough with what you could only describe as lust. It made you shiver.

“You know,” you whispered, “The funny thing is, I thought exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?” You watched as he slowly ran a hand along your thighs. A ragged breath escaped your lungs, and you struggled to continue speaking.

“You’re incredible – there’s no way you didn’t have someone to –”

“To what?” he asked, suddenly stopping his movements, his gaze intense. “Willing to take a chance on a bloke who doesn’t know a thing about flowers or romantic dinners? Who spends more time on planes than in his own flat? Whose idea of a good time involves dodging bullets and disarming explosives?” He let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.

He was being so completely honest with you, so vulnerable, it sent a sharp pang through your chest. He was seeing you – the real you, hidden beneath the baggy clothes and carefully constructed walls – and for the first time that night, you were truly seeing him . John, who looked like he could bench-press a small car, who radiated an aura of danger as naturally as he breathed.

He wasn’t some playboy who brought women home every other night, like you’d assumed. He could have any woman he wanted – and yet, here he was, his gaze tracing every inch of your naked body.

He liked you. He’d thought about you.

It felt surreal.

“Best decision I’ve made in a long time,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Asking you, I mean. Thinking I could never have you, and now –”

You held your breath, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “Now what?” you whispered.

“You’re mine.” He growled, and before your brain could even process what happened, his mouth was on your clit, kissing and sucking like he finally got to taste that delicious meal he was promised.

“Oh god–!” you moaned, your hands instinctively gripping his hair, your nails digging into his scalp. He moaned, and the vibration of it against your skin made your legs twitch uncontrollably.

John’s touch was relentless, his tongue swirling against your most sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you that were unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. You arched against him, your hips bucking involuntarily, craving more of the delicious friction that was driving you to the edge of madness.

He seemed to sense your desperation, the way your body was begging for something more. He pulled back, his gaze meeting yours, his eyes dark with a possessiveness that both thrilled and terrified you. His hand replaced his tongue, fingers gently caressing your sensitive clit. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ hot.”

“John,” you breathed, you were speaking without any control over it.

“What do you need, love?” he asked, his voice thick with lust, his hand never ceasing its tormenting, exquisite torture against your aching core.

“I – I need –” You couldn't form the words. Your mind was blank, and your body was trembling with need that eclipsed all rational thought.

He seemed to understand, his gaze softening, a knowing smile curving his lips. He rose slightly, his hands moving towards the belt buckle, groaning as he released himself from the confines of his trousers.

He stepped out of his pants, the sound of fabric hitting the floor echoing in the sudden silence. His shirt followed shortly after, and you were captivated. His body was hard, sculpted muscle, his arousal straining against the fabric of his boxers, proof of the desire you'd awakened within him.

You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly peeled off his boxers, his gaze never leaving yours. His hand reached down, fisting himself, and your breath hitched at the sight.

“Still think you’re not attractive to me, love? Look what you’re doing to me,” he let his thumb slowly run over the head of his length, spreading the drop of pre-come that formed there, and he must have known it was teasing you, driving you mad. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

You opened your mouth to speak, to voice the desire that was burning through you with the force of a supernova, but the words caught in your throat. All you could manage was a whimper as your fingers were digging into the cushions, hips arching upwards, instinctively seeking out friction you craved.

You felt like if you couldn't have him, you might die.

“Uh-uh.” His hand reached forward to grab the soft flesh of your tits, one after the other, and his thumb brushed a teasing circle around your nipples, the pressure increasing just enough to make you gasp. "I said, tell me what you want.”

“You,” you confessed, the words torn from your very soul. “For God's sake, I fucking need you.”

John's gaze intensified, his eyes dark, and the corner of his mouth twitched, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. He loomed over you like a predator about to claim his prey. With a growl, he leaned down, pressing his mouth on yours, and you could feel his erection pressing between your folds.

One of his hands shot out, cupping the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you captive.

“You’re going to get everything you need, love,” he breathed, and followed by his promise, he entered you in a deliberately slow movement, almost torturous. He moaned, so raw and primal, it made you clench around him, and your entire body ignited as he filled you completely. His size, his heat, the intensity of the sensation – it sent your senses into overdrive, causing you to dig your nails into his back.

“Ohhh fuck,” you moaned, your voice a breathless whisper, lost in a world of sensation he'd created with his touch.

He paused, holding himself perfectly still within you, savoring the feel of your body clenching around him and the soft moans escaping your lips.

You whimpered, arching your hips up instinctively, desperate for more, aching for him to erase every thought, every doubt, every worry, with the overwhelming pleasure that throbbed between you.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine, and then he moved. Slowly at first, deliberately drawing out the sensation, his hips rocking against yours, each thrust a slow, agonizingly delicious torture that had you clinging to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving trails of fire on his skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice tight with need as he buried himself deeper. “You're so fucking tight – so fucking wet.”

But even in the haze of pleasure, a primal instinct took over. He needed more. He rolled you both over, shifting his weight so that you were straddling his lap, your legs draped over his thighs, your core aligned perfectly with his arousal. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he reached for the hem of your dress, his fingers working quickly, impatiently, to free you from the loosely hanging fabric.

“Now,” his hands found your hips, guiding you closer, his thumbs stroking the sensitive flesh. “Ride me, love.”

You looked down at him, at the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath, and a surge of confidence, of pure, unadulterated lust, washed over you. You began to move, supporting your weight against him by running your hands through the light fur that dusted his chest.

His hands dug deeper into your skin as you increased the pace, moving faster, harder, riding his cock wildly, completely lost in the pleasure.

Every movement sent jolts of pleasure through you. He watched you, his gaze never leaving your face, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as if he were hanging onto your every move.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, his voice thick with approval. “Like that, love. Ride me hard.”

His words were a primal command, a challenge that sent a thrill through you, making you even bolder, even more daring. You leaned forward and kissed him, biting his lip, drawing a groan from him that resonated deep in your core.

He tasted of salt and desire, the scent of his arousal filling your senses, making you wild. His hands were guiding your movements, matching your intensity, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge of release.

With each thrust, you felt the coil of pleasure tighten inside you, building towards a crescendo that threatened to shatter you both. You moved faster, harder, your body driven by an instinct as old as time itself. His touch was a brand, marking you as his, and the possessive hunger in his eyes as you rode him, almost send you over the edge alone.

He was groaning now, his words a jumble of incoherent pleas and praises, his fingers digging into your flesh as he struggled to maintain control. You felt him tense, the muscles in his thighs and arms bunching beneath your touch, and you knew the storm was about to break.

“Don’t stop,” his voice was raw with need, his gaze burning into you as if he wanted to sear this moment into his soul. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you shatter."

And with one final, earth-shattering thrust, you did.

A shudder ripped through you, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole your breath away. Your walls clenched around him, a thousand tiny sparks of sensation exploding behind your eyelids. Your name tumbled from his lips, a breathless groan, as he held you tighter. You cried out, the sound swallowed by his eager mouth as he captured your lips in a desperate kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as wave after wave of pure bliss crashed over you, leaving you trembling, weak, utterly undone.

After you came down from your high, you watched him intently as he was also struggling on the edge of release. Driven by need and desire, you slowly let his cock slip out of you. He made a sound that sounded animalistic, a groan, low and deep in his chest, an expression of frustration. Your hand moved instantly, your fingers finding his length, circling him, stroking him with a deliberate, unhurried rhythm. Your fingertips traced a feather-light path up the underside of his shaft, lingering at the sensitive ridge just below the head before gliding back down to the base, your thumb brushing teasingly against the swollen vein that pulsed with his arousal.

His head fell back against the cushions, his eyes closed, a ragged breath escaping his lips as you continued to tease him, your touch the only cure for his aching need. You watched him, mesmerized by the play of muscle beneath your hand, the raw power he embodied even at that moment of vulnerability.

“I can't –” His fingers dug into the cushions, his body tensing as if fighting against the tide of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him.

You smiled. The power thrumming between you was intoxicating, addictive. “Can’t what, John?” you whispered, leaning in, your lips trailing a teasing path along the hard planes of his stomach. “Can’t hold back anymore?”

His answer was a strangled groan. His body went rigid, and the wave of pleasure that followed was written all over his face. His hand shot out, not to stop you, but to grip your wrist. His fingers tightened around it, his control started slipping, shattering, as his release washed over him.

You whispered small praises, and watched, fascinated, as his release spurted over your hand in hot, pulsing bursts. His hips were stuttering, his cock, hard, thick in your grasp, throbbed, and the remnants of his release felt warm against your skin. He was completely at your mercy.

You’d never felt this bold, this empowered, this reckless. Before you could overthink it, you raised your hand to your mouth and licked his come off of your fingers.

Your wish to taste him, it couldn’t get any more him than this. Salt, sweat, and something so uniquely his. It made your walls clench around nothing, sending a new wave of excitement through you.

John’s gaze snapped to yours, his eyes wide, a flicker of something dark and possessive flaring in their depths as he watched you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and reached out, his hand resting on your neck, his thumb slowly stroking along your pulse. “You’re something else, you know that, love?”

A nervous giggle escaped your lips. The sudden awareness of your actions, the intimacy of the moment, sent a wave of shyness washing over you. “I, uh,” you trailed off, averting your gaze, unable to meet the intensity burning in his eyes. Your cheeks burned, and you wanted to hide.

John’s hand shifted, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Don't shy away from me now, sweetheart,” he murmured and softly ran his thumbs over your lips. “Not after that.”

“That was –” You struggled to find the words, your thoughts were a mess. “I've never –”

“Never?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of him filling your senses, making you dizzy.

“Never been that bold,” you admitted, your gaze dropping to his lips, their fullness suddenly a source of endless fascination. “Or wanted someone so intensely.”

A dark smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with triumph and something that sent a delicious thrill through you. “Good,” he growled, the word a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Because you're mine now, love. And I'm not about to let you forget it.”

And then, before you could protest – not that you had any intention of doing so – his lips crashed down on yours. It wasn’t gentle. This kiss was a possession, a claiming, a wildfire consuming everything in its path. His hand shot out to grab your neck, holding you close to him.

This really wasn't pretend anymore.

#cod fanfic #ao3 fanfic #captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #call of duty #fanfiction #captain price x reader #john price #captain price #captain john price x oc #x female reader #cod smut #call of duty smut #captain john price smut #18+ mdni

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yeyinde · 2 years

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Hiii I LOVED your fic with soap I’ve read it like 5 times since I found it yesterday, your writing is absolutely STUNNING and the characterization for Soap was spot on. If you have any free time I would love a Ghost fic like Soap’s— domestic, fluff, SMUT, and a little angst. I feel like Ghost would be a tender, giving lover if given the chance to be truly comfortable with someone. Anyway, if not, I just wanted to say your writing is some of the best I’ve ever read and it inspired me to pick up my own pen and start writing again :)

hi! @madiganjay and thank you so much!! 🖤😭 that's so sweet and i'm sooo sorry this took so long! i have no excuses just Ghost + Domestic Fluff had me oscillating between several different ways this could go. to me, the idea of domesticity with Ghost is permanence and presence. something tangible that confirms his existence, that ties him to you.

i tried my best at domestic Ghost, so i don't know if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it!! this is nearly 8k of Ghost Doing His Best™��

⇾ warnings: gendered reader, female!reader, gendered anatomy; unfettered filth (as per usual); slightly possessive!Ghost, jealous!Ghost; unsafe sex

"Brought curry." It's not much of a greeting—no hello, how are you? How was your day?—just: "didn't have lamb, so I got chicken."

On the television in front of him, a game between Everton and Manchester United plays. Streaks of red and blue dart across the sprawling field of green. Takeout is spread out on your coffee table—curry for him, butter chicken for you; he got you salted Lassi, too. The white drink sits on the table beside the styrofoam containers, dripping condensation down the clear plastic cup. The colours catch in the clear polymer. Neon smears in milky white.

Its—

Salt pools between your teeth; your lips sting. "You—," your voice breaks over the word; a tendril of embarrassment curls inside of your guts, admixing the alcohol you'd just finished drinking with Gaz. You flush, clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you."

It's a stupid thing to say, in retrospect. You never expect him, and you suppose that's the point. Ghost—Simon Riley—comes and goes like an undomesticated alley cat wandering around until he lets himself inside your flat for however long he plans on staying.

There is no routine in this. No set schedule; nothing was ever painted in concrete, just shades of sporadic abstracts. He comes, he goes. Ephemeral visits only a handful of times a year.

It's the fourth—year, that is.

The weight of it sat in your stomach for weeks. Knots spool together until a clump forms in the pit. Heavy and noxious; it leaked poison into your bloodstream that carried the illness of want in a particularly nasty shade of green.

Four years since Price had dragged you—an office worker on loan from HQ—to a sparse room in a country you'd never been to before, and you set your eyes on the interrogator known, then, only as Ghost.

(Terrorism never sleeps, Price always says.

Whenever he's around, neither do you.)

The walls were painted in rust. The stench of wet pennies and sweat filled the air. None of that mattered, though, when you looked up, and caught liquid sin gazing at you from wide, red-rimmed eyes.

(Maybe, he doesn't sleep, either.)

You fed him information through an earpiece as you scoured and decoded the rudimentary messages in the text the enemy sent to each other, and tried to remain professional when his voice growled his affirmative in shades of smoke and violence in your ear.

Hours later, exhausted and craving something to keep you from wishing the world was constructed by the hand of solipsism, you leaned against the window, desperately trying to pretend you were the same person you were yesterday.

Lidded eyes swept across the vast expanse in front of you—barren lands, badlands: wartorn and deadly, and littered with carrion. You tried to stop your hands from shaking by curling them into fists, but all it did was puncture your palm, and fill your nails with sticky blood.

It didn't work— nothing did.

You sunk your teeth into your knuckles to stop the quiver in your joints.

War is much different in person than it is on a blue screen. Numbers—friends, foes, coordinates, codes—are much easier to stomach when they're all in binary. A marker on your desktop goes down, disappears from the black map in front of you, and you pick up your earpiece, calling it into evac, and click on another to follow, to relay commands in code.

One life is gone, enemy or friend, and you sip your expensive coffee (£5.6 but the logo is cute, and beans are robust) while staring at the pictures dotting the navy blue fabric of the pre-owned cubicle. Docile. Mundane. You glance at the clock, and wait for the hour to pass until you can leave, and spend the rest of the evening watching shows.

You think once, perhaps thrice, about the men in green who will never get the chance to come home again, but it's smothered when your coworker leans over the metal divider, asking if you want anything from Greggs.

A game of chess with real people.

(You slept rather soundly before this. Now, binary numbers make you tremble.)

The worn wood behind you creaks.

Price, you think, forcing a smile that doesn't fit. Neither do the fatigues. The stench of rot in your nose. The gun they shoved into your hands.

"I'd kill for a coffee, sir."

When you turn, you're met with the endless yawning of night condensed in circles framed by pale flaxen. A storm in the middle of a wheat field. Stalks of yellow smatter across midnight blue.

Ghost.

There is a moment of nothing where he simply tips his chin, baleen lines bunching together, and stares at you. It's unnerving. Eerie. He feels entirely out of place in this world, and yet—

You can't imagine him anywhere else.

His stare is heavy. He blinks his eyes shut. You breathe again. They slide open. The air is siphoned from your lungs.

A chasm sits in his gaze. You find the heft isn't entirely unpleasant.

Then, he shifts. Shadows flexing in the limited light. A car driving down the street, headlight burning the tenebrose until it dances, scattering across your room. He moves like liquid in the dark.

"Coffee won't help," is all he says. Impassive. Pragmatic. But his eyes—

Your throat is acrid. Sand gathers in wet clumps against your larynx. You swallow, and taste Yorkshire Gold. Pennies.

"Any suggestions about what might, then?"

It takes him two steps to get to the window to your four. His size is—

Immeasurable.

He's a man, you think, and yet—

It's not so much the sheer bulk of him, the height, but rather the way he carries himself. There is a presence about him that makes him feel bigger, more dangerous. He knows his heft and uses it to his advantage. He takes up space until you feel smothered by his proximity, but—

You don't think anyone else has ever felt more distant.

A moor. Wide, endlessly deep, but uncrossable. Untraversable. Mouldering signs are pitched in the recesses of his eyes when they slide to you, liquid black pooling in the corner, and they all say: stay away.

(Written in red. In blood.)

"A few," he offers. His gaze drifts back to the grime-streaked window. "Nothing legal."

"Oh," you mutter, blinking. You can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Get some tea. It'll calm your nerves."

"I'm not—," you start but his eyes drop to your hands, clenched by your sides, and shaking. Beads of crimson gather in the cup, pooling in your lifeline. Guilty, then.

He leaves you by the window, and you watch his broad back retreat through the arched doorway. A layer of sand fluttered under his boots. No prints.

(Is he even real? Or did the endless dunes of decay conjure him up in grains of sand, and rot?)

You find the stash of tea (Price muttering something behind you about Gaz drinking all the bloody English Breakfast), and in the loose, dried leaves of brown, black, and fawn, you find yourself thinking of him.

Four years later: he's still on your mind.

"I was out with—"

"Garrick."

"Gaz," you say instinctively. Only Laswell gets away with calling him Kyle. Everything else just sounds wrong. "We went to some club in Essex. I would have come home sooner if I'd known—"

You stop. Teeth sinking into your tongue. Stupid. Stupid. You think of the man in the club with hands that were cold as ice. The irritation you felt toward Gaz when he pulled you away, and shoved you into a taxi. His knuckles knocked on the hood. Don't drive away until you see their door shut, yeah? He slips folded bills into the man's hand through the crack in the window. Message me when you get home.

You sent the text when your key cut through the hole. Home. Thanks.

His reply was instant: worry about you sometimes. Get some sleep.

"Um…thank you for the food. I'm actually starving," you huff, words tumbling out in an effort to stem your accidental faux pas. "We didn't eat before we headed out. I only had a few drinks, but—"

More than a few. Your feet wobble.

"—Thanks." You wince, adding: "again. It's—it's good to see you—"

Stupid. Stupid.

He says nothing, but his stare hasn't wavered since you opened the door. An indecipherable Rorschach. Unknowable. Unreachable.

Four years, and you still have no idea what this is.

Three months in the desert drinking tea with a behemoth who had an absurd sense of humour, and then—

Home. Goodbye. Price waving you off: a two-finger salute diving off his forehead. Ghost stood on the tarmac of some private, military-owned base. A sleek, black Jeep a few paces away to take you wherever you wanted to go.

Home, you supposed. You look around and it feels wrong. Stuck in limbo, purgatory. A strange microcosm where the people are the same—the man in the Jeep has a thick Northern accent; his words are rounded, and robust—but the place is different.

Know anything to calm the nerves now that we're home, sir?

His head tips. A few. None of them are good for you.

The tea was pretty good advice.

He'd said nothing. Nothing, nothing—

The man poked his head out the window. "Coming?"

You offered a shaky smile. See you around, Simon—

You'd slapped your palm against your mouth, eyes darting around the barren void in the middle of needn't know and somewhere in England, and he—

He shuddered. Eyes a polynya. A rumble broke the silence. Low, and—

You turned, hand curling over the handle of the car. You'd gotten it open an inch before his hand slammed on the frame beside the window, the door snapping shut. The force of it rocked the Jeep.

They're riding with me.

And—

Now: he sits in your home with takeout from the Indian place you like, one you mentioned in passing a year ago. The place with the best raita and spicy chicken biryani.

The one with a shell-shocked teenager manning the front with a single cook in the back. The register is barely used. They yell your order through a small window to the kitchen, and the cook brings it out himself when he's finished. It always feels a little bit illegal when he hands you the bag, but you're almost certain this man is secretly a Micheline star chef when he isn't condensing samsara into his tandoori.

Silent, a little tipsy, you toe your shoes off, trying not to make any more of a fool of yourself tonight. You stumble a little, head thick with those stupid sex on the beaches Gaz bought for you, and slowly make your way to the couch.

He hasn't looked away. Not once.

It's stifling. His presence nearly smothers you.

It usually isn't this— strange.

The handful of times he'd come around, it was always the same routine, the same dance. He'd be there, bathed in black and searching the alcoves of your flat, and then—on you. Your back against the wall, the hello snuffed out by the bulk of his body pressing into yours, his hands on your thighs, fingers tugging at the hem of your clothing. You'd tumble somewhere: the wall or the floor or the couch more often than not.

(It took him a year to fuck you on your bed.)

The next morning, he'd be gone. Rising before the sun—if he even slept at all—and off somewhere until late at night. He'd stay a few nights, but those were rare. Usually, it was once.

One night of brutal fucking where he had on you nearly every surface in your flat, taking, and taking until the sky broke crimson, and your eyes misted over from fatigue. He'd drop you in your bed, and when you woke up, sore and dazed and aching all over—

The bed is cold. Empty.

His presence is erased. The only thing that confirms it wasn't a dream is the burn between your legs, the quiver in your knees, and the bruises along your hips and thighs in the perfect impression of his large hands.

I wasn't expecting you, you'd once said.

His eyes are glued to you. Liquid midnight framed in white. Want me to leave, pet?

They dance with humour, hidden in the shadows of his intense stare, when you trip over yourself in your haste to say no. No, no, please—stay.

Sometimes, you like to pretend those obsidian edges softened a little at the ache in your voice. The palpable urgency bleeds through. That they regard you with a touch more warmth than before.

"Alright," he says, and nothing more. Alright.

It's enough. More than enough, really. It's a miracle a man like Simon would even offer that much considering his life, and who he is. It's more than you'd ever ask for.

And yet—

(In the darkness of your room, you crumble.)

—you want more.

More. More—

The butter chicken is warm, and slightly cooled. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. How long had he waited for you? Why did he wait for you?

You bite the soft, buttered naan to keep yourself from asking those silly questions.

This whole thing—if it even is a thing—is purely physical. Release. Something to stem the surreal feeling of being back on land where guns aren't being aimed at your head, and artillery fire doesn't clog the atmosphere. The stench of death is replaced by the cold, wet streets of London. The screams of the dying are just honking cars from impatient drivers; the chatter of civilians.

It's something to quench the inescapable sense of ennui when you leave the building after playing with the lives of the men on the field, and hear mothers chatting in the train about the mundanity of life.

Anything to calm the nerves. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet: he's sitting on your couch with his mask rolled up to his nose, eating chicken curry while passively watching football on your small television. Your hands brush when you both reach for more naan or roti. Gaze meeting over the Biryani.

It's different. New. This hasn't ever happened before in the four years since the conception of whatever this is. It's—

Jarring. Bewildering.

You expect, at some point, for him to stand up, and leave. That intimacy of eating dinner together while he murmurs low about what certain calls, or plays mean to you will break something inside of him, and scare him away. It's soft. Domestic.

Ghost is untouchable. Unseen.

But your eyes find the orange sauce smeared on the corner of his mouth. The ashen stubble on his chin, and jaw. The flash of teeth when he brings the dripping piece of curry to his mouth. His jaw working as he chews. The swallow. A flash of red when he tries, and fails, to catch every bit of curry from his lips.

It's bliss, you find. These small moments when he feels so distinctly human clot in your chest, and you worry that one day the mass will grow to be so big, you will crumble under the weight of it all.

(Maybe, it's the sex on the beach, the too-sweet rumchata, but the thought makes your stomach burn with anticipation. You want this man to ruin you with the mundane.)

"Finished your dinner?" He asks, eyes sliding to you.

The meagre food sits like a lump of coal. Your appetite dissolves as your slurried mind struggles to both remain as composed as possible so as not to spook him, and keep all the ugly things you want to say behind the seal of your lips.

It should just be sex. Fucking. No strings attached. Nothing—

You wonder if it's your life, drenched in a proxy of ordinary, that lures him in. You're not a civilian, but compared to him, you're only a short step above. Is it just—happenstance? Does he come to you because there are no other options for a man who died years ago?

Are you—

Convenient.

Something to pass the time. Something that makes him feel human again.

An evanescent dalliance within the boundaries of having no past, and no future. He isn't jeopardising himself by sneaking into your flat at night to satiate the hunger inside; the need to feel something other than the weight of a gun in his hands, and smell the blood, the smoke, the napalm in the air.

You work in the same circle.

He, when he's allowed to exist, on the field; and you, sitting behind a computer screen while you oversee the deaths of others in a sequence of numbers.

Your hands are too delicate to carry the weight of a gun, to aim and pull the trigger, but he can still feel the same sin when your fingers touch his flesh.

Not drenched in blood, but stained.

You're not innocent; he isn't sullying a civilian with his rough hands that reek of gunpowder.

You exist in that murky limbo he can fall in. Safety lingers in the cartilage of your joints; familiar, and attainable: you know the rules and what he does. You will never look him in the eye and ask why.

But—you're still dangerous. Covetous.

More, you think. You want more.

"I—," you taste malt on your tongue. You didn't drink any, but the taste reminds you of—

Hands on your waist. Warm breath in your ear. Come home with me.

Gaz, suddenly there, eyes blazing. Step off, mate.

Everton scores: blurs of blue dart across the green, but none of it sticks in the gummy lining of your head. It feels like you're somewhere else. Your body is sitting on the couch; you feel the soft, worn cushion below. The food is heavy on your belly. Eyes grainy from the alcohol you'd drank.

But you're not here.

You're adrift in grey matter. Head tilted toward the pink, undulating dome above. Afloat in stagnant molasses.

"I kissed someone tonight," you murmur. On the screen, a man throws his hands up, words at the bottom blur together.

The couch creaks when he moves. You can feel his stare on your temple, on you, but you don't meet it. Coward.

The geyser in the brackish pond rumbles. It tastes of sabotage.

"I probably would have gone home with them, too, if it wasn't for Gaz."

The roar of the television is the only sound you hear, but it feels distant. Warbled. There is a pounding in your head that starts at the base of your skull. The beat almost sounds like a warning.

Your hands tighten around the wet plastic cup of the cool salted Lassi. The crinkle it makes drowns out the noise of the cushion shifting under his weight.

"I guess it's a good thing I came home when I did—"

"Yeah, it is."

You can't place his tone. Arctic ice. Polar. A Chinook, perhaps. It bites into you, churning the chicken and alcohol in your stomach.

At least, in the end there would be no questions. No late nights gazing up at the ceiling, or leaning over the sink, peering at yourself in the mirror to make sense of why he picked you. It would just be—

An empty bed. Dinner for one. A single toothbrush in the holder.

(I bought you a toothbrush. You can leave it in the—

No need. I got my own.)

You huff. "Says you—"

"I'd have ripped him limb from limb for touchin' you."

His eyes are darker than you'd ever seen them. Black holes. Pooled ink.

For all your aplomb, your demure under the ire in those alcoves. The ones that leak—impossible—the same covetous spool in your chest.

"Simon—"

"Where'd he touch you?"

It's a command.

He reaches out; his palm is blistering when it rests on your bare thigh.

"Here?"

"Why—?" You shiver. "Why would you tear him—"

Sometimes, you forget how massive he is, but he seems quite eager to remind you when his hand falls on the cushion behind your head, closing that meagre distance between the two of you with his body. He's a shadow looming over you. A gaping chasm that yawns before you. Dangerous and dark. The warning signs are written in blood.

Stay away, they say, but he pushes himself closer to you.

"I don't share."

"What—what is there to share?"

His eyes flutter. Hard, unyielding obsidian. In the gaps, sit a near cosmic distance. An unreachable planet on the fringes of the solar system.

Ashen brows draw together. A cornered animal will lash out, and—

"Thought it was obvious."

You swallow and taste the sea. "It isn't."

An impasse, then, when he freezes. When his hand burrowing between your thighs halts on your flesh. An uncrossable no man's land. A valley where those who venture seldom return.

The chossy below your feet wobbles.

He says nothing. You don't expect him to, but you can't say it hurts any less.

You knew what you were getting into. What this was.

Still:

"Maybe we should stop this."

"That what you want?"

"It's pretty obvious it isn't, and that's the problem. I'm not going to ask for more than you'll give, but—;" a deep breath, a shudder. His thumb brushes your skin, a soft roll of his rough finger, and your heart thrums. Sings. The catch in your voice is thick, palpable. "How can you expect me not to want more?"

"What do you want? Want me to show my face? That it?" His hand raises to the edge of the mask, and something sours inside of you. "If you want to see so—"

Your hand on his wrist stops him from tugging it down. "I don't." Firm, decisive. "I don't want that, Simon. I just want you. And if—;" your eyes flicker to the containers, the half-eaten food on the coffee table. A dinner usually for one. "If you keep doing this—dinner, and—and—"

"I thought you liked butter chicken."

Your chest expands with your exasperated huff. Humour, at a time like this. And yet— "I do. I just meant—"

"I know, pet. I know."

"If you keep this up, I'll want more." You turn to him, hand dropping from his wrist. "I'm greedy. How can I not be when you tell me stupid jokes and bring me curry?"

"I knew you'd like them."

"Simon—"

Avoidance, then.

His hand inches down, sliding up your thigh. The loose shorts you'd worn fall to the side, and he slips through until his fingers meet the gusset of your panties.

"You're wet," he husks, leaning down. His forehead pressed to your temple. He smells of turmeric and ash. "That all for me, pet?"

Your thighs spread, giving him more room. His fingers brush along the seam of your clothed cunt. Your chin dips. Charcoal. Midnight black. His lashes are long. The missing coal around his eyes makes them look darker.

"Always."

His knuckle presses against your clit, chest brushing over your shoulder. "Better be."

Lashes flutter when you mewl, arching your back to get more of his touch. Needy, eager. You gasp when his finger crooks inside of your panties, bare skin on your cunt. You’re feverish; burning up from his touch alone. An ache knots in your belly; a spooling coil winding when his knuckle grazes your flesh. His breath is heavy in your ear.

"C'mon," he murmurs, the tip of his finger drags down the length of your slit. "Haven't had this pussy in months, pet. Need to feel you."

His words made something inside of you snap.

It's frantic: desperation claws at your chest carrying the urge to sink your teeth in his skin until it punctures with your mark, one that brands his body. The thought alone makes your belly quiver. An ache. A need. An itch. He's there, always: his hands are firm on your waist when you slide into his lap, hips pressing against your core as your fingers tug the buttons of his trousers off.

Your thighs burn from the stretch of his bulk. The sheer absurdity of how massive he is, and how comparatively small you feel with your knees split apart, is never more apparent than now, when you're barely able to touch the cushion below.

"Need you," you pant against the skin above the mask. Stubble crests over his cheek, and chaps your lips. "Need you so bad, Simon—"

"Fuck, pet," he breathes, ragged and harsh. His hands are brands on your flesh, pulling you closer, and closer, and yet—at the same time—keeping you at bay. "Would you have been this desperate for him?"

No. Not at all. You haven't been driven to the brink for a man since Simon. No one has ever burrowed deep under your skin until you were itching at the dermis so hard, it broke. It ripped. And the bloodied tatters that remained still weren't enough to quench the burn.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

His snarl is muffled behind the mask, but you feel the bite of it when his hands clench around your hips, jerking you forward until your cunt is nestled on his hard bulge.

"Gonna fuck you, now."

The words are ground down to the marrow; stripped and pulverised into dust when they slip through. Broken bones, fragmented ash—he blows the smoke of them into your face until you're reeling from the way they shred your throat and lungs when you breathe them in.

There is no finesse in the way you tug your panties off, letting them dangle around your ankle. Or the way he shoves his boxers down enough to free his cock.

It's quick. Dirty.

Simon has been rough in the past—often leaving you feeling like the victor of a well-fought war—but that always came after what felt like hours of foreplay. His face buried in your cunt. His fingers slowly stretching you for his cock.

This—

This feels desperate. It feels unhinged and raw. All his meticulous self-control catches fire in front of you until your skin blisters with the heat of it.

His fingers slip under the mask for a moment, and when he carefully pulls them free, they're covered in spittle.

No lube, no prep—

His thick fingers are on your cunt, slick and wet from his saliva, and they sink inside of you. One right to the last knuckle. Another joins. The stretch makes your toes curl. Makes you drop your head to his shoulder as he works in the third. The lewd sounds of your pussy being hurriedly fucked open by his fingers, palm digging into your clit, makes you burn.

It's not enough, but you look down and feel desire bloom at the sight of him—his cock is leaking prespend all over your mound, jerking against your belly with each quick thrust of his fingers within you. He pulls his hand away, and smears the wetness across his cock before gripping the base.

Your eyes are fixed on the pearlescent beads on the fat head, gathering in a thick, milky pool before rolling down the side. It gathers at the clinch of hi thumb and forefinger. Your mouth waters at the sight.

"Lemme suck your cock after," you slur; it comes out as barely more than a whimper. "Need to taste you—"

His cock jerks in his hold, spitting more prespend down the length of him.

"Fuckin' hell, pretty thing," he rasps, dragging your hips closer until your cunt is pressed taut against him. The drag of his flared head between your folds makes you keen low in your throat. "You won't even get a chance, pet. If you think I'm pulling out of this tight pussy at all tonight, you're wrong."

It's not a warning, but it's all he gives before his hand grips himself tight, the other clasped around your waist. His urgency bleeds through when his hips lift off the bed.

It's always an arduous undertaking whenever he sits you in his lap, and slowly feeds the entirety of his thick cock into your quivering body. Sometimes, nearly driven delirious from the intense pleasure-pain that pools in your core, you whisper into his ear that he's going to ruin you, break you down the centre.

You'll snap me in half, you whimper.

His response is to force more of himself into your body until you gag on the words in your throat, choke on your spit.

"I want to," he hisses; water doused on flaming coal. The grit of his voice is saturated in sin, and the sound makes your eyes roll. "Wanna break you open until nothin' fits inside this pretty cunt but me."

"You'd ruin me for everyone else, Simon? That's not fair—"

Your words make him groan, make him grasp your hips, fingers digging into the swell of your ass. He pulls you down onto him until he's swallowed whole. The air is punched from your lungs. You feel the throb of him in your esophagus. Broken, then, by this man. This untouchable, unattainable being.

"Fuck—," little hiccups spill from your throat. Your head is a slurry of want want want want and too much too full too big. You can't take him. You needed more foreplay. To be stretched around three fingers until you could fit him soundly.

This—

This feels a little bit like a punishment.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps into your neck. "Wouldn't know what to do with this little cunt if he had it."

"And you do?"

His answer is to plant his feet on the ground and drive the length of him into you. A battering ram to your core. There is a white-hot pleasure burning through your core. It leaks into your marrow until you're heavy with the weight of it.

He helps you along. Hands gripped tight to your hips, he lifts you up off of his cock, and lowers you down with a fervour that leaves you quaking.

It's not so much as riding him, but being battered by a hurricane. All you can do is cling to him—arms wrapped tight around his neck, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your forehead falls, rests against his shoulder, and you moan brokenly into the seam between your bodies.

It feels a little bit like possession. The flavour of a claim, ownership lingers in the air; it's heavy on your tongue, in your chest. But he's not the type of man to do that, is he? Distance. Separation.

Something like that is far too intimate for a man who shouldn't exist.

Even so—

Each blunt grind of his cock inside of you has milky pleasure blooming inside of you. His hard grip is tight enough to bruise, and when he digs his fingers into your flesh, you wonder if it's intentional. If he wants you stained and broken by the time he's finished.

No condom, either. It's rare that you go without one, despite being on birth control. He'd only ever lost it enough to forgo the contraceptive when he was injured, when his hand would press to his side each time he moved. The mask covered it up, but you saw the red in his eyes when he shifted.

You took advantage of his weakened state—lemme take care of you, Simon—and finally (finally) got a taste of his cock. His hips rutted into your mouth, and the noises that spilled out of him were obscene. You swallowed every drop while he heaved on the couch, forearm thrown across his forehead, eyes wide and red and looking at you in a way that made your toes curl. It was—

Magma. Melted rock. Soft, molten, and—

He passed out after. You cleaned up while he slept. It was the first time you'd ever seen him slumber, but despite the itch to look, to see, you kept your distance. A throw was tossed on him gently, a bottle of water left on the coffee table. You grabbed a book from the shelf, curled up on the chaise near the window, and watched the lour gloom of London under a deluge.

(London, you find, is always prettier when it storms.)

He woke up hours later to the smell of lamb soup.

His voice was a husk: a charred log. He pulled you down on the couch with him, back pressed to his front, and he'd taken you then. His arm draped over your collarbones, forearm tucked under your chin; his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him as he rutted inside of you. Delirious, perhaps, from the pain. From the uncomfortable, dangerous, vulnerability he showed you. It didn't feel distant when he pulled you into him, eyes murky bogs in the middle of a barren forest. It felt—

Stripped. Raw and naked and somehow virginal despite the heavy pants of pleasure in your ear, muffled by the mask that had not moved at all since his head dropped on the armrest behind, and he woke up to a porcelain bowl of cawl on the table.

The bare grind of his cock inside of you should negate the purity in the act but somehow, somehow, it feels more innocent than anything else you'd experienced before.

He came inside of you, a wrecked groan reverberating in your ear as he squeezed you tight to his body, and made you take every drop.

No words were exchanged. You ate cawl on the couch and tried to pretend you didn't see the hungry look in his eyes when you caught his gaze on the pearlescent smear staining your thighs.

(Each time after that, he wore a condom.)

Until now.

You can feel him pulsing in your throat. It feels more intimate—hurried and rushed as it: your thighs spread over his, his cock buried deep inside you, chest pressed against yours. There is nowhere for you to turn, to hide, except to burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the ozone scent of him. Gunpowder. Pyrolysis. Sulphur. Smoke. It sits heavy in your lungs.

"F—fuck, Simon," you mewl, fingers clawing at the fabric of his sweater. You need something to hold on to, to keep you grounded amid the battering of his hips.

"Yeah, pet," he breathes, his hands gripping you tighter as he ruts into you. His cock grinds against something inside of you that has you seeing white. "You like that don't you? Like my cock inside of you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

There is no room for words in your esophagus when you can feel the blunt press of his head bludgeoning into your sternum. All you can do is work yourself against the brutal onslaught of him driving his hips, his cock, into you from below. There is no stability for you to find purchase, and give back just as much as you take, but Simon doesn't seem to want that. Not right now.

He fucks into you, barely able to pull the full length of him out of your drenched pussy, and seems find pleasure in grinding against your core in deep, short strokes that leave you chasing Ursa Major in the Magellanic cloud that spools in your head.

Each thrust leaves you trembling, legs quaking as he knocks against a place inside that makes your back arch; making liquid euphoria brim in your veins.

Fucking Simon with an abundance of prep rides that perfect equilibrium of pleasure and pain. This—

This feels like it might wreck you. Your cunt is stretched wide around the base of him, pulled taut as he digs his heels into your worn, stained carpet and drives himself into you like he's trying to split you in half, and take refuge in your womb.

The sounds that spill out, filling the room, make you feel like you're floating. From the seal of your sopping pussy and the lewd squelch of him sliding against your walls; the deep, ruined moans that drip from your mouth; the deep, hoarse groans he makes that has your belly quivering—it has your fingers digging into his shoulders, clenched around tense muscles.

"Fuckin' hell—," his head tips back when your knee slips, bringing your pelvis closer to his groin. "This cunt was made for me, wasn't it? All mine—"

Stubble grazes your nose when you press your lips to the silver of skin exposed on his jugular. Teeth catch on the coarse hair, skin drawn between them. Capillaries burst under your tongue, flooding his flesh a bright red, then a deep purple. The perfect impression of your teeth—

"Fuck—!" He snarls, hands pulling you closer to him as he jerks within you.

Simon knocks the thoughts from your head when he spears his cock inside of you. It's rough, raw. The pain that blooms in your core when he chevies into the seal of your womb as you see a supernova behind your eyelids. The explosion of energy. Each synapse inside of your head buzzes with the force of it.

"C'mon, pretty thing," he husks; the roar of the ocean upwelling on the land. You taste salt on your tongue when you pant, moaning his name into his sweat-slicked neck. He tastes of iodine. "I want you to cum on my cock, pet. I need to feel your cunt squeeze me tight—"

It pulls on the thread keeping the deluge from spilling over. The seams split; the levee cracks. It wells inside of your core, each plunge pushing you further and further to the edge of that roaring precipice. Standing on the ledge of a cliff, eyes pointed down at the black water that slams against the granite, frothing and angry. It sprays mist from the vitriolic sea. Arsenic white. It crests over you. His grunt in your ear. His hands tighten until you feel bruises bloom under the tips of his fingers. The chossy cracks. The rocks tumble. Your feet slip—

It's familiar, this. Everything about him makes you feel like you're falling, and this—this—is no different. A leap. A drop. Your feet hit the water first.

It happens all at once; crashing over you like a rogue wave. Swallowed whole. Sucked under.

Knees scrape the murky sediment below. You babble in his neck about how good his cock feels inside of you; hiccuping stupidly at the absurd stretch of him, how big he is, and—shyly, tentatively—how much you missed this, missing feeling him inside of you, tasting him on your tongue.

It punches a snarl from his throat; ripped and raw on the barbed wire lining his jugular. It drips blood when he bites into it, fingers cutting into your skin to stem the ache in his voice from leaking out.

(Things are only real when whispered out loud.)

He pulses inside of you, head tilts back as he groans with his release.

These soft moments nearly ruin you: when his hands clench around your waist, paroxysms of pleasure hard enough to bruise; his chest expanding with his deep breaths, brushing yours with each inhale; the heat spuming inside of you. The noises he makes. The way his brow pinches together when he cums.

Your eyes fall on the column of his neck, tracing a bead of sweat slipping down from the humid mask, over the bluish mark you left on his skin, to where it pools in the indent of his collarbone. His throat bobs. You watch it all.

He's never more real than in these moments, you find.

You think of object permanence, and sink your teeth into the raw ring around his neck.

Simon shudders under you. "Fuckin' hell, pet—;" is a gravel-rucked rasp from his chest. He swallows again. "You tryin' to go for the jugular next?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms tighten around you, locking you to his chest. You throb around the softening length of him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Brassbound bliss is thick around your neck; heavy iron pulling you down.

The cosmos spits you out, and gravity drags you home until you're centred; surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and the cloying tang of Simon—warm milk, wet nickles, and clove. Your nose brushes the hem of his mask, and you catch the frenetic headiness of Ghost. Warzone. Gunpowder. Ichor. Your tongue flicks out, catches the sulphur on his skin.

You feel his feet shift, his thigh flex.

Hold on tight, pet. It's the only warning you get before his hands curl under your knees, locking you to his chest, and he stands.

The power in his muscles is dizzying, intoxicating. He hefts you into his arms with an ease that makes your head swim. All the liquid inside shifts as he moves. A vertiginous wave washes over you.

You feel so small in his arms. So fragile, breakable. He holds you tight to his chest, hands ironclad on your thighs, and huffs when you giggle in his ear about how strong he is. How big and tough, and powerful Ghost is.

"Ghost ain't the one still buried deep inside of you, pet." He mutters into your temple, words slurred, hushed. They're almost drowned out by the cheers spilling from the speakers, and you wonder if he even meant for you to hear them.

You duck your head, nuzzling your nose into his throat. "M'tired. Take me to bed, Simon."

"Gladly."

It's a short walk from your living room to your bedroom, and he knocks the door open with the flat of his foot. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold, eyes darting around your bedroom briefly. Hyper-vigilant. Always. This never changes even if he's in your flat or walking into the communal kitchen a whole sea away.

It takes him two steps to reach your bed. He doesn't bother with the lights.

He lays you on the cold bed, hovering over you with eyes like Orion. You think you find Betelgeuse in the far reaches of those unfathomable depths.

"You're pretty," you slur, stupidly, dizzily. You're not drunk—not really —but you're intoxicated by this, by him. His scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his weight pushing you down into the soft sheets—his cock inside of you still, twitching when you speak. It makes you giggle—robust and bubbly—and babble about the stars in his eyes, and heaven in his touch. "Your eyes are so—"

He huffs, those pretty eyes rolling at you. "Haven't even seen me without the mask, pet—"

"Don't care."

"No? What if I was ugly?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Scarred up?"

You shrug.

Another huff, deeper this time. His head drops, forehead pressing against your temple. You can feel the vibration through your bones when he rests his chest on yours, and murmurs your name low. Ashes and embers. Smoke is thick in your nose.

"You're clingy when you're drunk."

"Says the one who hasn't let go of me since I sat on your cock—"

His hips grind against yours, and the cheeky tone dies off in a whimper.

"That's what I thought."

"No fair," you pant, arching your back under him. Your legs tighten around his waist. "You can't just abuse me with your dick to shut me up. You know it's my weakness."

"If it works…"

"You're a terrible man."

"Never said I wasn't, and anyone who says otherwise is lying."

Your hands slide up his shoulders, and you feel something sour twist inside of you when he tenses as you glide over his bare skin. Your nails graze his scalp, fingers threading through his moussed locks. He shudders at your touch.

"Guess I'm a liar, then," you fit your cheek against his, murmuring in his ear. Quiet, low. The ghost of a whisper.

His voice is tight when he speaks. Airy, light. It's as soft as you'd ever heard him. "Guess so, pet."

His arms tighten around you, holding you just a little bit closer. It's almost cruel how he holds you close to his chest like this. Like you're something to be protected, to be shielded.

(Humans are greedy things by nature.

How can he expect you not to want when he gives you moments like these to cling to?)

He doesn't stay long. Two nights watching football on your couch, drinking tea, and feigning obliviousness to the crack in the foundation that lingers between you. The intimacy is startlingly easy to fall into; he sleeps (really sleeps; his eyes closed, soft snores spilling out from behind the mask), relaxes around you in a way that makes you distinctly aware, now, of how tense he was before.

(And yet—he still came.)

There is no confession to be had over cawl or the roast dinner you make before he leaves, leftovers tucked inside his backpack when he isn't looking, left there for whatever endeavour he was going on next. You can't imagine they have many homemade meals.

You don't even really know what he wants from this, what he expects, except that it's happening. He's here, and that—

That's enough.

You're greedy, always will be, but there's a dissonance inside of your chest, balmed by the tinge of green in those obsidian depths when you spoke of going home with another man. The acrid taste of his ire feels more poignant than any words could offer.

A man of action.

(And action comes often in his life.)

He calls you—for the first time in four years, somewhere overseas—and the sound of his voice in your ear has you grinning stupidly in the solitude of your bedroom.

"Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't sleeping."

It's quiet. Through the static, you can almost make out the chitter of insects native to whichever place they called him to. You think about filling in the gap, but there is a breath. A shift. Then: "me, too. Wondered what you were up to."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Pet—"

"Thinking of you."

Silence again. His breath is white noise on the line. "I'll be—;" he pauses, inhaling once more: "—back soon. No promises."

"No, never," you smile. "Bring me a souvenir."

"All I have are heads, pet."

"How romantic."

"Never been much of one."

"I guess I could redecorate. Macabre-chic. "

He huffs. You wonder if it's a chuckle. "Would start to smell, wouldn't it?"

"Not much worse than you after a mission, surely."

"You—"

"Kinda miss it, though."

He says nothing. You catch the grainy inhale. The forceful exhale.

"Not much to miss."

"There's lots."

"There ain't."

"If you say so. Still do, though." You let it sit for a moment; a tender glimmer of raw vulnerability—the flavour he runs from. It brims. Your mother taught you that it was best to let things simmer. "It's been raining like crazy in London. Kinda reminds me of Wales."

"What do you call a sheep tied to a fence in Wales?"

"Do I want to know?"

"A leisure centre."

You nip your chuckle at the root, feigning exasperation instead. "You can do better than that."

"What do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

"What?"

"A seasoned veteran."

Your huff trails off into silence. It's palpable, thick, but it isn't uncomfortable. It reminds you of the softness of night when you're supposed to be quiet. When you tiptoe around with a gingerness to avoid a raucous. Anything over a certain decibel is off-limits. It's not a rule. It isn't written down. But you follow it, anyway.

In that gloam when the sun sets over the horizon, and night settles like a blanket, you whisper:

Make sure those heads come home safe.

The sheets rustle. Something in the distance shatters.

He sucks in a breath. "I should go, pet."

It's as much of a promise as he'll ever make.

In the sticky gossamer of sleep, you feel something brush over your temple. A soft smear of warmth; transient and fleeting. The fluttering wings of a magpie.

It leaves before you can sink into its weight.

When you wake the next morning, the room smells of rust and gunpowder.

(No heads, but you find a whittled sheep on the pillow beside you.)

You open the cupboard above the vanity, reach for your toothbrush, and—

Oh.

A slow, soft smile crests over your lips, cheeks flushing under the jaundiced light.

Inside the solitary holder, another brush has taken residence beside yours. You stare at the two brushes in the rusting cup, heart thudding in your chest.

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