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protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)

halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.

a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.

Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.

You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.

You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.

That’s not important.

What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.

(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).

He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.

He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

The thirtieth of October.

You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--

“I love Halloween.”

You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.

Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.

“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”

His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.

(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”

Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.

He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).

You shrug helplessly.

“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”

His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”

You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--

You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.

How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?

He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.

He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.

“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.

“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.

“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.

It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.

You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.

You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.

The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.

You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.

“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”

You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.

Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.

There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--

You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.

(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).

The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.

“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--

He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.

“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”

Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).

This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.

“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”

You swallow.

“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”

You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.

It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--

“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”

You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”

He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.

“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”

You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.

You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.

Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.

“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.

(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)

“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.

You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?

You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.

“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”

Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.

“Don’t you trust me, angel?”

Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.

“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.

“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”

Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.

“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).

He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.

One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.

“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”

You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.

You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.

You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.

Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.

It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.

It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.

There’s a sound from outside.

You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?

Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.

A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?

Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;

“Trick or Treat!”

Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.

A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.

(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).

But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--

One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.

You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.

“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”

“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”

“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”

Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.

But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.

“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”

Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.

“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”

Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.

“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”

The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .

“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.

It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?

But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--

The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.

“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”

You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.

You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--

The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.

There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”

He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.

(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)

His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.

It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--

“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.

You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--

He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.

“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”

“KPOP is not an entertainment anymore. It’s a competition”

-anonymous

Glitter and Rot

What better way to ring in the new year than with my favourite, degenerate twins. Happy belated new year, y'all <;33

Miya Osamu x female reader x Miya Atsumu

w.c 6.8k

tw: extreme dub-con, themes of infidelity, major character death, smut lite, slight gore/violence, somnophilia if you squint, murder, and, as always, yandere themes

The rain comes heavy, soaking the dirt beneath your bare feet. 

The cotton of your nightgown, drenched, plastered to your skin, does little to keep the chill of the midnight air from seeping into your bones. Raindrops fall from the leaves of the trees above you, dripping onto your shoulder, clinging to the ends of your hair, your eyelashes. 

In the mountains, away from the city lights, the night glitters with stars, streaks of soft moonlight spilling through the canopy on clear nights. Tonight, though, with the rain clouds looming ominously overhead, there’s no light beyond the sole beam of torchlight, steadily making its way closer towards you.

Your toes wriggle in the earth. Run. 

He calls out your name, twigs snapping in the undergrowth behind you. 

How… how did you get out here? 

The wind picks up, biting at your soaked, exposed skin. You shiver, and he calls your name again. This time you can hear a note of concern – not quite panic, though. Not yet. 

Run, that quiet voice urges.  

You take a step. Another–

And the torchlight finds you. Squinting under the sudden bright light shining on your face, there’s only a sigh, and the beam shifts downwards.

A familiar countenance peers back at you through the rain; dark hair, grey eyes, a strong jaw. Your husband. 

“You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack one’a these days, sweetheart,” Osamu says, with a wry sort of laugh. “C’mon, let’s get’cha home.”

Holding an umbrella in one hand and the torch in the other, he passes you the latter so that his arm can snake around your middle, tucking you into his side and out of the rain. Unbothered by the dampness of your skin, he presses a kiss to your temple, his thumb rubbing at your side.

“… I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t know– I don’t remember–”

He squeezes you side, offers you a crooked smile as he helps you back through the trees. Back home. “It’s fine, the Doc said this could happen, remember?” 

You do, vaguely. The Doctor had said a lot that day, most of it lost to the ringing in your ears. 

Neither of you say much as you make the trek back to the house. There’s a gentleness to the way he helps you peel off your sodden nightgown, letting the shower heat up before ushering you in. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him again, when he passes you the big, fluffy towel to rub yourself dry. 

Sorry for causing him to worry. Sorry for making him chase after you in the rain in the middle of the night. Sorry that you can’t remember what came before, the life you built with him and all the happiness surrounding it.

You feel like a shell, hollow and useless. You don’t know why he keeps putting up with it, and somewhere in the back of your mind, a nasty voice whispers that he won’t for much longer.

But Samu just shakes his head with a snort, “Don’t be stupid. You’re my wife, ya don’t apologise for anythin’.”

You muster a weak smile in return, quickly glancing away. He’s only being polite, you remind yourself, pulling the towel tighter around yourself. Accident or not, none of this is ideal. It’s been weeks now, and you haven’t gotten better. Your memories are still gone, and no one can tell you with any degree of certainty when or if they’re going to come back, not to mention that tonight officially marks the third time you’ve wandered off in your sleep.

What if your memories don’t come back? What if you never return to the person you used to be? 

Before this you had a family, friends, a history. Likes, dislikes, funny stories from your childhood and weird habits. The things that shape who you are from where you’ve been. You’re just supposed to slide back into the life you had, but how can you when you don’t know who that person was?

What kind of man would want–

“Hey,” he says, catching your jaw to coax your face back up. Grey eyes appraise you, a frown pulling at his features. “I mean it. None of this is your fault. Not the accident, or your memories, the sleepwalking, none of it. And I’m not going anywhere either, alright?”

He holds your gaze, surveying you intently until you bob your head in agreement. 

“Good girl. Now are ya comin’ back to bed or are ya planning on leavin’ your poor husband high and dry for a second time tonight?”

Your cheeks heat, the heaviness between you easing somewhat as amusement dances across his face. He’s handsome, almost intimidatingly so – striking features and excellent bone structure. Something coils in your stomach as the weight of his gaze bores into you. Taking your face in his palms, his thumb brushes along the curve of your cheekbone. Slowly. 

Your mouth parts then, but whatever response you have is lost as his lips descend on yours, kissing you deeply. 

When he pulls away, when you’re breathless and slightly dazed, satisfaction and more than a touch of pride gleams from his expression.

“Though we might have to invest in some better locks. Don’t want ya wandering off too far on me.”

—

Sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under you.

As if you’ve woken in someone else’s life, or a dream, and it’s only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down and you’re whisked away back to reality. A handsome, devoted husband, not one but two houses – the mountainside retreat you’re staying at while you get better, and a place in the city you haven’t yet seen – even the ring on your finger, the bright, sparkling diamond that sits next to your platinum wedding band. 

How can it be real? 

He tells you that the two of you work together in his restaurant back home, and that too  sounds sweet in an oddly domestic way.

And looks can be deceiving, you know that. Money, success, the image of a perfectly happy couple, it doesn’t mean anything. Façades can crack, rot can fester beneath the surface, slowly eating away. 

Everything he tells you sounds so… good.

You’re happy. In love. Fulfilled with your job and comfortable enough financially for the both of you to take the time off while you’re still trying to fix the broken pieces of yourself.

Accident aside, no one gets everything they want. Surely no one can be this happy. 

There’s a niggling sense of unease that bites and gnaws. No one can be this happy. 

There’s a woman who keeps calling Osamu’s phone. You know because those are the calls he lets ring out, ignoring them until he thinks you’re asleep or busy, distracted by whatever task he’s set you on for the day. 

He calls her Hikari. No, that’s not entirely true now, is it – he calls her Kari. 

“Kari, you know I wanna be there, but I can’t. Things are just– it’s not a good time right now, s’all.”

And the house is quiet enough that you can hear her desperate sniffles on the other end of the line, “Samu, please, this is important. I need you back here.”

He huffs, running a hand through his sleep mussed hair, pacing the length of the living room. “I can’t,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I am, but after everythin’… it’s too much.”

She cries again, and it’s a strange thing but your heart squeezes in response. She sounds so broken, so lost and scared, a fragile, pitiable thing. “… I know… “ her voice trembles, “Despite what happened, I know you still care about her. I need you to come back. Please, Samu.”

You slip away then, unable to bear it anymore.

Sliding back beneath the covers of your bed, you let out the shuddering breath you’d been holding, trying to process the conversation you’d overheard. 

There were perhaps other explanations beyond an affair, but as you lie there, mulling it over, none come to mind. If she were a friend–

‘I know you still care about her.’

No. You’re not that naive. Maybe you were before the accident, or maybe you had suspicions, hell, maybe you’d physically caught him in the act – you suppose none of that matters anymore, does it? All that matters is what you’re going to do with this new development.

And as your husband returns a few minutes later, crawling into bed beside you, an arm hooked over your waist, the warmth of his muscular frame pressed up against your back chasing away the winter chill, you wonder if he sees this as some kind of atonement.

Osamu exhales, nuzzling closer in an effort to get more comfortable, and amidst the strange heaviness in your chest, you close your eyes and will yourself back to sleep. 

—

If Osamu knows that you eavesdropped on his call last night, he gives no indication come morning. Although, admittedly, that might be because of your visitor.

The day the Doctor came to the house, he’d said a lot about what was happening to you. A result of head trauma, there was no telling if or when your memories might return. 

He’d spoken to Osamu, taking your concerned looking husband aside just before he’d left.

“What did he say?” you’d asked when he’d returned dutifully to your side.

He hadn’t answered straight away, choosing instead to reach out and take your hand in his. For a moment, his focus remained on your entwined fingers, and then he’d said, “To take things slow. Too many people, too much it might… might overwhelm ya. Until things are better, it’s best if it’s just you ‘n me.”

Today, apparently, marked a change to that, because his twin brother was arriving to stay for a little while. 

Which, shortly after mid morning, he does. 

Naturally, you’ve seen pictures, you and the twins back in highschool, posing with a friend of theirs, grinning toothily and laughing at the camera. Seeing the two of them in person, though – it’s a whole other ball game.

Next to each other, they’re a mirror image, but… not. Tiny, subtle differences that weirdly make them appear more similar than less. It doesn’t make any sense at all, and yet you have no other way of explaining it. 

Osamu stands at your side, his arm slung over your shoulder as his brother pulls up front in a fancy, fast looking car. Atsumu, however, pays him no mind,  eyes – a few shades browner than his brother’s – fixed solely on you, a familiar, smirking grin broadening across his handsome visage.

Osamu tells you that the three of you are close, yet with only a faint, glimmering recognition and your husband’s words to fall back on, it’s hard to know how you’re supposed to greet someone you once knew and loved.

With an arm loosely wrapped around your front, you settle for a smile. 

Atsumu notes this with a raised eyebrow. “Aw, c’mon now, that ain’t no way to greet your favourite twin, is it?”

Before you can stop him he’s on you, yanking you away from Osamu so he can pick you up into a near crushing hug, spinning you around for good measure. You shriek and bury your face in his neck, clinging to him while he laughs, eventually setting you down on wobbly feet.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says, ignoring Samu’s disapproving scowl in favour of taking you in, hands settling on your waist. And there must be some giveaway, a hesitance he notes because his demeanour turns curious, head tilting to the side, “Still nothin’, huh?”

You shake your head, shrugging. “Sorry.”

Feels like that’s all you’re capable of saying lately. 

“Nah, don’t be. Not your fault.”

While you don’t necessarily agree – it’s hard not to think of any of this as some kind of moral failing, as though the only reason you can’t recover those precious memories is because you’re simply not trying hard enough – it’s… nice having someone else around to help fill in the gaps a little.

Not that you aren’t endlessly grateful to Osamu – more than you actually know how to convey to him, and you have tried. It’s just that when you woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom, being watched over by a man you didn’t recognise, and with no memories of who you were or what had happened, you hadn’t reacted well.

Being your husband (the issue of fidelity aside), he’s supposed to be the person who matters the most to you, and you assume that’s a two way street. In a sense, forgetting him is its own kind of betrayal, with that comes the heaviness of expectations and fears and awfulness.

Plus, things have been… strained between you two, lately. 

So yes, having Atsumu here as a sort of buffer between you two is a relief. Having someone else to help fill in the gaps in your life, to tell you about the person you used to be – the one you’re trying to fit back into – even more so.

“That year we made it all the way to the finals before gettin’ knocked out.”

His finger draws across the picture; the volleyball team, sweaty and defeated, bowing before the roaring crowd. All these years later, now a pro playing in arguably one of the best teams in the country (according to him), a two-time Olympic medalist, and he still sounds pissed about it.

You bite back a giggle, following when he turns the page of the year book. “I dunno, second in the nation when you’re still in high school doesn't sound too bad to me.”

“You were there that day.” 

Glancing up, you find Osamu considering the two of you from the kitchen, elbow deep in food prep for dinner. “I was?”

He nods. “Yeah. Ya came to all our games, right from the start.”

“There,” Atsumu taps on the next page, a picture of a younger you cheering wildly from the stands, hands cupped around your mouth to amplify your shouts, maroon ribbons in your hair. “Our cute little cheerleader.”

“We begged ya to become our manager, but ya kept turnin’ us down,” Samu adds, then smirks, “Said you couldn’t stand being around Tsumu for another ten hours a week.”

The dig reaches its mark, Atsumu sneering as he flips Samu the bird, while his other arm slides from the backrest of the couch to drape over your shoulders. You hardly notice, utterly transfixed by the book on Tsumu’s lap. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how weird it is to be seeing these pictures, like peering into some alternate universe; you, but not you. You look happy, though.

It makes your heart ache a little.

Did you like sports, or was it more of a school pride sort of thing, you wonder. Or was it them – him, really – who drew you into it? If you watched a game now, would you feel anything, some glint of recognition? Excitement?

Flipping the page, you study the various pictures until one in particular catches your eye – only after a second glance. To be fair, the photo isn’t of you – well, it is, but you’re not the focus. Rather it’s of two girls who appear to be in the same year as you, posing cutely with each other on the school’s courtyard. Behind them, though, in the background there’s a wooden picnic bench in the shade of an oak. Perched cross-legged atop it, sitting amongst piled up books and notes, there’s you – and you’re not alone.

Shoulders back, eyes closed, soaking in the rays of the sun filtering through the leaves sits another boy. Not Osamu, one of his teammates, a dark haired kid you recognise from a bunch of the old photos they’d shown you.

The image itself might not be so remarkable – you’re not doing anything all that interesting, one of a number of people captured in the background, and slightly out of focus at that– if not for the one tiny detail that has a strange feeling racing through your heart.

Barely visible but for the way you study it, your hand is curled in his. 

“– listenin’?”

“Huh?”

Mid-way through scraping out his rice, Osamu fixes you with an odd expression. Atsumu, however, just snickers and flicks your forehead. “Ya always were a little spacey.”

Halfheartedly, you chuckle along with him.

The smart thing to do – perhaps the right thing – would be to leave it. 

Samu told you the two of you dated right through high school, so it can’t be anything like that. There’s a possibility the two of you were just close. Good friends, judging by how often he appears in the photos with you and the twins. He’d told you your parents, the only family you had, died in an accident years ago, but Samu hasn’t really spoken much about your friends. You know why, and understand it to an extent – he doesn’t want to stress you out unnecessarily, not while you’re still so fragile.

‘The doc said we gotta take things slow, baby.’

Nevertheless, your lips part, the question burning on the tip of your tongue–

Suddenly, as has become a frequent occurrence in the past few days, Osamu’s phone blares to life, the loud vibrations against the marble countertop startling all three of you. 

He doesn’t answer it, by this point you no longer expect him to. 

—

You dream of fingers running through dark hair, of lips smiling lazily. Someone laughing, ‘You’re an idiot.’

There’s a warmth, a slow burning heat that ignites in your body, trailing from your jaw, down the slope of your neck, dancing along delicate collarbone, another unfurling deep within your core. You chase the pleasant sensations, a soft, pretty moan drawn from parted lips. 

Only when teeth bite down, a tender nip to sensitive flesh are you roused from your dreams to find your husband straddling you, his mouth now between your breasts, dark eyes that glint in the low morning light taking in your visage as you slowly come to. 

“S-Samu, wha–”

“Shh.” He chuckles, your stomach flipping at the deep rumble, “Relax. Gonna make ya feel good, baby.”

Whatever protests you might have (if you have any at all) are lost when you realise that the heat pooling in your guts is due to the two digits Osamu has curled up inside of you, slowly easing in and out.

It isn’t the first time the two of you have been intimate since the accident, and while you hadn’t fought him those times either, there’s a slight niggling sensation, nearly lost to the burgeoning pleasure, that twists and knots at the thought of what’s to come.

There’s no possible way of knowing how often you’ve had sex with each other in the years you’ve been together. For him, this must be old hat. For you though, with no frame of reference, no past partners to call to mind, there’s an edge of vulnerability you wish you could get rid of.

A hesitance you don’t give a voice to – not that Samu offers you much of an opening to do so. 

Pushing up the hem of your nightdress, your husband lifts your hips enough to ease off your panties, dragging them slowly down smooth legs until they’re dangling from one ankle, and you kick them aside.

Spreading them either side of his broad frame, Osamu stands briefly to rid himself of his own underwear, crawling on all fours back between your legs – gripping one thigh to sink his teeth into soft, delectable flesh – his tongue quick to soothe the hurt when you cry out.

“A-Atsumu, he’s gonna wake up,” you murmur as he once more takes you by the waist, hefting you forward so that you lie flush against him, your legs hiked up over his hips. 

The very last thing you want right now is an audience.

With one hand, he strokes his cock with the fingers that had been buried inside your pussy, spreading the glistening mix of your slick and his pre over the thick member. The other’s planted near your shoulder, keeping him stable while he rolls his hips forward, slowly bullying his cock into your warm, tight little cunt. Osamu grins roguishly, lowering his top half down to hover above you as you fist at the sheets, your spine arcing, ankles locking over his back.

“Maybe–” he grunts, relishing in the sounds of your sweet cries and gasps as he inches his way into stuffing you full. “Maybe I want him to hear.”

—

A heavy weight drops onto the couch beside you. “Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”

You fiddle with the rings on your left hand. How many times now have you caught yourself toying with them, completely lost in contemplation, their weight on your finger almost foreign? 

A few times now you’ve taken them off to wash up and forgotten about them entirely, not noticing their absence until Samu himself comes to take your hand in his and slide them back on. 

Did you used to do that before the accident?

No… no, you probably spent days marvelling at them, wiggling your fingers to make the diamond sparkle in the light. You were probably enthralled by the pretty thing. Blissfully in love. 

Happy.

“I think Osamu’s cheating on me.”

You don’t dare raise your eyeline when you say it, afraid of what you’ll see. You might be his wife, however poor a job you’re currently doing, yet the one person Osamu’s closest to is undeniably his brother. 

Since Tsumu arrived three days ago, all they’ve done is bicker between themselves, and yet without either of them saying as much, the writing’s on the wall. It’s in the looks they share, full of silent conversations you’re not privy to and won’t ever have a hope of understanding. In the way they move around each other, that implicit, frankly unnerving trust they have with one another. 

There are things Osamu can’t share with you – or won’t, maybe – but there’s not a doubt in your mind that if Samu were sleeping with somebody else, if he loved them as he claimed to love you, Atsumu knows about it.

It’s not confirmation that you’re searching for, though. You doubt he’d admit it to begin with – between you and Samu, there’s no question of which side his loyalty falls. This isn’t about that.

For days now, weeks, you’ve had this gnawing pit in your stomach that keeps getting worse, and worse and worse. 

With each day that passes, you should be making some kind of progress towards regaining your memories or, if not that, then at the very least becoming more comfortable around him. Yet you still feel like a stranger inhabiting this body, and to make matters worse, your marriage might be failing before you can try to adjust yourself to it. 

Atsumu’s really the last person you should be saying this to. It’s the sort of thing you accidentally let slip to a friend after one too many glasses of wine, letting them comfort you and offer advice, commiserate, even.

Yet Samu won’t so much as bring up the friends you had before for fear of making things worse – because you’re fragile and weak, and you haven’t shown any signs of getting better. From the complete and utter radio silence on their ends, you can only assume none of them bothered to fight him on it. 

Again, rationally speaking you can understand it – that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting in its own bitter way.

Beside you, Atsumu laughs. Actually laughs. 

Indignation – hurt – burns, heating your cheeks as your hands curl into pathetic little fists in your lap and shake. Much to your dismay, tears prickly uncomfortably at your waterline. You go to say something, only for a lump to settle in your throat, blocking all noise. You didn’t think he’d spill the truth just like that, but to laugh at you?

In a split second decision you start to rise, planning on stalking off to go lick your wounds alone in your bedroom until Samu comes home, when a hand on your shoulder stops you.

He chuckles again when he’s met with your poisonous glare, “Hey, c’mon. Don’t run away, I wasn’t laughin’ atcha.”

Raising an eyebrow, you scoff. His lips curl into a smirk, hands coming up in a peaceful gesture. “Okay, okay, I was but… s’just funny to me that you think Samu’d ever look twice at another girl. He’s been in love with ya pretty much from day one.” 

The words should be more of a reassurance than they are. Your shoulders rise and fall, a tight shrug as your gaze dips once more to your lap, to the rings that shine mockingly on your left hand. 

Atsumu, however, isn’t so willing to drop the subject. 

“Nah, you don’t get to say some wild shit like that ‘n then go all quiet on me. Explain.”

If you got up and left, would he follow you? Probably, you muse. If anything, Atsumu’s proven over the past few days that he’s nothing if not persistent. He’s clearly amused, at your expense, mind you, yet the way he scrutinises you now, the slight narrowing of his eyes, that reminds you of a dog with a bone. 

No, he won’t let this go.

Nibbling at your bottom lip, you shrug again, “There’s this girl– woman, I guess. She keeps calling him… Samu won’t talk to her if I’m around.” You swallow tightly, “I–I overheard them, the last time she rang, and…” 

“What’d ya hear?”

You fiddle with the hem of your skirt as that tell tale prickle stings at your tear ducts. After your early morning tumble in the sheets, you’d thought that things might’ve been different between you two. But Samu still left, some hollow excuse about running errands, and all you can think is that he’s with her now, that whatever you gave wasn’t enough and–

“Look at me.” Atsumu’s no longer laughing. If anything, he actually looks mildly pissed off by the whole thing, his jaw tightening even as he tries for a reassuring smile, scooching closer and touching your shoulder again, “What did she say to him?”

“She told him she needed him, begged him to come home.” Your voice breaks, just as the dam to your tears do, tumbling down your cheeks as your shoulders shake and crumple inwards. 

Atsumu runs his tongue over his teeth before muttering a quiet curse, and you suppose that that’s confirmation enough. Without a word he pulls you into his arms, your face held to his chest while he strokes your back and you cling to him in turn, letting all the frustration and grief and confusion of the past few weeks spill out  of you in horrid, trembling cries. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, half cradled in Atsumu’s lap before he finally speaks, “I don’t care what ya heard. Samu loves you more than anythin’, we both do. He ain’t gonna throw that away for nobody.”

Drawing back, he takes your cheek in one hand, cupping it in his palm, the broad pad of his thumb sweeping away the remnants of your tears with a tenderness that near breaks your heart. 

“I mean it,” he says. You’re close enough that the warmth of his breath tickles your skin, that you can count every last one of his eyelashes. Your stomach flutters. “You mean everything to us. Nothin’s gonna get in the way of that.”

And before you can stop him, before you can blink, Atsumu’s closing the gap between you, his lips meeting yours. 

Like a computer short circuiting, there’s nothing you can do but freeze and falter as he kisses you, wholly unbothered by your lack of participation. His lips are surprisingly soft, warm as they move against yours, and while his tongue brushes along your lower lip, he makes no real effort to deepen it, seemingly content with the contact he has. 

Your heart pounds against your ribcage so violently that it drowns out all other noise. Your stomach twists, flips, churning as he moans softly into your mouth, but for the life of you, you can’t move, can’t stop this. You’re frozen. Shellshocked. Only when Atsumu breaks away, pupils dilated, eyes slightly glazed over, wearing a stupid, self satisfied little grin do you finally gain control over your body again.

By that point, he’s already shifting to settle you back on the couch, rising himself. “Samu and I love ya. We aren’t goin’ anywhere, stop worrying your pretty little head about it, yeah?”

And then he’s walking away, whistling as he goes.

—

A little while later, Atsumu calls out that he’s going for a run. You don’t acknowledge it. 

The front door opens. Closes. The sun moves across the sky, minutes tick by, and eventually he returns, sweaty and panting, popping his head in the door to make sure you’re right where he left you.

The whole time you sit stationary on your bed, staring vacantly out the window to the forest that lies beyond. Numb, just numb.

“Gonna go have a shower, then I think you ‘n me should talk before Samu gets back.” He waits and you don’t acknowledge him. Shrugging off his shirt, something wicked enters his expression, “Unless ya wanna come join me?”

That, finally, gets a reaction; your head jerking back to regard him with wide, scandalised eyes, “What?”

He winks, snickers when your gaze drops briefly below his shoulders, eyeing his muscular chest, the well defined planes of his stomach. A bead of sweat rolls from his neck, you track its path with a rapt focus, down to his navel, the smattering of hair there, the cut of the V shaped muscles that draw your attention towards– 

Abruptly, you force your attention upwards, cheeks burning as blood rushes to your face.

Atsumu, grinning smugly, missed none of it. “Next time, then.”

And with that, he waltzes off, leaving the door ajar.

… What the hell?

What the actual fuck?

Head reeling, you have no idea how you’re supposed to process this sudden shift in… well, everything. Had this – you and Atsumu – happened before? Did Osamu know about it? 

Were you cheating, too? 

Was that what your relationship with Osamu was; two deeply unhappy people screwing countless others to avoid fixing whatever it was that festered between them.

Your mind jumps to the picture you’d seen in the year book, you and that boy on the picnic bench, your hand wrapped around his. Osamu told you that you’d been dating ever since your high school days, had you been unfaithful that whole time – spreading your legs for his friends and brother until he gave up trying to be loyal in return?

You feel sick at the thought. 

What other option is there, though? What explanation? Either Atsumu’s being particularly cruel and messing with you, or he isn’t and you’re apparently more than okay fucking not only your husband but his brother as well.

‘Despite what happened, I know you still care about her.’ Hikari’s words ring mockingly in your head. All this time you’ve been so bent out of shape over the idea of Osamu with another woman, and it’s now occurring to you that maybe you might’ve been the one to drive him to it.

Despite what happened.

You draw in a shuddering breath, you bring a hand to your lips, either to stifle a sob or to keep yourself from throwing up, you’re not entirely sure which. 

And as the sound of running water filters through the room, so too does a sense of calm clarity. 

For weeks now you’ve been trying to make this work, trying to slip back into the person you were, a life that you don’t truly remember.

And it isn’t working. 

You still don’t feel normal around Osamu. You don’t remember anything, and despite what you’d been told from the start – despite fighting it every step of the way – you have to accept the possibility that that might not change.

Your spine straightens, the grip you have on the duvet easing as you take another, calmer breath in, letting it fill your lungs and clear your head.

The answer’s been staring you in the face this whole time. If you can’t find your way back to the life you led before you got hurt, perhaps rather than clinging to a past that doesn’t truly belong to you anymore, it’s time you cut it loose and walk away.

A clean break doesn’t sound like such a bad idea when the current situation promises nothing but messiness, hurt and heartbreak for everyone involved.

Even if the thought of going it alone is a terrifying one. 

Even if it means leaving the one – now two, you suppose – people who stood by your side in the aftermath behind.

And as if the universe senses the tumultuousness inside your head, the sharp, trilling sound of a ringtone shatters it, snapping you out of your thoughts and back into the moment. 

You figure that it must be Atsumu’s phone and despite being startled, you’re content to let it ring out – after all, it’s not your phone, not your business. 

Atsumu’s a professional athlete, an incredibly successful one at that, there could be any number of important people on the other end of the line, and if it’s critical, whoever it is can leave a message. You’re not his receptionist.

After a few seconds, the ringing stops. And begins again.

Frowning, you push yourself up from the bed, heading towards the dining room. Atsumu’s still in the shower, you can hear the faucet running, your only thought is that if it’s Samu and it’s something urgent, he won’t mind. 

Except when you find it, lit up and vibrating on the kitchen bench, the caller ID isn’t his twin’s. Again, the ringing stops, and again, after a short beat, it begins anew. 

The picture that fills the screen is of a pretty girl with dimples, her arms looped around a familiar looking brunet.

Not Osamu, but the boy from the yearbook. Older, of course, smiling lazily at the camera while she pokes her tongue out and throws up two peace signs. 

Little Suna, the caller ID tells you, and in brackets next to a sun emoji; Hikari.

Your heart squeezes, a thick lump settling in your throat as you survey the image of the two of them. But it isn’t dismay, or the hurt you’d felt earlier when Osamu was hiding her. You can’t put a finger on what it is exactly, only that looking at that picture fills you with an incomprehensible and near overwhelming sense of grief, like someone’s clawed their way into your chest, taken your still beating heart in their hand and slowly, agonisingly, ripped it from you.

Without consciously choosing to do so, you slide the little bar across, answering the call and clicking on the speaker icon.

“H-hello?”

The silence you’re met with is heavy. Pregnant. Why did you pick up? Why the hell did you answer?! Panic and common sense sets in and you silently curse yourself for being so stupid, your finger moving to hurriedly tap the end call button. 

And then you hear her gasp, a tiny, sharp little thing that spears right through you. Hikari stutters your name, “You… Wha– they… they found you?”

She starts to laugh then, or maybe she’s sobbing, it’s difficult to tell exactly. 

“You’re okay?” she asks, the sound muffled by choked, ragged noises. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re okay! A-after they found Rin, I-I thought–”

White noise drowns her out.

… Rin.

Rin…taro. 

Suna.

Your knees go weak, giving way beneath you. Pain sings through your kneecaps as they collide with the wooden floorboards, but it’s nothing compared to the agony that overtakes your chest, spreading with every beat of your frantic heart until it’s the only thing you can feel, and you cling to it. Desperate. Gasping.

There’s a frantic noise somewhere, Hikari calling your name; it’s lost to the pounding haze. Nothing more than the buzz of a gnat flittering around your head.

Every thought eddies from your head, only him. Only that name; Suna Rintaro.

And suddenly–

“You’re an idiot, you know?”

You laugh, throwing an arm around his shoulder as you wriggle your fingers in front of his face, admiring the sparkling ring. “But it’s so pretty, don’t you think? It suits me.”

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow when you turn to cheekily grin at him, “Considering I was the one who picked it, yeah, that was kind of the idea.”

Giggling, you stretch up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

………

“Gin can’t make it. Somethin’ about his girlfriend and the baby,” Rin mutters, appearing in the doorway of your bedroom. “So it’ll just be us and the twins, I guess.”

“Well geez, no need to sound too excited about it,” you say, eyeing your boyfriend – fiancé now, you have to keep reminding yourself – from the mirror as you battle with the clasp of your necklace. “It’s fine, we’ll see him when we see Kita and the others next month.”

A few seconds pass with no sign of victory, and Rin rolls his eyes, “Let me.” 

He comes up behind you, taking the delicate gold chain from your fingers and nimbly clasping it shut in what feels like a mockery of your struggles. Adjusting the pendant so that it falls better, he exhales, letting his arms fold loosely around you, his chin coming to a rest atop your head. 

The faint crease between his brows, the set of his jaw – to anyone else he might appear bored, annoyed even. You aren’t so easily fooled. You know Rin, know better than to push. It’s not hard to guess what’s bothering him, though. “You think it’ll be weird?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shrugs, “I think it’ll be weirder without Gin.”

“It was years ago, they’ve both moved on – a long, long time ago. They’re our friends, Rin. The only thing they’re gonna be is happy for us.”

………

A hand covering your mouth, another roughly shaking your shoulder, rousing you from sleep. “Shh, shh, it’s just me. There’s someone in the house,” Rin’s voice whispers in your ear. “Get under the bed and don’t make a sound, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Rin–”

“Not a fucking sound!” he hisses, and quietly slips from the bed. As if on cue, a loud shattering noise cuts through the room, and terror, absolute terror, grips you. You do as he bids, limbs shaking and clumsy, the sound of every breath enhanced in the quiet stillness Rintaro leaves behind. You clamp a hand over your mouth to try and muffle it.

You wait, and wait, trembling in the darkness.

And then a crash, heavier than the last one. Rintaro’s yelling, more voices raised, more muted thumps, grunting and howling bellows of agony that have every hair on your body standing on end, and abruptly–

Silence.

It rings in your ear, echoing.

Your pulse thunders, every beat of your heart pumping a paralysing mix of fear and panic through your body. You’re shaking like a leaf, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try – try so desperately – not to make a noise like Rin told you to.

The footsteps that approach have your blood running cold, and you squeeze your eyes shut, wheezing terrified breaths as you choke back sobs and pray that they won’t find you. 

You aren’t that lucky.

You aren’t that quiet.

They stop at the foot of the bed. Two of them. One bends down, a hand finding your ankle and with a snickering laugh, yanks you out into the open. 

You scream and fight against the figures clad head to toe in black, thrashing like a wild thing for all the good that it does you. You’re determined not to go easy – at least, not until they carry you out past the living room, the mess they left there.

Rin, but not Rin. Not with his face brutalised like that, his skull all caved in, limbs broken and splayed out all wrong.

No.

No, no, no, no.

One eye, empty and lifeless, staring back–

It’s too much.

You blink, jerking back to the present with a heaving gasp. Glancing up, your gut tightens into a knot as two things become starkly apparent. 

One; Osamu’s finally returned, standing half frozen in the doorway, appraising you with an uncharacteristically cold expression.

Two; it’s deathly quiet. Turning your head, you find that the call with Kari’s gone silent, a shirtless Atsumu, hair damp, a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips, gripping his phone, jaw tightly clenched.

It twists into an awful sort of forced grin when he notices you’ve come back to them. 

“I really, really wish ya hadn’t done that, baby.”

Can you do treasure 13 reaction to an idol saying that their gf is their ideal type? Does that even make sense? Lol i hope it does

Yes it does make sense! This took me a whole hour to write omg.

The idols I picked for this are Stray Kids, NCT Dream and a Sexy Zone member, I tried getting the idols to be similar ages to them.

I’m assuming that the girlfriend is also an idol from a girl group and I made it in a way where their relationship is private, so none of the public would know about it :)

Treasure13 Reaction To An Idol Saying Their Girlfriend Is Their Ideal Type

Hyunsuk

When Hyunsuk was watching you on weekly idol when Seungmin from Stray Kids made the confession. You had just released a new song and one of the guest MC’s were Seungmin as you entered the set, Seungmin cheeks turned bright red, the other MC’s noticed and started asking him why he was blushing, that’s when he said “Y/N is actually my ideal type, I’m really happy to meet her”. Hyunsuk would be all cocky, bragging, “Of course, who wouldn’t have Y/N as their ideal type?” But he would make sure to keep a closer eye on Seungmin on the future, if the two ever crossed paths.

Jihoon

Jihoon was eating ramen while live streaming the Running Man episode that featured you and another member of your group along with Renjun and Jaemin from NCT Dream, as Jaemin had been on a hiatus for awhile Yoo Jaesuk asked him if there was any particular songs he listened to. To this, Jaemin replied that he listened to your groups songs, Yoo Jaesuk then asked if there was a particular member he was fond of from your group, “I really like Y/N, she’s been my ideal type for a while.” All the members of Running Man would break into havoc at the sudden confession while Jihoon would be shocked at the confession. Jihoon’s ramen would fall from his mouth as his jaw drops. ‘He’s pretty gutsy isn’t he?’ Doesn’t blame him though, you’re charming.

Yoshinori

Yoshinori was on a Japanese cooking show along with the youngest member of Sexy Zone, Yoshinori was busy cooking while all of a sudden he heard a voice mentioning your name, as he looked up he saw the owner of the voice, it was the member of Sexy Zone. “I’m a big fan of Y/N, she’s my ideal type.” The other hosts of the show started saying that the two would look good together. The boy was blushing but Yoshinori was taken aback, wasn’t mad, but after the show he talked to his manager about being able to shoot a commercial with you, to prove to the hosts, the Sexy Zone memeber whose name he had already forgotten and to prove to the world that you two look the best together.

Junkyu

Would be on the same show as you, along with Jeno from NCT Dream. Junkyu, Jeno and you had shot a commercial together, that went viral all over the nation, making headlines how good looking and powerful your auras were when the three of you were together. After the commercial, many brands had been asking the three of you to star in their commercials, the three of you made such a big deal, that the Knowing Bros had asked you to star on their show. That’s how the three of you ended up there. When the three of you entered the class room exclaims were heard from the Bros, no one could doubt that the three of you were good looking, have powerful auras and are tall - like models, (say you’re about 170cm). As the show progressed, one of the Bros asked Jeno and Junkyu if they could recreate your legendary fancam, as your fancam was being played, Jeno wasted no time in recreating it, the whole studio was in awe, including you and Junkyu, as the fancam and Jeno’s dancing came to an end, one of the Bros said “The only way Jeno could’ve gotten the dance so precise is that if he had a crush on Y/N.” Jeno’s cheeks turned crimson, while Junkyu’s brows shot up to his hairline. “To be honest, Y/N is my ideal type.” The Bros were screaming and jumping up and down, while you were flustered, Junkyu said “Play the fancam again, it’s my turn!” Thats how it turned into a dance competition between him and Jeno, as the two competed more fancams of you were played, after the two had been completely drained, you decided to show them that you were better at the two of them. I got a lil carried away

Yoonbin

Yoonbin and Changbin from Stray Kids were on weekly idol, a competition of who had the most darkest aura, half way through the show, the two only proved that they were fluffiest cinnamon buns ever. The two had to send a video of them doing aegyo to a celebrity, Yoonbin was first, “Sajangnim, I hope you give me more lines and more screen time in our music videos” he exclaimed in a high pitched voice, the MC’s absolutely loved it and asked him again if he was sure if he wanted his CEO to see this, “I have nothing to lose” Yoonbin replied which caused the MC’s burst into laughter. It was Changbins turn now, ‘Who is this video to?’ An MC asked, “To my ideal type” the MC’s were found ‘ooooh-ing’ along with Yoonbin, “Who? Who? Who?” They persisted, with red cheeks Changbin replied, “Y/N.” Yoonbin was shocked but he made sure not to show it, after the show, Yoonbin headed home and smothered you with aegyo, despite you not liking aegyo, you could admit that you only liked it when it was Yoonbin doing aegyo, “Right? You only like it when I do it?”

Mashiho

Mashiho was in Japan touring, while he was in bed live streaming your groups TV show, on this episode, you and your group had gone to your company’s building to meet up with your brother group - Stray Kids - to hear some tips from them, as your group had just debuted. Your group entered Stray Kids dancing studio and watched them practice their song, not wanting to disrupt their dancing. As the song came to an end your group started clapping and ‘wowing’. Your group and Stray Kids were now sitting in a circle while your member spoke up, “As our seniors, are there any tips for us?” Bang Chan spoke up “Dating is something normal, you can’t get rid of feeling, but if you do get caught, JYP won’t be hard on you.” He said all this while staring at Jisung, “Trust me, I know from experience” Hyunjin said making everyone break out into laughter. “Y/N, do you have an ideal type?” Jisung asked out of the blue, “Uh, I like guys who loo cute and have a soft vibe.” You replied, Mashiho watching from his laptop, nodded his head in approval, knowing you had just described him, no doubt. “You’re my ideal type.” Jisung blurted out, “What are you saying?” Minho slapped his back laughing, your group and his group all laughed it off. Mashiho knew that when the two of you met again, he was only going to spoil you in affection.

Jaehyuk

Jaehyuk was just scrolling around on Instagram when he saw a picture of your cut out at a makeup store that you model for, and infront of that cut out was I.N from Stray Kids. He frowned at the photo, clicked onto it and read the caption ‘My ideal type’ it read. Reading through the comments his frown only got deeper, seeing that so many people though that the two would make such a cute couple. He went onto his Instagram and posted a picture of your latest album, captioning it ‘Y/N is a very talented singer, hopefully one day I could collaborate with her ☺️.’ He was jealous, I.N can’t couldn’t compete with him because he already had your heart and vice versa. You best believe that a collaboration between the two of you would happen.

Asahi

This guy is so confusing like I just can’t figure him out, and there isn’t much ‘footage’ of him for me to even guess how he’ll react.

Would have a blank space, ‘so what’, your his ideal type too, Chenle ain’t special. Difference is that Asahi is your ideal type and Chenle isn’t. He keeps your relationship private so it’s only the two of you that can share special moments together with each other, not with the rest of the world, that’s why his reaction is blank, he doesn’t want anyone suspecting anything, for your sake and his. I’m sorry it wasn’t that good.

Yedam

When he heard Hyunjin from Stray Kids say that you’re his ideal type, he would be a bit ‘down’, Yedam just seems to be someone who isn’t 100% happy with themself, he’s always pushing himself, pushing himself to his limits at such as young age, he would probably think you would be more happier with Hyunjin, so you’ll have to help Yedam love himself more :(

Doyoung

He and Jisung from NCT Dream were on a dancing program and your song came on, the two of them raced to the front and started dancing to your song as best as they could, the two were on opposing teams so pushed themselves, Jisung was the winner of this round, which has dampened Doyoung’s spirit a bit, he was your boyfriend so how could he have not been a better dancer at your song? One of the hosts asked Jisung at how he was so good at dancing to your song “She’s my ideal type, that’s how.” Doyoung just became more and more competitive, he became more determined in winning, Jisung had won at the dancing round, but he has not won your heart like Doyoung did.

Haruto

Would be taken aback when he heard Felix from Stray Kids say that you were his ideal type, Haruto was so taken aback that he said “Really? Me too” out loud, the hosts would make the two rap out their confessions or something like that, at the end of the show Haruto would be thinking something like ‘I’m not only Y/N’s boyfriend but her bestfriend also.’ He knows he has nothing to worry about.

Jeongwoo

“Okay but do you know all her songs off by heart?” He would say to the screen watching [insert a boy group member was young as Jeongwoo] say that you’re his ideal type, “okay but do you know how to reach all her high notes like I do?” He would have a mini argument with his phone screen, “Plus, Y/N doesn’t date people who wear NIKE.” “She doesn’t even breathe near them, he knows nothing of her.”

Junghwan

“Oh, really?” He wouldn’t know how to react he’s such a baby omllllllll you guys are probably more like best friends than boyfriend and girlfriend 🤷🏻‍♀️

Haruto imagine

about what?????? bro you need to elaborate 💀

i like yandere fics because i would much rather be locked in a basement and subjected to unspeakable horrors than work

I got news for you baby, you're looking at the man!

pairing: john price x fem!reader

wc: 7.2k...sorry lmao plz read…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, oral (m. receiving), road head, porn w so much plot, hair pulling, angst, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, dysfunctional family, i.e., ongoing conflict, reader having familial issues (mostly maternal), age-gap, secret relationship & marriage, & john being a protector.

author's note: this was brought to fruition by a singular barry sloan edit that had me salivating and @sai-int's fic 'a ticket to play', which single-handedly re-sparked my love for price! so, yeah, anyways, enjoy this horny mess!

dividers by @/saradikagraphics!

John Price is a man...

“John, you didn’t,” you hiss, eyes wide as you set down the groceries on the counter, your wrists aching from the heavy load.

“Didn’t know it was your mother, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone sincere. He quickly grabs the bags and begins unpacking the groceries.

You glance at the house phone positioned beside the fridge, then peel off the old sticky note attached there. You read it aloud, “Don’t answer calls from the 406 area code. I’m talking to you, John,” before pausing to think, lips pursed in contemplation.

He opens the fridge, sliding the milk jug inside before carefully shutting the door. When he turns back to see your knowing smile, his eyebrows lift in a silent acknowledgment, a quiet ‘ah’ escaping his lips.

“Well,” you urge, grabbing the aromatics from the counter to put up. “What did she say when you picked up?” You ask, attempting to sound as casual and disinterested as possible.

“Oh. Nothin’ you’d find interestin,’” he hums with a knowing smile as he tears open a pack of paper towels.

You press your lips together. “Well…yeah,” you mutter, picking up a few grapefruits. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me,” you defend, emphasizing the ‘doesn’t.’ “I just want to know what she thought,” you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Mhm,” he hums thoughtfully as he gathers the now-empty reusable bags, hanging them on the hook next to the cabinet.

“I’m serious,” you say, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “I really don’t care.”

"I know you don't, hon." He turns to wash the fresh berries in a colander, the water splashing against the metal steadily.

"You don't believe me," you exasperate.

He lets out a low laugh as he washes the berries. "Didn't say that."

You lean against the kitchen island, your body language betraying your frustration. "You were thinking it," you accuse, with a dramatic sigh.

He sets the berries back into the colander and turns his head toward you, a playful half-smile on his lips. “No, I wasn't,” he replies, clearly amused.

You poke your tongue into your cheek, mentally cursing yourself for marrying someone so adept at reading your emotions, your inner conflict laid bare.

“But,” he says, tearing a paper towel to dry his hands. “Now, I’m starting to feel that you do care.”

You don’t respond, trying to avert your gaze as heat creeps into your cheeks like he’s caught you sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Baby,” he moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. “It’s okay to care,” he whispers softly into your hair, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

You gently shut your eyes, pressing your face into his warm abdomen, finding comfort in his presence.

“Damn it,” you mumble, your words muffled against him. He chuckles softly in response. “Alright, fine,” you pull back slightly, locking your eyes onto his as his hands cradle your cheeks. “I do care. Now, spill the juicy details.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, she started by checkin’ in on you.”

You release a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. She always has ulterior motives," you grumble. "I swear that woman is always up to—"

"Shh," he squishes your cheeks together as both thumbs rest over your lips to silence you. "Will you let me finish?" He prompts, quipping a brow.

"Sorry, yeah," you apologize, your voice coming out muffled and nasal. 

He nods with a smile, moves his thumbs off your mouth, and drops his hands to massage your shoulders. "Said your sister is gettin' married, and she thought it would be nice if you came down for her engagement party this weekend," he supplies. 

Correction remarried.

She's on her fifth? No, her sixth husband now.

Guess she thinks six will be the lucky number.

Who’s gonna tell her?

However, that’s beside the point; you care about something much more…pathetic.

You feel frustrated because all you really want is to know how your mother reacted to the deep, gruff voice of the Englishman who answered the phone.

You wait with a bated breath, eyes wide with anticipation, but his expression remains flat, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What else?" You finally question, unable to contain your curiosity.

"That's all," he plainly says, his words hanging in the air.

You scoff. "She didn't ask about the random guy answering my phone?" You voice with disbelief.

Your mother is a shallow woman, but surely you getting what she’s constantly pressured you into getting would have her jumping for joy.

A sly smirk grows on his lips. "Am I just some random guy?" He jokes.

You smile yourself before pressing a kiss to his lips, arms coming to wrap around his torso. "You’re my husband, so not to me," you begin. "But to her, yes," your hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down to peck his lips again. "You know that," you say matter-of-factly.

His hands drift to your waist. "Mhm, I'm your dirty little secret," he hums softly.

"John," you frown, guilt flooding your brain. "You know I would, but—"

"Just jokes, baby," he interjects, pressing a light kiss on your temple as his eyes light up. "I love you in any way you’ll have me," he murmurs softly.

"God, you’re perfect," you reply with a smile. 

"She did question who I was," he starts. "Had no idea she was so southern," he remarks casually before continuing. "She thought I was the plumber," he quips, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

He tried, but he could feel the tension in the air.

Sees the disappointment and anger in your eyes.

In your posture.

You're fucking pissed.

"Typical," you remark, stepping away from him, arms flailing around. "She—she thinks I'm so incapable of finding someone that she would resort to thinking you're a person I pay before actually thinking you're with me." Your voice is filled with frustration.

"Hon—" John begins, voice soft as his hand reaches for you.

"And she wonders why I never visit," you release a dry laugh. "Never reach out."

"Come ere,'" he coos, hand pulling you by your wrist, so he can engulf you in a hug.

"It's not fair," your voice is once again muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but he can hear the tightness in it and the sniffle against him, a clear sign of your emotional distress.

"No, it's not," he affirms, fingers easing through your hair.

"Nothing is ever good enough for her," you exhale into his abdomen, fueled more by anger than by despair.

John gently kisses your hair while his fingers soothe your back with a gentle massage.

"I’ll never be good enough for her," you mumble absentmindedly, your voice lacking emotion.

"Sweetheart," he begins, his voice low as your hair muffles the sound. "Don't take offense, but you're mother is a real nasty woman. You're fuckin' perfect, and if she can't see that, it's her God-damn loss," his tone rough yet sincere.

You chuckled, a smile spreading across your face as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I love you."

"Love you so much," he whispers, gently planting another kiss on your head.

He leans back slightly to look into your eyes. "Want me to run you a hot bath?" He asks, gently massaging your shoulders.

"That sounds really nice," you reply, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Course. That's what I'm here for," he says effortlessly, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

You nod quietly as he moves to draw the warm bath.

The thought of sinking into steamy water and enveloping bubbles soothes your mind.

Honestly, to hell with your mother's opinions.

They just weren't worth the headache.

And there was no way you were going back to that house.

The promise of the bath, with its comforting warmth and enticing bubbles, would wash away your worries and quiet the thoughts swirling in your head.

Visions of your mother and that place would fade, never to resurface again.

"Can't believe she thought I would actually come down," you sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of your husband, John, as he works shampoo through your hair, creating rich suds.

So much for the visions of your mother fading. 

It had been a whole day since your mother's call, and the weight of her words still lingered, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions within you.

"Still on your mind?" John asks, eyes hyperfocusing on ensuring the shampoo coats every strand of your hair.

"I just—I don't understand why she thought I would come," you suspire, turning to massage the loofah against John's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tension in his muscles.

"Must have gone mad, I suppose," he jests, his fingers massaging the shampoo into your scalp, adding a touch of humor to the heavy conversation.

Your lip quips at his joke, eyes lighting at the sight of him taking such good care of you, ensuring your scalp is tantalizingly clean. "Maybe," you murmur. "Because all she ever does is ridicule me and constantly ask if I've found a man.” You gently move the loofah over his chest to ensure he is squeaky clean.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his hands coming to massage your facial cleanser into your face before returning to the issue at hand.

"Wouldn't let tryin' to examine your mother's psyche take your day, hon," his hands move with familiar ease as he massages the liquid into your cheeks. "You'll never know why. Can't change that,” he says.

"I hate how logical you are," you sigh, finding yourself relaxing at his touch.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Would you rather me be some git?"

Your eyebrow quips, eyes remaining closed. "What does that mean?"

His lip quips. "Sweetheart, how long have you lived with me here, in England?" He enunciates the last word as he moves you under the faucet to wash away the cleanser's remnants. 

"Not long enough, I guess," you smile cheekily, wiping your eyes free of water to open them. "Honestly, forever isn't even long enough," you add, trying to shift the focus, though it's true; you can't quite remember how long you've been living together  

"Oh," he tuts softly. "Nice save. Can't argue with that," he replies, smirking before leaning in to kiss your lips.

After a stretch of silence, you turn around so he can wash your back with the loofah. Your mind is still swirling with thoughts. "I kind of miss seeing my niece," you find yourself reminiscing.

"Even though my sister and I don't get along too well, her daughter and I have always had a special bond," you say with a sigh.

"What else do you miss?" Since you never really talk about where you grew up, John prods, he's curious.

"Well, in the spring, my cousins and I would go flower picking in the field behind my grandfather's house," you find yourself getting more excited.

"He also had an old peach tree, Mindy, he called it, that we would pick dozens of peaches from and just lay in the shade under the tree and eat them till he thought we might become peaches ourselves," you snicker, turning around to face him, eyes light.

"They were fucking good peaches."

"Sounds like you miss it," he grins.

Your hand turns the lever off, and the water stops, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin. "I do," you confess, stepping out of the shower to grab you and him fresh towels.

"But, my mother knows how to ruin the best of memories," your voice is monotone. "I want those great ones to stay intact, you know?" You shrug, wrapping the towel around yourself, offering comfort.

He wraps the towel low around his waist. "Course I get it, sweetheart," his voice soft yet gruff. "Let's get you all nice and dry, and we'll order some takeout. Yeah?" He asks, reaching for your hand to lead you into your shared bedroom to get dressed.

"Sounds perfect," you voice, the thoughts of going home almost completely absolving. 

A few misses wouldn't make you completely switch gears and go.

It just wasn't worth it.

Only your mother could figure out how to make the enjoyment and amazing things crumble up and burn. 

But you won't let her. 

So, you've made up your mind. 

You will not be going.

That's final.

It's two days to Saturday.

You've been manically counting down the days.

And so, naturally, instead of basking in the serene morning, with birds chirping and the gentle glow of the sun filtering through your kitchen window, you're perched on a barstool, computer propped up, as your breakfast grows cold, hand hesitating over a plane ticket that will whisk you away tomorrow morning to your hometown. 

Just one click, and you'll have solidified yourself as going.

You're only feeling so impulsive because your impulse control, aka your husband, is at work.

Your finger hovers over the 'confirm' button for about twenty minutes.

You know what's holding you back.

The anxieties claw up about your mother and what ifs that could happen.

And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it all becomes clear.

'Could.'

It's not a promise, just a possibility.

You had spontaneously decided that you wouldn't let the could control your decisions.

Yes, one thing was holding you back, but what about the multitude of things that you wanted to see or the many people who loved and cared about and desperately wanted to see after so long?

You were not going to let the 'could' control your decisions.

You were going to overcome this worry and take the leap.

You sit up tall in your chair, turning your head with a wince as you click "confirm."

"Oh," you murmur. "That was dramatic for no reason," you say monotonously.

But, now you can't help but feel a surge of excitement.

You would get to see your niece after so long.

And the flower field and, of course, Mindy the peach tree.

Who could forget your childhood room full of posters and knick-knacks you collected throughout your teenage years.

You find yourself smiling as you get that familiar chime from your email confirming your flight ticket.

Can't get cold feet now.

You take a swig of your tea, which has long since gone cold, but your throat is parched from the anxiety that grips you, a knot tightening in your stomach.

The mug was a gift from your husband for your birthday last year.

It featured your favorite flowers made into it and even had your birthday engraved on the bottom.

John was always so thoughtful.

You pause your movements, lips hovering over the clay mug, a moment of hesitation freezing your actions.

John.

Your husband.

Of course, he didn't care that you bought the ticket or wanted to go, but he would be pissed if you just left.

Sure, you could wait until he returned home, but the urgency to communicate your decision gnaws at you, compelling you to act now.

You hurriedly reach for your phone, fidgeting to press his number.

He's at the top of your contacts.

You tap your fingers against the cool granite countertop, waiting until he picks up.

It rings.

And rings.

...and rings again.

Until the line picks up, you sit up, ready to unload on him, only for it to be his voicemail line.

"Shit," you curse, hanging up as your foot bounces on the metal footstep on the barstool.

As you sit there, unable to wait until he gets home, you can't help but feel a surge of dramatic emotion. This internal conflict, this emotional turmoil, is what drives you to act impulsively.

But this is a big deal.

You never go home.

Rarely mention it.

So your next actions feel rationalized to you.

Without a second thought, you spring up, grab your keys from the hook by the door, slip your shoes and coat on, and speed to your car, most likely looking like a mad woman. 

But at this moment, who cares about appearances? 

The urgency of the situation overrides any concern for normalcy.

Normalcy is overrated, anyway.

You throw the car into gear, and though you are in a rush, you don't speed there. 

Carefully, you make your way, chewing on your lips nearly the entire drive.

Despite your earlier determination not to return, you find yourself on the way, a plane ticket already in your possession.

The anticipation of what your husband has to say fills you with a slight unease.

He wouldn't be mad.

More surprised than anything.

And honestly, you shamelessly loved seeing him at work.

His professional demeanor, always in control, never fails to impress you.

You can't help but oogle him.

It secretly really got you going.

But, this time, it was a purely innocent visit, of course.

You find a parking spot, ease into the front part, giving the officer guarding the gate your name.

She quickly lets you through.

You are the captain's wife, after all.

Walking, you head straight through a door and through another one.

So many God-damn doors in this place.

Until you reach the middle portion of the base, grass surrounds you, and various equipment is placed orderly around.

Sandbags, wooden ladders, and weights are among the items you see. 

Your eyes sweep the area until they land on the man you're looking for. 

He stands tall, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform, a few strands of hair escaping his signature hat.

His eyes are focused on the recruits, his expression a mix of determination and frustration.

From the looks of it, he's training new recruits, something he doesn't often do, but it's a real treat when he does.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms. 

His arms, usually strong and steady, now appear more veiny than usual, a sign of his apparent frustration with the recruits. His jaw is set, and you can see the tension in his muscles as he barks orders.

"Runnin' like a fuckin' slug," he reprimands. "Pick up the pace."

You hate how hearing that makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.

"Get your head out of your ass," he grunts outs, clearly annoyed. "The hell are you lookin' at," he asks a recruit who, along with a few others, seems to be on another planet, eyes wandering behind him.

John turns to his side to see you in a cute dress, waving to him sweetly. "Course," he lets out a dry laugh, giving you a small wave.

He turns back to the recruits, his authority palpable.

"Eyes off my wife, or you'll be doin' extra laps," he scolds, his tone low but intimidating, before yelling to move to the ladders with Soap.

He makes his way over to you, a warm smile on his face. "Nice surprise, hon," he greets, kissing your cheek.

"I'm gonna go," you murmur.

His brows furrow in confusion. "Go where?" 

You raise a brow at his confusion. "To...see my family."

His eyes bore into your intently. "By yourself?"

"I didn't think you'd want to go," you say honestly. 

"I'm going with you," his tone final, with no room to argue. "You bought a plane ticket?" He questions.

"I did...sorry, I just thought—" you begin before he cuts in, his hand pressing against your cheek. 

"No worries," he says. "I'll get the ticket when I get back to my office," his tone casual. "You're sure about this?"

"I think so," you say. "Plus, if I cancel the ticket, we'll be out six hundred dollars," you laugh out.

"Screw the money, okay? You tell me if you don't want to go," he tells you, face serious.

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know," you lean up, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "Also, you should always wear your shirt like that."

His eyes narrow as he lets out a laugh. "You like it?"

"Looks sexy," you purr quietly, teeth coming to bite your lip.

His face warms slightly. "Should see what it looks like off."

"Are you flirting with me, captain?" You say, hand coming to your heart in false surprise. 

"Just givin' you a preview for later," his tone is husky. 

"I'll be waiting," you begin, beckoning him to lower his head so your lips can hover over his ear. "Already so wet just thinking about it."

He releases a low grunt as you press a kiss to his cheek.

"See you at home," you say sweetly as if you didn't just give him a hard-on at the thought of you all wet and needy for him.

"See you, sweetheart," he almost chokes out as you turn to go away, your ass swaying in the dress you wear.

He's going to make you pay later.

And honestly, you can't wait.

You need something to take your mind off tomorrow's morning flight. 

Though it was going to take a lot more than sex to ease your mind.

A horse tranquilizer may help.

No. Too dangerous.

Whatever, you'll take your chances with John's hand all over and in you to have you sleeping and at ease.

Maybe you'll get lucky, and you two can sneak off to the airport bathroom and finally join the mile-high club.

That would definitely keep your mind off things.

For now, you’ll wear a smile, and excitement will radiate from your being.

Everything will be fine.

Nothing bad will happen.

Even so, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

Statement retracted.

Your trip thus far has been a shitshow, and you haven't even seen your family yet.

Your flight got delayed three hours because of fog.

That was understandable, annoying, but understandable. 

What wasn't was the lady who insisted on sitting between you and John on your flight in the seat you paid for.

An older lady, maybe in her late forties or so, with a determined look in her eyes and a set to her jaw that said she wasn't going to let a little thing like a seat assignment get in her way.

She was nice at first.

She became insufferable rather quickly.

Very persistent.

You deduce she did that so she could sit next to your man. 

It didn't bother you so much, plus you knew if you showed it did, John would make a scene, and you just wanted to close your eyes and sleep, so you let her have your seat and sat by the window instead.

But every time you got settled, eyes closing gently, the soft lull of the plane helping you drift off.

"Going off to college?" She piped next to you, oblivious or noncaring about your eyes shut.

Your eyes open rapidly, and you look at her, awaiting a response. "Uh, no. I graduated a couple of years ago," your voice is drowsy. 

"Oh. You two must be going on a father-daughter trip, then?" She poses.

Your wide eyes drift to John's; a smile etched on his face. "Such a kind father you are," she compliments without missing a beat.

The sheer absurdity of her assumption leaves you speechless, and John can't help but let out a quiet laugh.

"Thas' actually my wife," he says, trying to contain another laugh. 

"Oh," her eyes widen in shock and apparent envy. "Well, aren't you a lucky one," her tone is dry as she eyes you.

That was funny.

But not when she did it about five hundred times on the eight hour flight.

It was like a broken record, playing the same tune over and over again, and you were the unwilling participant. 

Over and over again like clockwork.

Drove you bat shit crazy.

Sure, maybe you could have just told her to shut the hell up, but you kept telling yourself it wasn't worth the fight, and you didn't have the energy to make the effort.

Also, since the lady was sitting in the seat between you, formally yours, you didn't feel comfortable asking John about the bathroom sex.

She would have most likely dropped dead or asked to join.

You didn't want either.

So, it is safe to say that when the plane landed, you sat up excitedly to escape the stuffy plane.

The lady tried to follow you and John out, but you grabbed John by the wrist, dragging him behind you as your legs gained more momentum to try and escape her.

It was like a horror movie.

"Oh my God. She was so weird," you laugh out to John as you manage to get away from her, stepping out of the airport to collect your rental truck. 

"I know. Kept lookin' at me the whole flight," he says with unease as he places your suitcases into the backseat of the truck, shooing away your hands from the bags so he could lift them himself.

"Do we need to get you a counselor?" You half-joke as he opens the car door for you to get in as he moves to the driver's seat.

"Think so," he gruffs before his eyes fixate on you. "You okay?"

You had put the address into the truck's maps system, settling back into the leather seat, eyes now on his. "I'm nervous," you confess.

"Nothin' to be nervous about. I'm here for you, okay? If you need to leave, just tell me," his voice is soft as his hand caresses your thigh in comfort. 

You give him a nod, turning to look out the window at the passing buildings, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

You had already texted your niece you were coming, so you're sure your mother and sister know. 

It's not like you'd be staying with them.

That's too much too soon.

Plus, you and John could have sex anytime in the hotel with no fears of your estranged mother walking and seeing John balls-deep in you.

It was really better for all parties.

Once you pull up to the house, you swear you could hurl.

"Was this a bad idea?" You ask John nervously as he pulls your suitcases out of the backseat.

He gently sets them on the dirt. "It's just nerves," he says, locking the truck. "Let's scope it out, and if you want to leave, we'll go. No questions," his hand rests gently on your shoulder.

"Promise?" You prod, tilting your head towards him. 

He smiles at you. "You have my word, sweetheart."

You release a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pass out."

He chuckles deeply, hand snaking around your waist to lead you to the front door. "I'll catch you if you do."

You feel your nerves subside with John by your side as you flip up the familiar peach-shaped doorbell cover to ring the bell.

Stomping feet approach, the voice growing nearer and nearer until the front door pulls open to reveal your sister.

Flawless as ever. 

Her eyes light up. "Thought my daughter was tellin' fibs," she jokes, pulling you into a warm, tight hug. "Missed you." Her genuine affection wraps around you like a comforting blanket.

You reciprocate the hug with equal tightness. 

Although you may not have gotten along well, she was still your sister, and you could feel the love a million miles away. 

She pulls away, eyes falling onto the mysterious, hot, stoic man to your side. "Who's this good-lookin' hunk?" She coos, smacking her gun.

"This is my, um, my husband, John," you say, fumbling your words a little.

"Nice to meet you," his voice is low and most shockingly British, as he sticks his hand out.

Cordial as ever. 

"Oh, come on. That's just not even fair, sis," she jests, taking his hand fast and tight.

Her playful banter adds a lightness to the moment that almost absolves your nerves entirely.

"Where's...mom?" You ask, your heart pounding in your chest, the unease apparent in your tone.

She looks back at you. "Kitchen," she says before offering a reason. "She's makin' peach cobbler. Come on in," she steps aside so you and John can enter the door.

The familiar scent of the old wooden floors, the sound of the creaking stairs, and the sight of the family photos on the wall all bring back a flood of memories.

Warm smiles and familiar voices greet you as you step inside.

Cousins, aunts, uncles.

They approach you one by one, their surprise at your arrival evident, but even more so at hearing that you're married to the burly man at your side. 

Your aunts keep him occupied as you wander into the kitchen.

They keep him engaged in their lively banter, shamelessly flirting with him while their husbands sit in the living room, engrossed in their own discussions. 

You feel a little bad for leaving him to fend with the wolves, but he assured you he was alright and all but pushed you into the kitchen.

Sure enough, your mother was busy rolling out some dough on the countertop for the crust for the top of the peach cobbler. 

"Mom," your voice is quiet as you move around the island to where she is.

She turns. "Well, I'll be," she begins, eyes wide and full of surprises. "Ya came."

"I did," you amend with a smile. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."

"Some city guy?" Her head moves back to the dough, no longer on you.

"He, yes, he's from the city," your voice is outwardly confused.

"Thought so," her tone is snarky as she delicately lays the dough over the cobbler filling. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" It comes out more defensive than you intend. 

"Nothin,'" she says flatly. "Enjoyen' your fancy life in the city?"

You roll your eyes, already anticipating the direction this conversation is about to take. "Mom," you urge, your frustration palpable.

"No, hon. I get it," she looks up at you, shrugging. "Honestly, surprised you came. Wouldn't wanna dim your new sparkly life," her tone is condescending. "That is why it's been so long, right?"

"It's not like that," you try to justify, but you know it will do no good.

She completely disregards that, instead changing the subject. "Supper's ready," she bussies herself with stirring the gravy. "Better snag yourself a seat quick," her tone is dry. "Table hasn't grown none."

You release a shallow breath, turning around to escape this stupid God-damned kitchen and moving to find John. 

It's a familiar feeling, this resignation. 

Guess some things never change. 

You approach him, and before you say a word, his eyes are already locked on you, body language now stiff. "What's the matter?" His hands are on you in an instant.

You should have known.

He can read you like one of those mission reports he reads daily.

"Nothing," you mutter, forcing a smile, but the words feel heavy with the things you're hiding.

His eyes narrow. "Can't lie to me," he voices.

You'd just about rather crawl in a hole and die than re-account. 

What was supposed to be a happy recount turned sour rather quickly.

"Tell me," he urges, sensing your inner turmoil. 

"Drop it," your tone is more icey than usual. "Please." 

He gives you a light nod, eyes full of concern.

"Let's go eat, okay?" Your hand moves to his, intertwining your fingers, and guilt claws up your throat.

He gives you a nod as you drag him into the dining room to snag a seat at the main table.

Mom was right. The table is still too small to accommodate a family of this size, so another table sits outside and another in the living room. 

Others crowd around the breakfast nook and sit on barstool at the kitchen island. 

This house has never known loneliness. 

Your mother, father, sister, sister's daughter, and your sister's fiance are at the table with you and John. 

Your niece opts to sit next to you, gushing about her new boyfriend, the son of the florist downtown, and asking questions about the city.

"Hush now, darlin.' She gets all fussy about that," your mother chides your niece, referring to your early conversation about you living in the city.

"Mom," you quip, eyes wide at her sheer audacity.

She hadn't even addressed John, just jumping straight into a fight.

Typical.

"I'm just sayin.' Ya jumped all over me for talkin' about it," she says, trying to sound innocent. 

Seems her memory is slipping.

"That's not why I got upset," your tone is teetering between desperation and frustration, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

She plops some mashed potatoes on her plate before passing the bowl along. "Then what was it ya were so hurt about earlier, huh?"

You're sure steam is rolling out of your ears.

"You hold a, a vendetta against me for leaving," you spew without much thought, anger taking over. "Because you never got to leave, you take it out on me," you finish, and you're sure you're shaking. 

If all eyes weren't on you before, they are now.

John is leaning back in his chair, eyes wide.

He's kind of scared if he touches you, you'll punch him, so he instead crosses his arm over his chest.

"I think the city is cool," your niece randomly chimes in, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Would love to visit someday."

You give her a smile before your mother starts up again.

"Didn't your mother teach ya about city girls," she snaps to your niece. "Nothin' good ever came from any of em.'" 

You can taste the metallic taste of blood on your tongue; you had bitten your cheek so hard you bled.

"Ain't that right," your mother says, eyes shifting to your sister.

Your sister is great.

Just not in the presence of your mother.

She takes on her personality and thoughts.

Agreeing with her without a second thought

That includes her fights.

"It's true," she snickers. "City girls can't tell a pencil from a pecker."

You find yourself standing abruptly, and your sister matches your action, spewing more garbage. 

And for some reason, her fiance stands up, which makes John stand up, matching his movements.

He's easily a foot taller than her fiance, and he's much more muscular, too.

"Enough," John's low, commanding voice is fitting for a military captain. It splices through the room, the commotion dying as he speaks. "I will not sit here and let you treat my wife like this," his head tilts towards your sister and then to your mother. "Now or ever."

He doesn't even need to yell to get any attention. 

His voice just demands attention already. 

Your sister, usually so quick with a retort, is silent.

The fear in her eyes is unmistakable, adding to the intensity of the confrontation.

She’s scared.

Hell, everyone is.

Well, except your niece, whose lip quips secretly, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the room. 

"Your daughter came down on her own merit to see you," he points to your mother. "Could have done so many other things, but she wanted to see you," he enunciates the last word.

"Well, she—" Your mother begins, her face bright red with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Tired of hearin' the excuses," his voice cuts through hers. She quickly shuts up, a surprising silence falling over her. "Can't even believe your daughter turned out as amazing as she did growing up with this," he gestures towards you.

He stands with his hands on his hips, disappointment is evident on his face. 

"My wife is a God-damn saint," his voice is rough.

You find your lip quipping at the praise and how much he appreciates you.

He worships the ground you walk on.

That was made abundantly clear. 

His hands reach to rest on your lower back. "Appreciate the food, but we'll be leavin' now," he mutters, stepping back to push his chair in.

You don't argue with him.

Hell, how could you?

He said everything you couldn't

Laid all your thoughts on the table and even added some extra.

He did what he was born to do: protect.

You step away, push your chair in, and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye as you walk to the front door.

You'll text your niece later. 

The chill in the air, carrying the scent of magnolia trees and damp earth, hits you like a slap to the face.

John's hand is still on your lower back, guiding you back to the truck.

He opens the door so you can slip inside as he makes his way around the driver's seat.

The heater is blasting as he shoves the key into the keyhole, and the engine is stirring alive as he easily backs out and pulls onto the road. 

The silence is heavy as he drives down a straight, desolate road.

It's silent for a moment before he starts to comment, apologizing profusely about how he overstepped and saying sorry that this trip turned out bad.

You're tuning him out and instead focusing on how he stood up for you.

He was just such a man.

He always knew how to be what you needed him to be.

Protector.

Listener.

Talker.

He always knew which role to take on to support you, to be your anchor in the storm of emotions. 

Just that thought alone made you incredibly wet. 

You don't know why.

You should be crying from the way things unfolded with your family.

But you're not sad, not even remotely.

Just incredibly horny.

You find yourself slipping the rubberband off your wrist and quickly tying your hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hon," John says, noting your unusual silence. "I'm so sorry," he quickly glances your way before looking back at the road.

You don't speak, opting to brush your hand against his cargo pants as your fingers fumble with his zipper.

He makes a noise of surprise. "What're you doin?'" He asks, his voice breathy.

"You took care of me," you mumble, shimming your fingers under the waistband of his boxers to release his erect cock, to which he grunts. "Want to do the same," your voice is lazy, as your lips brush against the sensitive head.

"Me yellin' at your mother got you all hot?" He jokes though it dies halfway on his tongue as your lips spread open to accommodate his size.

His knuckles are white as he tightly grips the steering wheel so as not to crash.

Your mouth makes a pop noise before you speak. "You're just so sexy. All manly like that," you mutter against his cock, the tingle of your words sending goosebumps throughout his entire body.

"Am I?" He chokes out as your lips move back to encase his cock.

"So hot," your voice is muffled as you take in more of his cock.

"Oh—Christ, thas' it, hon," he groans as you bob your head up and down.

His mind has gone fuzzy at the feeling of your tight throat, taking him so good, even swerving a little, before quickly straightening the wheels.

"So fuckin' good," he grunts, as one hand moves to gather your ponytail in a loose fist. 

Your tongue works in tandem, rubbing against the underside of his cock, sending more pleasure through him. "Such a good girl, babe," he praises, and you just know that your underwear will be soaked. 

"So good." Your moan against him at the next praise, making him sputter his hips up, his cock slipping in your mouth entirely. 

He chokes out some incoherent words you can't make out; taking note of his body going taut, you can presume he's close.

"Gonna," he strains out as you continue bobbing up and down, his hand tightening around the fistful of your hair. “Come."

You bring your hand to pump the base as your tongue flicks across the tip.

He groans with anguish, legs shaking as he comes in your mouth.

You pull your head up, your eyes boring into his so he can watch you swallow out every last drop, even using your fingers to clean up the residue in the corners of your mouth.

His eyes stay glued to your mouth before you yell at him to watch the road.

"Christ," he shouts, gripping the wheel tight to stay in his lane. 

You laugh as you lean, pressing a sideways kiss on his lips.

He can taste himself on your lips.

He almost comes again.

But the high lasts just as short as when you look in the review to see police sirens hot on your tale, the siren invading your eardrums. 

John curses but pulls off to the shoulder, sneakily grabbing his military badge in his pocket.

"You always just carry that on you?" You smile slyly, the body still warm from your escapades. 

"Will come in handy," he assures, rolling his window down as the officer makes his way to his window.

"Evenin', folks. Gotta call from a concerned driver sayin' you were swervin' out of your lane," he says.

"No, sir. Not us," you answer, John glancing towards you.

"That right?" The officer prods. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, sir," his monotone voice says. 

"Yes, sir," John says, slyly flashing his military badge as he "looks" for his license. 

"You're military?" John nods. "Hell," the officer laughs, tucking his notepad back in his pocket. "I know you aren't some juveniles."

John laughs as he glances over to you, glancing down to see a little remnant of his come on your shirt.

He almost feels guilty.

Almost.

He lets out a cough.

"You alright, sir?" The officer asks, brows furrowed.

"Yeah. Fine," his voice is strained.

You shoot him a look before the officer starts again.

"Well, I'll let ya'll get on your way," he pats the top of the car.

You both issue a heartfelt thanks before John pulls back out onto the road, a palpable sense of relief in your voices.

"Can't believe he just let you off," you groan, hand coming to intertwine his. 

"Thought you'd be happy?" He laughs. "Can get to the hotel in record time now."

You raise a knowing eyebrow. "For what?"

"Saw you squirmin' in that seat," he teases, his affectionate tone wrapping around you. "I need to take care of my girl," he adds, his voice filled with warmth and love. 

You release a shallow breath.

His girl.

You.

Just you.

That's what you loved about loving him. 

You didn't have to keep up with his expectations.

You could simply exist, and he would kiss the ground you walk on.

The thought lit up your brain.

John Price was your man.

And in his eyes, you'd always be his girl.

mini author's note: i'd have to be surgically removed from him...

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

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