xappetites

[xappetites]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[xappetites]

Into You

Frank Woods x Mila (CoD Bell)

Warnings: sensuality (I think that's right? There's no sex but it's clear it's gonna happen)

I am working on the requests, I promise. But Mila would not leave me ALONE about Frank's hair until I wrote this so here you go. I'm a very slow writer until I'm not lol.

It was only a few moments after he slipped from his chair back into bed that she began to stir. Mila was always a light sleeper and Frank had expected her to notice him coming back to bed. He had hoped he could avoid waking her fully so he stayed still to see what she would do.

“Frank,” She said softly, his name a contented hum on her lips. Then she scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms around him. The feeling of her skin against his gave him a little thrill, as it always had. Even after all these years.

She pressed her lips against the back of his neck. At least she wasn’t upset with him for leaving the bed in the middle of the night. He knew it hurt her when she’d wake up to find him gone. Sleeping on the cot in the briefing room instead of their warm bed together. Her fingers combed through his hair, the tips cold against his warm skin. She ran cold he ran hot. It’s how they were.

Then she stopped suddenly and made a curious sound. He wondered what had grabbed her attention. Her fingers sifted through his hair as if examining something.

“What?” Frank asked after a moment. But she didn’t respond. He felt the bed shift as she sat up. He rolled onto his back to look at her, appreciating the way the moonlight skimmed over her body. The cool light highlighted just the edge of her naked form.

“I didn’t see it before,” She said. Her fingers were still in his hair, though his head hand her hand pinned down against his pillow. “What?” He asked again, a little irritated that she hadn’t answered him yet. “It must be the stress, but you’re going gray in the back-” “Oh come on, Mila. Don’t remind me-” “No it’s cute!” She insisted. “Cute? No guy wants to hear that.” “Ok ok,” She said, rolling her eyes. “It’s sexy. Whatever.” “You like that?” “You know I do. Let me look,” She said, pulling on his shoulder to get him to turn over. “No! Come on, go to sleep.”

She frowned and then threw a leg over his hips. He should have been expecting this. She planted her hands on either side of his head. Frank took in a breath as he looked up at her. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was still doing with him. It’s not something he’d say out loud, knowing she’d only ask him what he was doing with her. It was part of why they worked, he supposed.

“Any excuse, huh?” Frank asked with a chuckle. He trailed his fingers along her bare thighs. Mila let out a sensuous hum in response as she rolled her hips against him. She ran her fingers through his hair again. Then she leaned forward, pressing her body into him. Her lips met his and she kissed him deeply. Her fingers curled in his hair giving it the slightest tug.

“Gray hairs, huh?” Frank said when she pulled out of the kiss and moved down to his neck. “Always surprises me what you’re into.”

“I’m into you,” She said, her lips brushing his neck as she spoke.

He placed his hand under her chin, angling her head so he could kiss her. Then he cradled her face in his hands, holding her head in place as he kissed her long and slow. She moaned into his mouth in a way that told him they weren’t going to get much sleep that night.

“I’m glad you came back to bed,” She said. “Yeah me, too.”

[xappetites]

jouissance (4)

Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, Graves finds himself in trouble, Vance makes a house visit and reader loses her mind a little bit | word count: 1,778

Phil’s bleeding, he’s pretty sure. Currently he’s unclear on the whereabouts of the actual wound —and the severity of it— but both of those can wait. There’s heat radiating out of one corner of the room, a fire he feels more than sees crawling up the building.

That leaves only one way out, and if these assholes are smart, shooters are bound to stalk the rooftops, hidden among the racket of rain and wind outside.

He has to move the Shadows and he has to move them now, if any of them want a chance to tell the tale. So Phillip’s on his feet on instinct, with a second to spare for gratitude when no bones seem to be broken.

He wonders offhandedly who on Earth would be reckless enough to try mortar fire in the middle of a city, however mangy the cluster of buildings might be, before the second round hits and the floor slips right from under him.

…

Your husband’s an insidious one. It’s in the way he folds his clothes and shines his shoes. In how he gently coils his belts to rest between your row of everyday handbags and the gun safe. Little things that speak of a marriage and make sure his presence is always here, in this house he bought you. All charm and a wicked mind. So you have to look at these things of his and think about his accent, the glint in his eyes when you misbehave, his mouth on yours.

Phillip Graves is more than you ever dared wish for. Yours in a way that sparks holy terror in your gut. Against your better judgment and against your will, he sneaks into the routine and makes the bed feel empty without the expanse of his back to curl into.

You crave him, wherever in the world he is at the moment, risking his hide as a way of life. Because of course, you had to find him in the line of fire. 

You’re not made for easy, you’re made for finding the perfect husband and being in constant danger of losing him. He has the scars to prove it too, so close to that sharp brain of his. And he wears them with the kind of balls that your friends back in Hudson Yards try to match with distressed jeans and design pre-scuffed boots. Worse is the joy he finds in the work: obvious, magnetic. Such an intrinsic part of him that you couldn’t even wish to stop him.

Worst is that when Vance shows up in the middle of the afternoon, after Phil’s been gone for weeks, you don’t even flinch.

“Mrs. Graves,” he says. Standing on your porch with the straightest back you’ve ever seen, looking for all the world like he’s carrying the metaphorical neatly folded flag.

The thought slides sluggish into your awareness. You don’t know if that still happens, Phillip being  a contractor, saving the ‘real’ military’s asses by doing their fucking dirty work. And it’s so inconsequential that it takes over —the question—, for another second of staring blankly. 

“Ma’am,” Vance tries again, gently herding you into the house by the elbow.

He’s not wearing gloves, you notice, and he seems to be trying to keep a hand on you, even if it feels like he’s not used to this kind of constant touching. It’s something you’ve seen Phil doing more than once, so it stops you dead, makes you stumble into the stupid decorative side table your in-laws insisted on gifting you.

“What happened?” It’s breathy, punched out of you. Two half words in a long exhale. 

“We lost contact with Commander Graves’ team at around o’ five hundred this morning—“

“It’s damn near six pm.”

“We have protocols—“

Of course they do, Phil is adamant about doing things right or not doing them at all. So it’s been twelve hours, plus the drive, of no one knowing where your husband is. And it’s not even that fact that makes Vance hesitate. It’s the next few words out of his mouth that turn this into a scenario that warrants the face he’s making.

“And— satellite images show signs of a fairly large explosion, close to their last known location.”

The shit table catches your weight once again, rattling up a storm. You lean on it, simply because, unlike Vance, it doesn’t look at you like you’re on the verge of exploding.

You might be, actually. Your head feels like a lit fuse, building pressure under your tongue. Anger simmers under the shock, an impulse to bite, to leave claw marks on what’s yours.

“We still have no concrete information,” Vance’s palm finds your elbow for the second time. 

Maybe he expects your knees to buckle, but he stays close. Phil close. So you take a couple steps back. 

“A team was dispatched for search and rescue, we should have news by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Vance looks at you like you’re supposed to respond to that, fulfill the social contract in some way you can’t fathom right now. Are you meant to thank him for the bad news? This can’t be the first widow-to-be visit he makes, but it is yours, which makes the etiquette unclear. 

He moves, in the end; does that universal half turn, half vague gesture towards the door one does when trying to excuse themselves from something. Your body moves with him, follows on instinct.

You’ve never been one to wait— call it being a spoilt brat, but you need something to focus on if you’re going to simply hold out for any amount of time; your phone, a book, even people watching. But all your mind goes to at the moment is blood and fire and Phillip and every single black dress you own.

The rage in the pit of your stomach strains at the leash. At Vance, at the Shadows, at Phil. And you’re bound to demolish the house, if you’re left alone in it for more than the five minutes of this interaction. Might end up cutting into ribbons all your funeral-appropriate clothes.

“I’m coming back to base with you,” it comes out flat. Not begging, not a demand. Because it isn’t, it’s a statement of fact, a certainty that throws this Shadow off his game. Makes him sputter like an old chainsaw for an excuse he thinks you’ll take.

“I’m supposed to go right back, I— there’s no time to pack for the night…”

You hand Vance your phone, leave him there palm outstretched while you shove laptop, chargers and wallet into a bag. A process that takes all of five minutes, in which you’ve correctly assumed he won’t dare fuck off without you. Not before you pluck the device back from his very light grip, keys jingling as you unlock the truck in the driveway.

“I’ll follow you.”

…

It occurs to you, quite late, that the correct reaction to this would be to cry. Not that you can focus on it, with the strange bureaucracy of security checks and Vance’s unrelenting escort into the Shadows’ facility, but maybe you should.

You could probably try, in the same way that social deception usually comes to you. Second nature, beaten into your body by private schooling and parents that mostly think of you as an asset in whatever scheme they happen to be cooking up at the time. Whether that’s looking pretty at a charity ball or securing the Graves’ deep pockets for future political endeavors. 

Crying for the stony faced, hurried soldiers you pass by on your way to Phil’s office would be easy, all things considered; it just feels wrong under your skin. You’re not fucking here for them, you’re here for the husband that is definitely coming back. Because he made a promise to keep you and, despite the things your world has thought you about promises, you fucking trust him.

Nausea, on the other hand, comes a lot more naturally. Bile climbing up your throat like an awful tide you have to pause to fight every couple steps. It burns in your throat and threatens to make you tear up out of nothing but physical discomfort, but it just doesn’t have the same flare, doesn’t get the same reaction.

“The bathroom next to Phil’s office is private, right?” Vance levels you with a look so strange that you feel the need to add the truth at the end, amend your question, “—I’m gonna be sick.”

Even now it’s unbearable to be assumed as a fragile little greenhouse flower that can’t cope with a shared toilet. Especially when he already looks at you out like you’re an alien learning how to act human and not quite hitting the mark.

“Commander Graves has his entire private quarters back there, not just the bathroom,” Vance doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down his pace, but this is the most surprised you’ve seen him. “He used to spend a lot more time here, before he met you. You’ve bumped up time off for all of us.”

Your expression must be a sight, with the chuckle it gets out of him. It loosens his stance some, makes him look at you like you’re a person and not a grenade he has to jump for the first time today. The silence suddenly not so fucking tense between you, until he punches in the code to your husband’s office and he stands there a foot away, starting and stopping a sentence for a couple times.

“He always comes back, Commander Graves,” Vance settles for in the end; not empty assurances, just what he knows from experience.

You can appreciate it, can take the hand he settles on your shoulder amicably. Though he’s not Phillip and hasn’t earned the privilege to comfort you.

He leaves you, promising an update on first light, no matter how much you insist on ‘as soon as you have one’. You’re not gonna sleep anyway.

Even after you shower and rummage around drawers for one of Phil’s spare shirts, you settle on the office chair with your laptop to try and pretend to work. Your husband’s desk is clean, sparsely furnished with a pen holder, a couple stacks of post it’s and presiding over all, a framed copy of your wedding photo.

The tightness in your chest comes on so suddenly that it knocks the breath right out of you. And it forces out the most embarrassing, raw sound you’ve ever heard yourself make. It’s an animal sort of cry, growl and sob and the clarity that losing Phillip Graves will unmake you in ways you don’t want to imagine.

[xappetites]

error 409

Adler x fem!Bell (mostly a bit of Bell character study tbh)

This is as close to madness as Bell has ever felt, which sounds like an exaggeration even to her. This op has had its fair share of hair raising moments, let alone a career of working in the shadows; but it’s this that has her actively trying to keep her leg from bouncing.

The safe house is quiet, beyond the constant, steady beat of Lazar whaling on the sand bag in the corner, so far he’s the only one whose noticed, since he was the only one present when she came out of the bathroom with a length of hair in her fist. He was complimentary, said the new cut suited her, while gently reaching for the scissors to put them away in one of his personal drawers. Funny how he trusted her with high caliber weapons but not the simplest of office tools.

Since then, people have slowly filed in. Park and Sims, returning from the shops; Mason and Woods, only to walk back out a minute later. Hudson, into the back room, clearly sporting a bloody nose. And then Adler, who triggered this horrible fucking foreign feeling.

Cutting her hair wasn’t vanity, she was just sick of the weight of it, of tying and tucking and fussing with it. And Bell operates under no delusions when it comes to Adler. She finds him attractive, has from what it seems like as long as she’s known him. But the sudden ache for him to notice settles new in the pit of her stomach.

That, in itself, is weird. It can’t be the first time she’s changed her appearance in Adler’s vicinity, not when it’s been years, not when he recruited her himself. Still, trying to remember feels empty, like words on a paper without images. Like knowledge without experience.

If she focuses, she can sort of see East Berlin. Wet pavement and a dreary day, Adler’s face before the scar, a deal struck. But it’s interspersed with the unrelenting heat of Camp Haskins; an incongruous heat, since the memory is of a dry sort of hot, a space heater instead of tropical wet.

The thought makes her hair fade to the background of her mind. Bell tries to focus, when did she first meet Russ? Where? Berlin? Moscow? Turkey?

When did she start calling him Russ? A voice sneaks into her awareness, disembodied but true, solid like a proud hand on her shoulder: Do not trust Adler.

Bell looks up to see Lazar walking away from the board, from Adler. And then the man himself makes his way to her, glasses glinting in the overheads.

“Looking sharp, Bell.”

“As a knife,” she smiles, like a dog showing teeth.

[xappetites]

i’m starting to think that aftercare in fic doesn’t click for me because it’s always bath-water-cuddles and i’d just like to go to the mcdonald’s drivethrough

[xappetites]

smoker thought: Price not being able to find his hat and then seeing it borrowed on his missus so she could smoke in the yard while it’s drizzling

[xappetites]

slow, sweet and sleepy sex with simon.

the sun's only just cresting over the horizon, and you're barely awake but you're so soft and pliant and smelling so good in his bed that he just has to have to you, doll, jus' let me--

it feels good to not have to think. to not have to move, to just let him take from you what he needs as he rumbles deliciously in your ear, his voice still hoarse with sleep. he slides in easy, and the stretch barely registers to your sleep-muddled brain when his arms band around your chest to clutch you against his own in a tight embrace, spooning you as he takes a moment to just enjoy being sheathed within you. sweet little thing you are, with a perfect cunt to match.

(he must still be dreaming. men like him don't get to have this. men like him don't deserve to have this. but then your cunt pulses around him, warm and welcoming, and he sends a thanks to the fucker upstairs before burying his face into the crook of your neck. he isn't religious, but a pussy this good would have anyone on their knees begging for salvation.)

you could almost drift off again like this, can feel sleep beckoning you once more. it's so snug and cozy with his burly body wrapped around your own, his breathing measured and steady. you can feel your eyes begin to droop, blinks getting heavier...

until he shifts his hips, the slow drag of his cock stoking the fire low in your tummy that'd been ignited when he slid in. it causes the last dregs of sleep to dissipate almost instantly, your body eager for him. always eager for him. you exhale dreamily, more awake and ready to play as he sets a slow pace, really savoring the moment.

when you grab his hand and slide it down between your legs, feel the huff of a chuckle against your neck, you know you're in for a rude awakening.

good morning, indeed.

[xappetites]

Hotch thought.

reader riding him in the middle of the night because they’re both so needy

he’s got one hand on your hip and one hand lovingly cradling the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss (one that always ends up with him chasing after your lips when you pull away to breathe, a tender, playful smile on his lips) and he’s not that vocal but he does let out soft, breathy little groans from time to time— his breathing is the most telling part of him when you’re having sex because it’ll hitch or be cut in a little half gasp or he’ll exhale shakily through his nose, eyelids fluttering and lashes kissing the apples of his cheeks. he’s also the type that just needs to kiss whatever part of you is closest to him; your cheek, your temple, your nose, your shoulder, your jaw, and also your chin (for some reason he really likes kissing your chin. you asked him why once and he just said he thinks it’s cute for some reason. don’t question him. so now you also kiss his chin <3)

you do have to be quiet though (unless you’re in your apartment and not his) because hotch’s greatest fear and biggest nightmare is jack potentially hearing the two of you and asking questions. the thought makes him want to crawl into a ditch and stay there forever

[xappetites]

i'm not completely sure what this is i'm just real emotional about Frank Fucking Woods, same universe as this

This is a long time coming. Too long, where Frank is concerned. Thing is, they haven’t had time for it, with the constant driving back and forth to the VA, the hospital, the physical therapy, and the dragging bureaucracy of honorable discharge. Then David started getting nightmares —which is perfectly understandable for a kid his age who suddenly finds himself with no one in the world except Frank—, and Bell’s real good with nightmares.

So it’s been months since Frank’s had this: Bell’s perfect ass in his palms, her laughter in his mouth and the graceless bumping into shit on their way to the bedroom. The little shushed giggle as she tugs the armrest to straighten him down the hallway, freeing the foot paddle from the corner.

Trying to keep quiet is another new thing, since there’s a sleeping child a couple rooms away, but he’s not letting go now that he has his hands on her. In fact, Frank has half a mind to run her over and try carrying her himself just so he doesn’t have to stop touching her. But then she’s opening the door wide for him and this is why he suffers that sadistic fucker of a nurse at physical, so he can still maneuver his ass onto the bed and his own damn pants off when he wants to fuck his wife.

Bell laughs under her breath, kicking off jeans and underwear, moving to straddle him where he finally settles against the pillows.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

“Here.” Her answer is half whisper, half moan and goddamn, she’s already slick for him. She arches, presenting her tits so Frank can manhandle them free and nose at the warm, soft space between them. “For your frown.”

Frank’s cock reacts before he does, so do his hips. There’s a delightful ache in sliding against her, twitching, pretty much on instinct. Pulling at her waist and groaning into her mouth.

“You’re a little minx, aren’t you?”

“I have good reason to be.”

He’s always been a sucker for Bell’s smiles, from way back when he expected to babysit Adler’s shiny new automaton and instead got a toothy grin in the middle of a firefight —that for a long time made him wish he’d just been hit. But the one she gives him, perched in his lap and rocking against him until his cock catches and slides smoothly inside her, spears him straight through the heart.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.” She says and she’s wearing this ‘home after a long day’ kinda smile, with eyes narrowed so Frank can’t tell she’s tearing up until the drop escapes down her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

And he’s right there with her, choked up to finally have a minute for just her, the same old Bell squeezing his heart between her pretty palms, no matter how everything has changed.

“You got me, honey. All of me.”

All that’s left of me, he doesn’t say, because it’s depressing when he’d really rather fucking not. What he does manage, comes out barely understandable, pressed against her mouth and it’s a little bit pathetic anyway, but Frank can’t care when she’s chuckling into a filthy kiss and tightening around him.

“Oh, you like that?”

Bell pulls back, laughter turning into a giggle as she wipes the tears. And this time the pressure of her muscles on his cock is purposeful.

“I do.”

“All that cock just for you, huh?”

She bears down at that comment, rides him so slow and deep that she has to shush the very loud groan it pulls out of his throat. 

“The cock and all the rest,” Bell doesn’t falter in the rhythm she starts, works him like her pride’s on the line, “your laugh and your eyes, and the way your beard burns. All mine.”

God, what a fucking sucker she makes out of him. Frank’s never been a man to speak his affections, it’s too much to put on the line, to have his heart out there like that. Especially now that he’s even more convinced that loving the likes of him is poison. So he sneaks a hand between their bodies, shifts their balance with firm circles over her clit and tries to squeeze the truth into a single word.

“Yours.”

Despite his better judgment and not exactly to her benefit, as far as he’s concerned, but it’s true. It’s enough. All it takes for Bell’s orgasm to hit full force. A thing of beauty, dimmed quiet but so intense, her thighs shake. Aching in the pit of Frank’s stomach for a long second because he can’t flip her under him anymore, give those pretty legs a break and pound her full while she melts into the mattress for him.

She laughs, though, breathless. And she kisses him with a sort of manic joy, face glowing and hair sticking to her forehead; picking back where she left off, rolling her hips ‘till he’s emptying himself inside her, panting like a dog and —for a single shining second— content to the bone.

Hers.

Suspended in a moment where it doesn't matter that they’re sort of sticky, staving off the chill only by virtue of clinging to each other. Then Bell climbs off for long enough to get a warm, wet towel that she uses to clean him and herself; before tucking them both in with easy banter. Talking up a storm in what Frank suspects is an effort to distract him until she’s curled sweet against his side.

In the morning, when it’s the sun bright through the window that wakes them, Frank finds it’s the first night David’s slept through without screaming his way out of a nightmare. He lets Bell wash his hair, in the brand new, spanking bench she got installed in the shower. And he figures he’ll find his way through this. Even if it’s embarrassing, even if it’s painful.

For all the shit he’s survived and all the things he can still do, he refuses to let this be what fucking kills him.

[xappetites]

this is disgustingly sweet

"You made me pretty."

You knew Soap was talented, but this is the first time he's showing you a picture he drew of you. It's a surprise; you didn't think you'd ever have a place in his journal.

"No, I didn't," He says, making a noise of disagreement, and you switch your gaze from the picture to see him giving you an affectionate look. It makes your breath catch. You've only seen him give that look to people he's been in love with. "You're already pretty."

"John..."

"Was just drawing what I see, bonnie."

You can tell he's being earnest. Something in your chest aches. You look back down at the worn journal in your hands, taking in the drawing. He actually colored and shaded it, a stark contrast to his usual sketches. Soap rarely takes the time to do that.

"I don't know what to say," you respond lamely, unable to bring yourself to look back at him. You trace the drawing with a thumb. "This is..."

Calloused hands come into view, and you can't react as he gently cups your cheeks, tilting your head back to look at him again. Soap chuckles softly at your dumbstruck face, mouth slightly agape.

Leaning in, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. He feels so warm. Soap glances down at your lips before looking up at your eyes again. He speaks, and his breath puffs against yours, "Don't have to say anything, bon; could give me a little kiss instead?"

"A kiss..?" You steal a glance at his lips. They're curved in an impish smile.

"Aye, just a little one and only if you want." He lowers his voices, and your pupils dilate in response. "But I'd be a really happy man if you did."

Your voice cracks. "What if I want more?"

It's a really simple answer, one Soap exclusively knows, but you get it when he closes his eyes and brushes his lips against yours, murmuring, "Then I'll give you more."

More... You like the sound of that.

-

UGH 🤮

[xappetites]

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)

Relationship: Phillip Graves (Call of Duty)/Reader

Characters: Reader, Phillip Graves (Call of Duty), Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Author Has Played Call of Duty, Childhood Friends, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Civilian!Reader, Pre-Canon, Jealousy, Angst, Kissing, Mild Smut, Time Skips, Brother's Best Friend, Toxic Family Dynamics, Eventual Smut, Drama, Misunderstandings, Getting Together, Minor Age Gap

Words: 9,080| Chapters: 5/6

Authors: @orphancains & @collinnmckinley

Chapter 5: Reminiscence

Chapter summery: You spend more time with Phil than you expected during your visit, and more old memories and new emotions start to surface.

A/N: Apologies for the long wait! Here is another longer chapter. Next chapter should be the final one in this story. We hope you've been enjoying it so far. ////

the fic can also be found on AO3

tags will be updated!!

When you woke up, your eyes still felt swollen from crying the night before. But you trudged out of Matty’s room, surprised to hear voices already from the kitchen of your parents’ home. You were expecting to see your mom in her same old bathrobe and your dad sipping his usual black coffee as he read the paper. But instead you saw Matty making fluffy pancakes at the stove and Elaine cutting some strawberries. 

“Mornin’, sleepy head,” Matty said when turned and saw you. “Pancakes are almost done.”

You rubbed your eyes. “Good morning,” you said to both him and Elaine, who smiled back. “Where’s mom and dad?”

Matty placed a plate with a tall stack of pancakes on the table and took a sip of his coffee before answering you. “They went to the beach house a few days early. To clear their minds a bit.”

You frowned. “What? Why? I thought they were gonna stay the day with us and catch up.”

“Because if either of them had greeted you this morning it would’ve been another shouting match.”

Elaine came up to the table and shot Matty a pointed look, as if telling him ‘You could’ve explained it a bit more gently,’ before setting down the bowl of fruit. 

You groaned and sat down at your usual seat at the kitchen table. You let out a long sigh wishing you could crawl back to bed and that this was all a nightmare you still hadn’t woken from. You weren’t sure if you were sighing from defeat, shame, or even relief from learning your parents had fled from their house because of last night. You scratched your head in frustration, remembering the furious look in your father’s eyes and the disappointing glazing your mother’s all night just a few hours prior. 

Matty shrugged but still smiled his usual relaxed smile. “It’s alright, that just means there are more pancakes for us three, so let’s dig in.” 

Elaine pursed her lips, feeling the awkwardness begin to build in the air. “Did you want coffee, [Y/N]?” Elaine asked. 

“Yes thank you, with some milk please,” you replied, and she replaced the mug with a glass instead. Usually you were excited to eat some of your brother’s famous fluffy signature pancakes, with chocolate chips throughout the soft dough. But the headache still lingered in your temples from last night and your eyes still burned from the tears. 

Above all, you felt embarrassed for what happened the night before. You knew it was neither your fault nor Matty’s. If anyone was to blame, it was your father and Richard conspiring a surprise proposal on you without any regard for your actual wishes, or Matty’s for that matter. And you knew Matty, even after all these years, was still protective over you. Still, you realized that your relationship exploding overnight had also upended and shattered a night that was supposed to be for him and Elaine. You felt like you once again felt like the little sister who brought unnecessary drama to his life.

But your family life had possibly never been this messy before. You’d bickered with your father about trying to make more friends in high school and of taking your studies beyond art more seriously. But the fury that reddened his face and made him grab and shake you was something you’d never seen. You only hoped that somehow things could get better between you all by the time you were going to meet up with them at the beach house in several days. You hoped it would just be the four of you, plus Elaine, at the beach house. You always dreaded when your social butterfly of a father would invite other families to join along during your beach trips. But for once, you prayed others would be invited to melt some of the bitterness and tension that you were confident you’d run into once you entered the house.

You pondered deeply before taking a sip of the orange juice and grabbing a few pancakes from the tower that your brother had practically constructed at the center of the table. Already he was digging in, dousing his pancakes with nutella and syrup. But he took a break from wolfing down his breakfast to continue his conversation with you.

He lifted his coffee mug with the faded maroon Texas A&M University on its side, but before he took a sip, he decided to break the silence “So…. I saw you and Phil caught up with each other a bit last night too.” He took a loud sip from the mug and peered at you over the mug.

Your fork clanked against your plate. You breathed in sharply, remembering the butterflies and emotions that flooded you when you saw him. The anger, the relief, the nostalgia, and even the old adoration you always felt for him even as a kid. Along with another emotion you still couldn’t quite put your finger on. Upon seeing your reaction, your brother tried to contain the smirk that wanted to appear on his lips. 

“Yeah, he changed a lot but also didn’t change one bit.” You bit your lip, puzzled. “How’s that even possible?”

Matty chuckles with a glint in his eye, making you raise an eyebrow. “Well, little sister, that’s what happens when boys become men .”

You shot him an unamused look, almost glaring at him. Beside him you could see Elaine rolling her eyes but also holding back a grin before she ate some of her fruit. Seeing your annoyance, Matty only laughed more. 

“Something some jackasses I know of are still struggling to do,” you muttered darkly while you stabbed one of your pancakes with your fork. 

Your brother still grinned widely. “What did you guys talk about?” 

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Nothing too amazing, Matty. Probably the same as with you. His time in the Marine Corps, some of the friends he made while there.” You tried to downplay it.

“Mhmm.” he narrowed his eyes with a smirk. 

You gulped nervously. “Anyway, can we talk about something else?”

“Sure, sure…” Your brother held up his hands, feigning defense. “We can talk about whatever, as long as you're comfortable, [Y/N].”

“Thank you, Matty.”

Elaine hummed approvingly beside him, impressed with how gentle and open he seemed to be acting with you.  

Matty cleared his throat and filled his mug with more coffee. “So, what did you think of the catering? The Mediterranean food we ordered for dinner?”

You squinted trying to remember. “It was pretty good, actually.”

“Right? I thought so too! I thought it was a great idea.”

You blinked. “Yeah…” you paused. “I guess I was surprised you guys didn’t just settle for a barbeque just because it’s summer. Where was it from?”

“Oh, it was from Calypso’s Bistro, close to the plant nursery you liked as a kid.” He said with a cheeky grin.

You furrowed your brow, wondering why he was acting so oddly. “Okay… that’s nice.”

“Phil recommended it to me.” He grinned again.

You clanked your fork again against your plate as you dropped it. He was not going to drop Phil from this breakfast conversation, was he? You glowered at him and crossed your arms. From the corner of your eye, you could see Elaine shaking her head but also holding back a laugh.

“Come on, what else did you guys talk about?” He said. “I know he talked about his work, but I’m curious about what he asked you !”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed as you poured yourself some more coffee in your mug. “I dunno, Matty! I don’t know what you want to hear! I mean, he did ask me about my designs and architecture plans. He seemed curious and interested about that!” 

Matty ogled curiously. “I’d bet he’d like the designs you worked on, you know. Maybe if he gets a building of sorts for his work one day when he retires from the military, you can design it for him.”

“Okay, that’s a big if, Matty,” you grumbled back.

“But it’s possible! Good thing you guys probably exchanged numbers, right?”

You ignored him but noticed your coffee was still black. “Could you pass the milk, Elaine?”

“Remember when Phil bought you three of those little school lunch chocolate milk cartoons because you mentioned to him that you liked them? And then his mom gave him an earful for spending so much of his allowance on that?”

Elaine was starting to have enough. “Matty, give it a res—” 

But your eyes narrowing into another glare, they widened. “Yes! I think I actually drank two of them but he and I split the third one because I was starting to get full.”

“Oh yeah! That’s how he defended himself when his mom was yelling at him. ��Ma, we drank ‘em together after school, because we both like chocolate milk. And plus she’s Matty’s little sister.’” You both chuckled together. Suddenly, you felt the pulsing tension at your temples and behind your eyes started to melt away a little. 

“Yeah, that was something I totally forgot about. I mean, last night we did talk a little bit about when we were kids. Like, I remembered how he helped carry my books when I broke my ankle and you were stuck at baseball practice.”

“Oh yeah, you could barely use your crutches.” He snickered.

You tried to ignore that. “And we did talk a little bit about when… he left for bootcamp out of nowhere.”

Matty knew that was a sensitive nerve and he grimaced slightly before looking back down at the puddle of syrup and nutella on his plate. He knew that roadblock in the conversation might pop up but he was hoping that somehow both of you had agreed to not touch that topic. But now he was worried the two of you didn’t want to face each other again.

“But… I think both of us understand we were both kids with shitty communication skills and have moved on from that.”

At this Matty perked back up. “Really? Thank God!” He paused. “I mean, I’m glad y’all have made peace over that. I’m sure it’s a weight off both of you.”

You nodded pensively, actually agreeing with him. In spite of all the discord and pain that surfaced last night. You still felt a blackhole gaping in your chest, knowing how disappointed your parents were in you. But there was also a flickering happiness and relief that you felt when you remember that you and Phil were back on speaking terms. Maybe you could even stay in touch after this vacation…

Matty continued. “See? I mean, you and him—a-and of course me and him—go so far back. I know you maybe weren’t expecting to see him last night, but I’m glad that at least I know I can invite him to Elaine’s and my wedding.”

Elaine piped up. “You sure he’d want to come?”

You stared in confusion. Elaine noticed.

“What I mean is I know it would mean a lot to you, Matty, but he’s military. I don’t know too much about those guys, but I can’t exactly picture him being excited to put himself in a suit and bowtie for a long ceremony in a church.”

Matty shook his head. “No, no no. I know, Phil. He’d be totally happy to come. He told me himself that he would also invite me to his wedding when his time comes. I mean, come on, we're practically brothers. We’d do anything for each other. We even joked about naming our kids after each other.” 

You wanted to almost scoff at that in disbelief. “Phil with kids?” 

“Oh yeah. I know for sure Phil wants a family. He said that he wanted at least three kids.” 

You nearly staggered back at this. “Three ki—What? When did he say that?” Maybe you’d gotten so used to seeing Phil as a protective friend that the thought of him being a family man himself felt foreign to you. The image of little kids running behind Phil in a Texas backyard or him cooing at a swaddled baby in his arms was one that you’d never thought about before… but it was one that for some reason made your chest clench for a split second.

“Uhh, right after graduating from high school I think. He seemed pretty dead set on it too.” Matty replied nonchalantly as he picked up his plate, heading to the sink to rinse. 

You scoffed. “Matty, that was ages ago. He was still a kid himself then! He could’ve changed his mind since then. You never know what he might’ve seen while in the Marines and it could’ve changed his perception on his family and kids.”

Matty laughed, walking back to the kitchen table to pick up Elaine’s now empty plate too. Before he returned to the sink he bent down to look at you closer. “Never underestimate a man’s dream when he’s serious about it, [Y/N].” He turned around and continued chattering on. “Plus, the military sometimes only enforces your plan of wanting a family.”

You crossed your arms over your chest again, amused with how your brother seemed to know everything about the military now because of Phil. “Oh yeah? And how in the hell would you of all people know that? Did he tell you that himself? I doubt—”

“Actually, yes he did. Last night.” Your brother smirked at you. “And that's exactly what he said to me. Because you never know what will happen and when it will happen when you’re in combat overseas.”

You sank down on your chair, feeling a little defeated from your bickering match with your brother. You were glad he was able to catch up with Phil too. But your chest continued to strangely clench at the thought of Phil looking for a wife and planning to have a big family with them. You weren’t sure what you were expecting. That he’d always be the nice guy in the neighborhood  who’d play with you and your brother, but also treat you gently and whom you could always count on to protect you when you were playing too late outside at night?

You didn’t know how to answer. “Good for Phil”? You felt at a loss for words. You were surprised too that this conversion never appeared when you were chatting with Phil last night. But you also knew it was foolish to not realize Phil was probably dating other women all the time. He was handsome, he was charismatic and smart, and he had a successful military career. He checked off all the boxes and knew he was probably a women-magnet wherever he went. 

You felt a small pool of jealousy begin to well up in your gut. But you didn’t understand why. He had every right to date other women. Just like he had every right to date girls when he was a teenager—even if it broke your heart—and to invite them to his home, and to kiss in his pool in his parents’ backyard even if you were clueless to it all. The memories of that day suddenly flashed back. You shook yourself out of it and brought a banana slice that Elaine had cut earlier to your mouth, trying to blink the memories away from your vision. 

“Soooo…. What’re your plans for the rest of the day?”

You shook out of your reverie “I’m not sure to be honest. I’m back in town after so long—but after last night I don’t feel like doing much. So I might just stay home. Plus I have a few emails from work I need to look at—”

“No, no, no, no, no. You’re here on vacation, [Y/N]. No work. No emails.”

Elaine nodded vigorously as she added the last pancake onto her plate. “Absolutely no work.”

You groaned. “Fine. What do you want me to do today then? You’re the engaged couple whom we’re meeting in honor of, after all.”

Before answering, Matty glanced over at Elaine and gave her a knowing look, one with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, we’re ain’t planning to babysit you. And you’re definitely not gonna be third-wheelin’ us. You gotta get your own plans going, lil sis.” 

Once again, you groaned and rubbed your hands over your face in frustration. “Then why bother asking me?!” You really didn’t want to leave the house. Word of Richard’s horrible from last night would’ve probably traveled across your friend and family groups. The thought of them asking you about it made your stomach churn. The idea of crawling back into bed and burying yourself in blankets was the only thing that appealed to you. But you knew that you would only lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling fan, replaying all the horrible events from the party in your head over and over again until you went insane. 

Elaine chimed in, her soft voice catching you by surprise. She was always soft-spoken and quiet, a total opposite to Matty’s outspoken and blunt nature. You were surprised she’d be offering an idea. “Honey, didn’t Phillip say that he was staying all by himself at his parents house? Maybe [Y/N] and him could keep each other company while we go visit the bakery about our wedding cake.” 

You looked at her with wide eyes, totally baffled by that suggestion. That was something you���d expect from Matty who kept on teasing you all morning about Phil. Even Matty looked at her in bewilderment. But, holding his gaze with his fianceé’s, he mouth fell ajar as if he suddenly understood what Elaine said. As quiet as Elaine was, she always paid attention and caught small cues around her. It was one of the advantages of listening instead of constantly speaking. And she definitely noticed Matty constantly bringing up Phillip Graves throughout their breakfast with his little sister.

“Oh! That’s right. Yeah, I’m sure Phil would be more than happy to catch up with you. He’s actually kind of on the same boat as you. You both have been living out-of-town for so long. Y’all would be a good pair—t-to spend the day together and see how the city’s changed.”

Elaine nodded, a small smile on her rosy lips. “I obviously didn’t grow up with y’all, so I only know anything about your past from what you’ve said, but you and him seem to still have a lot of chemistry from when you were kids.”

You wanted to blush. Maybe even disagree and meekly explain you were just making small talk and being polite with each other. Instead, your thoughts were interrupted when your brother said, “Well, we’re gonna go wash up and get ready to head out. We made an appointment with a wedding cake business the town over.”

Oh . You were hoping you could spend the day with them. You rarely got to see Matty due to your work. Usually you could only catch up during Christmas, Thanksgiving, maybe for a birthday or for a special Fourth of July party your parents would throw every couple of years when they were in the mood. You also wanted to catch up with Elaine. As a child, you always wanted a sister. And she was like the sister you never had. Growing up, you struggled making friends, sticking instead to becoming a shadow behind Matty and Phil when they would hang out after school. Usually, you watched as they played video games or played basketball, drawing in your sketchbook when they didn’t invite you to join in. As a younger girl, you did play with dolls with some girls. But it was harder to make friends once you got intensely passionate about your art. Yet, Elaine seemed sweet enough to form a friendship with. 

“Then, after that, I wanna show Elaine around town a little more. We’ll probably be home maybe for a late dinner. So until then, try to keep busy, alright? No emails! No work.”

You raised your hands up in defense. “No emails,” you repeated.

“Maybe give Phil a call. He can keep you busy while we’re out.”

You rolled your eyes, averting your eyes in embarrassment early enough to miss the smirk on Matty’s lips. It was one that made Elaine want to roll her own playfully, but she giggled quietly instead to herself. The two of them headed to their quarters to get dressed, while you trudged back to the guest room. You also needed to get washed up, but the thought of strolling through your hometown by yourself, especially after the embarrassing scene of last night that surely spread like wildfire through your family’s social circles, seemed unpleasant.

It was almost lunch time, and you still could not budge out of bed. Still in your pajamas, you were laying in bed idly, watching as the time passed as slowly as ever. You found yourself scrolling through social media, eyes scanning everyone’s elated comments under Matty and Elaine’s photos from last night’s engagement party. You were tagged in a few of them, earning you a few new friend requests from former high school classmates that you wished you could’ve forgotten entirely. 

In some photos, your eyes snapped to find Phil among the group of family friends. When you first found him smiling next to Matty in one photo, you swallowed hard and felt butterflies form in your stomach. Your eyes lingered over his photographed form longer than others. How did his smile seem to become even more handsome and radiant after all these years? You felt yourself grow tense, even while laying down, when you noticed how toned his arms looked in the shirt he wore last night. You remembered thinking the same when watching him as he talked to you in the living room after… the incident. In Matty’s room now and with the photo, you couldn’t stop staring. Your mouth grew dry when you saw there were at least four other photos of him and Matty in the collection of photos. But you found yourself disappointed to see that, no, Phil himself was not tagged. In fact, Phil didn’t have any social media accounts. Probably because of his sensitive line of work, you figured. Still, it would’ve been nice to learn more about what he was like now as an adult.

Wait , why are you thinking about him so much?! You wondered how you got to this point where you were practically drooling over photos of your brother’s best friend and staying inside all day like a hermit during your free time back home. You found yourself blushing by yourself in Matty's old bedroom, realizing what you’d spent the last ten minutes of your morning doing. You groaned as you threw your phone down against the pillow on your bed. You decided, come on, you need to get up. You need to at least get some lunch. 

Preferring not to look through the pantry of healthy, over-priced super-foods your mom kept in stock, you knew a diner or fast food joint was your best bet for something that was actually tasty. It was warm outside, but thankfully the diner you had in mind was close enough that an Uber would not cost too much to take you. It was the very same one that you and Matty would take you when you were feeling sad or discouraged from schoolwork or from drama with some of the girls in your class. He’d always buy you a milkshake and fries. That paired with a pep talk from your big brother always managed to cheer you up.

The diner hadn’t changed much. As usual, blue, red, and white jerseys of the Houston Texans football team were draped proudly on some of the walls and old photographs of the owner with other football players from the nineties were framed for visitors to marvel at while they ate. You were almost as shocked by how unchanged it was as you were by the fact it was still standing. Such an old business still managed to remain alive after all these years. The same smell of french fries and the sound of sizzling burger patties in the kitchen while old classic rock played made you feel like you were a little girl again waiting for Matty in his letterman to ask the server for a booth instead of a table. 

Milkshake and fries, you ordered by instinct when the server, a nice woman in her fifties and short cropped graying curls approached your table with her notepad. You were starving. The growling of your stomach made you add one of their new bacon-and-kimchi burgers to your order that the server had hyped up. “I’ll get that right out for you, hun,” she said with a smile and left you to your thoughts.

You felt tempted to scroll again through the photos from last night. But you tried desperately to pull yourself away from those thoughts whirling down that rabbit hole again. You played aimlessly with the paper napkin on the table in front of you and watched around you as families and couples sat together. They chattered endlessly, some even bursting out laughing in joy, as they enjoyed their lunch together. You huffed out a long sigh seeing this. You had gone out to feel less alone, to feel like you were doing something. Instead, you were reminded of how alone you were now that everyone in your hometown and your brother were busy.

You opened your phone under the table, averting your gaze from everyone else. You almost felt embarrassed by what you were about to do. Matty definitely would’ve disapproved. You pulled up the Uber app again. You would just ask for a to-go box and eat your food in peace at home without the cacophony of other people around you in your own lonely company. Next time, you would just order delivery instead of wasting money on Uber, you scolded yourself.

While you were going through the app, someone slid into the booth to sit across from you. You tensed up. Annoyed, you were prepared to tell this person that you were in fact saving that seat for someone else—a lie—and that they needed to leave you the hell alone. When you lifted your head back up to glower at the uninvited lunch guest, your mouth fell agape. 

Seeing the look of shock on your face, Phil chuckled in amusement and beamed knowingly at you. How in the hell did he end up here at the same time as you? You spent all morning thinking about him and practically studying his photos from last night, you felt like you were now simply imagining him sitting across from you. 

The almost smug look on his face told you that he knew he was confusing the hell out of you. You had a lot of questions but were left speechless at the sight of him. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just finished showering a while ago. He had on a plain white t-shirt and had his keys in his hands still, making you realize he had just driven and parked his car here not too many minutes ago. He also held a paper cup with no lid, revealing some black coffee he must’ve picked up before he got here. Phil himself wanted to break the ice and brush away the confusion clearly still in the air. But he couldn’t help but continue to bask in the hilarity of the baffled look on your face, like a deer stuck in headlights. Since a kid, he always loved how expressive you were with your face. But now, as an adult, he also couldn't help but admire your face for how bright and warm your eyes looked, your cheeks for how you blushed furiously at some of his comments, and your lips for how soft he imagined they could be-.

“Hi there,” he chirped.

You were still totally bewildered but slowly began to shake yourself out of it. “H-hi…”

“So, are you here to try the new burger? I heard good things about it.”

You couldn’t believe that of all things to bring up, he decided to mention the damn bacon-and-kimchi burger. “Um,”  you stammered, “yeah, Matty mentioned that they were trying new ‘experimental’ burgers now… Honestly, I intended to come here for the shake and fries.”

He hummed in understanding before taking a sip of his coffee. All you could do was stare, and he stared back at you sharply over his cup as he sipped his drink—his eyes never once leaving your face. Last night, you two never stopped chatting. Yet here, everything between you was nauseatingly silent so far, and you clicked your phone’s screen off, forgetting about your Uber plans immediately.

You studied him closely again. This time you noticed the veins running along his hands as he sipped his coffee, his rolex his father gifted him ages ago adorning his wrist too. You noticed even a small scar running across his outer forearm that you didn’t notice the night before. Then, your eyes traveled back up to glance at his neck, leading up to the curve of his jaw. You bit down hard on your lip as you began to rip away little pieces of the napkin you were toying with this whole time. You were growing frustrated by how nervous you felt around him, at how a heat seemed to rise from your skin when you noticed how his eyes didn’t leave your own form while yours couldn’t seem to stay still on him. It was like staring at the sun. You felt like you couldn’t stare too long at him, otherwise you would tread into dangerous territory. You felt your soul tremble under his eye. From your small glimpses, you could see that his eyes harbored a lot more untold memories and hardships that he’d collected over the years since he left your hometown. Still, the hardened look in his eyes made something in your stomach stir, and you felt yourself crossing your legs at your ankles nervously. 

He placed his coffee back on the table, a smile now on his face, his eyes softening once again into a much for familiar gaze. Still, you looked away frantically, studying instead now the dead ants and dust that collected in the window sill beside your booth. You took a deep breath and let it out sharply, before plucking the courage to ask Phil, “So, was it Matty? Or was it Elaine?”

He blinked, feigning ignorance. “Hm? What are you talking about?” 

He couldn’t fool you that easily. You almost rolled your eyes. Instead you gave him a pointed look, raising an unamused eyebrow at him. He was aware that you knew that him finding you eating a burger all by yourself in your favorite childhood burger joints was not simply a coincidence. And that he just happened to be going to that diner the exact same day and time? Not a chance. 

But as much as you wanted to pry the truth from him, Phil was also stubborn. Sure, it wasn’t a coincidence that you met in this diner once more, but he wanted it to be one. He wouldn’t give Matty or Elaine the credit for him running into you. Maybe Matty did send him a text this morning that you’d be spending the day alone, since Elaine and him would be in the next town over. Maybe he also did add that he suggested you try that kimchi burger from your favorite  burger joint. But it was him, Phil, that put one and two together and knew you’d probably end up here of all places for lunch.

He leaned in across the table, his eyes still locked on you sharp. “Remember what I told you last night after we exchanged contacts?”

You furrowed your brow. So many words were exchanged that night, your mind was scattered with how he was looking at you. You felt speechless, breathless.

“If you don't come by my house today, I would snatch you myself,” he quotes himself from last night with a mischievous glint now in his eyes. You, on the other hand, felt your heart start to pound in your chest. Once again, you felt something stir in your lower stomach. You didn’t know how to respond, instead staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

The server from earlier sauntered over to your booth. You expected her to be carrying just one plate with your burger. Instead, you saw that on either hand, she had two plates with the burgers. “Here y’all are,” she said as she placed both plates in front of you and Phil. Instead of a kimchi burger, he had a classic bacon cheeseburger. You actually smiled at the sight. It was his same order from when he was a kid. Looks like his taste buds hadn’t changed too much since then.

You watched instead as Phil thanked the server, using his best southern manners.

“And that milkshake will come in a few minutes, miss,” she added before leaving once more.

Phil glanced up at you, smiling calmly. “Looks like great minds think alike, huh,” he chirped.  

You scoffed. You wanted to snap back at him, but you were starving. Both you and Phil devoured your burgers. It felt nice to just sit and have a meal with him. At first it was silent but not the awkward silence that would engulf you and make you feel small. Instead, it felt relaxing. There was little pressure to be someone you weren’t, to put on a performance or slip on a mask, when you were around Phil. But as you started to finish up your burger, he began to pipe up again. “So, how are you feeling today? After…”

“Better,” you sighed. “I mean, thankfully my brother and Elaine were okay with how the party kind of turned into a disaster. But I haven't spoken much to my parents… they’re, um, out of town already.”

This caught Phil's interest. He narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded along as he listened. 

“Your dad was always a man with… high expectations. High standards. My dad was the same way, as you well know. No one was immune from my dad’s criticism. I think that’s why they got along so well. Because they could turn their nose up at everyone.”

You chuckled. “Right.”

“That must be why he liked Richard, too.”

You nearly choked on your water. You coughed, looking up at him in shock, but he wore the same nonchalant, innocent look on his face while he dipped the last of fries into the ketchup on his plate. “Speaking of which, have you heard anything from him? Spoken with him since?”

You couldn’t scowl as hard as you wanted to. A part of you wanted to ask Phil why it mattered to him in the first place. But another part wanted to flood him with the disappointment you were feeling in knowing that Richard had not bothered to call you, to visit you. Instead, he sent you a text message this morning with nothing more than a link and phone number of a local moving and shipping company in Seattle—as if to say, “Here, move yourself out or get someone else to do it. But don’t count on me.”

You sighed. “No, I think it’s clear he’s done with me… just like I am with him,” you confessed to Phil, who furrowed his brows as if he was in deep thought as he listened to you. In reality, gears were turning in his head. “I, um, will probably move out of his place once I return to Seattle. Honestly, with all he said to me, I’m just trying to avoid him right now, as much as I can.”

He nodded in understanding. “Well. I know your parents didn’t react in the most ideal of ways last night. But you always have Matty’s and my support, alright? How’d you even get here anyway?”

“Uber,” you admitted.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, in addition to offering you my unconditional support in this moment of your life, I will also offer to drive you anywhere you’d like while you’re in town.”

“You sure?”

He scoffed in disbelief. “Of course! An Uber? Really?”

Before you could reply, however, the same server returned with your chocolate milkshake to-go. You smiled and gave thanks. As you dug into your purse to look for your wallet, you heard Phil. 

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m covering this,” he said firmly. “You do not have to worry at all.” From his own wallet, he pulled out several bills to cover the cost and enough to give the kind server a hefty tip for her attentiveness. 

“Phil!” you hissed in panic. “You don’t have to do that!”

The server chuckled as she collected the bills. “Don’t worry, hun. You found yourself a nice gentleman with manners who knows not to let the lady pay when on a date, right?” she grinned at Phil, who only chuckled back. Of course the cocky bastard didn’t bother to correct her. With that she turned away, wishing you both a good rest of your day, and left you alone with Phil once again.

“Just being polite, huh?” you looked at him pointedly, both of you heading out the door of the diner now, getting immediately engulfed in a warm, but gentle breeze.

“Like my mother taught me,” he replied, winking at you slyly. You both walked to his car, your mind in deep thought. You had gotten snacks and lunches with Phil and Matty in the past as kids, but Phil never covered your meal for you. And you never felt the buzzing in your stomach around him with anyone else before. You swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Phil had changed a lot, hardened by the military and by life under his draconian father’s sometimes unfair expectations. And some parts of him hadn’t changed a bit, especially his boyish and sometimes cocky humor. Yet, it was undeniable this was the kid Phil that you only tagged along with sometimes. He looked at you, spoke to you differently, in ways that made your heart race, your palms sweat, and made you bite your lip in frustration. 

As he unlocked the doors to his car, he asked, “So, where’d ya wanna go?”

You shrugged. You frankly had no plans laid out for the day, other than lazing around at home waiting for Matty and Elaine.

You both slid into the car, him behind the wheel and you at shotgun. He looked over at you after starting his car, the A/C blowing gently against both of you. You sipped on your milkshake, as he lowered the music that was playing to continue chatting with you without interruption. You noticed he still liked classic rock, just like the bands you and Matty would listen to with him after school. “You wanna come by my place?”  he suggested. “I did tell you I wanted to cook you dinner at some point while we’re both here.”

You nearly gasped, but still looked at him in disbelief. But you couldn’t conceal the contagious, sheepish smile that was crawling onto your face at this offer. “Phil, you just bought me lunch, you can’t make me dinner either! What am I supposed to give you in return?”

He shrugged but shot you a cheeky grin. “I dunno. Your company?”

Again, you felt your skin start to grow hot and you bit your lip. “Phil, do you always try to charm your friends like this? Or is it just me?” you chuckled.

As he turned into a new street, he hummed as he feigned contemplation. You didn’t realize he was taking your question seriously. He glanced at you through the corner of his eye, “Maybe just the ones I really like.”

At this you blushed and toyed with the straw of your milkshake. He’s joking, maybe flirting to be funny , you thought to yourself. Nonetheless, you considered his offer to visit his home with him. “Fine,” you said in surrender. “I’ll go.”

“Attagirl,” he said cheerfully, his smiling beaming even more now.

“Just dinner, correct? It’s not like you are going to kidnap and murder me, and then have me as your dinner, are you?” you joked with a chuckle, deciding to poke back at the man who didn’t seem to know when to stop with the jests and jokes. 

But Phil didn’t laugh back. Instead, he was silent for a few seconds. You thought maybe he didn’t find it funny, offensive even. But your last sentence has brought many ideas in his head, many images that he never thought he could conjure with you. But he decided to join your banter, seeing how your laughter was beginning to nervously die down with his silence.

He leaned in, his lips inching closer to your ear. With the hazy music playing in the background and with you clutching your milkshake tighter, he muttered, “No promises.”

He pulled back and chuckled, especially seeing the way your eyes widened at this. Now your own mind was racing with thoughts and scenarios you would feel embarrassed to share with anyone. You could imagine him devouring you in more ways than one, especially the look in his eyes he’d hold as he consumed you. Before you could submerge yourself into those daydreams, you cleared your throat and fixed a strand of your hair that had fallen near your face. 

Silence fell once again between you, only the muffled sound of grainy guitar riffs and solos filling the rest of the short drive back to his house. You struggled to relax. Around Phil, you felt calm, relaxed, like you were at home. But other times like now, Phil fuckin Graves knew how to leave you utterly breathless. It always felt like that, now that you tried to reminisce on your childhood with him. Just when you were in your early teens, you thought you were going through puberty, your hormones making you think and feel things that you normally wouldn’t. Years later, you figured your feelings for him as a teen really didn’t really amount to anything other than small childhood crushes and you making sense of your sexuality for the first time. Yet, years later, here you were in his car crossing your legs nervously and squeezing them when you remembered his gravelly voice against your ear when he muttered, “No promises.”

Looking at him now as he drove, you realized how touch- and love-starved you really were, especially after such a miserable relationship with your ex. It was hard not to gawk at Phil, to study how his hands held onto the wheel as he drove, or to stare at how his arms flexed when he turned his car or shifted gears periodically. How his voice uttered your name so smoothly and how his cologne made you want to breathe him in deeply now that you were around him. It was becoming almost impossible to deny that you were feeling something serious for Phil now even as a grown woman. But you felt that if you admitted this to yourself, you would be in grave danger.

“We’re here,” he said moments before you both hopped out of his car, heading to his house’s front door. You walked in with him, and immediately noticed not much had changed, not even now that his parents had converted the place into an AirBnB rental spot. It still had some of the same white, minimalist furniture that Phil’s mother liked so much, with a sparkling chandelier hanging over the entrance. One thing you did notice was the lack of family portraits. No photos of strangers probably for the sake of whoever was renting the home for a brief stay. Still, you were flooded with memories of swimming in the backyard with Matty and Phil over many summers, of helping his mother bake cookies while he and Matty played video games, and of the time the three of you accidentally shattered one of the family vases with a baseball one day. The three of you had quickly hid the shards far from any place his parents could ever find them.   

“Not much has changed,” you noted, while he hummed in agreement. You slipped off your shoes, just as Phil did, while you remembered all of this. He placed his keys on a table and turned to look at you. 

“So, you never did mention how long you’re in town for.”

“Hm?” You suddenly remembered that, indeed, you were only here for a brief visit. Phil wanted to laugh seeing how dazed you still seemed around him even after all this time. He held back, however. “Right. Well, I’m not leaving any time soon. I Took my yearly vacation, so I have the next few weeks free from all work while I’m here.” You groaned. “And even if I wanted to, Matty and Elaine will have my head if I even try to go near my work laptop.”

He nods as he hums in thought. It felt like he was going to say something, but remained silent.

He slipped off his leather jacket he had worn this whole time. Your eyes trailed over him as he did. You couldn’t help but admit how his back’s muscles rippled as he did this, how his biceps muscles flexed through the shirt he was wearing as he bent his shoulders back to get the jacket off it. Was your staring too obvious? Was it obvious you were daydreaming of the many different ways you would hold onto his shoulders, arms, and back? You breathed out sharply and tore your eyes away.

When he finished hanging his jacket, he turned and looked at you. You both strolled to the kitchen, where the silver, shining appliances and marble counters reminded you of Phil’s father’s wealth once again. Despite how empty and sterile parts of the home now seemed, Phil seemed calmer here, his smile still warm but more relaxed and maybe less mischievous. “Did you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Oof,” you said, “I just had that milkshake, so, um, maybe just some water to help it go down. I don’t want to have something that’ll make my stomach upset or something, you know?” you squeaked out. You didn’t know if it was because it was just you and Phil now, no passerbyers at the restaurant or anything, or because of how big his house was. But you felt small. You felt like shrinking yourself. Maybe it was a stupid idea to come here alone with Phil, you chastised yourself , especially since I’ve been acting so weird around him already today. But you glanced back up at Phil’s reassuring, calm smile with his same caring eyes he always shone at you. You felt some relief and calmness from that. 

“I do need to use the bathroom, though,” you said. “Just to wash up.”

“There’s the one attached to my room upstairs, since the AirBnB guests don’t use it.” As he spoke, he grabbed one of the expensive glass bottles of flavored water from the fridge. Even though your parents were also well-off in their own way, his family’s wealth was on a different level, one that managed to still baffle you. “Oh and I should add that my room is upstairs, just to the left as you climb. But you already know that.” He started pouring the glasses. “Just go on up, I’ll be right there.”

You left Phil in the kitchen as he continued to pull glasses from the cabinets. As you climbed the stairs, you noticed how the varnish on the wooden rail had worn from years of his family’s use. You couldn’t help but remember all the times you gripped and slid your hand down it when you dashed down the stairs, the promise of football or a relaxing drive with Matty and Phil waiting for you outside. So much had changed. The house was dimmer and quieter now than in those days. But the memories still lingered like wisps of smoke, especially once you reached the second floor.

The bathroom was unchanged. All you noticed once you used it was how flushed your cheeks were, a little bead of sweat tempting to form near your hairline. Was it from the Texas heat having an effect on you after living up North for so long, or was it because of how Phil made you feel under his gaze this afternoon? You decided to splash some water on your face after washing your hands. Maybe you should pass Phil’s offer for some drinks instead grab a cold water before you pass out in his home.

You were about to head back down the stairs to do just that. But instead you noticed how the door to one of the rooms was left ajar. You peeked inside curiously, expecting it to be a sterile, bland room you would find in any AirBnB. It was dim, the blinds shut securely, but you were still hit with a flash of nostalgia when you saw that his blue comforter and sheets in his bed were the same as the last time you were here. You were still barely a teen, just a few weeks before Phil departed for the Marine Corps without a word. Matty and him were sitting in the very same room, some slightly trashy MTV show playing low in the background while the two of them were planning to go to GameStop in a few minutes. 

Memories of that evening inundated your senses as you mindlessly stepped inside. The posters once splayed on his wall, now years later, were stripped from them. His TV with his Xbox no longer were there—you figured his parents sold both when he left for boot camp. Yet, his bed was no longer the messy pile of blankets. Instead, it was neat. The corners were tucked in sharply, and the blankets were spread as cleanly as possible so that you could practically bounce a coin on them without a problem. Yes, this was Phil’s room, the same one from years ago. Yet, the man who made the bed was not the seventeen-year-old, still immature boy you sometimes ogled at from afar. Things had changed, even if memories still clung to your mind. 

You floated over to his desk near the window, only a picture frame and a lamp sitting simply on it. You reached down, taking the photo frame in your hands . You brought it closer to your eyes, feeling your heart skip a beat at the photo. 

It was you, Matty, and Phil, of course. You had clearly taken it with an old disposable camera—you remembered you’d bought it at the drugstore. The flash made the skin on everyone’s face shine oddly, and even one of Matty’s eyes turned out red. Both of them had more flesh on their baby cheeks. Matty stood next to you, holding a football; his other hand held onto your forearm gently. He was always worried about you leaving his sight. On the other side of you was Phil, his hand resting on the top of your head, the other nestled gently on your shoulder. You could tell from the flyaways and frizz framing his hand that he had just ruffled your head full of hair, a usual trademark of his when he hung out with you. Meanwhile, you shined with a toothy grin, your eyes squinting a little at the exposure of the camera’s harsh flash hitting you all. 

“That’s my favorite picture of us, you know.”

You gasped at the sudden intrusion. Whipping around, you saw Phil standing just a few steps away from you. Relieved at seeing it was just him, the frame still in your hand. Slowly, he inched toward you with just a few steps. How long was he there? How long were you there, just snooping through his childhood bedroom? You were perplexed as to how you didn’t even notice him stepping into the room from the hall, or feel his form lingering just a few meters away from your own oblivious one. 

You felt a little nervous, embarrassed at being caught in his room. You glanced back down at the picture, noticing that he actually did take the time to encase it in a black metal frame. Even if it was just a somewhat crappy, overexposed photo you took as a little girl—he still took the time to find the right size frame for it. You had so many similar, amateurish photos from back in the day sitting—perhaps “rotting” is the best word for it—in a scrapbook somewhere in the back of your closet in Seattle. Maybe you would revisit them when you got back home… especially when you would have to pack all your things to move out and abandon Richard’s lease. 

You cracked a smile as a finger ran across the photo, brushing a few specks of old dust away. “Yeah, it’s one of my favorites too. I still remember that day a little.”

Phil stepped closer to you nonchalantly, a hand of his reaching out to touch the frame too. A this, he noticed how you stiffened just a bit. He glanced up from the frame to look closer at you. When your eyes met, he noticed how yours widened ever more slightly before you gulped. His eyes couldn’t help but notice how your throat moved. His thoughts began to wander. He blinked quickly, trying to banish the images and ideas that had formed cross currents in his mind, before his eyes returned to yours. They scanned your face slowly, like a student observing every detail and brushstroke on a painting’s canvas hanging on a museum’s walls. His hand encroached yours on the picture frame, his warm fingers making contact with your hand. They barely grazed yours, but it was enough for your heart to speed up and for it to feel as though your fingers were now tingling. 

You noticed then how his eyes strayed from yours, traveling lower. They landed on your lips, you could tell without a doubt, making you hold your breath silently. Phil noticed how pink and plush they looked. He had been admiring your beauty, realizing just how alluring you’d become in a span of years. He wanted nothing more than to lean down and taste your lips, to draw your body closer and to envelop it in his. He couldn’t help himself… he even noticed how you seemed to be relaxing, your eyes fluttering and lips slightly parted. He could swear you were leaning in too.

Yet, you flinched hard when you heard a phone start to ring out of the blue. Phil leaned back slightly with an annoyed sigh. He dug his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. He steps away once more and answers it, greeting the person with faux amiability. You, meanwhile, took a sharp breath in and loosened your shoulders. Prudently, you placed the frame back on the nightstand, just as you had found it minutes before. 

After a “yup” an “of course,” an  “Around what time?” and a “I’ll see what if I can,” he hung up the phone. He looked at you with pursed lips before placing both his hands on your upper arms. 

“Everything okay?” you gently asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said while wrapping an arm slyly around your waist. You nearly didn’t notice. “Now, didn’t I promise you dinner?” 

You sat next to Bear and Matty in the living room of your family’s beach house, wishing you had gotten a better pedicure before this beach trip. The beach house was gorgeous, of course, just as you remember. The sofa was turquoise and the sound of the distant waves crashing onto the shore would be soothing you if it weren’t for your father sitting across from you with a grave look etched on his face. This was Elaine and Matty’s idea to mend the latest strains in your family ever since you rejected Richard’s “surprise” proposal. A few days at the beach by the Texas coast could heal your family’s freshly formed wounds, they figured. 

As much as you sometimes detested Houston, you wanted to stay. First, you didn’t have a bathing suit from Seattle packed for a beach trip. Second, you had to admit that one of the highlights of returning home was rekindling your friendship with Phil. Just two nights before, you had sat down in Phil’s home. You sat at the kitchen island, chatting idly about his life in the military and your time in university. Jokes sprinkled in the conversation kept it lively too, dissipating any awkwardness that might’ve lingered after your short conversation and moment in his bedroom upstairs. His parents’ finest wine and a home-cooked Italian meal filled your bellies while you chatted at the dining table. At one point, you nearly fainted when he did the classic “You got a little in the corner of your lip,” bit that you thought only happened in the movies. And knowing how guileful Phil was, you knew that he knew he had an effect on you and was relishing in it that night. 

You almost wanted to ask him for more nights together like that, at least until you both had to part your ways again. That was, until Matty and Elaine called you later that night insisting that you accompany them to this beach trip. “Think of it as a proper celebration of mine and Elaine’s engagement with less… interruptions from our invited guests,” Matty had spelled out for you. You groaned at this, the embarrassment of Richard ruining that night creeping back up inside you. Matty had done so much for you, and you really wanted Elaine to feel a truly warm welcome into your family as your new sister-in-law. Begrudgingly, you agreed, even if it meant that dinner in Phil’s home would be your last you could share with him until God knows when. 

You ran your hands along Bear’s thick, albeit graying, mane, while your brother and Elaine gave your mother a hand in the kitchen with the watermelon she was carving and dividing up for later. Your father, meanwhile, averted his gaze from meeting yours. He tapped his foot against the leg of his chair idly, while scrolling through his smartphone. He sipped on his black coffee as he scrolled, while you sipped on a glass of cool water. You couldn’t imagine the news was so interesting that he would suddenly be glued to his phone during a beach trip. Rolling your eyes, you focused on massaging Bear’s ears in the awkward silence of the living room. 

“Oh!” Matty suddenly exclaimed. “Finally, he’s at the door.”

You frowned. “The bell didn’t even ring.” Was there even a doorbell in this cabana?

“You messed up the food so bad that you had to order takeout?” your father grumbled, not lifting his head from his phone. You rolled your eyes at his sour comment while you sipped on your water to hide the extent of your frown.

Matty scampered excitedly to the door, his sandals squeaking as he did so. “No, I never said I ordered take out,” he said with a mischievous grin. 

Without answering, he opened the door dramatically. “PHIL! You made it!” 

You choked on your water. There he stood. You almost didn’t recognize him in the state he was in. Rather than the polo and slacks he wore the other days you met up with him, he wore a simple cotton t-shirt that hugged his body deliciously, as well as some shorts. His hair was slightly disheveled, possibly from the beachside breeze brushing through his locks. Lastly, you noticed how his eyes were covered by a pair of dark shades. His pearly white smile, radiant as ever, was too recognizable. 

“Of course, I’m not gonna let you down,” Phil said as he hugged your brother, who took Phil’s bag from him and placed it in one of the bedrooms down the hall.

You, meanwhile, were in shock. You would’ve frozen were it not for the coughing fit the water you choked on caused. Sure, just a few minutes ago you were totally downcast about how any plans—imaginary or real—with Phil in Houston had to be put away due to this beach trip. Yet, you had no clue that your conniving brother had managed to invite the man you were crushing on since you were a kid to this trip.

“Phil—” you choked out. “What are you doing here?”

“Ooh,” he said, grimacing slightly at slight shock, maybe offense, he thought he detected in your voice. He sheepishly scratched his head. “I, well—I uhh-” Phil didn’t have anything to use as an excuse, he didn’t know why he thought of making excuses to begin with.

You swore you could hear your brother snickering quietly, as he returned from putting Phil’s bag away. 

“It was actually my idea!” Elaine chimed in calmly as she sauntered in from the kitchen, too. “The fish tacos are turning out fantastic by the way. I highly recommend it.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was gonna come to be honest.”  He crossed his arms, and continued. “But Elaine here insisted very kindly so I said—why not.” he finishes with his signature grin.

You wanted nothing more than to strangle your brother. Yes, you had to admit seeing Phil here was a pleasant surprise, especially with how he looked in that shirt that you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting to. But you could swear on your life that he and Elaine were scheming this ever since that day. Of course, you had no proof of that, but you knew how cunning your brother could be. And Elaine? It seemed like they were starting to make more sense together as a couple with how devious she could be too. 

Elaine continued. “Your mom was totally okay with it too… and we could use a third party to join us to clear the, you know, the awkward fog that is hanging in the air… which clearly she was right about.” Matty and her both stole a glance toward your father who sat now with his arms crossed. You noticed, however, that he had placed his phone on the coffee table moments ago. He was now actually glancing at the three of you, the frown on his wrinkled face a little softer. 

“Phillip, it’s good to see you as always,” he said curtly with a nod. “Let me see what’s taking so long in the kitchen. I’m starved.”

Your brother and Elaine trailed after him. “It’s really not going to take much longer,” Matty said in annoyance. “We have some fruits ready to eat as well if you’re really that hungry…” 

With that, it was just you and Phil standing alone in the living room once again, save for Bear. The German Shepherd got up from the sofa and padded over to Phil. He jumped up, his two front paws landing and holding onto Phil’s hips. “Hey, buddy,” he cooed to the dog. “I missed you too, Bear.”

Once Bear landed back on the floor, Phil returned his attention to you. He stepped closer to you, you glanced around, realizing and relieved that neither your parents nor Matty and Elaine have returned from discussing lunch in the kitchen.

He placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, part of his hand just grazing part of your neck for a few moments as he did so. Once again, his eyes scanned over you, from head to toe. Anyone else whom he would’ve studied so intensely would have been shaking, but he noticed you stood , your eyes not leaving his.  He noticed how your chest rose and fell with each breath a little more rapidly than before. Seeing how you looked up at him, wordlessly, with your soft doe eyes he felt his heart flutter in his own chest as well. 

You put down your glass of water, clearing your throat one last time. “Make yourself at home, Phil. I’ll see you at dinner.” You smiled sheepishly, patting his hand on your shoulder before gently guiding it off you. And with that, you turned around, and tried to scurry to your room.

You woke up from a nap you didn’t remember deciding to take. Rubbing your eyes and feeling a headache creep into your skull, you got up from your bed in your room in the cabana to find some water. The heat of the Texas summer was getting to you, and you kept forgetting to hydrate. Your mom would scold you for that if you found out.

When you dragged your feet over to the cabana’s kitchen, you were surprised to see your parents, Matty, Elaine, and Phil also sitting in the living room together. Your mom was reading a magazine, your father a thick, hardcover biography of what was probably an unfamiliar nineteenth-century politician. Your brother, Elaine, and Phil sat around the coffee table on the floor. On it, was a messy, nearly scattered, stack of UNO cards, and each of them held small decks in their hand. 

“Oh, [Y/N], you slept through dinner,” your mother said when she noticed you walking in. “We saved you a plate covered in the kitchen. You can bring it here and join us if you’d like.”

You furrowed your brow, “What time is it?”

“9 p.m.,” your father huffed, his eyes not leaving the dense book in his hands. 

Your eyes widened, but you could feel your stomach rumbling as you could hear Elaine bickering with Matty about whether they should be stacking the cards they’re playing. You decided to take your mother up on her idea and carried the plate of dinner with you back to the living room after warming it up briefly in the microwave.

Phil smiled briefly at you as you sat beside him on the floor. You watched as the three of them played another round, Phil shrugging and accepting defeat when Matty managed to beat him and Elaine. You munched on the tacos for the next several rounds. Phil let you glance over his shoulder to peer at what cards he had in his deck. Whenever he made a shrewd play, he would look over at you with a glint in his eyes to see how you reacted. Seeing you breathe in sharply, impressed with one of his plays, made Phil’s chest swell in a form of pride. 

After you finished your dinner, you noticed that your mom and dad were yawning among themselves before heading back to their room. Your dad’s coffee didn’t seem to have helped him stay up as long as he’d hoped. You glanced down at your watch, seeing it was almost 10pm You thought that maybe you should head back to your room to wash up. 

“Oh, no. You have to join us for a few rounds,” Elaine exclaimed as she shuffled the deck. “Just for one or two. Then you can go.”

“Yeah, remember we used to play all the time with Phil?” Your brother chirped. “You always were close to beating us.”

At this you remembered indeed staying up at night during various thunderstorms and low-category hurricanes at Phil’s house when you were barely 7 or 8. Your parents, meanwhile, would usually be with Phil sharing wine downstairs discussing local politics and stocks. The windows in Phil’s bedroom would be covered with metallic shutters. The electricity and Phil’s bedroom light would have flickered and cut out hours before from Houston’s strong winds and rains. You, him, and Matty huddled in his bedroom with a flightlight weakly illuminating where the three of you sat. The sound of the howling winds, sounding almost like ghosts, would usually send chills down your spine. The thunder crashing would make you flinch.

But in the company of Matty and Phil, you would forget about the howling. By the lantern, you played Go Fish, Uno, and even Monopoly. Knowing you were scared of the thunder, Phil had the habit of draping you with one of his blankets. When thunder clapped or lightning flashed, he distracted you with the cards. Cards, something you almost never play now as an adult, was still something that you remembered fondly. Even as you got older, before Phil left for the Marines, you remembered seeing Phil go through his nightstand’s drawer to find his deck of cards if it looked like the lights might go out again. 

Memories still swirling in your mind faintly, you felt Phil shift beside you slightly. His shoulder lightly grazed yours and you felt a warm feeling blossom in your chest. You brought your hands to your face, fingers touching your cheeks, as you felt them grow warm too. You glanced at Phil tentatively and saw that he also was looking at you in anticipation for you to join in. 

You sighed in faux defeat, “Alright maybe one round. Then I’m heading back to bed.”

Next thing you knew, several rounds had passed. More than a decade after having last played against Phil and Matty, you finally managed to win. Elaine won most of the rounds, however. She teased him several times by stealing very obviously glances at his hand, making Matty dramatically call for a rematch or to disqualify Elaine. Witnessing this kind of back-and-forth bantering normally would make you feel like an awkward third wheel. But, thankfully, Phil was there to crack jokes with you about how their bickering felt like a strange sneak-peek into their future lives as a married couple.

After a few rounds, you decided to take another break and watch. You got comfortable laying down on your side on the velvety sofa behind Phil. Knowing you were behind him, Phil also felt it was hard to hide his grin, especially when he could feel you shifting and breathing while he played. After a while, he could almost hear how your breathing slowed and you seemed to sink, more relaxed, into the cushions of the sofa. He glanced back behind you, noticing your eyes were closed and how you nestled your head into the pillow shams in the shape of a beach palm tree. The corner of his mouth twitched into a soft smile at the sight. 

Your brother stretched his arms above his head and yawned, while Elaine gathered all the discarded cards and shoved them back into the main deck. “I think we’re gonna start winding down now,” Matty mumbled out. “I can’t believe it’s almost one in the morning.”

Phil checked his watch, the same watch his father gave him many years before. “Oh, shoot. Time sure flew by.”

Matty and Elaine got up. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow morning, Phil. Hope you can get some rest,” Elaine said.

“G’night!” Matty said, his eyes noticeably growing heavier. Phil waved them goodbye with a polite smile, wishing them a good night’s rest as well.

Phil stared at them, slightly bemused, as they shuffled away from the living room toward their shared bedroom. He was shocked they didn’t bother to wake you up so you could go to your room. He turned around, noticing you were still sound asleep. He peered down, not sure how best to wake you. For a few moments, he just studied your features. At times, when you breathed out slowly it sounded like a soft, almost airy snore. Your brows were knitted, as if you were in deep concentration in whatever images were flickering in your dreams. 

Sometimes, Phil found he was still in denial of how much you had grown—how much you had changed . Of course, he still felt the same protective affection toward you, much like Matty did as your older brother. But along with that affection, he also felt new things that he couldn’t quite nail down. Sometimes, he wanted to curse himself for staring at how your hips moved when you walked or how your clothes hugged your body. When he saw that Richard was your partner, he even felt some jealousy bleeding into his thoughts. He brushed off those thoughts as him just being a man—and a brutish one at that sometimes. Still, other times he found himself growing anxious over you. He thought, yes, it was obvious you’d grown so much, but you still were better fitted with someone who understood you better, someone who would protect you rather than talk down to you, unlike Richard. He felt this inexplicable instinct to simply bring you closer to him, whether it meant embracing you in his arms, to weave his fingers with yours, to never stop talking to you or observing every one of your little movements and quirks. How he wanted to flee from his hometown of Houston during his vacation time if he meant he got to spend more time with you—and yes, your family, but especially you—at this beach house. 

Phil shook himself out of his thoughts. He glanced again at the watch on his wrist and told himself it really was getting late, and he didn’t want to end up sleeping in tomorrow if he was here as a guest. But he also didn’t know what to do with your sleeping form on the sofa. He didn’t want to wake you with how deep in slumber you seemed to be. 

Without thinking twice, he strode over to his guest room. He saw that he had about three blankets neatly folded on top of his bed. He snatched one and returned quickly to the living room to find you still there. Carefully, he draped the fuzzy blanket over your form, making sure it covered your shoulders and feet just right. You started to move, making him freeze where he stood. But his muscles relaxed in relief when he saw that you were only snuggling into the blanket more. Your brows were slightly furrowed before, but now they relaxed and you seemed truly at rest. Good . You at least seemed comfortable. 

He turned around and headed to the lightswitch. He admired your sleeping form one last time, before deciding that he too was also exhausted, especially after a day of travel. He flicked it off, and headed back to his room.

[xappetites]

Thank you @efingart who had no idea I was writing this but she is an incredible inspiration and an even better friend 🩷

Just a little Alex Mason x Reader beneath the cut.

“Alex?  You still with me?”

He's lying with his head on your lap, body turned away from you while you run your fingers through his hair and massage his scalp.  He's been quiet for a while and you assume he's fallen asleep.

He wants to say something like I'm always with you but it feels like a bit too much right now.  He wants to admit that sometimes he's blown away by the fact that you're real but he worries about how that would sound coming from him.

“I'm awake,” he answers, “just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” you giggle, “should I be concerned?”

“I'm sorry.”

“For thinking?”

He turns onto his back so he can look up at you.  “I wasn't always what you deserved.  Didn't always do right by you.  Gave you a hard time.”

In that moment, something flashes in your eyes and he feels like he just watched your heart shatter into a million tiny pieces just for him.  He opens his mouth to apologize for fucking this up the way he always thinks he fucks things up and for ruining yet another moment with you.  The realization that you're smiling at him now stops him from speaking.

“You've always done right by me, Alex.”  You cup his cheek, scratch at his stubble just the way he likes and trace along the fine lines on his face–a testament to the life he's lived. “All I need is for you to believe it.  Okay?”

He takes your wrist and presses his lips against it, “Okay.”

[xappetites]

if you’ll indulge me on a work day here’s half the 141 and the fragrances i own that bring them to mind:

kyle ‘gaz’ garric - kenzo homme intense

immediately v refreshing with a little spice, like gaz’ humor. it sets you up perfectly to be taken by surprise by a really intense, salty, calypsone note that some people absolutely can’t stomach. like realizing that this v amenable looking guy is a trained, incredibly efficient soldier and quite adept at violent resistance

then it dries down to a solid wood heart of fig and sandalwood, but not too warm and still lightly salted like the breaking of a wave, like a joke and a hand on your shoulder to ground you through the adrenaline come down post firefight. the afterimage of it lasts forever

captain john price - givenchy gentleman reserve privée

solid and serious straight out the gate, woodsy with a v light citric edge, to the point, like price. then the first impression lets through the sweetness of iris and violets, warm and comforting, like a hug. like knowing your captain has your back no matter what

it dries down to leather, whiskey and chestnut, relaxed and almost chocolatey to remind you of a nightcap and a cigar, or an evening at a pricey pub after a job well done. it leaves v quietly tho, one minute you’re still holding onto the last notes and the next it’s completely gone

[xappetites]

makin’ love, in between the sheets. aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x black reader. a slight whisper of a size kink (s10 hotch….. i’m gonna fuck you.) i saw an edit of hotch to donk, then started listening to it and thinking evil thoughts. hotch call me i’m ready. s10 hotch bustin out the shirt... i love you. listen to donk to feel it.

you could lose your mind with how full you feel. overbearingly full of him, full of love and lust, full of his cock, and so much else you can't stand putting a name to.

caged and smothered, he's a mind-fucking weight against you, your brain something else he's fucked up and played with. between him and the soft mattress, you’re liquid in his hands, all sweet and whiny in his ears. you sound so sweet crooning for him, rolling your hips up into his thrusts, overwhelmingly alluring in your moves.

your eyes roll back and your body tenses when he hits that spot on a slow drag out, like he wants to make you lose your fucking mind— the smile on his face tells you that's exactly what he seeks to do. dazed and dizzy, your eyes fall to where he’s pressed against you to watch what he does to you, his stomach painted clear with your arousal. he looks good when he’s fucking you, thick and just asking to be drooled over.

above you, he nods at your watching, at your obvious flirting, eyes glinting. he’s teasing, a playful edge to how he makes love to you. the sheets feel like pure silk, and you feel like you're floating in them, suspended in softness as you both intertwine play with pleasure.

nosing at your nose, he bumps against you, silently directing your gaze up to his face, his pretty, pretty face.

a full smile graces his face as he leans down to kiss you, and your hands find the sides of his face when your lips meet. deep and warm, the kiss wastes no time with shy pecks. your brain slips away, to where all you can think is aaron. he’s good inside you, and you taste him, your tongue sliding against his as you rub gently over the swell of his cheek, and you can feel him smiling against your lips under your thumb. beautiful couldn’t even begin to describe how you know he looks.

sloppy and uncalculated, swipes of tongue and spit, it constricts something down between you two, your legs notching up just a bit—unconsciously curling into yourself. he pushes into the curl while you sing into his mouth, following your body down until he's pressed against the backs of your thighs again, and he stays there, grinding as deep as he can reach. "god," is all you can say against his lips, your head spinning with how quickly he figured your moves.

finally, you both gain enough sense to take a second to breathe. bodies rocking, you lay in the sweet sounds of your moans and his groans. your lips ghost against the others and your heavy breaths fan out against your faces. your toes curl at a wholehearted groan from him.

quiet, he tells you, "you're a dream, you know that?" it's murmured devastatingly sexily against your lips. his voice rumbles in his chest like thunder, deep and rolling. you've always loved storms.

“yeah,” you bite down on a smile, rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

his eyes glint. of course you know. your smile escapes you before you kiss him again.

when he fucks against that spot again, "yeah" comes out as a moan, and your head rolls to the side as he pushes in again, crowding onto you and bringing his face into your neck to press kisses against your fevered skin. he hums as you gasp, innocently continuing to kiss at your neck and make you see supernovas collapse in front of your eyes.

he catches your face in the corner of his eye, so his mouth runs. "i love it when we're like this," he confesses. "you're open, and you give me so much. you let me have it all." in the plane of your mind, his words ring loudly and you feel them right where he's inside you now, your chest tingling with it.

"shit," you curse, turning you face toward him. again he follows you, raising so you can see him, and you grab his face in your hands, met with his longing gaze. "aar."

his eyes soften ever more at your call for him. you're blessed to be able to gaze at his divine countenance, to be able to see him and have his features grace your eyes is something long past sacred. soft and dulcet. heaven in the palm of your hands.

all of your ticks and tells are laid bare in his mind, every single one has been logged. that one, that shudder and whine and your furrowed eyebrows speak multitudes. he looks down and back up, then pushes forward like he's been doing this whole time.

you feel the weight of his body shift, see his hand move down in the corner of your eyes. "oh, god," you choke, way past cloud nine. it's amazing to you, still, how he knows without words, maybe cause he's a profiler, or maybe because he pays more attention to you than any other person in the world.

when he touches you, you feel like angelic. it's as if your limbs wrap in white light and you gain a glow, and you’re definitely going to cry. "yes" leaks from you in a squeak with a nod while stars prick at the corner of your vision as two fingers rub pretty over you, releasing pleasure from the center of your being out through your body. hips rolling up into his fingers and feeling like you're going to burst, everything feels so much. he hangs onto your hitches of breath and whines and nods, holds on and keeps fucking and rubbing until you go silent and your eyes fall shut, and he can feel you burst. distantly, you hear him breathe "yeah," when you come, obviously and exceedingly in awe. he feels you pulse around him, shaking, hips still rolling up into his fingers. like a habit, he follows your climax, watching intently for the parts where you can go higher, and lower, and then the end when he brings you to a slow roll and brings his own movements inside you down, too. he's never seen anything prettier.

finally, you breathe, a small out and then a big in as you become aware of your being again. you like this part, when he's moving slowly inside you, and his eyes are shut now because he's close. he can get there like this, soft and smooth with your arms snaking under and around his, pulling him close to you. being held brings him to the edge, being wrapped in love and talked to softly sets him alight. "you're unbelievable," you praise against his ear, your eyes shut closed. "so unreal." his chest rumbles with a groan and he pushes into you a little harder; he's not the only one who knows the other like the back of his hand. a moan catches in his throat as he comes, and releases when you push him over the crest of it with a breathy "yes." coming like this is the utmost pleasure, the fountain of joy and ecstasy that people search millennia for. another hard moan escapes him as his climax crests again, his breath mixing with his moans, beautiful and sweet-toned and pitched to perfection in your ear. through it all, your embrace never loosens, you keep him close to you like you know he needs to come as beautifully as he can.

slowly, it's his turn to find his body again.

he lays on top of you and your core prickles with the feel of his weight on top of you. your breathing, still irregular and heavy, and his, abundantly erratic, have the chance to settle. in the silence, save for yours and his breathing, you bathe in the afterglow.

[xappetites]

i’m about to rb something from a fandom that feels so obscure that’s making me shy but it’s also made me lose my mind during work hours so if you’re not into long gone police procedurals pls disregard 🙂‍↕️

[xappetites]

Lunch Break pt3

ao3

one | two | three

Word Count: 889

Frank x Mila, Frank Woods x oc, Frank Woods fem! American Bell

Still probably could be a brown eyed lady as long as you don't mind having the nickname "Vic."

I know I said this would be three parts. It is not. If you’re new here never trust when I say how long a story is going to be. It’s always longer. The characters really run the show here I just type.

She works here.

Frank exited the briefing room.

She works here and she knows he works here, too.

She had barely given him a second glance when he walked in. Just regarded him the same as everyone else. And even now when she pushed past him to get to whatever she had scheduled next. He was just another body in the hall to her.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Alex.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so quiet in a briefing before.”

He chuckled in response.

But Alex was already following his gaze.

“Who knew those dorks would have such a good-looking gal in their midst huh?” He nudged his friend.

Frank hadn’t told Alex about the encounter in the park. He knew his friend would jump on it. Frank hadn’t told Alex much about the women he was with. Not since Alex got married and settled into his life. He was always trying to encourage Frank to do the same lately.

Fat chance.

He ran his hand through his dark hair.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” Alex said shaking Frank from his thoughts.

They entered the cafeteria. He quickly scanned the room, but she wasn’t there. Interesting that she chose to be alone with her book rather than eating here. He could understand that.

Frank glanced at Alex. He was staring at the salad bar like he didn’t know what to make of it. Then he passed it by, opting for the egg salad sandwich. The way Frank heard it Em was trying to get him to eat more greens. In Alex’s mind this could be a kind of compromise. If it has salad in the name, it was essentially the same thing. Frank was sure Em wouldn’t buy it. But he also knew she was just looking out for him. Something about Alex’s heart. Frank and Em might have had their differences, but they could agree on one thing. They wanted Alex to stick around for a long time.

“How’s Em?” He asked as he picked up his own sandwich.

Alex gave him a look.

“You know, she misses the job. But nothing’s going to tear her away from David, either,” He chuckled and shook his head. “So you know, she’s happy.”

He paid the cashier and waited for Frank.

“Kind of surprised you’re eating here.”

Frank waved his hand dismissively.

“Park got old.”

“Not enough eye candy-”

“Can it, will ya?”

“Touchy. Jogger throw her water bottle at you?”

“Nah, I’m not a creep like you.”

Alex laughed.

As they took their seats the light outside dimmed. The day grew dark and it started to rain. Good thing he wasn’t going to the park any more.

He wondered if she got herself caught in the rain.

After lunch he and Alex separated. He decided to take the back stairs. They were usually empty, and it was easy to grab a quiet smoke there. He pushed past the double doors leading to the stairs. Then he pulled out his lighter and leaned against the window across from the stairs as he lit his cigarette. Frank flicked his eyes up and there she was- Vic. That was her name. Or at least what Hudson had called her. She was sitting on the stairs. Sandwich in hand and yet another fat book balanced on her lap. He jokingly thought to himself that she must be eating them with how quickly she seemed to get through them.

Vic didn’t look up, so he turned his back to her and looked out the window at the rain. He propped open the window to blow his smoke out. People smoked freely in the building of course, but Frank preferred to not stand in a cloud of it if he didn’t have to. And he liked the fresh air from the window. He hated being cooped up in this building. He wasn’t meant for this office shit. Even though he had just gotten back he was already wishing to be sent off somewhere. In the field, the only thing he missed was his bike. More than once he had considered taking a long road trip, alone of course.

“Guess I was wrong,” He heard her say. For a moment Frank had forgotten someone else was there.

“’Bout what?” He asked the open window.

“I thought you were just another guy bullshitting me about being away for work.”

“Yeah, well 9 times out of 10 you’d probably be right.”

“So you’re the 10.”

He chuckled, “Don’t know about that.”

“Got another one of those?” She asked. He put his pack and lighter on the windowsill and he heard her descend the stairs to stand next to him.

“Thanks. Left mine upstairs,” She said as she placed the cigarette between her lips and lit it.

She didn’t seem keen on making conversation and he was never particularly fond of it anyway. And it’s not like he was going to ask her for her number, now. Then the creeps wouldn’t just be isolated to the park, she’d find herself working with one too.

“All right, well,” She said, pausing, as she stabbed her cigarette out in the receptacle on the wall. “Thanks. See you around.”

And before he could say anything else she was back up the stairs gathering her book and her remaining lunch. Then without a glance back she headed upstairs.

“See ya,” He said quietly as he shut the window.

tagging: @deadbranch, @alypink, @revnah1406, @mango-parfait, @imagoddamnonionmason, @sagitamds, @adlerboi, @kithauk, @elyseenmiel, @guigz1-coldwar, @frankwoods, @writeforfandoms, @sparklight1242, @eccentrcks, @walder-138, @voltac, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @kaitaiga

Like this post if you want to be tagged in future fics and art (18+ only) and if you no longer want to be tagged just remove your like.

[xappetites]

thinking about simon who’s watching you get another drink from the bar, counting the minutes until you return to the booth your team is currently occupying. he swirls the ice in his glass, glancing over every other second just to make sure you’re still within eyesight while he half listens to johnny talk about the most recent Manchester match. it’s already been 3 minutes. what is taking so bloody long?

“I’m pretty sure you’re burning a hole in the back of her head with that stare mate,” kyle says, lightly nudging simon’s shoulder. simon turns to face him, eyebrows knitting together. “m’just making sure she’s alright.”

the corner of kyle’s mouth twitches. “she’s a big girl, isn’t she? seems to be handling herself just fine.”

prick. simon takes a sip of his drink, glaring at him over the glass. he’s fully aware you can handle yourself, he’s seen you drop full grown men to their knees in the field without breaking a sweat. so why does it feel more dangerous to leave you alone in a stupid bar? another quick glance back to the bar reveals you laughing with the bartender, complimenting her hair and enjoying some small talk.

“and simon wants to handle her.” johnny’s words came out slow and a bit slurred, proof that he’d probably had one too many. if he’d been a little less intoxicated simon would’ve shoved him out of the booth. “looks like someone else does too,” kyle mumbled, lifting his glass and looking back in the direction of the bar. simon swears he feels his neck crack at the speed he turns to look.

who the fuck is that?

there's a tall blonde man standing close – too close – to you at the bar. toothpaste commercial smile, wavy hair…and hands that are way too antsy for simon’s taste. the way they move back and forth in the space between the two of you, resting on the bar next to your arm. there’s no need for him to get so close. simon ignores the bubbling pit of annoyance growing in his stomach – and johnny’s childish ‘oooh’ as he turns back to the table. “good for him.”

kyle lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he looks down at the empty glass in his hands. “you're one stubborn git, I’ll tell ya.” placing the glass back down on the table, he looks back up at his masked friend. “you know, if I felt the way you do about her, she would’ve been mine a long time ago.”

simon’s eyes narrow into a glare. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“means exactly what I said.” he shrugs. “you want her so fucking bad, go get her. I wouldn’t let anything stop me if I was you.”

simon scoffs. if only it was that simple. there was no room for error with you. letting you in was a gamble in itself, and now…losing you was simply not an option. he’d managed to convince himself that it wouldn’t be possible to get attached, that being friendly was for the team’s sake. it definitely wasn’t because he was tired of only seeing you in flashes during dreams. and it absolutely was not because he found himself leaving every interaction with you feeling lighter. happier, almost.

“things are best as they are.” his answer was low, but kyle didn’t miss the tinge of sadness to his words.

“does she feel that way? did you ever bother to ask her? because I think if you did, she mi-“

“oh, shit.” johnny’s tone has considerably sobered as he looks past his friends at the bar where you stand. “she does not look happy.”

understatement of the century, simon thought as he turned back to you. hands on your hips, a scowl gracing your features. he swears he’s never seen someone look so angry and so beautiful at the same time. you’re glaring up at the prick with the pepsodent smile, spitting what looks to be venom at him while he looks down his nose at you condescendingly. if simon wasn’t overcome with irritation for whatever he’d done to piss you off, he would’ve enjoyed the sight. his little spitfire.

his. he needs to stop using that word when it comes to you. too dangerous to get used to.

she can handle it repeats in his head like a prayer. every muscle aches to run over and toss the man on the floor, not even stopping to find out what he had done to piss you off first, but he squeezes his glass to placate himself. she’s a big girl, like kyle said. a task force solider. if she needs help, she –

simon’s on his feet within seconds of your panicked gaze meeting his. there's something in your eyes, a look he’s ever seen before and is already planning on never seeing again. he barrels his way across the room as people part like the red sea, leading a path right to where you stand. the man has stepped closer to you, a slimy look on his face as he leers down at you. he may be tall, but simon towers over him as he steps up behind him, fists clenched. “oi.”

the man, who simon has decided is called dickhead, turns lazily to face him. his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the mountain of a man hovering behind him but he quickly masks it, trying his best to look bored.

“the fuck are you doing bothering my girl?”

dickhead has the balls to roll his eyes. simon imagines all the ways he could cut them out.

“i told you I have a boyfriend,” you snap. simon is pleasantly surprised by this, although what else does he expect? you obviously wanted this man to leave you alone, and that should have given him reason enough to do so. should have. he opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“not so tough now that he’s not sitting all the way over there now, huh?”

simon nearly falls over. you told this guy that he was your boyfriend? he blinks once at you before he realizes that it’s not the time to digest this information. dickhead is still here and vertical, and that’s a problem. perhaps it’s the rounds of whiskey johnny kept talking him into, but something primal switches on when simon falls into the persona you’ve just created for him. the idea of you being his, needing him flooded his thoughts. dickhead must’ve seen the murderous expression slip onto his face just like one of his masks because the color drains from his face. simon’s voice lowers to a dangerous level.

“speak to her again and see how long you live. now walk away.”

a smart choice, simon hums to himself as dickhead scurries away looking slightly green. he has no idea how smart. simon snaps out of his musings as a hand softly rests on his forearm. wide, grateful eyes stare back up at him as he allows himself to take in current situation. “thank you so much simon, he was such a fucking creep. started asking me shit about my underwear and wouldn’t let me past him.”

“he’s lucky I didn’t know that before I let him go.” he’ll be less lucky later on. simon has a new errand to run, but that can wait until after you’re finished holding his arm and staring up at him like he hung the moon.

“so. when were you gonna tell me we were an item?” the joke tumbles out before he has time to think about it. by the look on your face, you're not about to take off running, so he continues. “y’should probably keep me in the loop about things like that, hm?” he braces himself for the what he thinks is the inevitable – I was only joking, simon…yeah, as if…I know, could you ever imagine that?

instead, the giggle that he receives in response makes his heart swell. laughter shouldn’t sound so musical and delicate. and it definitely shouldn’t come from a girl as beautiful as you when you're laughing. somehow, the fact that its him you're laughing at makes it sound even better. in that moment, simon’s hit with the bone chilling realization that he is fucked. so fucked it’s not even funny. the hours spent building his walls up just for you to tear them down again with a simple good morning, simon had been for nothing, because there was no running from this. and this is why he allows himself to wrap an arm around your waist as you formulate your reply.

if his show of affection takes you by surprise it doesn’t show. instead, you take a step closer to him, your hand coming to rest on his side as he pulls you to him. “seems like you were in the loop just fine, riley. after all, I'm ‘your girl’, right?” he wishes he could kiss you, press you back against the bar because yes, you are his girl, and to hear it in that teasing tone of voice is driving him to madness. he’s almost sure you know what you're doing, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes. it’s not fair to look at him like that, not if you don’t mean it. and simon isn’t 100% sure, but –

“I’m gonna put that on my resume. ‘simon riley’s girl’,” you chirp as you drag him back to your booth. simon smiles. he can settle for 99.9%.

a/n: this has been bouncing around in my head all day enjoy <33