#like he *wants* the mystery but he *needs* to trust. iykyk

[dreadeves]

has someone actually thought about paladin of ankarna riz before or is my memory making things up for me

[adamstnheights]

Stitches - Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Summary: You’re the newest recruit to 141 and still trying to figure out your intimidating, mysterious lieutenant. Being assigned as his partner on the field for the first time on a sniper mission, you’re unsure exactly how to act around him, especially when he has such an… effect on you. But when you both get caught in the crossfire, you’re forced to take cover with him and mend his wounds, much to his (begrudging) appreciation.

An alternative take on the Recon by Fire mission in MWII. Also based loosely around the Simon Riley ASMR video by Jim ASMR on YouTube because it was just so cute :)

Reader’s callsign is Zero (iykyk)

Content: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Sniper Reader, Reader used to want to be a medic, Military Inaccuracies, Medical Inaccuracies, Gunshot Wounds, Ghost being super soft, You taking care of Ghost, Ghost taking care of you, Gentle touches, Needles, Bandages, Stitches, Developing feelings, Ghost trusting you, Flirting, Fluff, Ghost is a cat person (REAL)

Word Count: 7.4k

“Ghost and Zero, you’ll station up at the top of the hill and see if you can take any of the cartel guards out from a distance,” Price ordered over comms. “When the path is clear, Gaz and I will move into the hatchery and clear them out, looking for any evidence of the missiles. Laswell will be out on the water on overwatch. If we need her, she can get to shore and join us in the hatchery.”

Usually, you would be standing in the debriefing room to hear your instructions for a mission, but because of the short notice and urgency, you were listening to Price’s voice over comms in the back of one of the task force’s vans. While Price continued to speak, you slowly let your gaze move over to where Ghost was sitting across from you in the back of the van, only for your whole body to seize up when you realized that he was already staring at you. And of course, you couldn’t tell what the hell he was thinking—basically his whole expression was covered by his mask. It frustrated you to no end. It felt like he always had the upper hand, not allowing the enemy or opposition to get a read on his face, which was understandable, but you wanted to know. You wanted to be able to know what he was thinking. In comparison, it made you feel extremely vulnerable. Maybe you’d look into getting your own mask.

Being the rookie made you feel extremely out of place. It didn’t matter you had five years of being a sniper under your belt; you’ve only been with them for six months, so to the rest of Task Force 141, you were still the newbie. Talk about your skill had been passed around by word of mouth, and soon Captain John Price had approached your former unit and proposed a deal to you that was too good to pass up. So a few months and a location change later, you were the newest addition to 141, thus securing your label as “the rookie.” There wasn’t really anything you could do about it.

Luckily, the guys in the unit welcomed you with open arms, although the kindness did come along with a fair share of humorous and flirtatious remarks. Soap and Gaz basically took you under their wing immediately, taking pride in teaching you new things and showing you the ropes of 141. They urged you to join in on their game nights and when they would go out to the bar after a hard day of training or a rough mission. You felt at ease around the other men, too, for the most part.

Ghost was another story. From the first time you met him, you were intimidated. He had a towering, large figure that could speak for itself, but also his voice was deep and gruff, especially when he was barking out orders. You weren’t scared of him, per se, but you were cautious. From the interactions you’ve had with him and the way you’ve observed him on missions, you definitely wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. He was mysterious—the mask and skull cover showed that the most, but on top of that, you noticed the way he expertly dodged any prying questions that Soap would ask him over comms during a mission. When you and the rest of the crew got drunk and began spewing out stories from your former lives, you noticed how Ghost would simply sit back and listen, observe, but not provide any stories of his own. You were sure he had his reasons for being closed off, but you couldn’t help but wish that he were… more approachable. Especially now that you were on your first mission with just him by your side, you felt like you knew him the least out of the other members of 141.

The van slowly and quietly came to a stop towards the top of the hill. Ghost opened the back doors and jumped out onto the ground and you followed, rifle in hand.

“Zero, on me,” Ghost said, nodding his head his way.

The fog along the coastline was thick—good for the enemies not spotting you, but not as good for you spotting the enemies. You stationed yourself about forty yards away from the edge of the uppermost hill, where the grass was thick and high. The outline of the hatchery could be seen far, far in the distance, right along the edge of the land. From where you and Ghost were crouching, you could see below where a dirt path winded slowly down the hills. It would take some time and patience to fully push forward and make it safe enough for Price and Gaz to breach the buildings down below. But you were ready; more importantly, you were counting on this mission to prove your worthiness to Ghost. It was kind of pathetic. You knew you were a damn good sniper out on the battlefield, and yet, ever since Ghost’s intense, unreadable gaze landed on you, you’d felt determined to do whatever it took to get his approval. It didn’t help that the way he looked at you kind of really made your heart race, in the most confusing way, and the periodic sarcastic jokes he would make over comms made him more endearing.

Still, you didn’t want to push your luck. The last thing you wanted was for this mission to bring you back to square one in terms of your reputation on the team. In front of you, Ghost crouched even lower to the ground, pointing his rifle outward and looking through the scope. You fell back slightly behind him, also crouching in the grass. After a few moments of silence, you furrowed your brow at him, unsure whether he was going to say something or if he was just trying to act like you weren’t even there. Maybe he was annoyed by you, annoyed that out of everyone else on 141, he was stuck with the rookie.

Finally, he nodded his head forwards, motioning you to follow him. Both of you crawled through the grass until you reached closer to the edge of the hill. You both got down, fully lying on the dirt. Through the fog, you could now make out the wire fences around the hatchery, where cartel were guarding the entrances and walking along the dirt paths surrounding it.

“I can see about ten of ’em, all ’round the entrance fence,” Ghost finally broke the silence. 

“We need to take our time,” you said, “They’ll spread out, into groups of two or three. Then we can take them out.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” he replied, “Let me know who to take out.” Normally, he would be argumentative to a new recruit taking the initiative, but there was something about you that fascinated him. He didn’t mind hearing your voice walking through the plan and telling him what to do. Price had told him about your skill; he knew that you knew what you were doing.

You readjusted your rifle just so, looking through the scope.

“On top of the building, two snipers,” you announced, “Do you see my laser on your thermal?”

You could hear Ghost repositioning his rifle a couple feet away from you in the grass. “Affirmative.”

“Go.”

You pulled the trigger, hitting the sniper on the right. Mere seconds afterwards, you heard Ghost’s rifle go off and through the scope you could see the second sniper’s body fall over.

“Got ’im,” he said. “On the right side of the fence, near the blue shipping container, there’s two.”

“I’m on him,” you said, lining up your shot next to his.

Ghost shot first this time, you followed him. The two men by the shipping container dropped to the ground. You continued scanning the area.

“Three more, below, closer to us, walking by that white van,” you flexed your hand and regripped the trigger.

“I’ll get the stray,” Ghost said.

“Copy that.”

You lined up your shot to the guy furthest to the right, watching as Ghost’s laser appeared over the man next to him. Again, seconds after you shot, Ghost followed, taking out the other. He quickly readjusted his hold on the rifle to focus in on the third one of the group. As you watched through the scope, the third man immediately went onto high alert, pointing his gun around him. Ghost wasn’t worried though as he lined up his shot. Poor bloke; unlike the first two men, this one would spend his last living seconds in panic mode.

Unfortunately, in the few seconds in between, the third man shouted and seemingly alerted someone else. Immediately after Ghost shot him down, two more men came running into view, shooting upwards towards the two of you. With a few uncoordinated shots, you and Ghost took them down quickly, but the not-so-subtle gunfire from your direction gave away your position. Before you could even think about moving, a bullet sped right past your view and into Ghost’s arm.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Ghost grunted, sucking in his breath in pain. “Where the fuck—?”

You were frantically scanning the area for where the shot could have come from when another bullet came speeding towards you, and you felt a sharp pain searing through your own arm. Furrowing your brow, you struggled to look even harder through the scope. “Shit—!” You winced.

“Got ’im,” Ghost announced, pulling the trigger, “To your left, on top of that small shed. There was another one.”

“Fuck.” You noticed two more men emerging from behind the shed. Both of you quickly took them down. “We– We need to push forward, we don’t have the best view from here. I can’t tell if we cleared the whole area.”

“Copy that.”

You began to crawl forward, the pressure of leaning on your right arm not helping the gash there. Before you could crawl even a foot you felt an unfamiliar touch on your forearm. Ghost had placed his gloved hand there, and you turned to look at him.

“You okay?” He asked lowly. You nodded your head, too shocked to speak.

You and Ghost quickly moved forward, onto an area of grass a bit lower down the hill than where you were before. You could see a bit closer now, and from the new angle, you could make out the rest of the area below. There were a handful more men on guard around the building, and you gripped your rifle hard in an attempt to distract your body from the pain. You monitored Ghost’s laser and helped him take out the men accordingly. Barely any more gunfire was exchanged.

“Price, Gaz—we cleared the outside surroundings of the buildings. You should be good to go in now,” he directed over comms.

“Copy. Good work, you two,” Price replied.

You met Ghost’s eyes from between the blades of grass and you could tell that he was intentionally not letting Price know that you two got hit. You could have spoken up yourself but you had successfully eliminated everyone and neither bullet seemed to have hit anything critical. Giving the lieutenant a knowing nod, you scanned the area and noticed a stream of water by a small stone building. It wasn’t really a building, more like a small hut. Ghost saw where you were looking and nodded his head towards it, giving you the go ahead.

Crouching slightly, you both quickly snuck towards the stone shack. Ghost positioned himself to cover the rickety wooden door, which you kicked in, instantly holding your rifle up to clear the inside. He followed you close behind, checking all corners of the worn-over room. Everything inside was covered in moss or other overgrown plants.

“Clear.” Ghost stated, lowering his gun. You were already sliding down against the stone wall towards the corner of the room, grasping the side of your arm. Ghost rushed to your side, sitting next to you. “Here,” he went to look at your arm, but you expertly reached for him first.

“Show me yours first,” you whispered, “Mine’s just a graze. Yours is worse.”

“Are you defying your superior?” He asked. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Yours is worse,” you repeated, shaking your head, “The bullet lodged in there. I need to take a look.” You were staring at his left bicep, where the layers of jacket and shirts were ripped into by the bullet. The hole in Ghost’s skin was large, bleeding profusely.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbled, “I’m more worried about you, Zero.”

Your eyebrow raised and you tilted your head up to look at him. Behind the mask, you could see his eyes clearly. They were hazel, and for probably one of the first times since you’ve known him, they looked soft and genuine. Up close, you could see little spots where the black paint smudged and his skin was peeking through. His eyelashes were blonde, slightly covered by some black face paint, but definitely blonde. Suddenly, you were trying to picture Ghost’s blonde hair under the mask and balaclava. You weren’t as intimidated by him anymore as you were intrigued—deep down, you wished you could see more of him.

From what you’ve observed of him (plus things Soap and Gaz have said), you knew he wasn’t really as big and scary as he seemed to be. He cracked jokes over comms during missions. During downtime on base he’d join the rest of the group playing cards or drinking, still wearing his balaclava obviously, but without the skull cover and only minimal black eye black on, so you could see more of his face clearly. You would never admit it to the rest of the guys, certainly not Soap, but you found Ghost to be quite handsome. (You could just hear Soap teasing you: You don’t even know what he looks like! He could be ugly!) Between his deep voice, towering figure, and the way his hands worked around his rifle (you have stared too many times to admit), he was… hot. What more could you say? It felt like a silly high school crush; he was your superior and you barely knew anything about him. But… you wished you could learn more. You would, if he’d let you. You would.

And now, with his face only inches away from yours, his eyes looking at you intently, you felt determined to take care of him. You wanted to see that softer side of him, and you also wanted an excuse to dote on him. Already, he was acting a bit more flustered than usual with you trying to defy him. You wondered how long you’d be able to keep it up for.

“I’m not taking that for an answer,” you insisted. “Yours is worse, so we’re taking care of you first.”

Ghost raised his eyebrows, his mouth partly open in shock of your defiance, but his lips spread into a smirk, amused by your determined edge. He was intrigued by you, so he’d let you win this argument. He didn’t say anything more as you inched closer to him. He sat with his entire back against the wall, facing forward. You turned your body towards him, sitting cross-legged as you placed a hand on his arm where the bullet wound was.

“I… think you’re going to have to take this off. The jacket, at least. Sorry, Lieutenant,” you said.

“You can call me Ghost, you know,” he said as he leaned forward to unclip his tactical vest and shuck the jacket off.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, “I was just trying to be polite, I guess.”

“Don’t need to be polite with me,” he smirked.

“Okay… Ghost,” you smiled. You took off your own tactical vest and rummaged through the back pockets, pulling out your first aid kit. You opened the kit and took out the tweezers. “Sorry if this hurts.”

“S’alright, not the worst thing I’ve endured. And I haven’t had the privilege of such an… assertive patching up,” Ghost could feel himself blushing behind the mask. He was glad you couldn’t see.

First, you inspected the bullet. It had implanted inside his arm, making it impossible for any kind of extraction, especially under conditions like these. With only minimal shattering, the pieces embedded into the muscle, there were no critical places hit or at risk. Your main goal was to stop the bleeding so you could stitch the wound closed.

“It seems like… most of your muscle absorbed the bullet. No bone damage or critical areas hit, so… all I’m gonna do is stitch you up,” you explained. You held back a giggle, pushing away the urge to squeeze his arm; you weren’t entirely sure if he’d like that very much (you were almost positive he’d kill you). “When we get back to base, the nurses at the infirmary can keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t get infected or anything, and if not, then it’ll just heal over.”

“Aw, no trophy for me to take home?” Ghost asked.

“You still get to take it home,” you replied, taking your two fingers and tapping his arm above the wound, “just in here. Hey, now it’ll always be with you.” He shuddered at your touch.

You began cleaning around and in the wound, earning a sharp hiss from Ghost’s mouth as you wiped the area off with a small rag and some water from your hydration bladder. You poured some water slowly onto the wound, trying to flush out any dirt or debris, before placing some gauze over it and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. While your one hand was pushing against his arm, you reached your other hand back into the first aid kit, fishing around for your stitching tools. You took out a needle with thread, along with a needle driver. You placed the needle driver on your leg for the time being.

You dug into one of your pockets, brandishing a small square alcohol wipe package, which you promptly ripped open with your teeth so you wouldn’t have to set the needle down. Ghost practically had to hold back from choking on his own breath, the way you were so focused and determined was certainly making him feel some unfamiliar type of way. He had barely gotten a chance to hesitate or argue against you patching him up, he was too mesmerized in watching you and you were already grabbing a hold of his arm again, sending a tingle down his spine as you cleaned his wound.

Then, with one hand, you pierced the skin on one side of the open wound with the needle, then the other side. Your other hand held the needle driver, which you used to grip onto the end of the needle, pulling the thread through the newly made holes. With an even amount of thread left on either side of the wound, you wrapped the thread from the left side around the needle driver twice, then grabbed the other end of the thread with the driver. You pulled from both ends gently, making a first throw of the stitch. You did it again, looping the one side of the thread around the driver, grasping the other end, and pulling it tightly to make the knot. Ghost watched, almost in awe, at your expert handiwork. You made it look so easy. 

“I... wanted to be a nurse, or a medic, or whatever, you know,” you rambled as you moved up the wound a few centimeters, piercing the skin to start another stitch, “I made it through undergrad and then… shit just didn’t really work out. But hey, I found out I was a pretty good sniper. So I’m good for somethin’, at least.”

Simon felt his whole body heating up from the way both of your hands were making contact with his upper arm. One hand was gently pressing down on his bicep around the wound while your other had the needle held in between your fingers. The gash you were closing up on him was large; it was certainly going to leave Ghost with a jagged scar. But for once, he felt at ease.

In all his years in the military, the marks and scars that have riddled his body only brought him more shame and discomfort. Sure, there were a few scars that were his “go-to” to talk about when the other guys began showing off about past endeavors (This one here, knife fight. I grabbed the bloke from behind and stabbed’im in the neck, but not before he got one in my side). Other than that, most of the bullet holes and jagged lines where his skin couldn’t fully heal only reminded him of the horrors and the pain. Now, though, the thought of having a scar on his arm from a wound that you took care of, he couldn’t be more elated. A mark on his body, stitched together carefully and gracefully by you. A secret moment—a memory—that only the two of you shared, forever imprinted into his arm; a scar that no one else would know the backstory to, unless he decided to tell it (he wouldn’t—he didn’t want to share this moment with anyone else).

Okay, so maybe some sort of feelings were blossoming in the cold, cold heart of Simon Riley. You didn’t have much of an idea about it, and honestly, neither did Ghost himself. Soap had teased him multiple times about a supposed “crush” that Ghost didn’t fully realize he had. But the sergeant certainly had. Soap teased him about how he always insisted he didn’t want to play cards with the rest of the team, only to grab a seat next to you and strategize how to beat everyone else. Was it an excuse to sit real close to you and exchange whispers and laughter? Soap would never get an answer because Ghost would tell him to fuck off, but he already knew the answer anyways.

Ghost’s heart was racing, suddenly and somehow nervous in your presence.

“Why do they call you Zero?” He asked abruptly, a random question spilling from his lips. He just wanted to keep hearing you talk to him.

“Isn’t that like, impolite to ask?” You smirked.

He laughed—a genuine, full out laugh. Your eyes brightened. “I’m only curious,” he said softly. “Jus’ tryin’ to make conversation.”

“Well, why do they call you Ghost?” You shot back playfully.

“Now that’s classified, love.” His eyes immediately widened as the endearing term slipped from his lips. He hoped you didn’t catch it; meanwhile, you were going to think about it for the rest of the week. You grinned to yourself, and he looked down at his hands and focused on how your needle pierced his skin—a certain amount of discomfort, but something that felt good knowing that you were right there next to him. He didn’t want to get into his callsign; however, he was willing to give you something else. “My name—my real name, I mean… It’s Simon.”

You stared at him, wide eyed. You almost couldn’t believe that he told you, you hadn’t expected him to want you to know something like that. “Simon,” you repeated, watching as he nodded his head. “That’s a nice name. Simon. So… am I allowed to call you Simon now?”

Ghost looked past you at the wall for a brief moment, thinking. “Not on the field,” he stated, “But… when we’re back on base… sure. Yeah. Call me Simon.”

You shivered at his deep voice. Simon, Simon, Simon. You wanted to say it again and again. And he wanted to hear you say it. He would like his name a thousand times better if it was coming from your mouth.

“Simon—”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. Ghost,” you giggled. 

Three stitches down. You kept working, quickly and efficiently. Ghost kept watching you, wondering why Price hadn’t brought you onto the team as a medic. Not that your sniping abilities weren’t needed and greatly appreciated, but Ghost selfishly thought about how from now on, if he got so much as a small scrape, he’d go to you for help. Soon enough, you were finishing the last throw on the fourth stitch. You moved onto the next one, lacing the thread through the needle to start again.

“Don’t know how to use half the shit in the first aid kit,” now it was Ghost’s turn to ramble, “Usually just slap a bandage on ’n hope for the best. I mean, I’m not stupid, I don’t leave my shit untouched to get infected or anything. I just… don’t really follow up on any of my doctor’s appointments. But I’ve made it alright so far.”

“You should let yourself be taken care of more often,” you said softly. Your face grew hot when you realized the way that could have sounded and you added, “When you get hurt like this. You don’t have to always put on a brave face and grit through the pain. You need to take care of yourself.”

Ghost scoffed almost instinctively, but his heart swelled at your concern for him. He admired you for being so caring, not just to him, but to everyone on the team. Despite not always showing it, he cared deeply about all of the other guys on 141, he would die for any of them. He didn’t have a family, but 141 was the closest he had to one. The way his team interacted with each other was important to him, and watching how you melded with everyone else over the past couple of months, he felt happy, content. Your kindness only intrigued him more; he wished that he could be the only recipient of your sweet words and attention.

“Well, I– I don’t usually trust anyone to patch me up,” he attempted at some sort of compliment. Your eyebrow raised and you looked up at him.

“Hmm. So… you trust me then?” You asked cautiously. You heard stories about how Ghost hardly trusted anyone, and your heart began to beat faster at the implication that you had somehow made it on the list of those he did.

“You could say that,” he said. He cursed himself in his mind for not knowing how to properly talk to you, how to make you feel cared about the way you made everyone else feel cared about.

“And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?” A smirk spread across your face.

“Fuck’s sake, just take the compliment, will ya?” Ghost practically grumbled, sounding like an annoyed child.

You let out a soft laugh. Ghost put the sound of your laugh into the back of his mind, for safekeeping. “That’s your way of giving me a compliment, huh?” You teased.

“M’not very good at it, am I?” He sighed into a small laugh.

“Just a bit rusty,” you tilted your head up at him, your faces somehow closer than you had remembered, “But you can get better with practice.”

“Practice, hm?”

“Uh-huh. You can feel free to practice your compliments and pick up lines on me anytime.” You were too shy to make eye contact with him after that; you began to focus extremely on his wound. 

Ghost’s right eyebrow raised slightly, unable to properly register whether you were genuinely insinuating that you would enjoy it if he flirted with you. As if he even knew how to. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed that he had no idea what to say. He thought about Johnny, and how his downright stupid pick up lines he used on people at the bar usually actually worked. There was no way Johnny would let him hear the end of it if he approached him for help with flirting, but Ghost wondered who else he would want to confide in when they returned to base. 

“Almost finished,” you announced, finishing another suture. The skin was carefully pulled back together, only needing one or two more stitches. “I am fairly confident that this will heal very quickly and very nicely. Well, granted that you go back to the infirmary and get yourself followed up on.” You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly.

“Do I have to go to the infirmary when we get back?” He complained. You laughed at the way he practically whined.

You looped the thread again with the needle driver and began the last suture. In a matter of moments, you’d knotted the thread three times over and secured the suture flat to the skin. You moved your head closer to inspect your work, nodding and looking up at him.

“Well, I’m done stitching you up. And yes, you do, because you need to make sure your wound doesn’t get infected,” you said, half sternly. Soap told you probably hundreds of stories about Ghost refusing to get proper medical help after returning from a mission, and your fleeting former life as an almost-nurse made you feel very strongly on the topic. “Please, after all I did to stitch you together, won’t you make sure that it heals alright?”

His heart swelled. As much as he tried to push down feelings like this, he knew that he’d do anything for you. And you asked so nicely. However, he had a negotiation in mind.

“Well… What if I get checked up on by you? When we get back to base? You know, instead of going to the infirmary?” He raised his eyebrow and watched the gears turn in your mind. He prayed that his message would come across properly: I’d rather see you. I trust you more.

“Don’t go getting too attached to your medic, now,” you fake tsk-ed at him, but you were smiling, too. Ghost laughed. Too late for that. 

“You can give me a once over when we get back. Vouch for me so I don’t have to go deal with the other doctors,” he pushed.

“You’re very difficult, Ghost,” you tutted. “But… I’d rather be the one to make sure you’re alright. That way I can ensure you’re following the proper recovery routine.” You reached into your kit again and got out a bandage roll. You reached out for his arm again, beginning to wrap the bandage gauze around his arm.

“And what kind of recovery routine would you want me to follow?”

You clicked your tongue, thinking. “You have to let me eat dinner with you in your room. And then after, I can check your wound,” you decided. Luckily, the words coming out of your mouth were far from Go on a date with me, but it was certainly the closest you’d get. Ghost hardly ever ate dinner in the common area with the rest of the task force, you assumed mostly because eating would involve him having to pull his mask up. Remembering this fact, you quickly added, “I won’t even look at you while you eat. I just… thought maybe you’d like some company.”

He stopped himself from blurting out something inappropriate, a dumb teasing line about you just trying to make up an excuse to get into his bedroom. His usual confidence to say whatever dumb, crass joke he wanted disappeared with you so close to him. He was more nervous than anything to scare you away, to say something that would make you not want to be around him.

“I’d accept that,” he finally said. “And… you wouldn’t need to do that.” He could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. “You’re allowed to take a look at me while I’m eating.” He smirked as he saw your cheeks grow red. 

“I— I mean, I didn’t mean I wanted to like, stare at you while you’re—” you tripped over your words, stopping to take a breath and collect your thoughts. Slowly, you opened your mouth again, “Well, I mean, I am curious… I guess…”

Ghost was smiling proudly under his mask, finding it incredibly endearing the way you admitted your curiosity. He always stuck to his secrecy behind the mask for the most part; he was sure that the other guys had seen his jawline and mouth from the times he ate or drank around them, but they never made too big of a deal (besides Soap, who would use the mask as a prime source for his teasing). More often than not, on base, he’d retreat to his room to eat simply to avoid any annoyances around lifting the mask up and back down over and over. But now, really thinking about it, he realized he wouldn’t mind at all if you saw him eating. Maybe, just maybe, he would enjoy your company for dinner on a daily basis. He wouldn’t jump to that conclusion just yet, but in the back of his mind, he already knew.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Ghost said, “I’d rather be able to look at you and talk to you while we eat.”

“So you’re taking my offer,” you beamed.

“That I am. Now let me look at you.”

The lacerations along your own arm were stinging and bleeding, but somehow the high of the lieutenant caring about you overrode that pain. Still, you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to have Ghost dote on you, although you had a feeling he wouldn’t be as gentle as you were with him. Either way, you let him help you take your jacket off and you shuddered at the few moments his bare hand brushed against you. He placed his hands on either side of you, on your shoulders, turning you more towards him, closer to him. He looked at your arm.

“Look, we have matching wounds,” he said, raising his own arm up next to yours. You let out a small laugh, not expecting him to say something like that. It was sweet.

“We both have something to remember this day by.”

“You want to remember this?” He asked, as if he weren’t going to think about the way you gently stitched him up and took care of him for the rest of his life.

“Of course,” you replied, “We completed our mission, quite well, I might add, and I think we make a good team. Plus, you told me your name. So of course I want to remember this.”

Ghost blinked at you, trying to decipher any evidence of disingenuousness in your face, only to be met with the exact opposite. Your expression was soft and genuine. Your eyes shimmered for him. Ghost wasn’t used to hearing such nice, kind things towards himself, and you could tell he wasn’t used to it by the way he remained silent, not even coming up with a dry joke to change the subject. You wondered how many times you would have to compliment him before you could really get through to him.

“You’re staring, Zero,” Ghost’s deep voice brought you out of your thoughts.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “Can’t help that you’re nice to look at.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, trying to ignore the way his cheeks were flushing again. His hands were slightly shaky as he took your arm, closer to him this time. He shifted his whole body so he was completely facing you, ready to patch you up.

You had only been grazed by the bullet, but it still hurt like hell. Your whole right arm was burning up with a searing pain, not the worst you’ve ever felt, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable. The skin on your arm wasn’t torn open the same way Ghost’s was, with the bullet embedding inside, but it was like the edge of the bullet tried to scoop into your skin like a shovel into dirt. It didn’t go through or below the skin, but it was deep enough that blood was trickling down your arm. You were so focused on taking care of Ghost that you had barely noticed it.

“Fuckin’ hell, Zero,” Ghost said, his eyes widening in concern from seeing your wound more clearly. “You’re lucky the bullet didn’t lodge in ya.”

He reached next to him and grabbed a wad of gauze, dampening it with some water and placing it over you. His large hand placed pressure on you to stop the bleeding. You tried not to think about his hand pushing against you in a different context. His hands were warm on you and you couldn’t help but shiver. You hoped he didn’t notice the goosebumps along your arm.

After a few minutes of applying pressure to your wound, Ghost lifted up the gauze, inspecting you.

“Looks like the blood mostly stopped,” he told you, putting the wad of gauze next to him on the ground. He took out his own alcohol wipes, holding them up first as if to warn you This might hurt. He held your arm with one hand and wiped the wound with the other. The alcohol stung but it didn’t matter. Ghost was taking care of you. “Hold still.”

As he sanitized your wound, Ghost would wince whenever he heard you suck in a breath or make a small, pained sound from the alcohol. He didn’t want to hurt you. He wanted to be gentle with you like you were with him. Sure, maybe he wasn’t very good at all that, but he’d like to try, for you. His fingers brushed against your skin as he ran the alcohol wipe over the scrapes a few times, sanitizing the area and wiping away the blood.

“Don’t have any antiseptic,” he mumbled.

“Wait, I do,” you speak up, taking out a small tube of antiseptic ointment from your kit. Handing it to him, he put some on his pointer and middle fingers, gently making contact with your skin. He patted the ointment into the wound and the skin around it, his expression deeply focused to make sure he wasn’t hurting you. He wiped the excess on a small square of gauze and looked at you, as if waiting for approval. You blinked at him, smiling sweetly, and he turned away, always nervous when you smile at him, to reach for the bandage roll.

“I, uh, used to have a dog. German Shepherd. He got his back paw caught in a chain fence once and I had to bandage his leg and everythin’... Guess that’s the closest I ever got to bein’ a medic,” Ghost chuckled softly, unraveling the bandage and holding the end of it in place over your arm, using his other hand to begin wrapping it around you. 

“A dog, hm?” Now that piqued your interest. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be a dog person.”

He shook his head. “Not really. More of a cat person, actually.”

“You’re joking,” you gasped. You tried to imagine Ghost with a cat cuddled up on his lap or chest.

“Cats get a bad rep,” he said. “I like that they’re independent and do their own thing most of the time. But they’re still sweet, they’ll still rub against you when you pet them and curl up next to you on the couch. They’re more stand-offish and brooding than dogs, I guess. But what’s so bad about that?”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you whispered. Ghost locked eyes with you, and you could tell that his eyebrows were raised. He wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not. You continued, “But don’t worry. I really like cats, too. Misunderstood creatures. And cute.” You smiled at him, hoping to God he understood that you were trying to flirt with him. It was hard to tell, but you assumed by the way he chuckled softly and moved even closer to you to continue patching you up that he got it.

He placed his hand on your arm and ripped the bandage, placing the rest of the roll back into his kit. He repositioned the ending of the bandage so that it stuck on top of itself, keeping the wrapping in place without any need for medical tape. When his hands left your arm, you had to hold yourself back from frowning, already missing the skin-to-skin contact.

“Well, I think tha’ll do ya good, a’least until we get back, yeah?” Ghost said, leaning back from you a bit. Still, you noticed that the way you were sitting, your legs were still touching. 

“Thank you,” you placed your hand over the bandage, moving and flexing your arm to see how it felt.

Ghost got up from the ground and began putting his jacket and tactical vest back on. He walked a few steps across the room where he had leaned his rifle up against a dusty table. Rummaging through his vest for some ammo, he began reloading his gun and humming ever so softly to himself. You watched him, your cheeks tingling with warmth. As much as you wanted to get back to base, you also didn’t want to leave this moment. You doubted that anyone else had the privilege to see him like this. In Ghost’s world, watching him reloading his gun was probably the most domestic thing you would ever be able to watch him do. When he finished, he turned and looked at you, completely catching you staring. You saw slight motion under the mask—he had to be smiling. The thought made your heart race. But you cleared your throat and scrambled to your feet, turning around to pick up your jacket and tactical vest off of the ground. You zipped up your jacket, half turned away from Ghost, but feeling his eyes on you.

“Zero.” His gruff voice sent shivers down your spine. You turned around and met his gaze. Those hazel eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Glad you’re safe.”

Your heart raced. Ghost’s heart softened.

———

The flight back to the base landed in the early hours of the morning. The sun had barely started to rise, the sky a deep pinkish red as you and the rest of 141 walked back into the building. Gaz and Price had successfully breached the hatchery, clearing it out and finding evidence of tunnels underneath the lighthouse on the island. Laswell would talk to Shepherd and figure out a game plan, but at least for one night, you would be able to relax.

As soon as everyone reached back to the barracks, everyone scattered into their rooms to clean up, unpack, and get some shut eye. Despite it being early in the morning, everyone on 141 hadn’t slept for at least 24 hours. You took a quick shower and changed into something warm and comfy, falling asleep in your bed without any tossing and turning. You awoke later in the afternoon, around four o’clock, stomach grumbling. Your face lit up, remembering your arrangement with Ghost—Simon.

You put some shoes on and freshened yourself up in the mirror, suddenly feeling nervous and yet you were so excited. Walking into the common area, you opened one of the fridges and took out a pasta dish you had made the other day. You split the leftovers in half, putting it into two bowls and microwaving them. Humming to yourself, you realized that you were actually getting the thing you’d been wanting ever since you met him: true, one-on-one time with the brooding lieutenant. Since yesterday, your feelings towards him had only blossomed further, and from the way he had looked at you and leaned close to you, you had a little bit of hope that maybe he could feel the same. You felt like a giddy highschooler as you took the bowls out of the microwave and quickly grabbed some utensils from one of the drawers. When you spun around, you almost crashed into Price who was entering the kitchen area with Gaz.

“Oh, sorry, Captain! Didn’t see you there,” you apologized but swiftly moved past them, barely paying either of them any mind.

“Where’s she going in such a hurry?” Gaz asked, raising his eyebrow as you continued down the hall. Price gave him the same puzzled look back.

“Hey, Zero!” Price called. You spun around. “Where are you off to?”

“Oh, I’m just bringing some dinner to Simon’s room!” you lifted up your hands with the two bowls of food to show them. Price and Gaz nodded slowly, and you were clearly in a hurry because you hardly waited for either of them to reply before you turned back around.

You turned the corner at the end of the hall out of their view. Both men were still staring at where you were standing seconds before.

“I didn’t know he let people into his room,” Price said, grinning ear to ear.

Gaz stood frozen in place, “I… Did she just call him Simon?”

Price choked out in laughter.

[kattythingz]

This is not a one-to-one au, edling are NOT related.

One of these days, I'll work on my actual main au. This is not that day. Kill La Kill au, anyone?

This is another collab with the brilliant, incredible, show-stopping @ilovepannacotta!! See his Ling (+Greed) design here, because it turned out SOOOO GOOD, GOD. Everyone praise him NOW!!!

Further au details under the cut!! TW for discussions of SA (iykyk)

Introducing our cast:

Satsuki - Ed

Ryuko - Ling

Ragyo - Dante

Nui - Envy

Mako & co. - Lan Fan & Fu

Soroi - Rose & Noah (twins)

Elite Four - Winry, Mei, Russel, & Lust

Mikisugi - Mustang

Dante took in Ed and Al right after Hohenheim mysteriously abandoned them at the same time. Without their mother, Dante promises that she was their father's friend and that she'll care for them now. Ed is around six when this happens, Al one; he was even younger a couple months ago when Hohenheim revealed to Ed the truth of his research: life fibers.

Ed doesn't trust Dante's convenient timing one bit, but he can't raise his baby brother alone, and they need a stable home. So he accepts her help, thinking he can handle whatever she wants to use them for.

The years prove him dead wrong. Hohenheim, Ed learns, was a being perfectly merged with the life fibers, and he and Al inherited some of that constitution. Al has the greater life fibers between them, 80% to Ed's mere 50%. Dante, too, is an incomplete being—but she aims to change that very soon, with the help of Hohenheim's boys.

Ed's a smart boy. He catches on quickly what she wants from them, and demands that she leave Al alone. Anything she needs, she can take from Ed. Anything.

The years pass. Ed sets out to build his steel castle from the ground up behind Dante's back, doing her bidding like the good little soldier she wants him to be while recruiting allies he can trust in the Elite Four. He meets Mustang as well, the leader of Nudist Beach, and they strike a deal to work together in secret and play enemies in daylight.

Cruelty and ruling with fear are not in Ed's nature, and he does his best to make Honnouji's system as kind as possible while applying Dante's "feedback". But there's also nothing he won't do for his baby brother, and if he has to pick that one life over the masses... he will.

His plans are coming along smoothly until the transfer student's arrival. Ling Yao.

Ling arrives at Honnouji Academy with one goal in mind: to gather as much information on the woman named Dante as possible, and report back to his father. Ling, of course, has no plans on reporting so dutifully—but he is intrigued by what he's heard. The secrets to immortality... If he achieves it for himself, then he can free his clan from his father's "empire".

He quickly hears about Dante's "favorite", the Student Council President and "prince" of Honnouji, Edward Elric. That makes things much easier than Ling anticipated. All he has to do is get close to Edward to get closer to Dante. It helps that Edward is beautiful, and that there's more to him than meets the eye.

Ling is intrigued. And then he falls.

Literally, too, where he meets Greed in the basement of a ruined mansion (the Elrics', unbeknownst to him). Greed is absolutely not Ling's style, and he's never been more uncomfortable in his life. But as he and Greed learn to get along, so too does he warm up to Greed's "awful style".

Ed, in the meanwhile, knows Ling is conniving behind his back. He also knows that Mustang is in on it, but for some infuriating reason, he won't share anything with Ed. Which serves Ed just fine; he doesn't need Ling Yao meddling in his plans, he's more than happy to ignore him.

Only, Ling makes himself impossible to ignore. To the point that Ed makes the chief decision of keeping him secret from Dante, because surely she doesn't need to concern herself with one annoying fuck (that Ed does not like, nor care about, nor wants to see smiling).

But then... there's still Envy. Ed's so-called half-sibling.

In a fit of what has to be pure, malicious spite, Envy casually asks Ed about "how things are going with that other kamui brat", right in front of Dante. The jig is up, and Dante... is not amused.

She's never punished Ed as hard as she had that day. Ed limps out of her office unable to take one more step, and he's lucky that Rose and Noah—his loyal aides and closest companions—waited for him the entire time (despite Envy mockingly telling them "the runt will be a while"). They help him the rest of the way back to his quarters, and for once, Ed lets them fuss freely. He curls up on the couch with Noah's tea in his hand and nuzzles into Rose's warmth on one side, Noah at his other. And he pretends he doesn't fall apart when he whispers, "Thank you, Sister."

The night doesn't end there, however.

Envy deigns to make a visit to Honnouji that same week, claiming they were curious about "the brat to catch the runt's eyes so much". At Ling's disgruntlement, they eagerly spill the beans about what happened. Ed's punishment, at Ling's expense.

Ling... is horrified.

He's horrified, and enraged.

He's not proud of how he loses control. Greed warns him that his blood is getting too hot, but Envy's laughter is even louder over Greed's voice and Ling can't hear a single other thing. He doesn't even realize Ed was forced to intervene and fight him until Lan Fan's hugging Ling on the ground, and Ed's standing over them solemnly.

Ling shouldn't, but all his broken voice can think to ask in that moment is whether Envy was telling the truth.

That Ed wasn't really—raped because of Ling. Please.

Ed's answering silence is damning.

The following weeks are... weary. Ling loses Greed, the Raid Trip happens, and everything inevitably comes to a head when Ed triggers the rebellion against Dante.

Ed's plan fails. Rose, Noah, the Elite Four, and Mustang & co. escape the chaos along with Ling, and Ling swears that he'll go back for Ed, no matter what. The rescue doesn't go according to plan, however, and Ed begs Ling to escape with Al instead while he had the chance, because Ed knows Dante has further use for him but Al isn't guaranteed, please, Ling.

Ling agrees, but that's a decision he comes to regret when their next opponent winds up being... Ed. By Envy's touch, Pride had been "tightened", to affect Ed's mind as well now, where it didn't before.

It's an awful battle. Ling's heart screams and aches when he's forced to rip Pride from Ed's body. It... it feels like he's violating Ed, even though he knows he's not, and this is for Ed's own good—

But the pain ends. Pride is ripped off, and Ed is left kneeling in the blood. He looks up, startled by Ling's warmth when he wordlessly smiles and places a coat over Ed, and Ed's eyes burn. He hasn't let himself cry in so long—and when Rose and Noah immediately group-hug him, followed by the Elite Four & Al, that no-crying sentiment is rendered moot.

Ling stands aside, and his heart must grow six sizes from the sight.

Finally, things are looking up.

[not-poignant]

Birthday Spotlight - Nathaniel 'Nate' Prince

[17th January - Capricorn]

Nate made his debut appearance in Falling Falling Stars as a minor/side character who was the 'angry wet cat' to Janusz' 'happy golden retriever' personality. A tenor in a queer choir, Nate was a young, grumpy, but secretly compassionate poet. He rubbed Efnisien the wrong way almost constantly, until Efnisien realised Nate reminded him of him.

People fell in love with Nate and Janusz, especially once learning of hints of Nate's traumatic back story with an abusive ex named Christian. I realised his romance with Janusz was pretty magical, and decided to give him his own starring role as the main character (and omega) in Underline the Blue. He's a grump, and he can be pretty scathing and judgemental, but when people realise what he's been through, they tend to understand just how important his anger and impatience is when he expresses it!

He's a lesson to all people pleasers out there that sometimes the goal in life is not to become a nicer person after all.

‘Ignore Nate,’ said the friendly guy. ‘He’s a grump. One hundred percent bona fide grump. He only likes cats and Jude Law.’

Falling Falling Stars

Falling Falling Stars - A minor character who is part of two choirs and more than one poetry group. A certified grumpy character and minor antagonist, he shows Efnisien unexpected solidarity, and reveals that people with PTSD are, ironically, a PTSD trigger for him after an abusive ex used his PTSD as an excuse for abusive behaviour.

Janusz adores him.

Underline the Blue - Nate's main story, an m/m omegaverse romance where he is sent to be turned into a 'good omega' and put under the care of alpha companion for hire - Janusz Bodanowicz. But Janusz quickly learns that Nate was being severely abused, and the centre Nate's placed at decides to never send Nate back to his abuser again. Love grows as a slow, fractious healing commences.

Janusz will always adore him.

Underline the Gold - Cameo, he's a friend of Flitmouse's.

Poet

Appreciates nature

A sour, cat-like personality, quick to judge and feel judged, with an inner snarky voice determined to try and protect him from being hurt again.

Definitely more of a pessimist and nihilist than an idealist or optimist.

Black lanky hair, and black eyebrows, with a 'sharpness' about his face and dark brown eyes.

His personality attributes include being deeply soft, but hiding it. Being judgemental and often closed-minded. He loves fiercely and protectively. He is argumentative, even when he desperately doesn't want to be.

Insulting Efnisien to his face (how rude!) and making him angrier than just about anyone else in Falling Falling Stars

Bridge solidarity (iykyk)

Nephew to a very mysterious character indeed - one Corbyn (Raven) Prince

PTSD being his PTSD trigger

Suspicious and hates to be seen as vulnerable

Always falls in love with Janusz, who protects and cherishes him for who he is.

PTSD in all worlds

Needs some help coming out of his shell

Always concealing something (either his mean streak or his compassionate side!)

Never intended to be any kind of main character, but he worked so well as an antagonist I realised he could be extremely useful. After that, it was fascinating watching readers react to him - he was a good foil to Bridge. Readers were quick to trust her, but she was ultimately abusive. Readers were often quick to distrust Nate, but he was the one who came through as Efnisien's ally. An amazing teacher of 'don't trust first impressions.'

Nate's journey was inspired by a couple of friends who had been abused by people who both had PTSD at the time. As someone with PTSD myself, I found it insufferable that these folks used their PTSD as an excuse to harm, hurt and bully others, before falling back behind 'but you triggered me' or 'you can't confront me that's a trigger.' So while Nate isn't based off anyone in particular, Nate's abuser, Christian, is based off a specific kind of abuser that often flies under the radar, because people sometimes give extremely bad interpersonal behaviour a pass when it comes to mental illness.

'Is it really okay to be nice to me?'

Underline the Blue

[benbamboozled]

If I were supreme overlord of DC I'd write a limited series on an "alternative earth" that started with anon's idea of Jason’s very bad no good mental slideshow of horrors, continued with your response of "batboys discuss their traumas & Bruce has a moment of "oh God what have I done??"" And ends with Bruce trying to retire the cowl & turn himself into GCPD as a serial child abuser because "he can't trust himself because he's lived long enough to become the very thing he's fighting against" but when he goes to tell the JL why exactly he's leaving Ollie beats the shit out of him and tells him that he doesn't deserve to give up, that all he's doing is failing his kids once again, and what he needs to do is try and be better, and respect their decisions etc. etc. Which ends in him confronting his kids, injecting himself with a truth serum (because he's still perpetually incapable of communicating with them), telling them that he loves them, they're not failures, he's failed them, he's sorry, etc. etc. And them having responses that vary from "I know you were trying to deal with your traumas and while you could have done a better job, I appreciate you acknowledging it now. I forgive you & you're still my dad." To "You fucked me up beyond repair, I'll never be the same, but for some god forsaken reason I still love you dad." To "Your traumas are no excuse for the way you've treated us. I don't think I can ever see you as my dad again, but maybe we can work towards being friends/colleagues/allies." And everything in between. That way we get acknowledgement of his sometimes shitty behavior while facing no long-term consequences to the Batman titles, it's an alt-earth story so others can brush it off, and we have a reason to return to the softer, more caring Batman we all know and love.

he can't trust himself because he's lived long enough to become the very thing he's fighting against

Anon…

Nonny (if I may)…

You either…*looks around*

You either die a hero…*nobody can stop me*

You either die a hero OR *I’ve immediately gone mad with power*

YOU EITHER DIE A HERO OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOURSELF BECOME THE VILLAIN!!!!!

I HAD TO.

But anyway, see, this is the sort of out-of-continuity storyline that would justify the existence of “Black Label,” to me.

DC wants to do “Mature” stories…but the level of maturity is like “what if we showed Batman’s dick???” or idk whatever was going on in Three Jokers that meant it had to be published on Black Label. (Gore? Maybe??? Idk.)

And like…it doesn’t have to be “A Very Special Episode”! You could have the whole thing wrapped up in a mystery plot, or start in medias res with Bruce in Batjail or something…maybe Jason is in a Magical Coma and they go to get him out and, tah-dah! Sad stuff! And then mystery of Who Put Jason In A Coma And Why collides with Bruce Wayne Needs Some Personal Accountability.

(And thematically, the true mystery the batkids are trying to solve is their own lived experiences.)

Let’s throw Hugo Strange at them. He likes the mind games. (The phrase “sticky and hot” rolls through my mind like Thunder…uncontrollable. Impossible to contain.)

(iykyk.)

ANYWAY, the point is, I approve your Supreme Overlord plan, and I would like to be the High Chancellor of Clone Babies, and I would like DC to branch out more when it comes to what they can do with alternate lines/continuities/what have you.

(Okay and for my own angst-love, since I’m brainstorming for this story that doesn’t actually exist, Jason breaks Bruce out of Batjail because they NEED him out there…but as Jay and Bruce are out having a magical mystery tour it becomes clear that it’s less about “the case” needing Bruce and more about Jason needing his coping mechanisms reinforced, and eventually Bruce is like “oh…oh no…I see what’s happening here.”)

[zyafics]

PLAY FAKE | part four

MASTERLIST (series) | Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs. Reader is hyper-independent, a people-pleaser, a smart mouth, stands on business, and mysterious past. Rafe is insecure, possessive, asshole, and has mood swings.

Dedication — for @rivaiken, iykyk! <3

The next couple of days have been radio silence. You don't try to communicate with Rafe and he doesn't try to communicate with you. You just throw yourself into your work, scolding to yourself how this was such a bad idea.

It wasn't meant to be a fuck relationship. It was meant to be fake. Nothing more than public displays of affection and going on to ignore each other behind the scenes. Rafe, himself, said that he wanted to continue doing all the shit he's doing now, just with you as a shielded layer of protection against his father.

Whenever you think back to that moment in the country club bathroom, your stomach recoils. Not because of the sex, but because of how willing you are. You always saw yourself as an independent person. Someone who can handle your own needs. You had to be; you grew up with no parental guidance and raised two younger sisters. You take care of people, you think of others. You handle everything yourself.

But you remember you were deep on your knees, ready to give him anything; when you were splay against the counter, begging him to make you come. God, you feel embarrassed by your own desire.

Maybe it's the control. Maybe it's because you're so used to it in the real world, for once, you want to give the reins to someone else. Especially in the bedroom. And Rafe perfectly takes it.

The only problem is he doesn't give it back.

Asshole.

You're behind the counter, telling Miranda about the new backlog of orders that the system hasn't placed, and a spill in one of the corners, when the bell rings, signaling the entrance of another customer.

"I'll be right with you!" You shout over your shoulders, quickly summarizing the last of the tasks for Miranda before turning to the new customer who walked in.

You plastered on your service smile, ready to take their orders.

Only to realize it was Rafe.

Your smile drops.

"What do you want, Rafe?" You ask pointedly, setting the towel down on the counter as he slides into the seat before you, a casual demeanor to his own presence.

"I need you to play the part again." He says, without so much as an apology or acknowledgement to what happened the other night. "It worked. My dad likes you."

"That's great," your voice is empty of emotions. "Are you coming here to tell me about what a perfect plan you made?"

"No," he shakes his head. "I need you to attend a party with me."

"Business?"

"No, at my house."

Your answer is immediate. "No," you say, shaking your head. "Can't make it."

"You don't even know what it is about."

"Let me guess," you cross your arms, pretending to ponder. "Your dad trusts you enough with me, so if he sees you and me at your party, he would assume I'll be able to control you and you won't push yourself over the edge?"

His reply is silent. That's how you know you're right.

"Guess my Pogue brain caught up fast enough."

You turn around to grab a small glass, pouring out a shot of tequila on the table before tipping your head backwards and taking it all in without a chaser. You need it for whatever this conservation is about to go. "I won't be able to go. I have a double shift."

"I haven't told you the day yet."

"I have double shifts all week," you declare sharply, the bitter taste burning your throat. You squint your eyes for a moment, readjusting, before you find his gaze again.

"I'll pay you."

"God, is this party that important?" You huff out of astonishment at his persistence. "The answer is still no. I don't want your money."

Rafe's brows furrow together. He doesn't understand why you're acting so cold to him. He came in with a good proposition; you wouldn't have to do any of those silly dinners with his father, all you had to do was make an appearance at a party long enough to satiate Ward and then you can do whatever the hell you want. Why are you being so difficult?

"What the fuck is your problem? Why do you have such an attitude?"

You laugh, abruptly, because this is so ironic and humorous to you that the sound rips out. The reckless prince, the man who received a collegiate degree from UNC Chapel Hill doesn't know what a Pogue is thinking.

You don't answer him, deciding to take one of the tasks off of Miranda's hands and clean up the spill yourself. It’s better than being cornered by Rafe. You move to the other side of the counter for the flip-door exit, stepping out from behind the booth.

Heading to the back to grab the supplies, Rafe follows you. Once you step into the backdoor, grabbing the mop, he slips in behind you, blocking the exit.

"You gonna talk or just avoid me all day again?"

You scoff. "That's rich coming from you."

His forehead wrinkles. He truly doesn't know. "What the fuck are you goin' on about?"

Having enough, you throw your arms out in frustration. "I'm talking about the fact that you're the one who fucked me in a bathroom after some problem with your dad," you snap, lashing out from all your pent-up anger. "You refused to talk to me. All you did was used me as your fucking toy."

He staggers back for a moment. Before a cruel smile appears on his lips.

"I remember you were begging for it."

You slap him.

It was so unprecedented, without thought, that it shocked the both of you. The next few seconds were quiet, too quiet, like it was a live wire waiting to spark.

Your voice is calm, almost deadly. "I want you to leave."

His anger comes back tenfold. It's almost a match made in hell; how your rage matches his, how he doesn't back down—but neither do you.

You were going to drive each other insane.

And some sick part of you liked it.

"When have I ever fucking talked to you, Pogue?" He snaps back with dark fury. "We're barely even friends. If I want to fuck you, and you let me, I'm taking it."

"Whenever you had a problem with your dad, you came to me, in this bar," you gesture out to the door. "You talked. I listened. That was the deal."

"We never said that in our relationship."

"Well, I'm putting it in," you declare. Approaching him, stepping a foot closer to close in the distance between the two of you. He doesn't move. He doesn't waver. He watches your step with heavy breathes, dark eyes. In a low breath, you warn, "you want to fuck other people? Fine. I don't care. You do that. They aren't the ones sticking with you, helping you with your dad. They don't have to carry the weight of you being you."

You know the last line was a hard hit, but it was true. You were tired of being seen as another Pogue, someone on the bottom of the litter meant to be used and thrown away. You need to make your stance firm.

"But if you want to fuck me," you conclude, pointing to yourself, "you talk to me, first."

He says nothing. Your anger is filling your adrenaline. It could also be the tequila. Whatever it is, you don't know what provoked you to say the next sentence.

"I wasn't on the pill, goddammit."

For a moment, sobriety reigns over Rafe's features. His eyes widened. "Did you—"

"I bought a Plan B, you asshole." You cut him off, not wanting him to think you're too stupid to think of the consequences. You knew. That's why you told him to pull out. "I wasn't going to carry your babies in me. But, it was expensive. Do you know how much that cost out of my paycheck?"

To him, that may seem like nothing. Nothing more than scraps rolling around his room, in his pockets that he could spare. But for you? That's money that could've gone to paying off your debt, to helping Sailor, to taking care of your siblings.

He remains silent.

You continue.

"You cover for me however you want. You host that party if you want to so fucking badly. But I can't do it. I have work."

You push past Rafe and he lets you, grabbing the mop out of the corner and stepping back into the open atmosphere of your bar. You may hate the noise that comes from the place, but it was better than being suffocated in a room with him.

Rafe quietly follows after you after you return behind the counter.

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but his words were not coming out. His gaze flicks to you, jaw clenched.

"I... I didn't know," his voice is a whisper, almost indistinguishable, that you can't help but let out a bitter chuckle.

"Yeah," you agree. "Because you refused to talk to me."

He says nothing, muted by his own anger, looking down at his hands, before he walks out of the bar. He doesn't bid farewell and you don't expect him to. All you know is he's going to get shit-faced soon and you had nothing to do with it.

—

As you are helping your little sister with her math homework—where all her struggles were about multiplication tables and recognizing whether a fraction is improper—you miss the early days of your life. Where you don't have to think about anything else.

About the bills. About the loans. About how to take care of your siblings.

About a stupid Kook prince you can't get out of your mind.

Your baby sister is seated on the couch, reading some children's book that you made a couple of years ago, stringed together with yarns and colored pencils. Her delicate voice echoes through the joint living room, sounding out the words on her own as she heard you read them million of times before.

Your sister, Amara, pulls you back to reality as she taps your arm, pointing to her problem on the kitchen counter that she's struggling with. She points to the question, reciting her logic of how she got there, and you return with praising her thought process but reminding her of her multiplication tables.

"Ohhhh," her voice drags, giggling at the realization. "I see."

You chuckle softly, laying your chin on her small shoulder and picking up your phone off the counter. While she fixes her mistake, you scroll through social media.

A notification flashes at the top of your screen.

topperthornton: hey

Why the fuck is another Kook sliding into your DMs?

you: hello?

He quickly responds, asking if you are your name.

you: why?

topperthornton: idk if u know but rafe is hosting a party tn

you: so i heard

topperthornton: well, you should come

you: i don't think so, white boy

topperthornton: it's rafe.. he's asking about u

Something in your chest sputters. You pretend it's not your heart.

you: ?? for what

You hope you didn't come off too eager. You don't want to be. You should be pissed, goddammit, but something about knowing Rafe, drunk right now, is thinking about you, makes you weak.

You hate it.

topperthornton: idk what happened between the two of u but he's drunk and crossed out of his mind and he's just been rambling about u

You stare at the text for a hot minute, before another one follows.

topperthornton: u need to come immediately

Fucking hell.

You know you shouldn’t. You just came out of a long, tiresome shift. You have siblings to take care of. You have a math problem that has yet been corrected. But, something in your chest caves. The idea that Rafe needs help, that he's asking for you specifically, and you aren't coming? Makes you uneasy. 

You have to go.

There's no other way around it.

Scrambling, you pull your Amara off your lap as you run out the door and race down the block. When you stop in front of Pope's house, you pound your fist against the door, praying someone is home.

It's Pope.

"Hey," he greets. "What's up?"

"I know this is last minute but I need you to watch the kids," you announce breathlessly. His eyes follow you, concerned.

"Everything okay?"

"It's fine," you wave off. "I just have to go somewhere and I don't know how long I'll be. Amara is doing her math homework and Leilani is just reading a book. They're really sweet, I promise."

Pope laughs you off casually. "I know," he says with a smile. "I've babysat them before."

"So," you string the words together slowly, hoping your anxiety isn't coming off too strong. You don't want Pope to feel obligated. "Can you... do it?"

He nods. "Of course. Pogues help each other out."

You smile, pulling him into a quick hug, before handing him the spare key to your house. He heads over to take care of your siblings while you run to your beaten-down car, reversing out the road.

When you arrived at Tannyhill, you truly underestimated how large the party was going to be. People crowded all over, dancing, swinging, just having a reckless and wild time at Rafe Cameron's place. While you know you should be slightly embarrassed by the long pajama pants and braless baggy tee you're wearing right now, feeling overdressed, you step out of the car and head inside.

Topper spots you at the porch.

"Thank God," he mumbles under his breath. "He's been out of it."

You wonder if Topper knows about your arrangement with Rafe.

"Yeah," you nod. "Where is he?"

"I put him in his room with some water but I gotta tell you, he's wasted. Some of the things he says... may not be tasteful."

You scoff. We've already crossed that bridge. "I think I'll be fine."

Without another word, Topper pulls away and you head up the familiar stairs of the estate, descending down the hallway you were here just days ago. It feels, for some reason, like a lifetime since you visited.

You knock on the door, twice, to no answer. Deciding to go for it—praying you won't walk into some lewd act—you step into the room to find it peacefully quiet. Rafe laid out on the mattress, his eyes closed.

You scan the room, trying to see if there's any destruction—any thrown chairs or broken bottles—to find everything in the same condition as you visited prior. The only difference is a pink bag, sitting in his drawer with a bouquet of flowers sticking out.

Your stomach twists in jealousy as you wonder who that could be for. At what fool is receiving such gifts or who gave him such.

When you peek inside, you notice a couple of things: a white envelope, a bundle of red tulips, and like ten-plus stacks of Plan B.

You stiffen your laugh. You realize the fool is you.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach.

The bed creaks and you jump at the sound, seeing Rafe pulling himself up on the mattress into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes to clear his vision, before he finds you, standing in front of him.

He says your name. He thinks he's hallucinating from the drugs.

"Yeah," you nod, cautiously approaching him as his glazed eyes follow your every move. "It's me."

"I thought you said you had a double shift."

He didn't mean for his words to come off so sharp.

"I locked up an hour ago." You explain, brushing past his aggravation.

Rafe nods at your explanation, but his movements are sluggish. Lag. He truly is out of it. You're surprised he went this hard.

His head hangs, staring at his lap, before he asks quietly. "What are you doing here?"

You shrug. You don't know either. You thought he needed help. The idea of him asking for you, but you weren't there for him, kills something inside of you. But, you can't say that. Not after everything you said to him. Not after what this relationship is based on.

You are nothing more than a fake girlfriend.

"Topper said you needed help," you evade any sense of responsibility. Of care. "He texted me."

His jaw clenches, and he looks up at you. "Top has your number?"

"No. He found my Instagram," you answer, wondering if that is jealousy you hear. But, you settle that it can't possibly be the case. "He DM'd me and I came over."

Now it's your turn to be vulnerable.

"I thought you needed help."

Rafe scoffs, bitterly, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Unless you can get this headache out of my heart, I don't think there's much you can do, sweetheart."

You nod, your feet shift to the door, ready to leave. If this is all, if that's all Topper is worried about, Rafe should be fine.

"Come here."

You find yourself listening. Again. Your feet pads against the hardwood floor as you streamline over to him, stopping just in front of his legs hanging off the ledge of the mattress. His head tilts up to meet your gaze; his cloudy blue eyes staring back at you. You bite back a thought.

"I know something that would make me feel better."

You scoff at the suggestive tone. "Let me guess: fuck?"

"Sit on my lap."

You hesitate for a moment. You don't want to be another fuck. But, when his hand lands on the side of your thigh, gentle and earnest, you relent.

Slowly, you settle onto Rafe's lap, both legs on either side of his waist. Your body facing him, and despite him in the lower position, he meets you at eye level.

"Better?" You tilt your head, watching his shoulders unwind every-so-slightly.

"Much." He murmurs, his eyes tracing your face. "God, you're gorgeous."

You flush, knocking a weak palm against his broad shoulder. "Shut up," you say, feeling anything but. You're wearing scraps for clothing, something you planned to go straight to bed—not attend an extravagant party hosted by one of the island's finest.

"I'm fucking serious." He snaps, but his voice doesn't have that hard edge. You blame that on the alcohol too. "I saw all those girls tonight. And yet, here you are, in your fucking pajamas and getting me hard."

You scoff, turning away. "So it does lead back to sex."

"No, it means that they pale in comparison to you," he cups your chin, gently, pulling your gaze back to him. "I'm serious, sweetheart. Believe me."

You're afraid that if you move up against his lap, coming closer, you would feel his erection. Not to mention, if you do, you don't know if you're going to start dry-humping him like you did the other day. But, you remain firm on your stance.

You're not going to let him fuck you unless he talks to you.

The atmosphere thins into a silence, as you take in the low hums of the downstairs party blasting in distant music.

"How was the party?" You ask, probing for a conversation starter. "Was it everything you dreamed of?"

He scoffs. "You're looking at it. I basically drank and smoked until I got sick."

His vices. At least you didn't have to hear about the women he hooked up with, if that's the case. Something deep inside of you hope there isn't.

You nod silently, finding your fingers tracing the outline of his shoulders, your nails scraping against his hot skin and trailing up the crook of his neck. Rafe lets his eyes flutter close for a moment, breathing in a shaky breath.

"Don't do that."

"Why?" You ask, genuinely curious. "I'm just tracing."

"Because anything from you right now feels good," he confesses quietly, and your breath caught in your throat. You hand stills. "Fuck, don't stop."

"You're going to have to give me one signal here, Rafe," you roll your eyes. "You can't say green and red light at the same time."

He pauses for a moment. Contemplating your words.

"Green," he whispers. "Definitely green."

You return to your outline of Rafe's silhouette. He lets you. He says nothing as you follow down to the curve of his arms, skimming against his defined biceps and the muscles instinctively flex under your touch. It made you smile. You pretend you aren't proud of it.

This is done in complete silence.

Then, out of nowhere, Rafe confesses, "I shouldn't have touched you like that."

You freeze. You knew immediately what he was referring to.

"I—I was out of it. I took it out on you."

He still doesn't get it.

You abandon your artwork and use both hands to cup the underside of his jaw, forcing him to tilt his gaze and look up at you. With a sigh, you say, "that wasn't the problem." Your eyes study his face, "it was the fact that you didn't talk to me or explain to me what happened."

His gaze is broken; so incredibly so. The whites of his irises are a faint shade of red, bringing out the deep set of his blue eyes.

"I need to know these things, Rafe." You continue gently. "It's not about me being nosy, or a bitch, or anything. If I'm getting into something with you, I need to know the full picture so I can help you." You swallow your voice as you mumble out the next one. "So you can help me."

You hope he doesn't know the strain in your tone, how hard it was to say those words. You hope he doesn't press on it.

"Okay." Rafe nods, dipping his chin into your palms. "I get it."

"Easier said than done, darling."

Rafe knows it is. He's been struggling to string words together before you came into his life, much less with you in it. But, he was willing to try.

He begins at the dinner. With a stumbled start, he explains how Ward doesn't think he was good enough for you.

You stop him to ask questions. "He said that?"

"No," Rafe shakes his head. "But it's the look on his face. It's—the way he acted. You should've seen how he looked at me when he complimented you, like I'll never compare."

You frown at those words; you didn't even notice.

When he satisfied your questions, Rafe continued on with his story. Rambling further. Each word spilling out easier than the last. He assumed it's because of the alcohol, or the drugs, or perhaps it was neither altogether and it was just you. All in all, he knew.

It was easiest to talk to you.

It reminded him of the bar. He put himself in that setting. His words tumbles out of him with the impression that you won't share it with anyone else. The idea that you were just you, a bartender, who probably had to deal with this shit a thousand-times-over with other talkative customers. That it was you, who he is confessing a vulnerable part to, without the retaliation of judgment.

Rafe breakdowns the comments Ward made. The little conversation they shared after dinner, when you were helping with the caterers. Your clothes. It all became too much to him; like he was the problem. That nothing he did was good enough. His mind was spiraling by that time and having nothing else to pour it into—the drinks, the drugs, the partying—all he had was you.

And he used that to his advantage.

You listen intently, nodding along and following his words without further interruption. Only on things you truly need to clarify. When he finished, even with his incoherent noises and words, something in his chest lightens. It feels more at peace.

You stare at him for a few moments, digesting the information. A protectiveness forms in the pit against your stomach because fuck Ward, you decided. Sure, there may have been admiration from your end about his ability to become a Kook but that means shit now. You hate how he treats Rafe. You hate how you didn't notice.

"God, your dad is a dick."

Rafe doesn't agree like you expect him to. His gaze hardens, like he can't stand you insulting him. You realized, in that moment, you crossed a line. That he may harbor all these hurt and anger and resentment, at the end of the day, it's still his father.

"Sorry," you mumble softly. "I didn't mean it like—"

"I know what you mean."

That came out with an edge.

You swallow, deciding that you should leave. Maybe you being here isn't the right decision. Your legs are starting to cramp from their overstretched position and the inside of your thighs burn from the overuse. You peel your hands off his shoulders and slowly will yourself off of Rafe's lap.

"I should go," you declare, glancing at the exit.

Something in his chest tightens. He wasn't mad. He just wasn't used to regulating his emotions, especially about his father. All he knows is that he doesn't want you to leave.

"Wait," Rafe declares as you pause in front of his bedroom door. He stammers for an excuse. "I never made you come."

Your eyes slightly widen from the suggestion. "It's fine," you say, even though, in that moment, a small part of you hated him for that. "I... I finished myself off when I got home."

The image of you, in your bed, alone, touching yourself to relieve your aches, does something to him. Both in guilt and in arousal.

"No," he raises from his bed, approaching you. Now, with him standing on his own two feet, he towers over you—dominating and intimidating. "It's only fair. I should give back."

"Rafe," you place a hand on his chest, laughing awkwardly, because you don't know how you feel about him pleasuring you. "It's fine. It's not a tit-for-tat thing. You don't owe me anything."

He feels frustrated again. That's not what he meant.

"Fine." He snaps. "You want my words? I want to make you come. I want you to feel as good as I did that day."

You stare at him, the air stolen from your lungs, not knowing what to say. Then, suddenly, an idea occurs to you and a sly smile rises to your lips.

"You want to help me come?" You ask sweetly, watching as he nods his head like an obedient dog. "Okay."

Your hands travel down to the hem of his pants, to his belt, and unbuckle them. Rafe's face conveys surprise, that you're so eager to accept, and when you pull out the leather strap, you stop. Just for a moment, you glance back, asking in confirmation. "My pleasure, right?"

He doesn't know what you're trying to do, but he nods anyway.

"Turn around."

Rafe does what you say. You take both of his wrists into one of your hands—a struggle that Rafe had to assist with—and pins them behind his back. Using the belt, you tie them together.

"Sweetheart..." His voice is low, unsure of how you're able to proceed, but the arousal travels through his body at the uncertainty.

"Trust me." You whisper, buckling them into a firm lock. When you walk back around to face Rafe, your panties dampen at the sight before you: him, standing tall, with his arms pinned behind him, almost helpless. "Sit."

Rafe takes the seat on the desk chair you pulled out, his bounded arms touching the back of the seat as his focus is pinned on you, standing before his bed.

You let out a shaky breath, excitement bubbling in your stomach at the idea of what's about to happen, before your fingers hook to the band of your pants, slowly pulling them down to your ankles. He watches every little move; like a strip tease catered specifically for him. Something he can see. Something he can't touch.

Rafe can feel his erection hardens in his jeans.

"What are you doing?" Rafe's voice is rough and once you step out of your pants, revealing the white panties underneath, he groans at the sight.

"I'm going to make myself feel good," you declare evenly, trying to calm your racing heart, "and you're going to watch."

His Adam's apple bobs. "How do I help?"

"I look at you as I do."

A complaint lodged in his throat but you caught it before he proceeded. "My pleasure, right?" You remind him, to which he, with great reluctance, nods.

You leave your shirt on, deciding it would be unnecessary to take off, and settle down on his bed. Your back pressed against the mattress, you position yourself comfortably in a way that allows Rafe to watch.

And he's watching.

"Are you going to use your fingers?" Rafe asks, deciding that he needs to talk to keep him sane.

"Mhm," you answer, spreading your legs. Arousal licks up your stomach as you feel the cool air brushes the inside of your thighs, raising goosebumps against your skin. You feel the urge to laugh to dispel some discomfort in your body, at how intense Rafe is studying you, but you choose not to. "I might only use two. It'll be tight."

Fuck, Rafe thought.

With a tentative hand, you brush your fingers against your panties, feeling your wetness forming a spot. The light touches ignites heat in your core and your eyes flutter close for a second.

"Look at me." Rafe commands, trying to regain some control. It doesn't work, but you listen anyway.

You watch him as you continue to stroke yourself, pressing against your clothed pussy, not quite entering, as a light coat of your slick covers your fingers. You tip your head back with a small moan.

"Sweetheart," he groans, "stop torturing yourself."

When he truly means to stop torturing him.

You pull your hand back and stuff your fingers into your mouth to cover with saliva, tasting the faintness of your arousal, before returning back to your pussy. Pushing the drenched fabric to the side, a forefinger slips inside easily.

A whimper escapes you, your back arching slightly from the intrusion of your touch. Rafe's breath hitches in his throat as he watches you steadily pump yourself, in-and-out with one digit. You focus on your own pleasure, how good it feels, with the heightened sensitivity of Rafe's attention all on you.

And he's fucking hard.

Rafe watches as you spread your wet folds, slipping in another finger to your tight cunt. It kills him that he can't do anything about it. 

"I bet my fingers would fill you more," he offers seductively, trying to remind you of his existence. That he can do it too. You laugh softly, not taking the bait. "What are you thinking about?"

"How good this feels," you whisper, hearing the sound of your wetness squelching in the air. You mewl. "You."

Rafe grunts at the confession. You try to keep your eyes set on him, to remember what you're doing, who you're doing it with, but the build-up is causing you to lose control and makes you close your eyes.

"Eyes." He demands, his voice sharper than before. You open them with great resistance, each second longer is a struggle to keep them focused on him. 

"Oh, god," you moan, quickening your pace as you connect your gaze with Rafe. The way he looking at you right now. It reminds you of the night at Topper's house, the time in the country club's bathroom. "Yes, yes, fuck."

He can't stand this. He's straining against his jeans, his cock painfully hard without any relief, while his wrists are bound and reddened by how tight you locked him in. How he's pushing against the leather, trying to break free.

You close your eyes again in pleasure. Your orgasm is getting close.

Rafe swallows hard. "You feelin' good, sweetheart?"

You nod eagerly, flicking your gaze back to him. "You enjoying the view?"

He clenches his jaw, not responding, but you can tell. The impressive outline of his bulge against his pants, how hungry his eyes are. How much he wants you.

It lights something carnal within you. You start to pump harder and faster inside your pussy, your moan growing louder and without inhibition; Rafe's very own porn show in front of him.

He has enough.

"I need to touch you." Rafe declares desperately, rising from his chair, his eyes never straying from the perfect image of you, on his bed, fucking yourself, writhing in ecstasy. "Come on, sweetheart, I can—fuck—I can make you feel so much better."

He's bargaining, goddammit.

A small laugh leaves you, mixed in with the sound of your own pleasure, and you don't acknowledge his comment. His pleads. He steps forward, closing the distance between the two of you.

Rafe growls out your name.

You glance up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze. "Hmm?" You say innocently, pulling your hand out of your pussy. His eyes glance down at your slickness glistening off your fingers, his chest tightening.

"Say yes." He demands weakly, his voice rough and filled with so much restraint, like he's seconds away from losing it. "Tell me I can touch you."

You pull yourself to your knees, bending before him, your smile full of satisfaction. "You want me that badly, baby?"

He doesn't even bother denying it anymore. "Yes."

"My pleasure, right, baby?"

"Fuck, yes," he groans. "Please."

You grin, bringing your wet fingers to his mouth and pressing it against his full lips. He takes you in, sucking your arousal clean from your hand, his eyes still on yours, and you, finally, finally nod.

"You can touch me."

Rafe breaks his belt buckle in one swift motion, surprising you, before his hands immediately cover your body, grabbing at any flesh he can find. His mouth claims yours, pulling you into a hungry kiss and pushing you back against the mattress as his weight pins you down.

"You can't get enough of me." You tease, moaning at how good he tastes, how you can taste yourself on him, and your fingers find his hair. When he breaks, his hard eyes land on your face.

"You don't know how fucking badly I want to punish you right now," he confesses lowly, his hand lowering to the space between your legs. "For torturing me like that."

"It doesn't feel good, does it?"

Rafe scoffs, capturing your cheeks in one large hand, squeezing them together. He runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, mumbling, "this fucking mouth."

You provoke further. "You love it."

He doesn't answer you, silencing himself with a bruising kiss against your lips and sucking all the air out of your lungs. When his hand lands on your pussy, his fingers begin to run tight circles around your clit, causing you to arch into him.

"Oh, god," you moan into his mouth as he swallows the sound. Breaking from the kiss to glance down, he watches at how responsive your body is, how you're writhing under his touch, and smirks.

"Feels good?"

"So good," you whisper needily, "please keep doing that."

Rafe descends down your body, kissing a trail from the navel of your stomach to your wet cunt, aching and waiting just for him. "I'm going to make you come on my fingers, tongue, and face. Think you can do that for me, sweetheart?"

He doesn't give you time to answer, covering his mouth over your swollen nub and sucks.

"Oh, fuck," your hips involuntarily bucks against his face. He grins against your pussy, in satisfaction, at how good he's making you feel. At how good you taste. To be denied of this, for the past hour, was torture. He wants to pleasure and punish you, all in one. "Don't stop, don't stop."

Your legs wrap around his head in a lock as he ascends you towards your peak, slipping two thick fingers into your pussy. The size makes your walls clench around them. Rafe groans, the vibration against your clit pushing you further into your climax.

"Please don't stop, please." You moan in desperation, afraid of him pulling out again, tipping your head back against his pillows, your fingers gripping his hair harder. Rafe twists his fingers, entering at a new angle, allowing the cool sensation of his ring against your hot cunt and amplifies your sensitivity.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby."

Rafe quickens his pace, his fingers thrusting in with precision and hitting all the right spots. In addition, he slurps harder, tonguing your clit in a way that causes stars to blanket your vision. Writhing in pleasure, you moan and whimper, racing towards your orgasm. 

"Come for me," he commands, feeling your walls twitching towards a desperate end, “let me hear my girl."

You release with a heavy cry, coming on his face and slumping back against the bed from pure exhaustion. Combined with the day you had, the double shifts you've been pulling, and the incredible orgasm you're given, all you want to do is sleep.

"Get up," Rafe declares, but you don't move. "Come on, sweetheart."

"Give me five minutes," you yawn, holding out five fingers while your eyes flutter. "I just need to..."

You don't finish your sentence, closing your eyes for a brief moment. That's what you tell yourself, and the last thing you remember before you fall completely in your slumber. 

★ part five ★

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[throwaway-yandere]

His Adorable Pen Pal (Yandere!Thoma/Reader)

a/n: thoma is my 16th max friendship lvl character and i really like his vibes. personally, yan!thoma is hard to pull off. Thoma's such a green flag, if this was an otome isekai he'd definitely be the 2nd male lead LMAO– ((and yee, there are some very smol references from past works, they're not important theyre just iykyk moments)). this took longer cause i wrote diluc's part at the same time to try to get the story feel more connected. also, @kardi76 im so sorry please tell me you slept ;;-;; cause there is no closure (lololol).

gn!reader

a pretty reliable synopsis: thoma would do anything to meet you... (so please don't screw it up).

Cw: yandere!thoma. (Thoma is not self-aware that he's yan and thats the best part--) Implied yan!childe and diluc (soldier & king)

Parts:

Soldier, Poet (You are here), King

-------------

If you asked (Y/n) (L/n) who "Fixer" was, they would tell you that he's one of the few people who could understand them deeply.

If you asked (Y/n) (L/n) who Thoma was, well, the best response someone could get from them is "Hmm... I guess the name sounds familiar," followed by "ah, so that's who he is. Okay then."

The two of you have been penpals for almost five years, but neither of you revealed your real names. You addressed him as "Fixer" (a pen name Kamisato Ayato had relentlessly recommended), and he responded to your calls as "Levi" (short for the infamous Lunar Leviathan sea legend). This is not due to the lack of courage or trust, but because you mutually agreed that it would add more mystery and thrill to your inevitable first meeting.

But one of you lied.

Thoma knew exactly what your name was. He knew your height, eye color, family, and a number of other personal facts that a regular housekeeper would not have had the opportunity to learn so readily. Earning your private information was his quota with Lord Kamisato for helping him "burn a few stray leaves", but the given information wasn't the most important findings of their investigation, no.

It was the revelation that (Y/n) (L/n), rather, YOU were his first love.

Thoma would happily take up any attractive label that fit his romanticized viewpoint, be it infatuation or puppy love. You were the kid he frequently spent time with within the Mondstadt public library. Granted, you both often took seats two chairs apart from one another, but the sticky notes passed along the table did not make the distance feel too far. You were each other's confidants. You both didn't belong anywhere and Thoma was bound to catch a teeny weenie crush on you.

It's no secret that Thoma is a hopeless romantic. He believes in his lucky omamori and fortune slips, hence it's not a huge stretch that he believes in soulmates too. No one in the Kamisato Estate was surprised when he preached that it is fate that bonded you two together. Lord Kamisato incessantly teased him for it, but Thoma was none the wiser. He thought that Ayato's remarks about being whipped were a compliment and that only made everyone more keenly aware that he was absolutely smitten. 

Thoma was ultimately determined to reunite with you once more. The two of you lay on the same bed but with different dreams, and Thoma wished otherwise. He wanted to demonstrate to you that, if a "failure" like him could win the hearts of the Inazuman populace, then Mondstadt could also respect you and your adorable eccentricities.

But that won't be an easy feat.

The journey to Liyue was perilous, but it was nothing compared to his first trip to Inazuma. It was a bit funny how most of the ships to Liyue were suspended. Luckily, Thoma never lost hope. He and Captain Beidou came to an agreement whereby she would allow him to board the Alcor in exchange for a thorough cleanup. And hey, when it comes to housework, he's almost as passionate as Beidou's need to see the Tianquan, so it was a true non-zero-sum game.

Going from Liyue to Mondstadt was quite a chore as well. Some mora is better than no mora, and that was his way of coping after dishing out 900 mora to pay a guide and his spouse to help him out. The guide never shuts up. He kept talking about a drunkard friend from Mondstadt while his spouse graciously tried to focus on Thoma's needs. His spouse was clearly forced to marry the man under a contract. The Mondstadter prayed that your future marriage is far from theirs. Thoma's patient, but he doesn't think you can handle hearing about osmanthus wine, or in his case, housekeeping, for the rest of your married life. (The spouse can prepare some delectable seafood, though.)

Thoma considered whether his determination to meet you again was being tested by cleaning the entire ship and listening to an old couple bicker 24/7. At least he's in Mondstadt now, right?

"Excuse me, miss. Do you know where Mx. (Y/n) (L/n) is?"

Thoma was very amazed by the souvenir shop owner's ability to hear him over the talk of other tourists and the clacking of hooves that returned knights from a prolonged expedition. The town square is adorned with proud flags and colorful banners that symbolized the KoF's triumphant return, which meant the grandmaster is home as well.

Since Varka is here then that means--

"Ahh, (Y/n)?" Marjorie tapped her bottom lip. "That ungrateful kid isn't here. They didn't even bother to welcome their cousin home. They're probably sulking elsewhere."

Thoma flinched.

"Excuse me?"

"What's wrong? You do know what kind of person (Y/n) is, right?" Marjorie said nonchalantly.

"I mean, what did you expect? They're a disappointment to the Imunlaukr Clan, so it's only natural that they would shy away from celebrations like this. It's for the best, no one wants a weirdo around to spoil the festival."

His eyes darkened. Thoma's entire focus was on Marjorie now, and he didn't hear a teary-eyed person running for the stairs.

"How do you have the guts to say that about someone?"

Marjorie raised an eyebrow.

"But it's the truth–"

"Just how much do you know about (Y/n)?" Thoma gritted his teeth.

"Have you talked to them before? Have you taken them out for lunch? Do you know how they feel when people talk about them like that? Do you know how hard they worked to please everyone?"

At this point, the noise from the crowd began to simmer down as they tried to eavesdrop on this confrontation. Thoma subconsciously towered above Marjorie, and his hand slammed the door beside her.

His dull green eyes leered deep into her soul.

"N-No?"

"Then you should watch what you say, Miss."

The scent of embers wafted in the air.

Thoma didn't notice it was his own doing until Marjorie screamed. His conscience was stirred by her horrified eyes, and he quickly pushed away.

Heat radiated throughout the shop and Marjorie's arm, but fortunately, it wasn't enough to cause blisters and unbearable pain.

"O-Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to come off that strong!" Thoma rambled on, fearing that he may have crossed the line. He felt multiple stares drilling the back of his head, and that solidified how wary the crowd was. "I'm just saying you should be careful what you say next time! You never know if you're hurting someone already."

Thoma's not the villain here. He's just teaching her a valuable lesson, that's all.

"R-right..." Marjorie whimpered. Her sleeves were nearly burnt to crisp and Thoma's heart dropped at the thought of additional expenses. Still, he's not above paying the price. 

"I'm r-really sorry for the damages!" He blurted out. "I'll pay you back, how much?"

-----

Some mora is better than no mora, sure, but now that latter is starting to sound more like his situation.

Thankfully Marjorie didn't ask for much. Thoma couldn't decide whether to chalk it up as good fortune or the result of being too intimidating. Either way worked out for him anyway, cause he would've tried to haggle the price down if it were too expensive.

Thankfully Marjorie didn't ask for much. Thoma couldn't decide whether to chalk it up as good fortune or the result of being too intimidating. Either way worked out for him anyway, cause he would've tried to haggle the price down if it were too expensive.

But the fact that his emotions got the best of him was alarming...

Did you mean this much to him?

... Who is he kidding? Of course, you do!

Thoma sailed through storms and walked mountains to see you again, didn't he? His protectiveness is just a form of love. Marjorie isn't ill so no harm done, but if the situation called for it he would've undoubtedly escalated it to something more. This type of determination makes him your protector from afar, doesn't it?

"Ugh..." Thoma pouted. "Don't they sell anything other than alcohol here? I can't stomach the smell..."

While looking for a non-alcoholic beverage, he caught a glimpse of a passing slender and tall figure that loomed behind him. His strides were large and the head above his shoulders was etched in a permanently stern expression. The vibrant strawberry hair that crowned his head both contrasted his dim face and signified which family he belonged to–- who he was. It's none other than Diluc Ragnvindr.

Thoma grinned. When you and Thoma had the entire library to yourselves, Diluc used to take care of you two. He had the honor of overseeing two very bashful kids who were three years younger than him. Second only to Lord Kamisato, he was one of the most passionate people Thoma had ever met.

"Hey, Diluc!"

He didn't anticipate anything will happen when he called Diluc's name. The last time they met, Diluc was the nation's rising star, while Thoma was a timid teenager. Diluc may not know him now that Thoma pulled back his golden hair and changed the tone of his voice to one that exudes social lightness.

"It's me!" He grinned and reached out his hand for a handshake. Thoma was a bit nervous. He didn't know if he should be casual with the Ragnvindr heir, but this approach is ten times better than ignoring him. Thoma is not without care for friends. Why wouldn't he greet an old buddy? Especially the kid who played devil's advocate for your shenanigans?

"Th–"

Diluc briefly exhibited signs of fear before clearing his throat.

"Thoma." Diluc bit back coldly.

Thoma hesitantly sank his hand back into his pockets. What was that look for? Did he do something wrong?-- Well, he did almost burn a store down... but it didn't feel like that was the reason behind that face he made.

"I-It's been a long time!" He beamed, joyful that one of the few people who didn't shun him in his childhood still recalled him. "I thought you wouldn't recognize me anymore!"

Diluc hummed curtly. His eyes were sharp, which only accentuated that he hates to prolong whatever conversation this was, if you could call it one.

"I wouldn't dare make the mistake of not knowing who you are."

Thoma chuckled nervously. "Right."

"Is that all?" Diluc huffed.

"Oh," Thoma scratched the back of his head. "How's Master Crepus? I'm old enough now, you think he'll allow me to drink this time?"

He teased quickly before he loses Diluc's attention. It was just a small jest that alluded to the time young Thoma sneaked in inside Dawn Winery, but the look on Diluc's face was indescribable.

One thing was for certain, he was not pleased.

"N-Nevermind, how's Kaeya–"

"Have a pleasant evening, Mister Thoma." Diluc immediately turned his back on him, and his footsteps already drowned Thoma's unpolished ramblings.

"I hope you have fun staying in Mondstadt."

Mondstadt's chatter sounded in a near-endless chorus, therefore confirming that Diluc left the conversation.

He sighed humorously loud.

"Haaaaah... this is one of the most overwhelming homecomings of all time, alright. Maybe it could even top dad's... Wherever he is."

Thoma thought it would be him who would be unrecognizable in both appearance and personality. 

But it seems Diluc changed too. And if Thoma were to be so bold, maybe he changed too much. He wondered how you felt about that–-

Thoma gasped.

Wait...

He opened numerous letters about the toxic people. You often compared a "friend" of yours and the people around "them" to a broke coin collector and a few pennies. Several anecdotes described in detail how the broke coin collector wanted to buy a fresh loaf of bread but was unable to part with their money since they believed it will one day reveal its true value.

The "Fixer" thoughtlessly retorted that "a coin's purpose by the end of the day is to be spent. What good will holding on do if you starve yourself to death? You need to tell the coin collector that their life is worth more than what they've saved."

He grimaced.

He was just trying to sound poetic. Thoma never thought that there was a possibility that one of these "coins" might be Master Diluc Ragnvindr himself.

Thoma crossed his arms and shook his head. It doesn't matter. He could be wrong. Maybe Diluc is just in a bad mood, and it's not like the 'cavalry captain' knows that he's "Fixer". It'll be ignorant to assume that a bright man like Diluc became a toxic person just because of one bad day.

Besides, some mora is better than no mora, and you still have him. And even if Diluc walked out of your life, Thoma will never let you be alone.

So don't worry, okay?

-------

Thoma didn't remember Dragonspine being this cold.

The last time he traversed the bridge towards the mountain was years ago, and he faintly remembers traveling with adventurer Cyrus to collect logs. He resisted the cold back then, but he can no longer say the same now that he's a pyro vision user. His pyro shield doesn't seem to provide any warmth in Dragonspine. Kind of backwards, isn't it? Thank goodness Good Hunter's served hot coffee. It was the only non-alcoholic drink they served this festival. His bottle preserved the comforting heat, and his hands were delighted to hold on to it. It was almost a torch for his vision to light up each time.

He also didn't bring a map. It wasn't in his budget after paying the Goth Hotel extra for his stay which was a major bummer (he doesn't recall the prices being that high before?) but it's alright. You write about the place sporadically that it almost felt like he knew the place like the back of his hand.

"H-hoo… I should've brought extra layers…" Thoma shivered. "Y-You made it sound like Dragonspine wasn't t-this cold at all… Oh, dear… I'm r-really tempted to run on the i-ice now…"

Once he pushed away from the branches of one particular tree, the bizarre trip had all been worth it.

"(Y/n)..."

He knew that who he saw had to be you.

Because you were breath-taking.

But that bliss was short-lived. Something was wrong. 

"--I'm so glad to have met you and the Fishing Association. You didn't know who my family was and treated me like a friend, not a means to an end." 

A crease formed between Thoma's eyebrows and his lips trembled. His face contorted in an ineffable string of hurt and betrayal, and his suffocating grasp on the poor tree beside him burned. 

Your shoulders were drooped and you wore a Snezhnayan scarf, but most importantly, you were confiding in this blue-eyed stranger.

You were confiding in someone else that isn't him. He's your soulmate! He should be the only one you could count on.

The thud of his boots on crusty snow stopped Thoma from threading farther. That sounded too loud. If he moved a little closer, they'd hear him. And he can't afford to look like a stalker.

Thoma gulped harshly. He should've prayed that his first meeting with you wouldn't be spoiled by some filthy man he didn't even know.

What are you doing?

That spot was supposed to be for him.

Who is that man?

When you started running and the stranger followed after, Thoma walked to your camp and picked up his unopened letter. His letter sat near your plate and other discarded items.

You didn't even read it before talking to that stranger. Did that man matter more than him?

He tucked it away and smiled sadly.

You're not ready to know his feelings just yet.

But don't worry! You and Thoma will fall in love when the time is right.

It's fate, after all! He just KNOWS it!

[shkspr]

Ooohhh, please explain?

assuming youre asking about this i would LOVE to explain but this isnt a fully formed theory yet so heres some bullet points in the absence of an essay:

first i gotta say there are definitely a lot of ways in which jon is scully and martin is mulder. ofc it isnt all gonna be one way or the other but i do think martin is more scully and jon is more mulder on the whole

jon is more prone to paranoia, mania, impulsivity, self-sacrifice, and the sort of lone wolf mentality that comes of thinking that you can get to the bottom of a big conspiracy and anyone you trust enough to help you is someone you actually want to keep far away from it whenever you can so they dont get hurt. but thats not your choice is it sir.

he has this intense dedication to his job, and then to his cause when it becomes clear that his cause goes beyond and sometimes directly contradicts his actual job.

also just the fact that theyre down there in the basement trying to stop evil shit while their superiors upstairs are, at best, so bogged down in bureaucracy as to be incompetent, and at worst, actively perpetrating the evilest shit of all and lying about it while the wacky basement guy nearly gets himself killed on a weekly basis in his search for the #Truth

on the subject of their superiors: elias fills the roles of both skinner and csm in various ways and within those analogies jon is mulder

jon represses his emotions (fear, love, survivors guilt, confusion, anger at loss of agency, self-loathing, etc.) until he bursts (frequent snark and snappishness, occasionally explosive) bc he doesnt trust anyone enough to open up and he doesnt know how to deal with feelings (and he greatly overestimates his own skill at hiding them)

martin represses his emotions (fear, love, parental guilt, jealousy, anger at injustice, self-consciousness, etc.) until he bursts (frequent passive aggression and petulance, occasionally boils over) bc hes been rewarded for doing so in the past and he doesnt want to burden anyone (and he excels in making himself smaller for the benefit of others)

a guest for mr spider is jons praying mantis epiphany

martin is just generally more levelheaded and practical than jon tbh. scully would think of a corkscrew is all im saying

martin is constantly underestimated and underappreciated and relegated to jons second fiddle. but hes also smart and hardworking and loyal and always surprising people who dont take him seriously.

jon and mulder have loud and enigmatic genders while martin and scully have genders that are subtler and more secure. iykyk

they both have something to prove in a big way but its like. different. jon and mulder have significant childhood traumas that are connected to the Big Mystery they have to solve so they think by solving the Big Mystery theyll solve their own lives. whereas scully and martin have a very specific need to be effective and practical to prove that they deserve their place and deserve to be counted at the table

i think that basically. like you know how mulder needed to look down from the stars and scully needed to look up from the microscope and they made each other better and made each other see what they were taking for granted. and jon and martin kinda both needed the same thing, which was mostly to be loved and accepted, but its like. in different ways. i think jon needed to be loved in a grounding way and martin needed to be loved in a freeing way. sorta. if i figure out what i mean by this i will let you know.

thanks for coming to my ted talk i guess?