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lazybutsmexy · 1 year

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Are you looking for a wife?

Alejandro Vargas x fem!reader

Warnings: pure fluff, mention of injuries, probably very wrong medical information, prescribed drug use, some cursing.

Summary: whenever you get ketamine as pain relief, you lose all thought-to-speech filter.

On AO3

A/N: I just watched an episode of one of those shows about air ambulances from the UK where they gave a guy ketamine, and he was high as a kite and kept telling the doctor (who was like 20 years older) "you're my kind of bird 🥺♥️". You really can get inspiration from anywhere, huh.

•~•~•~•~•

It had been one of those missions that went to shit really quick but somehow the Ghost team got the upper hand in the end. The intel was found, the hostage was rescued, and most of the team got away with minimal injuries.

Unfortunately for you, you were the exception to the last one.

The bullet and the stab wound you had received left you at a risk of bleeding out. One of the Vaqueros - Fernando, you learned - had enough medical training to treat you on site, but you really needed the MedEvac stat. The stim shot you had given yourself during the heat of the battle had long since worn off, and you were administered a strong dose of ketamine to keep your blood pressure from spiking any further and help with the pain once you all made it to the safe house.

However, one funny secondary effect you always got when you were given that drug, was that you lost all filters with your musings. They were never inappropriate per se, just plain weird. In a few words, you were high off your tits.

"...Mars is the only planet in the universe to be entirely inhabited by robots…" you mumbled to no one in particular as you stared straight at the roof over your head, past the top of Fernando's head who was still stitching a scratch on your forehead - only God knows how you got that one. Fernando just blinked at you and shook his head, focusing on his task, while Soap, who wasn't that far from you, was having a really hard time trying not to laugh at your stoner talk.

The utter (non?)sense that came out of your mouth was indeed amusing to whoever was listening closely, mostly Soap and Ghost, who, like the rest of 141, were already used to your reaction to ketamine from previous experiences, and would sometimes even prompt more unhinged thoughts from you. Price tried not to pay too much attention to whatever you said - he knew that as long as you were somewhat coherent and cohesive with your words, they could rule out any brain damage. Whenever Gaz heard your comments, it actually made him think about what you said, always coming to the conclusion that you were actually onto something.

Fernando finally finished with your care and left to check some of the others, while you kept staring at the ceiling of the safehouse, completely lost in your thoughts again. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you weren't sure if it was because of the drug or the blood loss. You were trying really hard to stay awake, but now that your body wasn't burning with pain and the adrenaline had worn off, all the exhaustion from the previous days caught up with you.

You looked over at Ghost, who was now speaking to Alejandro, and couldn't help but sigh dreamily at the leader of the Vaqueros - your inhibitions had really flown out of the window when the ketamine hit. They both glanced at you and you blinked twice, each time your eyelids got heavier.

"LT, 'm sleepy," you groaned, not noticing that you were pouting at both your Lieutenant and the Colonel like a grumpy toddler that needed a nap.

Alejandro somehow maintained a passive stare at you - inwardly though, he was already cradling you in his arms and cooing sweet nothings at you until you fell asleep.

Ghost simply stared at your lying form, and walked closer to you, crouching down to take a better look at your bandages.

"...Well, since you aren't actively bleeding out, I suppose you can take a nap," Ghost huffed but quickly held a finger to your face before you could take him up on it, "but someone will wake you up every 30 minutes just to make sure you still live, copy?"

"Copy, LT, loud and cle-" you interrupted yourself and just stared straight at his skull mask. Ghost frowned, wondering if he should feel concerned.

"...Are you-"

"A cheeseburger," you interrupted him, your eyes wide like sauce plates, "is a dead cow covered with its lactation." As soon as you finished your sentence, your head lolled to the side and you were knocked out cold, a soft snore leaving your barely open lips.

"Bloody fucking hell, kid," Ghost sighed, shaking his head in defeat as Soap wheezed not far away from you.

Alejandro could only stare at you, his hand clutched to his chest. "...Ay, ternura…"

•~•~•~•~•

Thirty minutes had passed when Alejandro decided to check on you. Activity had lulled to a stop and most of the people were catching on some sleep, except for those keeping guard.

He could've gotten some shut-eye too, but he was the kind of leader who wouldn't completely rest until it was totally safe to do so for the whole team.

As he approached you, he noticed you were already awake and staring at the ceiling. He smiled softly, wondering if you were getting lost in your silly little thoughts again, and sat down next to you, watching your eyes focus on him this time.

"What's in your head, preciosa?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper so as to not wake the others.

"...Are you looking for a wife?" You whispered back at him after a few moments.

He blinked twice before leaning a little closer, wondering if he had heard you right, and if you could hear the way his heart rate picked up. "... Perdón?"

"Are you looking for a wife, Alejandro?" You repeated, dead serious.

He cleared his throat to get rid of the knot that formed there, before grinning at you. "...why? Are you offering?"

"... Yes," you nodded, offering him a little grin of your own, "where should I turn my résumé?"

He chuckled softly and reached down, fixing a stray lock from your forehead and tucked it behind your ear, "ask me again when you're sober and I might tell you, tesoro."

"Oh, the ketamine wore off," you sighed, slightly leaning into his fingers, "the pain woke me up, my whole body burns, actually."

His grin dropped and he frowned at you in concern, you looked awfully calm to be in that much pain. "...Want me to ask Fernando to give you some more?"

You shook your head, offering him a smile, but this time he noticed the sweat on your forehead and the frown in your brow as you tried not to move too much, "nah, I want to be sober to hear your answer. So? How do I apply?"

This time Alejandro could barely check the volume of his chuckle as he leaned even closer to you, his knuckles brushing your cheek, "If you're available, the position is all yours, preciosa."

This time you offered him a toothy smile, a flush staining your cheeks and all signs of pain gone from your features, "I make a mean huevo ranchero, you won't regret it."

"You could make me only tostadas for the rest of your life and I'd still look forward to them," he cooed, before signaling Fernando over to you, "now, let's get you comfortable for the trip, si?"

Just as he spoke, the rumble of the heli echoed in the distance, and little by little the teams woke up from their slumber. You got another shot of ketamine and were prepared for the journey, and it wasn't long until you started sharing your wisdom again with whoever could hear, much to Alejandro's delight, Soap's amusement, and Ghost's chagrin.

"If you think about it, the Miss Universe pageant should be called Miss Planet Earth, because no aliens participate in it… that we know of…"

A/N2: *quietly tags @ragingbookdragon here* 🤫♥️

#alejandro vargas x reader #alejandro vargas x fem!reader #alejandro vargas fanfic #alejandro vargas #alejandro cod #alejandro vargas fluff #cod mw2 #cod fluff #cod mw2 fluff #cod mw2 fanfic #cod mw2 alejandro

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, jealous / protective / possessive Simon, rough kissing, arguments, angst, TF141 shenanigans

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Ten of Ink & Needle

Soap, Gaz, and Price come for a visit. At a local pub, Simon notices you are sitting with a stranger. An argument ensues. Things get heated.

Chapter Nine // Chapter Eleven

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Simon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing heavily. The rolling chair groans a protest. The thing is so old it’s a miracle that it hasn’t collapsed under Simon’s weight. He’s been meaning to replace it—it’s not like he doesn’t have the money—but there are so many other things going on in Simon’s life that he keeps putting it off.

His work laptop is open on the desk in front of him, the bright glow of the screen showing him the thousands of emails sitting in his inbox. Being on the cover of UK Ink is a tremendous honor, but it’s also becoming its own sort of creeping horror. Figuring out which inquiries are genuine, and which are just people seeking attention, is taking a tremendous toll on his personal time.

Every day, more and more emails clog his inbox. It’s likely that as he starts deleting them, more will suddenly appear, popping forth from the hidden depths of whatever server it’s connected to. Plenty of the emails are straight spam with a few consisting of people sending unsolicited nudes. Those go straight into the trash folder. The only naked body Simon wants to see is yours.

Many of the emails are people seeking to book appointments with him for tattoos and piercings. While a good chunk of the emails come from citizens of England, plenty more are from people all over the world. International inquires are a good thing, but those appointments have to be booked around flights and trips. There is also no guarantee that those people will actually show, which is why Simon has started to double-book in some places, or set forth a non-refundable fee for securing a time and date.

He's only one person, and the pressure of that is starting to creep up on him. Simon is going to have to hire more people. At least one additional person at minimum. Even if all they do is answer emails all day and book appointments, Simon will take it. Sitting on this fucking chair in between clients is exhausting.

Through all of that, there are also publications (both large and small) seeking their own interviews with the masked tattoo artist knows as ‘Ghost.’ Some are local to the region while others are international, reaching an even wider audience. For each inquiry, Simon is grateful. To see his work—his art—be appreciated to such a large degree is a great point of accomplishment for him.

It's not like Simon’s work during his time with the military. That is different. That was work. That was blood and metal and dirt. Tattooing doesn’t feel like work to Simon. It is freeing. It is creative. It is the release of a muscle after a long tension.

Tattooing is a distinctive sort of freedom. A place for Simon to lose himself in, to enjoy life again, to find comfort in a craft that doesn’t involve destruction.

But Simon is also distracted. Not because he’s stressed or anxious or concerned or even from the number of emails piling in. Simon is distracted because you were in his arms last night. You were sitting at his kitchen table. You ate the food he made. He distinctly remembers your soft smile as you gazed at his sketches.

Sure, Simon was making dinner, but he was keeping an eye on you the whole time. He noticed every expression on your face as your gaze admired each sketch. He noticed the way you held every piece of paper with tenderness, as if all of them were sacred and special to you. It was after, when the two of you talked, that Simon sensed hesitation.

He questioned you about Cambridge and Evie. You were not entirely honest, not that Simon believes that you lied, but he knows there is more you haven’t told him. Whether you don’t want to tell him or are hesitant to do so is still uncertain. What Simon wants, more than anything, is for you to feel safe enough with him to tell him everything. Simon desires your sharp edges. He wants to know how he can help smooth them, to ease all the worries in your head, to remove some of those burdens.

Which is why he asked you to come to bed with him. He thought that maybe if he kissed you for a bit, you might soften, and that is all he wanted. But then he had you under him, opening for him, and Simon’s control was close to shattering like thin glass under pressure. Your fingers found him, and Simon would have given anything to stay in that bed and make you understand just how much he desires you.

The glowing screen of the laptop and the sight of you sighing in pleasure beneath him keeps colliding with each other. It keeps melding, melting together only to break apart before meeting again.

The current email opened on the laptop screen is gibberish. No matter how many times Simon attempts to read it, your face appears there instead. Then, Simon’s mind drifts off to dream of your seeking fingers, and how perfectly they wrapped around him.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needs to fucking focus. He will see you again, and when he does, he is going to fucking enjoy it. The two of you are taking that date. The two of you are going to get away for a while. When that happens, Simon will make you his in all ways.

Exhaling loudly, Simon drops his hand from his face to rub at the back of his neck. He rolls it slightly, popping some of the tension out of the joints. He leans forward a bit and manages to focus on the email.

Spam. Fucking spam.

Simon hits the little rubbish icon and watches the email blink out of existence. His gaze returns to the little blue number next to ‘Inbox’ and immediately shudders.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wanting nothing more than to shut the laptop and pretend they don’t exist for a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spies the front door of the shop opening. He turns his head to the left to see if it’s his final customer. Instead, he’s greeted by an annoyingly overenthusiastic Scotsman.

“Lt!”

“Gotta stop calling me that, Johnny,” sighs Simon loudly, as if getting out of his chair is a major hassle. Simon comes to his full height, hands on his hips as John MacTavish bursts through the door.

On his heels are Captain John Price and Kyle Garrick.

“Simon,” nods Price in greeting.

Kyle gives Simon a little playful salute before immediately heading for Bravo. The German Shepard goes up on his back legs. Kyle seizes the dog’s front paws in his hands, the two of them doing a little dance in the middle of the shop.

The moment Simon steps away from the chair, MacTavish is on him, throwing his massive arms around Simon’s middle in a hug.

“You’re bloody crushing me, Johnny.”

MacTavish squeezes him a bit tighter in response. When he let’s go, he grabs hold of Simon’s shoulders, shaking them slightly. “Fucking look at this place.” MacTavish glances around like he’s never seen it before.

“You’ve been here,” deadpans Simon. “Hasn’t changed.”

“But it has, Lt. You’re on the cover of a magazine.” MacTavish smirks and drops his hands from Simon’s shoulders. He then promptly punches Simon lightly in his upper arm. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Hardly,” mutters Simon, but he’s smiling behind the balaclava.

Price presents his hand, and he and Simon grasp forearms. “Good to see you, Simon. Been a while.”

“It has,” replies Simon.

Johnny leans toward Simon and cups the side of his mouth like he’s an old hen about to drop a piece of juicy gossip. When he speaks, it’s just a projected whisper that everyone can hear clearly. “Captain bought up a bunch of magazines and handed them out to everyone on base.”

“Soap,” barks Price.

MacTavish holds up his hands, and then points at Price with one finger, jabbing it in the captain’s direction. “Just proud of you,” whispers MacTavish.

Simon simply nods but he’s grinning like an idiot behind the balaclava. Price glances in Simon’s direction and shrugs apathetically, not denying or confirming.

Glancing over Price’s shoulder, Simon frowns slightly. Bravo has his front paws on Kyle’s shoulders as he aggressively scratches the dog’s sides. Bravo’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, hanging down toward the floor as the dog pants happily.

“Get down, Bravo,” sighs Simon, indicating with a quick nod of his head.

Bravo sucks his tongue back into his mouth, ears drooping slightly with disappointment. Kyle pats Bravo’s side and removes the dog’s massive paws from his shoulders, gently guiding the German Shepard back down to all fours.

On the phone, Johnny said they’d stop by on Saturday. It’s Saturday. Fairly late on a Saturday, with a final customer still expected to walk through the door, but they are here, just as promised.

Kyle strides up and clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Place looks good.”

“Hasn’t changed,” remarks Simon for a second time.

“Saw you on the cover of UK Ink,” continues Kyle. “Didn’t know until this guy started handing them out on base.” He tips his head in Price’s direction.

Price sighs heavily but says nothing.

“Big deal,” finishes Kyle.

“Congrats, Lt.” MacTavish grins and Simon cannot help but feed into their praise.

It is a big deal. This one interview, this one award, is pushing him beyond the scope of his vision. In forced retirement, Simon expected to fly under the radar, to enjoy himself while he created art. He never expected his work to be recognized internationally.

“Sign my copy yet?” asks Johnny.

Simon backtracks to his desk, picking up the copy MacTavish sent him in the post. Lifting it up, Simon brings it over to Soap, smacking him in the chest with it. Johnny whistles and holds it with both hands in reverence.

“She’s a fucking beauty, Simon.” Johnny places one hand over his heart. “You’ve honored me.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon as Kyle expertly snatches the magazine from Johnny’s hand. He opens it up, flipping through the pages, side-stepping every attempt by Johnny to seize it back.

“Did we come at a good time?” asks Price as he and Simon watch the two idiots playfully bicker over the magazine.

Simon shrugs. “I have one more customer. Free after that.”

Price nods and grips Simon’s shoulder. “We have lots to talk about.”

There is a slight twitch in Price’s clenched jaw that puts Simon on edge. He isn’t sure if he should press Price and try to wrangle an answer out of him, or let it go and see what happens.

“Shit,” says MacTavish, drawing Price and Simon’s attention to him. “Nearly forgot.” He extends an arm to Kyle, making a “give it to me” gesture with his hand. Kyle, with a sly smirk, unzips the front of his windbreaker. Reaching inside, he presents a manila envelope.

Johnny takes it and then offers it to Simon. “Thought I’d give this to you in person. You know, instead of over the phone. Or email.”

Simon takes it, instantly feeling the heft and thickness to it. Opening the tab, Simon slides his hand inside, removing the thick stack of papers.

“It’s everything I could find on her,” continues Johnny. “Where she went to school. Social medias. Every person she’s possibly dated.”

Tucking the manila envelope under his arm, Simon starts sorting through the information. A copy of your birth certificate, school records from elementary to high school, recent phone records. There is even a list of every restaurant or fast-food place you ordered from over the last five years with a credit card.

Simon flips past another page and freezes. His head snaps up, a growl sitting in the back of his throat. “You included her fucking banking information, Johnny.”

MacTavish shrugs dismissively. “I was thorough.”

“Thorough?” mimics Simon. “Fucking hell.” Simon returns everything to the envelope and places it on his desk next to his laptop.

Simon will have to shred it all after he looks through it. But only after he takes a look. He did ask Johnny to find what out what he could. While it is a major invasion of privacy, a more primal part of Simon reassures him that he’s doing the right thing. He needs to be able to protect you, and these are just tools in his arsenal to maintain your safety.

“She’s pretty, Simon,” says Price.

“You told them?” asks Simon, turning his attention to Johnny.

The Scotsman’s cheeks redden slightly. “He bullied the information out of me.”

Kyle leans in and drapes his arm over Soap’s shoulders. “Price told him he’d put him on inventory for a month if he didn’t spill.”

“Wanted to see this beauty for myself,” grumbles Price, glancing at Simon. “Give you a hard time.” He winks. “She yours yet?”

She yours yet?

There is a double-meaning there. While Simon’s instinct is to say “yes,” he also knows that that isn’t entirely true. The two of you haven’t verbally confirmed what this thing is. Simon has only just now asked you on a proper date.

Can Simon call you his?

The possessive, protective part of him shakes its ownership of you in its fist. But Simon isn’t impulsive, at least not all the time. With you, the need to react is strong, but Simon also understands that Price is asking in a more traditional way.

Licking his lips, Simon forms an answer. “She will be.”

Price nods. “Good man.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Johnny before returning his gaze to Simon. “Mind if we stick around?”

Simon shakes his head.

“We’ll help you clean,” adds Johnny.

“Will we?” asks Kyle slowly, eyebrows rising slightly as he turns on Soap.

Johnny blatantly ignores him and keeps his gaze locked on Simon. “You call the shots. Isn’t that right, Lt?”

That’s when Simon’s final client of the evening finally walks through the door. Simon doesn’t have a chance to answer. The customer is a bit bewildered by the small crowd, but the guys know to make themselves scarce. They head over to the couch, lingering in the waiting area with Bravo, chatting quietly as Simon escorts the newcomer into the tattoo chair.

Bravo moves from Johnny to Kyle to Price to Johnny again, seeking attention as Simon sets to work. The tattoo isn’t complicated, and Simon completes in about forty-five minutes. The guy is in and out in an hour.

When the four of them are standing outside in front of the shop, Simon pushes up his balaclava and lights a cigarette. It’s warm for autumn, the leather jacket he wears already making him run a little hot.

“We’ve got an upcoming mission we want your thoughts on,” says Price. “Need somewhere quiet we can go and talk.”

An upcoming mission? That’s not entirely unusual. Price has reached out to Simon on multiple occasions post-retirement to ask him for advice or to dig around in his head. But never—never—has Price and the rest of the team showed up to talk to him a group or in person.

There’s something else going on.

Clutching the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Simon opens his mouth, exhaling smoke, intending to suggest a few places.

But before anything comes out of his mouth, Price shots him a look. “Not that fucking pub with the old folks.”

“No one will bother us,” replies Simon dryly. It’s true. It’s why he goes to Dancing Faun every Sunday. And Ben will close up for the public but stay open for just the four them. They won’t be bothered, and they will have as much time as they need.

“You might be an old man at heart, Simon, but I’m not getting harassed by older women whose husbands have been dead for years.”

Kyle bursts out laughing before promptly covering his mouth.

“Don’t like the attention, Captain?” teases Johnny.

Price points at each of them individually. “Fuck off. All of you.”

There are only a few places they could go on a Saturday night where they won’t be disturbed. Sighing, Simon rattles off a couple within walking distance. The four of them debate until Price becomes so annoyed with their continuous back-and-forth that he abruptly selects for all of them.

The walk over is quick, and the four of them enter the dimly lit pub. It’s one of only a handful of places that serves food late. It’s also on a side street away from the main road. Traffic is light, and the interior isn’t crowded. Simon is starving, and he’d appreciate a full belly with a whiskey or two before he starts talking about things he’d rather forget.

Finding a dark corner, they settle in at a four top. Kyle and Simon settle in the booth, facing the pub while Price and Johnny take the seats across from them. Simon settles into the cushioned seat, contentment sliding into his bones. He’s at peace, even if the coming conversation might be messy. He’s with people he cares about, and tomorrow, he’s off.

Tomorrow, he can go see you. Maybe. If you’re not busy. The two of you can talk about that date, maybe go for a walk and then lunch? Simon just wants to spend time with you, and tomorrow is the perfect day to do it.

Simon shifts in his seat, leaning his crossed arms on the edge of the table, glancing out across the pub. His gaze travels over every person, his old habits from the military coming to the surface. Recognizing exits and looking for suspicious behavior is as natural as breathing. But everyone around them is minding their own business. They’re either sitting by themselves or with others, not glancing Simon’s way at all.

He does one finally sweep, and that is when his gaze falls upon two people sitting at a high top together near the very back of the pub. Of the two, Simon notices the man first. He has dark hair, possibly brown but it’s difficult to say with the low light. Slightly older than Simon by a few years, and the bloke is wearing an impeccably made suit. It’s odd for a place like this. It stands out.

Simon doesn’t like the man’s demeanor either. It’s…smarmy. Pretentious. Like he not only believes that he’s better than everyone else in this establishment, but that they should all know it. The way he sits in the high-backed stool is off too. It’s relaxed and yet completely on edge.

Simon frowns, gaze panning to the woman the man is talking to.

Everything suddenly goes cold within him. Arctic. The room has become a meat freezer and Simon is just a piece of dangling meat.

Because that is you, and you’re sitting next to a man Simon doesn’t recognize.

You are here, alone with a man Simon doesn’t know.

A bright, blindingly hot sensation roars to life in Simon’s chest. It wraps around and between his ribs, seizing him in a vice-grip. Against this heat, the iciness melts off of him, dripping to the ground to pool under his boots.

“Simon?” asks Soap, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “What are you—fuck. Is that her?”

It doesn’t fucking matter who this guy might be or what he might mean to you. Simon is going to crack his fucking skull open.

“That’s her,” murmurs Simon, the low growl previously lodged in his throat coming up suddenly.

Price leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the top, glancing to where everyone else is looking. “Want me to take him out to the alley? Give him some fresh bruises?”

Simon’s hands form into fists. He starts to stand but Kyle and Soap grab onto him, shoving him back down into the booth. “Relax, Lt,” soothes Johnny. “Might be nothing.”

You haven’t noticed Simon yet. You’re too busy looking at this man—this stranger. Turned slightly to the side, your gaze wouldn’t fall across Simon unless you purposefully scanned the room. The worst part is that Simon has no idea if you’re enjoying yourself or not. There is a blankness on your face that Simon loathes.

Do want to be here? Do want to be talking to this man that Simon doesn’t know? And why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you say anything? Is there someone else Simon needs to worry about? Does he have competition?

Silently, Simon begs for you to turn in his direction, even if it’s only a bit.

This unknown variable, this stain of a man, reaches out. With red-drenched horror, Simon watches as he places that very hand on the top of your thigh.

All Simon sees is blood.

This bastard is going to lose that fucking hand. And then he’ll lose his goddamn head.

Simon bolts up out of his seat again but Kyle and Johnny are right there, grabbing onto him, wrangling him back down into his seat.

“Let me go,” snarls Simon through clenched teeth.

“You’re gonna cause a fucking scene if we do that,” hisses Kyle, shoving downward on Simon’s shoulders.

Why are you letting him touch you? Why, when just yesterday you were beneath Simon, seeking him with your fingers, begging for him, are you allowing this?

But you’re not allowing it. You didn’t give this man permission.

Within seconds of the man’s hand connecting with your thigh, your gaze turns downward, lips curling back into a disgusted snarl. You twist your body enough for his hand to fall away, and a flare of pride swells in Simon’s chest.

You didn’t want this man’s touch. Which makes Simon momentarily happy before it all comes crashing down. This man touched you. Without your consent. And that makes Simon angrier than if you had wanted it.

Simon craves blood. He needs his knuckles drenched with it. For it to sit between his teeth. To taste it on his tongue.

“Who the fuck is that?” asks Kyle.

“I don’t know,” growls Simon, wanting to take off and punch the guy right out of his fucking chair.

With the removal of his hand, the guy’s smug smile drops. He bares his teeth, starts speaking to you in a way that Simon immediately dislikes. Sure, Simon cannot hear what the man is saying to you, but from the look on his face and body language, it’s nothing nice. He is angry, and you’re clearly upset. Simon wants this to end, to go up to the guy and throttle him, to whisk you off and make you forget all this unpleasantness.

But Kyle and Johnny keep him seated. They won’t let go, which means Simon will have to literally fight them to get to you.

Small pieces of the conversation start to make its way over to the table.

“Archie.”

“Estate.”

Simon frowns, hears something that sounds like “pregnancy” and immediately rethinks everything. Does this have something to do with your friend? The husband is dead, but is this someone the husband knew? Is it a relative?

And does that matter to Simon?

No. He still plans on knocking the man’s teeth out.

Simon only catches a few additional words here and there, but then he hears three that make his blood boil.

“You fucking whore.”

Simon knows that Johnny, Kyle, and Price all hear it too because their gazes move away from Simon and to the man at the table. Soap and Kyle’s hands fall away from Simon’s arms, giving him permission.

Pushing up from his seat, Simon steps around Johnny and strides toward the high-top table. Your back is to Simon from this position, but that doesn’t matter. Simon has his sights set on this wanker who needs to learn some proper fucking manners.

The man notices Simon first, his angered expression turning away from you and switching to Simon. It slips slightly, the faintest bit of fear sliding across the man’s features as he realizes Simon is aiming for him. Simon inhales, falling effortlessly into Ghost, allowing the phantom inside himself to seek out its need for blood.

But with his removed attention comes your own turning. A wanting to know what it is he’s looking at. When your gaze falls upon Simon, Ghost deflates, softens, giving way to confusion. All the emotions passing over your face nearly stop Simon’s forward momentum.

Your own anger gives way to sudden panic, then switches quickly to irritation, further compounded by confusion. It’s likely that you didn’t expect Simon to be at the same place. And while Simon wants to turn to you and give you reassurance, he’s too fucking focused on this asshole you’re sitting with.

Simon decides not to address you. Instead, Simon turns on this thickheaded prat. “What did you fucking call her?”

The man’s lip curls. “Mind your own business.” Immediately, Simon notes the man’s accent. It speaks to social status and aristocracy.

Simon steps closer. “Repeat what you said. Out loud. Want to make sure I heard you right.”

“Simon,” you hiss, desperation leaking into your tone.

Your guest turns on you, anger flaring anew in his gaze. “You know this…man?” He says man like he wants to say animal.

“He’s—” you begin, but Simon interrupts.

“Direct your questions to me,” growls Simon, placing himself between you and this stranger.

“Simon. Please.” You tug on Simon’s leather jacket but he shrugs you off. His attention is completely on this asshole.

“Are you with him?” The man’s gaze flicks from Simon to you.

“Adam—”

“I thought we could have a civil conversation—”

“What’s civil about calling her a whore.” Simon’s voice rises slightly as the raging tide of fury boils within him like a thunderstorm.

Adam’s face grows bright red. He turns on Simon. “Do you know who I am?”

Simon could give a fuck. He could be the fucking King and Simon would still punch the piss out of him for speaking to you that way.

Price shoves himself between Simon and Adam, keeping his back to Simon, creating a barrier. “Let me help you to your car.”

Price isn’t doing this to be nice. He’s doing this so the police aren’t called.

Adam stands but isn’t nearly as tall as Price. “If you put your hands on me—”

“Deal with me or him. Your choice.”

Adam straightens his shoulders and tugs on the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.

Fucking prick.

He glances over Price’s shoulder at you. “This isn’t over. You’ll hear from the family solicitor.”

“Let’s go,” mutters Soap, caging the guy in, forcing him to move away from Simon. Kyle trails after them.

Price turns around, facing Simon directly. “We’ll stop by another day. You deal with your woman.” He squeezes Simon’s shoulder before following out after them.

Simon watches Price leave, and then he’s seeking you out, expecting you to be thankful.

But you’re not. Your anger is palpable.

Simon needs to fucking fix this. “You’re coming home with me,” is the first thing out of his mouth. It’s a command. Not an ask. And his tone is rough, nearly raspy.

Your eyes widen slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper.

Simon draws back, startled. “You okay with him speaking to you like that?”

You huff, and get up from your chair, collecting your coat and purse. “You don’t know anything, Simon. You have no idea who that is and why we were even talking in the first place.” Shoving past him, you start for the door.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon, following after you.

His legs are longer, and he catches up to you easily. Before you make it to the pub’s exit, Simon inserts himself in your path, blocking your attempt to flee.

“Move.”

“No.”

“You’re making a scene, Simon.”

He glances up, notices everyone looking on with varying degrees of interest. Some confused. Others concerned. Sighing, Simon reaches back and pushes open the door, stepping aside for you to exit.

Once the two of you are outside on the street, Simom grabs you by the forearm, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Let me go,” you snap.

“We’re going to talk.”

“Fuck off, Simon.” You yank your arm out of his grip. Something is forming on the tip of your tongue. Simon sees it in the way your lip quivers. But you don’t. Instead, you sigh heavily and wave him off like you’re tired of it all.

Turning, you try to cross the street, but Simon is already snagging your arm again, yanking you away as a car zooms by.

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Then give me some fucking space.”

“No.”

You release an exasperated breath and try to circumvent him. Again, Simon steps into your path. The two of you keep moving like this down the street. Every attempt you make only puts you closer to him.

Simon is herding you on purpose, pushing you closer and closer to his flat. He wants some goddamn answers, no matter how mad you are with him. And he doesn’t understand why you’re upset in the first place.

When the two of you are outside his shop, Simon indicates the exterior door that leads to his flat.

“Get inside,” he demands.

“Don’t order me around.”

“Inside,” repeats Simon, shoving the key into the lock, opening the door, revealing the hallway that connects the shop to his flat.

You stare between him and the open doorway. Your chest is heaving, and fuck—you look so beautiful right now even though Simon can tell you’d really love to hit him.

The tips of his fingers itch to just push you inside and shut the door, but he doesn’t need to. You make the decision for him, heading inside. Simon follows, and as the door shuts, you’re already moving like a bolt of lightning, walking fast enough to create a significant amount of distance.

No. Fuck that.

With a few massive steps, Simon is on you. He grabs the front of your throat, yanks you back against his chest, pushing your face toward his. The balaclava is already up, already in place, and his lips connect with yours.

At first, Simon can sense the tension but then you melt into him as his other hand slides to your front, pressing low on your belly, pushing your ass into his groin. Your own arm slides up, drapes over his neck in such a loving way that Simon momentarily forgets all his anger.

The two of you hang like this, suspending, but you come back to reality, yanking yourself out of his grip, almost violently.

“You can’t distract me with kisses, Simon.”

“Want to test that?” asks Simon, reflexively reaching for your waist.

You allow him to touch you, to draw you back into him, but your arms are crossed over your chest defensively. “You don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s—it’s too much and you don’t know. You don’t understand, Simon.”

“Then help me understand,” he says softly.

You shake your head and there are real tears there in your eyes. Simon hates it. He wants to take them all away.

“You’re not my husband, Simon. You’re not even my boyfriend. I shouldn’t burden you with any of this.”

You will not push him away. Simon won’t allow it. The two of you are in this together, and he needs to know.

“I care about you.” Now Simon is the one shaking his head. “Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.” His hands draw upward, cradling the sides of your face. “We’re going up to my flat. You’re going to talk. I’m going to listen. Okay?”

One tear rolls off the corner of your eye, trailing downward to kiss his palm.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you reply.

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ellecdc · 3 months

Text

The Drink Snob (part 2)

Mafia AU!Remus Lupin x fem!reader - 4.5k

p1 // p2 // p3 // p4

CW: Brief description of blood, mention of crimes, past kidnapping, family dynamics, mention past death of a parent, pressure from friends to date, use of Y/N

Remus tried to ignore the snickering coming from the two men at the kitchen table as he scrubbed the blood from his hands, using the brush to get under his nails.

“It’s not even that funny in theory, it’s just that it’s so un-Moony like that makes it funny.” James giggled, actually giggled, like a schoolgirl. Remus could kill him.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Lily’s voice, authoritative and deep compared to James’ snickering, jumped in. “You’re telling me the plan was almost foiled because Remus got distracted flirting with a girl at the bar?”

“Not only was the plan nearly foiled, Red,” Sirius offered between fits of laughter, “the dumb bloke nearly died.”

“I didn’t nearly die.” Remus spat under his breath.

“His drink was spiked whilst he was busy ogling the bird – she had to stop him from taking a swig!” James completed, howling in laughter.

Lily brought her hand up to her mouth in an ill attempt to hide her amusement as she turned her gaze to the guilty man. “Oh, Remus.”

“We caught the bastard, didn’t we?” He barked, swatting James and Sirius on the back of their heads as he took a place at the kitchen table beside Harry. “Besides, James, you’re not supposed to refer to women as birds.” Remus enunciated, causing James to wince as he correctly presumed the whack of a tea towel was headed his way from his wife.

“Right you are, Remus. This is why you’re my favourite.” She said, winking at him. The other two men scoffed in mock outrage.

“But he almost blew the whole stake out!” James cried at the same time as Sirius countered with “I nearly blow all our missions because of my flirting, why am I not your favourite?”

Lily rolled her eyes as a third voice popped up.

“You’re no one’s favourite Sirius, I can’t believe you still haven’t figured that out.” Regulus muttered as he placed a kiss to Lily’s head before moving to the table to place a matching one on James and Harry’s.

Sirius scoffed, “and no kiss either. I see how it is.” He said as he crossed his arms.

“Awe, Pads! If you wanted kisses, you only had to ask!” James hollered as he threw himself at his best friend and left loud, smacking kisses across his face.

“Ew! Get off of me! This is like incest!” Sirius screeched.

Regulus rolled his eyes and turned to Remus. “Wanting a kiss from his actual brother is fine but his friend giving him a kiss is incest?”

“Stop trying to figure Sirius out, Reg, there’s no logic.” Remus countered with a smile.

Remus was glad, really, that life turned out the way it had for him. He wasn’t always, mind you; having been thrown into the world of underground crime at an early age after his father, with hopes for a political career, accidentally offended a well-known crime lord in Southern UK. In retaliation, Remus had been abducted and initiated into their mob at only twelve years old and was only reunited with his father and mother at fifteen once his dad had turned to crime after the police claimed there was ‘nothing they could do’ to bring their son back home.

Then, when he was 17, he met James and Sirius. They both came from money, and both had very different experiences as a result. James was somewhat spoilt but extremely loving and eager to spread the wealth. Sirius, on the other hand, had pushed back against his birth family as hard as he could before he finally left to stay with the Potter’s full time.

His younger brother, Reg, followed a few years later, and they’ve been with James and his parents ever since. James met Lily studying in University; Reg became enamoured with her just as quickly, though much more quietly than James had, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The options for Remus’ family were slim to none after moving from Wales to London in order for him to attend school. University had not been in the plans for him as the Lupin family came from almost nothing, but they had earned enough in the mob to secure him a spot anyhow. They had hoped to leave the lifestyle behind them, but their resume was lacking after spending years in crime. Eventually, it was Remus’ mother, Hope Lupin, who found Effie which introduced Remus and his father into the Potter Agency.

A legal corporation with less than legal methods; they liked to believe they were some of the good guys.

The term ‘good’ is used lightly, of course.

There’s crime, theft, assault, torture, and sometimes even death, but they don’t do it for the money or notoriety – not really.

Potter & Son’s Corporations acts as the authority when the police lose control of the situation. So much of the crime that takes place is through drugs and laundering – the kinds of things that the police are more than happy to turn a blind eye to so long as they’re being paid.

But when police are being paid off, other crimes – such as trafficking – start happening, and the police often find that their hands are “tied”.

So, Potter & Son’s deal with it, and it helps.

At least that’s what Remus tells himself.

He understood why Sirius and James stayed. Neither had a choice really, much like himself, but Sirius made the choice of the lesser of two evils – chaotic good (Potter's) versus chaotic evil (The Black family). As for James; this was his family business. He was Potter & Son before it became Son’s to accommodate Sirius, and later Reg and finally Remus. This was James’ legacy, and he now had a wife, a boyfriend and a son to continue protecting, and he did that by staying.

Remus stayed because, well, it’s all there really is for him. Any background-check a potential employer could run on him would not only take him out of the running so fast, but they’d also likely even report him. His mom and dad had their part – running one of the many restaurants in the city that acted as the front for Potter & Son’s.

But Remus wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Not even the stranger – flustered, music theory, Disney quoting, sailor level swearing stranger that singlehandedly nearly killed him and then saved him within the span of two hours.

She had been overwhelmingly distracting, and James was right; Remus was usually the one at attention always. He never got distracted on missions – that’s why he took the position in the bar to wait on the dirty fuck. James is overly friendly and likely to get distracted by any Tom, Dick or Nancy that walked through the door – and God forbid there’s a pub cat present. Sirius can’t stop flirting with anything with a heartbeat for more than a second, and he stands out a little too much anyway due to his last name.

Hence, Remus goes in.

Only to be utterly enchanted by a foreign PhD student whose nose was cold bitten red and her hair thoroughly crumpled from her obvious pulling. Remus tried to ignore her; he really did. He even thought he did a pretty good job when her damned pencil skirt rode up and exposed more of her tight-clad thighs as she sat on the barstool. He even ignored the way she played with her bottom lip between her thumb and index finger as she waited for the bartender to notice her.

But then she had to go and order a fucking negroni alongside a pint of beer.

If she hadn’t looked like she tasted so sweet, Remus is sure he would have gagged outloud.

And really, what is a proper Welsh bloke like him ought to do when he sees a crime against alcohol take place before his very eyes? By-stander he is not, good sir.

But it didn’t matter. It had been too close. It was foolish. And dangerous. For both of them.

He may not be able to save her from Gilderoy Lockhart, but he could save her from this.

Regulus decided this was the perfect time to interrupt Remus’ inner ramblings. “So, when are you seeing her next?”

He stared at him dumbly. “Excuse me?”

“The girl, when are you seeing her next?” He clarified as he popped a cracker into his mouth.

“Come on, Moony, don’t tell me you didn’t close the deal!” Sirius commented from across the table.

“What? I- no. No, there was no deal to be closed, you prat.” Remus muttered for Sirius’ benefit. “It wasn’t like that.”

“‘It wasn’t like that’ he says, like he wasn’t wrapped around her little finger for two hours as she waxed poetic about the architecture of Manchester.” James sing songed.

“What” Remus sputtered, “she did not talk about Manchester architecture, James.”

“But you were wrapped around her finger?”

“Not that either!” He shouted. “Enough, it wasn’t like that, I’m not seeing her again. End of discussion.”

“Mm, kay, counter point: discussion not ended. What do you mean you’re not seeing her again?” Lily interjected.

“I mean exactly that – I’m not seeing her again.”

“Rem,” Lily started softly, and he groaned knowing she was about to go all mama-bird on him. “When’s the last time you fancied someone like that? You’ve guffawed at everyone I’ve ever tried to set you up with.”

“Because they were all dull.” Remus muttered apparently not quietly enough as he was smacked up the back of his head.

“And you’ve never found yourself distracted on a job before. That has to mean something, right? Why not give it a shot?” She asked gently.

Remus chose to ignore the second part of her sentence altogether for the benefit of everyone. “Exactly, I’ve never been distracted on a job before. Something is clearly wrong with me, I think maybe we should all be a little bit more worried about that, hm?”

Everyone rolled their eyes and turned back to their various tasks. For James, that meant holding a raspberry competition with his infant son, Reg and Sirius began rough housing which quickly turned into an actual knife fight, and Lily back to restocking the medicine cabinet.

It was one job – I’m fine. I’ll likely never see her again. Remus thought to himself.

He tried not to let that thought upset him.

He failed.

Your encounter with The Man ™ as you’d started calling him in your head continued to bother you throughout the week. You thought you had been doing a pretty decent job keeping it from your thoughts: you guest lectured with no hiccups, your playing didn’t seem to be impacted and you kept up in orchestra well, and you even managed a facetime with your best friend Elle back home.

Apparently zoning out in the middle of grading with your pen in your mouth was what finally gave you away.

“Miss. L/N?” Minerva called.

You quickly sat up straight. “Hm? I’m so sorry Professor, I-”

She waved you off with a kind smile. “My dear, I’ve told you to call me Minerva – as a PhD student, you’re more like my colleague than you are my student. I only meant to ask what has you so distracted. Are the first-year level quizzes on the basics of composition not riveting enough for you?” She asked gently, though her tone was often lost in her thick, stern sounding Scottish accent.

“Sorry Pro- I mean, Minerva.” You caught yourself at her stern look. “I was just thinking that no one would know if I was missing.”

Minerva dropped her pen and sat straight.

“My dear, what has you concerned. Has something-” she began to ask, but you cut her off.

“No, no. I’m fine, I just realized – if I go to a pub after school one day and something happens, no one will know to look for me. There’s no one at my apartment waiting for me at the end of the day, the landlord wouldn’t care until the end of the month when my rent was late, and even then, it’d be a while before she did anything about that. Students come and go from your life every day – if I wasn’t available to help grading or lecturing, you’d ask someone else. And that would be it. My friends back home would only realize I hadn’t been answering messages and would assume I’ve been busy.”

You looked up from the carpet where you had been zoned out.

“And I don’t say any of that for sympathy. I just mean, well, someone ought to know – you know?”

Minerva considered your words before nodding slowly.

“I’d notice. The second I had to settle for Mr. Lockhart’s subpar grading or lecturing.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the matriarch.

“Put me down as your emergency contact.” She added.

“I’m sorry?”

“With the school. And at your apartment. In your phone too if you can. Put me as your emergency contact. I’ll know then if anything happens.” She stated plainly as if she hadn’t just offered you an actual lifeline in Europe when you were thousands of kilometers from anyone who gave a damn about you.

“Thank you, Minerva.” You said softly.

The corner of her mouth quirked up, but she never moved her gaze from her papers.

“You’re very welcome, Y/N.”

You sat in your apartment – or you supposed you should call it a flat, you were in England after all – and watched traffic outside of the window while you replayed your conversation with Elle.

“I’m just worried about you is all.” She said.

You rolled your eyes as you held the phone between your ear and shoulder and loaded the washing machine.

“Why?”

“Why? Because! You’re all alone out there in a tiny apartment in a big city where you don’t know anyone!”

“Elle, I don’t see how that’s any different than what I had been doing last year. I did the exact same thing in New York, and you didn’t seem this concerned then.” You chided.

“Well-” she started. “Well, that was different.”

“How?”

“Because you were at least on the same continent as me. It was maybe a three-hour flight versus an eight. What else do you want me to say, Y/N?”

You sighed and threw your head back.

“I don’t want you to say anything Elle, I just don’t understand why we’re having this conversation.”

“It’s been almost six months.”

You stopped and stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The six-month anniversary of your mom’s death was next week; you were well aware of that. It showed on your body, too, and you were glad Elle couldn’t see you now. You looked pale; your hair was dirty and piled messily on top of your head in a bun, though some locks were doing their damnedest to break free. Your clothes seemed to hang off your body in a way that hadn’t before as well; you made a mental note to figure that out at some point.

“What about it?” You muttered, leaving the offending mirror behind you, and moving through your apartment (flat).

“Y/N/N, I just don’t think it’s healthy to be sitting in that apartment all alone. I mean, I know you haven’t been keeping in as much touch with the others, which is fair,” She emphasized the end as you began to defend yourself. “They don’t understand what it’s like to lose a parent or the intricacies of grad school, but still, it’s been noticed. And you haven’t dated since, what, Brian?”

“Brandon.” You corrected bitterly.

“Exactly, and how many years has that been?”

You moved your reading glasses to the top of your head and scrubbed your hand down your face. You loved Elle, you really did. But she was the kind of person to throw herself at life without self-reflection and that just wasn’t your style. She also lived by the motto that we were put on this earth to find our “other half”, and that all of lifes problems can be solved by finding someone to spend it with, which was another thing you just couldn’t get behind.

So, yes, it had been six years since your last relationship, and seeing as you weren’t the type to date around, you’d been single the entire time.

But you’ve been happy.

You and your mom travelled a bit when she was still healthy. You attended Julliard to complete your master’s in music and spent time living in New York City. You played with the New York Philharmonic and in orchestra halls across North America. You went to the fucking Tony awards (as a seat filler, mind you, but still)!

“I just worry, Y/N. I mean, next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’ve gotten yourself a cat or two!” She jested.

Your gaze shot to Huckleberry, the long-haired tom-cat you recently rescued from the local humane society, who was currently curled up on a throw blanket on your couch which you had yet to inform Elle about. You figured it could probably wait until your next chat with her.

“Don’t worry about me too much, Elle.” You sighed as you gave the feline a pat across the head.

“Someone has to.”

You fought the urge to groan – you knew she wasn’t trying, but this conversation was turning out to be more painful than you needed right now. The last thing you needed to be reminded of was how completely alone you were on this planet. If not for Elle and a few of your other mutual friends, you’d literally have Huckleberry and Minerva for company. And, God forbid, Gilderoy.

“I’ll talk to you later Elle.”

“Okay Y/N/N, be safe. Love you!”

“Love you.” You added before you hung up.

Part of you wondered if she was right about some things. Aren’t you meant to be meeting people? Making friends? That’s what people do when they relocate, right?

You looked at your phone which sat on the couch behind you. It never lights up; no one’s looking for you.

You didn’t much fancy downloading an app – it felt phony, like you were trying to sell yourself to someone. How else did people meet other people these days though?

School? Already there. Work?

Work.

I could get a job.

You’ve been comfortable. Between funding from school and your mother’s life insurance, you hadn’t been too concerned for money though you had been living somewhat frugally. You supposed it wouldn’t hurt to have some pocket money, and maybe make a dent in your never-ending student loans.

I'll get a job then.

You’ve served at bars in Toronto and New York throughout school and worked as a waitress at different diners. Most people didn’t like working the service industry, but you didn’t much mind it; in cities that large, people are always in a hurry to get to somewhere else and don’t often stay long enough to really gather your interest.

It’d be even better if I could find a job that involved music.

Part of you still felt like an imposter.

You’re working on your PhD, you studied music at Julliard, and played in world-renowned orchestras, but you still felt like you had no right holding a seat in the industry.

Fucking Gilderoy wasn’t helping that either. You thought darkly.

“Right,” You told yourself aloud. “One thing at a time.”

And you looked up job opportunities online.

The smell of garlic permeated Remus’ senses as he and Sirius stepped into his parent’s restaurant.

Remus worked for a damn mob, yet somehow, his white-Welsh parents operating an Italian restaurant left him feeling dirty – though, his Da was always quick to state he was 37% Italian on his mother’s side, whatever that meant.

He followed the sound of cursing and found his mum in her office.

“Oi, mum, who has you so wound up? I want names and addresses.” Sirius said as he plopped himself down onto one of the chairs opposite of Hope Lupin’s desk and kicked his Doc Marten clad feet up onto it.

“Sirius, I love you, but it’ll be your name and address I give out if you don’t get your sodding feet of my desk.” Hope stated sweetly without looking up from the papers on her desk. “Hi, cariad’s.”

“Hey mum, what’re you working on?” Remus replied as he sat (properly) in the chair beside Sirius.

She sighed and turned to look at the two boys. “Well, you remember the issues we were having with our new hire last week?”

Sirius looked up from his phone at this. “Hot Stephanie?”

Hope rolled her eyes, “Yes, Stephanie. Well, we had to let her go.”

“Awe mum, I’m sorry. Do you need a hand around here until you find more help?” Remus asked quickly.

Hope turned a soft smile in her son’s direction, her green eyes crinkling in the corners. “As much as I’d love having you around, cariad, I’m still recovering from you and James helping out last summer.”

Remus grimaced while Sirius barked a laugh. He and James had their strengths – but working the service industry apparently wasn’t one of them.

“Besides, I’ve got a few good candidates here I think.” She said and gestured to a pile of CVs on her desk. “This lass sounds promising.”

“Yes, mummykins! Hire another hottie for us.” Sirius cheered.

“That’s enough out of you.” Hope chided as she swatted him with her stack of resumes. “She’s got plenty of experience in restaurants and bars, and she may even be able to offer live music for us!”

“That’s sweet of you Hope, giving jobs to starving artists.” Sirius said looking back at his phone.

“She did look a little peaky.” Hope admitted, “But I’m sure that’s on account of her recent move. She’s American.”

“What?” Remus snapped.

His mum hummed. “Yup, she went to Julliard, served as a bartender and server in Toronto and New York pubs. She should work out really well!”

“Let me see this.” Remus muttered, snatching the CV unceremoniously from my mother’s hands.

Y/N L/N. University of Toronto / The Julliard School / Royal College of Music. Guest lecturer, experience in classical and contemporary performance and composition, teacher’s assistant, bartender, and server. The names of the various restaurants and bars you worked at were listed but they blurred in his vision.

“What has gotten into you, cariad.” Hope gently chided as she took the CV back from his hands.

“What did she look like?” Remus spat.

“Pardon me?”

Remus described you; he described your skin tone – a match. Your eyes? A match. Your hair colour and length? A match.

“Shorter?”

Hope rolled her eyes. “Not everyone can be as tall as you and your father, Remus.”

“Mum, answer the question.”

She scoffed. “Yes, I suppose she was a little short.”

“You can’t hire her.”

“Excuse me?” She asked incredulously.

“Oh my God.” Sirius finally interjected, taking the CV from Hope’s hands. “Is this The Girl?”

“The girl?” She asked.

Remus snatched the CV back out of Sirius’ hands and placed it back in the pile onto his mum’s desk.

“Who’s The Girl?” Hope asked, but it was obvious she was asking Sirius.

“Oh, you should have seen it, Mum. We were on a stake out for one of McCormick’s crew at The Drunken Sailor, and Remus got all caught up chatting this pretty little lady at the bar. He didn’t even notice-”

“I didn’t even notice that the bloke had come in until he went to leave.” Remus interrupted, not wanting to worry his mum by telling her how close he came to dying.

“Right...” Sirius continued, squinting his eyes at Remus. “Anyways, looks like you found The Girl who distracted our darling Remus here.”

Hope’s gaze was full of mirth as she turned to look at her son.

“So, you meet my dream employee at a bar one night and don’t even introduce me?”

“Mum, it wasn’t like that.” Remus whined, thoroughly annoyed by this conversation.

“Fine, but I’m sorry cariad, she’s the only one who applied who was worth my time, in fact, she’s likely overqualified. I’m arranging an interview.”

Remus sighed in defeat. So much for keeping her out of this mess.

Continue to part three here 🥃

#marauders era #marauders au #reader insert #marauders fanfiction #marauders x reader #remus lupin x reader #self insert #remus lupin x you #remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin fanfiction #background jegulily #jegulily #Sirius black being a little shit #mafia au #remus x reader #remus lupin fic

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tomhollandisabae · 1 year

Note

I've got a request! Ghost and reader on a mission together. They both have definite feelings for each other already. Reader gets shot and from Ghosts pov it looks fatal, but it isn't. Reader has to play dead to escape from the enemy and scares Ghost half to death in the process. THANK YOU

thank u so much for ur request love!!🥰🥰

faking- simon "ghost" riley x reader

masterlist

summary; as the mission goes on, you are forced to fake your death, hurting the man you love most.

warnings; angst, death, mentions of blood, mature language, violence, fluff, english is not my first language, unedited

words; 1.7k

a/n; doesn't follow the events of mw2, but there are some hints here and there

to clear things out MI5 works within the UK (MI6 is the opposite)

“Vox, report.” You heard ghost’s voice.

“I'm going in.” You replied.

“No, no. You stay where you are, you hear me? We didn't agree on that.” He insisted.

“Ghost there is no other way. It has to be done now. Over.”

The situation had as follows; you had organised an ambush on Graves and his team, while your top priority was to capture him and take him hostage to use him against Shepherd. However, your plan wasn't keeping up with theirs as much as you wanted, so you had to improvise. That's why you argued with Ghost and disobeyed his instructions, putting yourself at risk.

As you broke in you started taking down one soldier after the other, but sooner or later found yourself on your knees, putting pressure on the front of your thigh trying to prevent more blood loss as you had apparently been shot.

“Vox, what's going on?” Ghost’s worried voice sounded once again over the comms.

“I'm hit, but I'll survive.” You informed him.

“I'm coming in.”

“Ghost no, I'll be fine.” You insisted, but it had no result as you show him entering the building you were in and approaching you carefully, trying not to compromise himself.

“I told you not to do that. You didn't listen Y/n.” He spoke once he leaned down taking you in his arms and picking you up carefully making you hiss due to the pain.

“I'm sorry…” You responded weakly.

“Hey it's okay, you're going to be okay. Just keep your eyes open, can you do that for me doll?” He asked you, panic written all over his voice.

“Mhhm…” you murmured as you started feeling lightheaded.

“Y/n, Y/n” he shook you “I need a medic immediately! Vox is down!” He shouted over the comm.

“Simon…” you exclaimed his name slowly.

“Everything's going to be okay Y/n, you'll be okay. Please keep your eyes open.” He pleaded as his hands started trembling.

“I'm sorry, i'm so sorry…” a tear rolled down on your cheek.

“Medics are on their way.”

“You hear that darling, they're coming to save you.” He placed you down again, once you were outside the building.

“I'm really sorry…” you kept repeating over and over again.

“You don't have to be sorry about anything sweetheart, everything's fine. Just stay awake.” You could tell that under the mask a sad and hurt expression had overtaken his facial characteristics.

“I'm so…”

“No! No no no! Please no!” He took you in his arms and hugged you tightly as if he could keep you soul in from exiting your cold body.

When the medics finally arrived they found Ghost on his knees holding you as tight as he could, trying to memorise the way you felt for the rest of his miserable life. They tried to take you away from him and after a few tries they succeeded as Soap appeared from behind them, approaching Ghost and kneeling down next to him trying to comfort him, but it was too late.

Ghost had lost his last hope of life. He had lost you…

It took three months for the Task Force 141 to finally give an end to everything. They had accomplished their mission and were now celebrating in a small bar as they waited for Laswell to arrive, so she could congratulate them face to face.

Ghost never spoke to anyone, only when it was needed for the mission. He distanced himself from everyone and everything and promised himself to avenge for you death. As he did.

Now the team were having their time of their lives, when finally Laswell walked in.

“Hello boys.” She greeted them with a smile.

They all said their hellos back, apart from Ghost who just nodded towards her.

However, nobody noticed another figure entering the bar, behind Kate.

“It can't be…” Soap exclaimed shocked and everyone turned to him in question and he pointed towards the person behind Laswell.

“Vox?” Gaz said and Ghost head shot up feeling his heart racing.

“Hi” You finally waved at them appearing now next to Kate.

“How?” Price questioned.

“Sit down boys, we can't talk standing.” Laswell motioned towards the booth where everyone was sitting.

And they did so, as you sat down across from Ghost, not daring to look at him. You didn't know what to expect from him. You had left him, you broke him, making him think he had lost everything once again. You were his war partner, wanting to be his life partner eventually, but you betrayed him.

“So where should I start from?” Kate sighed.

“How's Y/n alive, no offence Y/n, I'm really glad your alive, but.. how?” He turned to you and you just nodded.

“Y/l/n works for the MI5, she's been a secret agent for the British army since the beginning of her career. When she was placed in Task Force 141, she had already agreed that her alliance would always be to MI5, so when she was asked to fake her death she couldn't do otherwise.” She began explaining “Y/n, you wanna continue? You know the situation better than anyone.” She asked you and you nodded.

“Yeah, umm… M asked me to get into the Shadow company swearing my allegiance to them, but to do so I had to make you all believe that I'm dead. I had approached Graves and talked to him about it. I promised him that I would be by his side and I would let him know everything about our team. Of course I had already spoken with M and we had agreed on what I would be giving away to him, most of them were false informations. So when I entered that building I had already a bag with fake blood on my foot and prosthetics above it to make it look real. I stabbed the bag and you know the rest… Once I was in the Shadow company I had found a way to secretly commuting with M and gave them all the information they needed. Graves trusted me with everything and I was beside him all the time. When he was finally killed, I was… well… brought back to life.” You said.

“Wow…” Soap was in awe.

“Badass.” Has smirked.

“That's a hell of sacrifice you did there Y/l/n. If they had found out, you'd be for real dead.” Price told you.

“I know, but I was extremely careful.” You smiled at him.

“So you were out secret informer” Soap raised his eyebrow.

“Don't think so. I was providing some information to the MI5, I guess M was talking with Kate and then passing the info to you.” You bit your lip.

“So badass” Soap agreed with Gaz.

Suddenly, Ghost rose up from his seat and walked out of the bar leaving you speechless.

“You should go talk to him. He went through a lot after what happened.” Soap looked at you.

“Yeah, I remember…” You exhaled as you had flashbacks of when he wouldn't let you go as the paramedics were trying to take you away from him.

You got up and finally went outside to find him leaning against a tree in the far back.

“Simon…” You breathed out his name as you approached him.

He didn't respond, didn't even look at you for a second.

“Simon I'm really sorry…”

“Yeah, you said so. Now it all makes sense, the way you were repeating that you were sorry over and over again, the fact that there was no funeral… it all makes sense now.” He shook his head.

“I had no other choice. You have to believe me.” You tried to reason with him.

“Everyone has a choice Vox.” It took you aback as he used your code name and not the real one. He would never call you that when you weren't in the battlefield.

“Well I didn't.” You raised your voice having enough at this point and he finally looked at you shocked.

“You don't know how it is to work for the secret services Simon. They have no morals. They used my fucking family. They had promised me that they would provide them protection as long as I was away for the mission, but they had captured them and threatening to kill them all in the name of saving thousands of other lives. As much as I love you Simon, I love my family too. I might not be able to have a decent relationship with you anymore, but at least you and my family are alive.” You cried out as words kept spilling out of your mouth.

“You love me?” He interrupted you after a while.

“I… yes Simon, I love you more than anything.” You wiped your tears away as you saw him walking up to you.

“Is your family okay?” He asked once he stood in front of you.

“Yeah” you shook your head positively “they're fine.”

“Good.” He placed his arms around your waist pushing you closer to him, making you gasp at the gesture.

“Simon…” you looked up at him.

“What about the MI5?” He asked you.

“I'm out. I don't work for them anymore.” You bit your lip nervously, but he placed his thumb on top of your lower lip, freeing it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You barely whispered.

“Good.”

What he did next was something that you never expected him to do. He lifted his mask, taking it off completely, revealing his beautiful face to you.

With your hands trembling, you placed them carefully on each side of his face.

“I love you Y/n.” He lowered his head, your lips only centimetres from each other.

“Please…” you pleaded.

“What do you want darling?” His lips brushed the crooner of yours softly.

“Kiss me.” Your eyes looked with his.

And he did so, finally connecting your lips in a so long awaited kiss. His soft once moving slowly on top of yours with so much care and love.

And that was just the beginning of a new chapter of both your lives.

Because you would leave a happy ever after, together and forever!

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