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kneelingshadowsalome · 10 months

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I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 3.5 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.

Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.

And you don't.

Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults.

The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.

But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard.

The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like.

He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.

Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow.

Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?

You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.

The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.

You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you.

You're posh. And clueless. And a child.

And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.

It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.

And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.

Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?

You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.

It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.

And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.

"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.

"I reckon."

He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.

"So. What made you become a soldier?"

"Joined the SAS when I was 17."

And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…

"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."

Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.

"Nah. That's not how this works."

You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.

"Lady."

The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.

He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.

"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."

He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.

"...I'm just going shopping."

His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes.

"Then let's go shopping."

…......…......

Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.

You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.

And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.

He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.

"You're from Manchester, right?"

You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance.

And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.

"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.

There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.

"Do you still live there?"

"...No."

"Do you miss the place?"

"No."

The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.

"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."

…......…......

You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times.

He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.

And you’re not going to give in to fear.

You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?

What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.

Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Ugh.

Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.

Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.

Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.

A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.

"Found the one who's hunting you."

Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock.

This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…

You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.

"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."

Nice. More brutes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.

"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in."

He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...

And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.

"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"

"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them.

He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.

Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.

"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."

And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.

You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.

"What do you mean?"

He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.

"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."

"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"

"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."

The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.

You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…

"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.

"That's the least you could do."

That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury.

He could be a little more sensitive.

You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.

You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.

"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.

"Neither did I."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."

The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all.

You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.

"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him.

He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.

Soddy bastard…

"Nah. Not until I've done my job."

His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.

"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout.

Your fucking job.

Why did you even want this job if it's so–

"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."

You have to take support from the table with your fingertips.

"Excuse me?"

There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.

"Good night, ma'am."

…......…......

The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing.

You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes.

He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep.

You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job.

And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.

"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then.

The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.

But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.

"That so?"

He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.

"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.

He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"

"That's for sure."

You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.

His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.

If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.

"Will you forgive me?"

You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up.

"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two.

"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."

"Ain't that the truth."

The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.

"Are we going shopping today?"

"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.

"What then?"

"I… I have a yoga class."

"Of course you do."

…......…......

Taglist: @cumikering

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x female reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin�� my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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letorip · 12 days

Text

i heard your name

"i heard your name and i'll never be the same”

===+++===

pairing: cairo sweet x reader

summary: after a life of fleeting things, you come to tennessee, and find someone you don’t want to be “fleeting” anymore, though she may come with ulterior motives

warnings: rivalry, references to sex, hints at student-teacher relationships, reader is being used (duh)

word count: 4.8k

A/N: i really really hate the concept of miller's girl as a whole, but i can't deny that cairo sweet is a captivating character psychologically, and that jenna does an absolutely amazing job. inspired by lolita, pale fire by vladimir nabokov, and the movie hot summer nights.

===+++===

You became aware of Cairo Sweet on a hot, sunny school day, one that almost seemed to mock your lack of enthusiasm for the new school in its beauty and the light breeze.

The high school was an ugly building, one that sat in limbo between southern charm and the studious American educational experience seen in the likes of pretentious New England. The decorator had clearly not known which one to pick, but no amount of fancy classrooms or bookshelves and Turkish rugs would make you forget you were in Tennessee of all places.

It would be just as unmemorable and brief as the last, and that’s exactly what you reminded yourself while you waited dreadfully early in the front office, in an uncomfortable yellow plastic chair that had one leg much shorter than the others.

The receptionist lady seemed nice enough, smiling at you all bright and wrinkly like old people did. “So sorry about the wait, dearie. Any minute now, she’ll be—”

“It’s no problem,” you shrugged. “I’m not really in a rush.”

The woman nodded, her eyes melting into little crows feet at the ends. There was a theory you had heard once, that the more wrinkles someone had, the more they had smiled in their life. It didn’t fit many of the crotchety old people you had met, who seemed to have frowns permanently stitched onto their leathery faces, but it definitely fit her. She glowed like a beacon, or twinkled like a chandelier of happiness.

“Are you excited about coming here?" She asked. "Starting the new semester has to be exciting!” The entire time the older woman kept sheepishly glancing over at the door, waiting someone to come in. Whoever was supposed to be guiding your tour was clearly very late.

You had long given up on hoping your mom would pick a spot and stay there. In two more months maybe, she would announce she 'wanted a change' again, and you wouldn't give this place a second thought when you left, just as you hadn't given the last places a second thought either. But you couldn't just say no.

You smiled back at her. "Yeah, kinda. This seems like a good school."

"Oh it's just splendid!" She assured you. "The kids love it here, it's just-" Before she could finish, the office door swung open, and a girl in crazy clothing bustled in, dropping her bag on the floor in the middle of the room and spinning to the receptionist.

“I’m so, so sorry!” She said, visibly dishevelled (though maybe that was just her nonsense outfit) and maybe sweating a bit. “I completely forgot I was supposed to do this!” She laughed. She seemed like one of those girls that were always drunk— not in a sad, alcoholic way, but like they were drunk on life (and maybe alcohol too).

“It’s alright, Winnie. They haven’t been waiting long.” Winnie spun around, noticing you where you sat, leaning your head back against the wall.

“Hi there, I’m Winnie,” she said, holding out her hand with a smile. You stood up and shook it in your own, smiling back. This would all be fleeting anyhow.

“Hi, yeah I heard. (Y/n)."

Winnie tilted her head, giving you a devilish smirk. She was absurdly energetic for it being so early. "Boy, aren’t you cute.”

“And aren’t you really forward,” you laughed.

She shrugged. “I think it’s more fun that way. You got a nickname?"

"Eh," you shrugged. You did, from your mom, but it wasn't worth mentioning when you wouldn't be here that long. "Not really."

"Nooo, you definitely should have one," she said, and you raised your eyebrows at her.

"I'm really good, I think," you said, grinning. "Not the most nickname—able name out there."

"Fine," she shrugged. "Suit yourself I guess. Now c’mon,” said Winnie, sticking her hand out to you. There was a certain glint in her eyes then. “I’m gonna show you every little place in this shitty little school.”

"Winnie, language!" The receptionist scolded her.

"Sorry," she winced.

Winnie dragged you around the halls like that, hand in hand and pointing into classrooms; she waved to the people that she passed. It was decent sized school, with a big cafeteria and gym, but not much else unique to boast except for the few sports fields outside. Your last school didn't have that, but it had been northern Alaska, so it made sense. It was probably hard, what with the snow.

“Boris!” Winnie waved over at a man in a track suit, with a whistle around his neck that all gym teachers seemed to wear. He rolled his eyes, waving back at her. "That's Coach Fillmore," she explained.

“What’ve I told you about that, Winnie?” He asked.

Winnie slipped her red-heart sunglasses over her eyes, flashing him a smile. “Still your favourite though, right?”

“Yeah yeah.” And he turned his attention back to the football field, coffee in hand. Winnie spun back to you, with an almost infectious aura.

"So, why'd you move?" she asked, grabbing your hand again and tugging you back inside. The metal door slammed shut behind you with a loud thud.

"Witness Protection Program," you shrugged as she pulled you around the corner. “On the run from the cartel." She looked at you like you were crazy for a moment, eyes all wide, then you laughed and ruined it. "I'm kidding. Not actually."

"OOooooO, I like you. Cute and unserious. I thought you were going to be all square, but it turns out you can joke," said Winnie, shaking her head at you. "What's your locker number, again?"

You handed her the paper. "She wrote it on here."

Winnie took it from your hand, holding it up to the fluorescent lights and examining it like a slide under a microscope. "Ah, damn. You're on the opposite side of the school from me. Like literally, the exact opposite side. That's good though, right? Your first block is Calc?"

"Uh, no. It's uh..." you stopped, leaning against a wall and sliding your backpack off. You pulled your schedule from the top pocket. "Creative Writing, with Mr. Miller."

Winnie's eyes lit up, and she punched you on the arm. "No, fucking way?! That's my first block too!"

You shrugged. "I'd honestly rather do that than calculus right now, so."

Winnie laughed. "Yeah, you and any normal person." She stopped for a minute. "Are you okay if I go off and get some breakfast before class? Winnie hungee," she said, rubbing her stomach. "I also kind of ditched my friend, and I told her I'd find her."

You nodded. "Go ahead. I'm just gonna find my locker."

"Okay!" She said, giving you a small salute. "See you in class."

===+++===

You found your way well enough, and after fumbling with the big metal lock and struggling to put the code in, could actually open your yellow locker and throw the heavy bag you had been carrying inside.

You could see other kids walking up and opening theirs around you. Their doors had metal magnets and small whiteboards, stickers and posters. You hadn't brought stuff to decorate your locker in four years. Instead, your backpack had everything you carried in it, ready to go at the drop of a hat.

The creative writing classroom was down a hallway that split off near the gym, and luckily seemed less ugly than the rest of the school. The room smelled of pine and paper, which was probably a good sign, and bookshelves and glass jars littered the walls with a bunch of other random things setting the scenery for the big chalkboard and wooden desk in the middle.

Most of the other students were already there when you arrived through the double doors, including Winnie. She stood at one of the front desks talking to someone. When she saw you, she waved, eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree even from afar. In her past life, this girl would have been a golden retriever. You waved back then turned away, heading to one of the back desks that put you firmly away from the teacher's line of sight.

Mr. Miller seemed like an alright guy, or just enough of one. He didn't do any cheesy introductions of people, or make you do one of those stupid icebreakers that made you want to die, no— he was straight to the point, with just a splash of drama.

"Hello everyone! This semester my main goal is to make you write. And I mean really write." He paused for dramatic effect, as if he thought it was Dead Poet's Society. "This is not like your other English classes, where you put minimal effort into a 'meh' essay and turn it in, and you're happy with a B. No, I want you to feel something."

After that, you couldn't help but tune him out. He wasn't bad, no. But he was just boring and unremarkable, and anything a high school writing teacher from Tennessee would be, in the way he stuttered or played with the lid of his plastic coffee cup.

He spent most of the class prattling off the syllabus and giving out the first assignment, due in a couple of days. You weren't especially interested in writing as a whole, and even less interested in the prompt of 'write about you,' but you shoved the paper into your backpack and figured you'd give it a shot.

"Mr. Miller?" asked a voice from the front.

"Yes, Cairo?” Mr. Miller said, and you raised your head up, looking to where he was speaking. The hand belonged to a girl with dark hair, and you immediately recognised her as the one Winnie had been talking to before class. She was clearly very smart, with a small stack of books on her desk in front of her.

“Are we talking about ourselves literally, as in our achievements, or as in our emotions and how we feel?” she asked. Cairo looked pretty when she talked, though you dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. This was fleeting. It was important to remember that.

“It’s up to you, actually,” he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning back against his desk. “Whatever really lets me know you.” Boy, how cliche.

When class ended, Winnie bounded over to you with a smile, her school bag tucked under her arm like it had been earlier. “Sooo, how was your first class?”

“It was pretty good, no complaints,” you said, fumbling with your folder and shoving it back into your bag.

“So, listen, do you want to sit with me at lunch? Me and Cairo sit together and you can totally join us if you want,” said Winnie, still as bubbly as ever. She gestured towards the door, and you could see the girl from earlier looking through the books on the bookshelf that stood next to it.

You shook your head. “Sorry, I got invited by a group to sit with them and I already said I would.”

Winnie frowned, pouting cartoonishly with her lower lip drooping. “No worries. If ever again though, me and Cairo would be happy to have you."

You gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Maybe tomorrow."

You ate lunch that day leaning against a concrete wall underneath the football bleachers, with no one else around, a thick paperback in your one hand and a sandwich in the other, headphones over your ears.

===+++===

"Thank you all so much for your submissions," Mr. Miller said, a stack of essays sitting under his arms as he passed them back to the class. The weather of that Friday was much more relaxed, with a smattering of clouds covering up the sun, the way you liked it.

The past three days had been just as uneventful as the last, and you went home each night only to wake up the next morning and stay equally as unenthusiastic, and attempt to bury your face into the fabric of your pillow for another five minutes.

He cleared his throat. "I've decided to do something fun, and kind of crown a 'winner' for the week, if you will." He shrugged. "It's just someone I really was impressed with, and want to recognise so, uh, we'll do this after every writing piece."

From behind the class with your head propped up on your palm, you saw Cairo tensing at his words. It had become clear even through disinterested observation that she cared way more about the class than literally anyone else— maybe even Mr. Miller. She raised her hand first, offered feedback on anyone made to read aloud, and always stayed after. She was probably itching for the recognition and you figured she deserved it too.

Which was why it shocked the hell out of you when Mr. Miller walked right up to his desk, put his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat like he thought it was a drum-roll moment, and announced, "this week I was incredibly impressed with (Y/n)'s writing."

There was no way. You froze, not entirely sure he was talking to you. Maybe he had just mispronounced someone else's name indistinguishably close to yours. Cairo's head whipped around, face equally as in shock. There was no way. Winnie was smiling at you, other kids were staring, and you wanted to die.

"Uh...thanks."

From the other side of the room, Winnie whooped for you, clapping a little, in an awkward way. Someone else let out a cough. Mr. Miller shook his head, and said, "No, thank you. Your writing was really impressive. It made me feel, in a way that was refreshing from some other things I've read."

Cairo whipped back around to gape at him for a moment and then back to you. Then, back to Mr. Miller as he continued. "I don't have much in terms of prizes, but there is a bowl of candy over there, and you can take one if you'd like."

You nodded, standing up and making your way over to the clear bowl. Why the hell not. Writing had never been something you thought you were fantastic at— you had never shared it with anyone since there had been no one to share it with. Your fingers went in, and out you pulled a grape lollipop, retreating back to your seat and popping it in your mouth.

From the front, you felt Cairo glancing at you from over her shoulder, but tried to ignore the raising hairs on the back of your neck with her focus on you. “Okay,” said Mr. Miller. “Turn to your textbooks.”

===+++===

The grape lollipop was still in your mouth at lunchtime, leaning against the concrete wall and feeling the hot Tennessee breeze ruffle against your soft shirt, moving it gently against your skin. It was quiet out, and you had your headphones over one ear, leaving the other one to listen to the trees and the wind.

That's how you heard the footsteps from around the corner, even through your music. You looked up from where your eyes had been tracing the cracks of the concrete and watching the ants walk by into their nearby hill, and there she was.

Cairo Sweet had found you.

She stood a bit down the way, on the path, with her arms crossed right over her chest. Her eyes were just as dark as before, and they bore into yours with a strange carnal desire. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Uh, hi?" you managed. She didn’t even acknowledge it.

"So, how long are you going to keep lying to Winnie for?" Cairo asked, her voice as smooth as butter on your ears. It was a question that caught you completely off guard in its sincerity.

"Uh— I'm not— I haven't been lying," you stammered. Cairo wasn't convinced; her eyebrows lifted a little, creasing her forehead in disbelief. She took a step, one agonisingly after the other, closing the distance between you two until she stood directly beneath you, staring up through her lashes in a near haunting way. Subconsciously you took a small step back.

"I have a question," she whispered, like it was right in your ears. You could feel your blood rushing to them quickly, and it felt as if everything was happening in an almost sinful daze, slow and burning.

"Yeah?" you murmured back, fighting against the lollipop to speak. It made it harder to swallow.

"Can you smell my perfume?" Cairo asked, and your brain hung off every word that spilled from her lips.

"Yes," You clumsily nodded, eyes shooting down to her perfect mouth as it moved, then up to the freckled apples of her cheeks. You knew you were breathing loudly. "It's lavender, and—"

"—Good," she praised, barely audible in her sickly soft whisper. You nodded again, head feeling heavy. God, this girl. "Good," Cairo said again. You didn't know what to say.

"I want to read your essay," she continued, scanning the bleachers for a moment and then eyes shifting back to you in full force. She had you right where she wanted you. Under her thumb.

"Uhhhh, why?" you trailed off, confused as all hell and letting out an awkward laugh to cover.

"It's good, isn't it?" She asked, challenging you with her stare and a smirk, as if to say she knew exactly what she was doing to you chemically. "I haven't found many I want to read."

"Essays?" You mumbled.

"Good ones," she corrected you, whispering it slowly. Your gaze lowered to her lips again, her lower one caught between her teeth. Her own eyes flew to the lollipop, the stick hanging between you both.

Your breathing hitched when her hand came up, lightly grabbing the end and oh so gently pulling it from your mouth, some of your saliva carrying with it. She twirled it, never breaking eye contact with you as she placed the purple crystalline sugar on her tongue, closing her mouth around it for a moment. Cairo smiled, then pulled it from her lips and placed it back in yours.

You blinked slowly, unsure of what this was but finding it all too addicting to know how to stop it. At the sound of voices in the distance, the spell was broken, and Cairo looked back over her shoulder. You cleared your throat, realising the situation you were in.

"What're you trying to do?" You asked. It wasn't a gentle question, but it wasn't a harsh one either. Part of you wanted her to whisper back something cheesy and romantic. Or maybe you wanted something salacious to come from her all-too-plush lips, and the moment to end with hers on yours.

But instead she just blinked at you. It was like the question had taken her power away; she faltered completely. She frowned, almost frustrated by you asking, and she didn't have an answer. "Just let me know about the essay? I'd really like to read it."

Before you could reply, she turned around and walked away, as if going back to a drawing board far off in the distance. You watched her go, turning the lollipop over in your mouth.

===+++===

I should like to think that when I am older, the places I have been will make me cry. They will not meld together, in one long train; I will not move from car to car, blazing past what it may contain and never stopping to look out the window.

I will slide into a booth or take out a folding chair if I must, and watch the world go by. I will sit atop the mountains or amongst the grains of sand on a beach, and watch my eyes begin to water in the light of the setting sun.

Your eyes scanned over the essay in your hands, flipping through it and looking at all of Mr. Miller's notes. There were only four, and two of them were 'Wow!'. Even knowing he was impressed, you were at a loss for how this could be considered impressive. It was just words on a paper. Not difficult to write them, or copy them down. You were just talking, but on a page.

My mother seems to think I can’t hear her crying through the walls at night, wishing she were different. Her tears keep me up, and I trip and drown in the puddles of her despair, falling through the surface and into the depths hidden beneath, whenever I leave my room. I love her, and she always manages to convince herself I do not. She loves me, I always must convince myself she does.

It was this paragraph that made you hesitate, standing behind your locker door and rereading it over and over in your mind. There was no way you could show this to someone- and especially not Cairo.

And right there, like Cairo was conjured up by your mind, she was walking right past you, bag over her shoulder and book under her arm. You looked at her pass, the voice in the back of your mind whispering the word fleeting into your ear. It had been a week since your uncomfortable conversation (if you could even call it that) from underneath the bleachers, and she was acting weird.

She was almost avoiding you, and it was rather noticeable. Not to anyone else, who were unaware you knew each other existed, but to you, you knew. When Winnie said good morning and Cairo happened to be there, she would glance away, fully aware of you staring at her like a big idiot.

You found your way into the classroom, and Mr. Miller was writing something on the board in big white letters. It said 'MEANING,' and 'SYMBOL' in a smaller script underneath. He turned back when he was done, smiling over at Cairo and stuffing his hands into his pockets.

She always was the class favourite, and it made sense. Even if your writing was enchantingly fantastic, or some other amazing bullshit word Mr. Miller would write in blue pen that made you doubt he could actually read, Cairo was the one who actually tried. "I want everyone," he said, clearing his throat with a grunt, "to find a partner and sit down with them. This is going to be a partner activity."

You froze. Shit. These things sucked when you were the new kid who knew no one. You glanced over at Winnie, hopeful you'd find a partner in her, but she was madly gesturing towards Cairo to get her attention, and it made you smile a bit at the look on her face— until you saw who Cairo was staring at. You. Your smile went away in an instant.

Her brown eyes were staring at you again, sharp and intense. Then she picked up her bag, tucked the books she brought with her under her arm, and made due on her plan to pick you. You sent your glance away, as if to pretend you couldn't tell she was coming for you. And yet when her books landed on the table with a soft thud, you couldn't ignore her anymore.

"Care to partner up?" She asked, pulling the chair back to sit down before you could even answer. From the other side of the room, you could see Winnie staring at you, looking confused as all hell.

"Uh, sure," you managed. Was she just going to pretend you two hadn't shared whatever that was? It seemed to be the case, and it seemed she knew you were uncomfortable. Cairo Sweet almost seemed to relish in doing that to people.

"So, how'd you enjoy your first week here?" She asked, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a fresh page. She leaned forward, crossing one leg over her other.

You shrugged carefully. "It was good. Boring, but good."

Cairo nodded. "This is a really boring town, so that makes sense."

"Yeah..." you trailed off. She made putting sentences together incredibly hard for you.

Mr. Miller's assignment was boring beyond belief, but Cairo sat up straight the entire time he gave out directions, eyebrows lowering a bit or head tilting after every clarification, like she was making a mental reminder to remember that later. You attempted to ignore her, looking over to the bookshelf on your other side out of boredom.

They were all leather bound, in alternating shades of brown and green, and some hardcovers in sheathes intermixed. Finnegan's Wake and Scienza Nuova, Being and Time and Infinite Jest, you recognised and had read them all. Day-long car rides would do that to you, and it was within reading you found a particular solace from your mom screaming along to the radio.

"(Y/n), are you listening?" Cairo whispered over at you, pulling your gaze back towards her. You nodded, even though you weren't. Her leaning in seemed to fill your nose with her smell. It was lavender, and it was overpowering.

She raised her eyebrows at you like she knew you were lying again. "Really? What're we doing, then?"

You blinked. Shit. "Uh...I don't know, sorry," you apologised, feeling somewhat sheepish. Cairo gave you a judging look, and you were starting to feel like maybe she was regretting choosing you as her partner. She sighed.

"It's fine. Do you want to maybe come over on Friday? We can work on the paper," she said, playing with her pencil. You frowned.

"I thought Winnie said there was a party on Friday."

Now Cairo looked confused. "Are you going to that?"

"I thought you were?" You questioned, trailing off. She laughed at that, like it was a funny suggestion.

"No, it's not really my scene. Winnie's the partier," she grinned. "A party animal, even."

You nodded, feeling yourself relax a little bit. "That makes sense. You're probably writing or reading instead or something."

She seemed intrigued. "Is that what you think of me? A nerd?"

"Uh..." there was a certain heat flowing towards your cheeks, and it felt like the room was a million degrees. "A little, yeah."

"Wooow!—" Her voice rose in a mocking offence.

"—No, I don't— That's not!— I—"

"You think I'm a geek."

"Yeah, only because you're always reading and stuff, so," you argued, raising your hands up. She laughed.

"So if you read, that makes you a nerd?"

"That's obviously not what I'm saying, but the normal kids just go home and watch a show or something," you shrugged. A beat of silence passed between you, and you groaned, realising your mistake and dragging your hands down your face.

"'Normal', huh?" She asked. You sent her a glare, only to find her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she smiled at you, taking great fun in making you red. Then, within an instant, as if it had been flipped like a switch, the weightless look in her eyes shifted to something far darker.

"You know," she said, and you found your heart catching in your throat. "I don't only read in my free time. I find other things to do." She was back at a whisper, leaning in towards your ear. Each enunciation reverberated in your ear drums and filled your brain with sinful ideation.

"I actually like to do things over and over. Creature of habit, really," she continued and your eyebrows rose. The classroom felt even more humid than it had before, and some sweat was already forming on your forehead. Mr. Miller stood behind his desk, and you felt hyperaware of how he kept glancing towards the both of you, his arms crossed and a deep frown on his face at the almost voyeuristic display.

The bell rang, and just as if nothing had happened, Cairo stood up, gathered her things, and walked off like she had under the bleachers.

"Wait-" You were left frozen there, watching her go out the door and down the hall. It took another ten seconds of sitting there for the spell she had cast on you again to be broken, but when it did, you shot up.

Clumsily you threw your notebook into your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder and taking off as quickly as you could. You wouldn't let Cairo flee.

She was near her locker, where you found her a few halls down. From over her shoulder, Winnie saw you coming, and sent you a friendly wave. Cairo followed her eyes, turning towards you and eyes widening. She was clearly surprised, crossing her arms over her chest as you walked right up to her and stopped.

"I have a question," you said.

"Ask away," said Cairo.

You nodded, thinking for a moment. "Why'd you pick me as your partner in this?"

She scoffed at this, uncrossing her arms and rolling her eyes like you were missing something obvious. It hadn't mattered how loud the passing crowd around you was. You heard her loud and clear, and it filled you with a sense of warmth that you hadn't felt since "fleeting" was just another word in the dictionary and not a mantra.

"Because, I think you're special," she said, only to you in the crowd of passing kids. You couldn't see Mr. Miller watching you both intently from the far wall, one arm crossed over the other.

===+++===

okay so this may or may not be a series i'm starting, but i at least know there is a part two that's already halfway done. part of what took me so long and why i've been gone for like a month has just been me agonising over every damn word. so. enjoy this bad boy ig? not that much happens in this part, but i promise the next part will be kind of crazy.

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #cairo sweet x reader #cairo sweet #miller's girl

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vaspider · 3 months

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Feisty Lady Anger and other things about me you hate

My mother prizes her anger, for all that she doesn't express it openly. I tell stories about her spiteful, steel-spined responses to people who told her, "You can't do that," and I point to them as Why I Am How I Am. Her father told her he wouldn't pay for her college because "women only go to earn the MRS degree," and she could "get married and have babies" without college. In response, Mom got her bachelor's in Mathematics in 1970 on her own dime, back in the days when in-state students didn't pay tuition at state schools (just another thing Reagan ruined). She worked and paid for her books and housing, got her degree, paid for her own wedding because he wouldn't do that either. Taught school, got her Master's, had three kids, started her Ph.D. with 3 under 6 and became a professor when the youngest was 5.

Tell me I can't, my mom told the world, and I'll show you that I can. I won't just do it, I'll become a department head and a Distinguished Professor and retire after 30 years of teaching other math teachers with a list of achievements as long as my arm.

There is an anger that runs deep in the women in my family. Tell me I can't, and I'll show you I can. Show me injustice and I'll tear at it with my teeth and hands, staring you down while I do. Backwards and in heels.

I can't tell you the moment I crossed out of Feisty Lady Anger in the eyes of the people close to me, but I can tell you the moment I noticed. Maybe it was when my voice started dropping or the growing muscles on my shoulders pulled my stance more square and upright. Maybe it was when I moved from they/them to he/they, and somehow I stepped from Diet Woman to Too Close To Man in their eyes.

It's a funny thing when all of a sudden your anger becomes real enough to be startling to people. Your anger is no longer feisty, charming, and attractive. This thing that people liked about you, that people who say they love you said they loved about you, suddenly becomes frightening, upsetting, and terrible. The way you didn't let people mow over you and fought back used to be a thing that people admired. It was actively attractive. It was one of your best qualities.

Now? It's ugly. It's disgusting. It's scary. The thing you were is gone, and now your anger is real to them.

It's in that moment that the blade cuts back towards you. You realize the reason your squared shoulders and set jaw drew people in couldn't be squared with the stubble on that jaw or the newfound strength in your arms. Feisty Lady Anger isn't real, not in the way a man's anger is real. Feisty Lady Anger is admirable, sure, but it is admirable because of its essential ineffectual nature. At most, Feisty Lady Anger fixes minor problems for the kids at school, gets the principal to back down from scolding your child when she politely asks the kid calling her a faggot on the bus if he knows what that really means, pushes a woman to achieve for her family, in appropriately neutered ways.

When you stop pretending to be a woman and become who you really are, when your anger becomes real, you realize both that the thing about you that people loved is gone and that this thing was attractive in the first place because of its ineffectiveness. Your anger wasn't scary because it wasn't real enough to be threatening.

Now you have Man Anger, and, you're told, you should apologize for that. It doesn't matter if it's the same anger you've always had, or that you're angry about the same things. It comes now in baritone, with belly hair and bellowing, and now it's both real and disgusting.

The worst part is watching it come from people you thought should know better, the people who should understand. You spent nearly 40 years being told to sit down and shut up because the men in your professional career were speaking, assured that if you just waited your turn, you'd be given a place to speak eventually, and now here you are being told within a community that claims to love and understand you, by people that claim to be in community with you and love who you are, that you actually don't have any real problems to speak about, also your Man Anger and Man Privilege (when do I get that, please?) are Scary and mean you should sit down and wait, and you'll be given a place to speak eventually.

It is the Transmasculine Catch-22: if you become Man Enough to no longer fit into Almost Lady, your anger becomes Real, which makes you realize that your anger wasn't Real before, but because it's Real now, you're not allowed to have it. And by the way, you're not allowed to be neither Man or Lady - now you're Man Enough, and that makes it all the more clear how you were simply Kirkland Signature Lady right up until the point you weren't.

There will be a few people who Fucking Get It, who don't see you as either a Failed Lady or a Broken Man, and you'll love those people all the more for their rarity. It won't take the sting out of realizing that the things people you love loved about you before now disgust and repel them, but it'll make it enough to keep going.

You couldn't stop, anyway. You've never felt more yourself, and the people who don't love you, the actual you, the real you... the loss of that hurts, but not nearly as much as the idea of pretending to be something else did.

#transmasc #transmascs #transmasculine #transmasc issues #transandrophobia #personal #before someone says it #yes i recognize that this experience is very much a white experience with anger #this is a deeply personal essay #and if you come at me for it not fitting your personal experience as well #we will not talk #i will just block you #it not being fully universal doesn't mean it's not real or not deeply painful #this has taken me years to write #terfs fuck off #radical feminism has done more to neuter the ability of women to be meaningfully angry than any other 'feminist' movement #so just don't

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bluecollarmcandtf · 4 months

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How to Use Your Meat Suit

I can't believe how awesome this weekend was! Let's just say that the perfect way to avoid a hangover is to just possess randos to take the hit for you!

It all started on Friday, when I took Tyler just as he got out of practice. He never saw it coming, and once his body was an empty suit for me to wear, I was ready to hop in and have the best night of my life!

I could actually feel the lingering adrenaline from his workout, and it was exhilarating! I tossed his bags aside and ran to my house party down the street, which was easy with his limber legs. Everyone went wild when I showed up as the star basketball player. They didn't care about his BO; they were just happy to watch me flex those freshly pumped arms.

Friday night went by in a flash of loud music and crowded dancing, but a lot of people started wondering why Tyler got piss drunk and began grinding against all the guys.

I don't have much to say for myself other than I may have put a little too much alcohol in his body and lost control. Drinking makes me horny, and I sure did not care about Tyler's former reputation. People might not think of him as the cool lady-killer he used to be, but that's not my problem.

Anyways, I dropped his body when a cop busted us around 4 am. I could barely stand, I was so drunk, so I'm not surprised Tyler collapsed to the floor the second I stopped puppeteering him.

I jumped into the policeman who'd shown up.

It was weird to go from blackout drunk to stone-cold sober, but I quickly gathered my bearings. Now in control of the cop, I pried the drink from Tyler's sweaty limp fingers and sloppily swallowed it all! The crowd went wild, and the party raged on.

And just like that I went back to dancing and drinking, only I was now wearing the body of an on-duty police officer.

Being a little more sober, I spent the early hours of Saturday morning trying to hook up with someone. I think most of the guys there were a little too intimidated to be talking to a cop, but I eventually found someone.

This guy walked up to me and called me a pig. I think he was trying to offend me, but he only succeeded in turning me on. I pulled him close and oinked in his ear playfully. He got the message and dragged me to an upstairs bedroom. The rest of the night was a blur as I continued to down drinks, but I could definitely tell that my date was getting off on degrading the officer I had on.

The officer's body eventually collapsed to the floor in a drunken exhaustion, so I jumped out. It was almost midday by then, so I ventured outside and found someone else to possess.

There was this construction site across the street. Several of the workers were idly chatting about the nearby house party that was still going strong.

Without warning, I hopped into the contractor; he was the only man there that wasn't fat, old, or ugly. He certainly smelled ripe, but I rather enjoyed how filthy he was. Wearing his masculine body instantly tented the pole in his jeans, but I didn't bother trying to hide it from his coworkers.

I quickly ordered them to take the day off, which left them mostly confused. I'm sure I was acting out of character, but I didn't care. I just waved the team away, and marched down the street to a bearby liquor store.

There, I fished out all the cash in the guys wallet to use on booze. It was a good thing his body was strong enough to haul it all back on his shoulders. Though the party was starting to wind down, it quickly revamped when I restocked the drinks. Before long, I was back to drinking and dancing on any guy who'd let me, only this time I was wearing the construction worker's body.

That party lasted all weekend. It quickly became a legend on campus for its good luck and neverending supply of liquor. No one knew that it was all the work of some friendly ghost. I just wanted everyone to have a good time!

The three guys I possessed didn't have the best time though.

Tyler woke up at some point with a splitting headache and no memory of all the twerking and flirting he'd done the night before. He did eventually hear stories, which left him feeling utterly humiliated. His teammates never let him live that one down.

I don't think the cop lost his job, but he was reprimanded for not reporting in after his shift. I think the officer was just glad none of his colleagues knew he'd woken up in the middle of a college party, his uniform soaked in alcohol and who knows what else!

That construction worker woke up just before his next shift. He was completely confused and hungover, but he stifled his worries and shuffled across the street. He was more than happy to just show up at work like nothing had happened.

I'm thinking about throwing another party next week. The Dean of the college has a pretty large house, and I'm sure his students would love to see me letting loose in his body...

#gay mind control #gay ai art #gay possession #male possession #body possession #body suit #body swap

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yourfavoritewitchbitch · 3 months

Text

Badge Bunny Meet Ugly

Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Badge Bunny AU - This can be read as a stand alone. Read more of their series here.

Summary: You're new to town. It's only supposed to be temporary. A handsome Deputy catches your eye, then seemingly ruins his chances as soon as he opens his mouth. This is not your fairytale.

18+ Only! MDNI!

Word Count: 14.5K

Warnings: Slow burn. Porn, with plot. Minimal use of Y/N. Reader is referred to as "Bunny" or "Bun". Toxic relationship (let's be honest here). Oral (m & f receiving). Choking. Semi-public sex. Degradation. Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it!). Creampie.

Telling yourself you needed a fresh start, North Dakota hadn’t been your first choice but it became your last when things seemingly had started spiraling out of your control.

Your car had broken down just inside of Stark County, leaving you stranded in the middle of literal nowhere.

“No, no, no. Please. Come on!” Trying the ignition over and over to no avail. You reached for your phone, thankfully it had a signal, googling the nearest mechanic shop; only showing one in a 20-mile radius.

It’s as if the universe was playing some cruel tricks on you.

The night before, you left the sleazy hotel where you had been staying when you realized someone had taken the last bit of money you had left. Internally cursing yourself for trying to hide it in the toilet tank like a fucking cliche idiot.

It was another 30 minutes before the tow truck and owner of “Frank’s Body Shop” pulled in beside you. An older, gruff looking man with gray hair, a little wiry, sticking up from his head. You suspected you might have woken him when you called.

It was a quiet, awkward drive back to his shop.

Once he’d gotten your car into the bay you’d asked where the nearest motel might be.

“Oh, there’s one about a mile down the road on the right. Can’t miss it.” Frank said without looking up from his paperwork.

“Any chance you could drive me over? I’m new to t….”

“Do I look like a taxi service to you?” He spat. “I already got out of bed to come get ya’.”

“Alright then, at least point me in the right direction?”

“Out the front to the left. Midway Motel. Only one this side of town.” He pointed.

“Yeah, thanks.” You didn’t wait for him to respond as you headed outside. If this was what they considered hospitality in Lehigh, you didn't want to stay here a second longer than what was absolutely necessary.

Your jacket did little to shield you from the blustery cold wind. You wrapped your arms around yourself, heading off in the direction to find somewhere to lay your head for the night, leaving the light of the only streetlamp you could see in the foreseeable distance.

It was dark but the moon was unusually bright, reflecting the glint of the fresh snow fall from earlier in the day.

You hadn't made it very far down the road when you heard a rumble of an engine and headlights cut out ahead of you. You didn't bother looking up, expecting God knows what this hour of night.

The vehicle slowed as it got closer, you held your backpack strap a little tighter to your chest and wrapped your hand around the pocketknife tucked into your jacket, expecting the worst.

You finally turned on your heel to be met with an older model blazer with Stark County Sheriff's Office on the side of the door. Some of the anxiety slipped away but you kept your guard up. You'd never had any good run-ins with cops.

The driver's window slowly rolled down, an older man was behind the wheel, you couldn't make out his features in the low light, but he was wearing a cowboy hat.

“Evening, miss. Little late to be wandering the highway alone. Could be dangerous for a lady such as yourself.” His tone made you feel uneasy.

Great, another smart-ass hick, you thought.

“Evening, Officer…”

“Sheriff Tillman,” he interrupted.

“Right, Sheriff Tillman. My car broke down and I was trying to find the Midway Motel?” It came out to be more of a question than you intended.

“The Midway? It's kind of a rough place, there's a Holiday Inn on the other side of…”

“With all due respect, Sheriff, I'm just looking for somewhere for tonight and I don't exactly have enough cash to be spending it in on something like a Holiday Inn.”

“Fair enough,” he nodded. “Hop in, it's on the way.”

You looked down the highway once more, biting your lip. It was going to be a trek you dreaded, and you were already tired from the events over the last couple of days. You rolled a gravel under your shoe before finally relenting.

“Yeah, okay.” Crossing in front to open the door, removing your backpack and climbing into the passenger seat. “Thanks.”

He didn't say anything or look your way as he threw the vehicle back into drive once the door was shut.

You were able to get a better look at the Sheriff. Older, rough around the edges. An air about him that dripped with arrogance.

Sitting beside him didn't make that uneasy feeling any better, only intensifying it. Something felt off.

You were grateful for the warmth the heater provided. Rubbing your hands together in your lap.

“So, what brings you to Lehigh Miss…?” He asked.

“Uh, Y/N, and just passing through. Like I said, my car broke down, so here I am.”

“Y/N,” he said, as he mulled it over. Letting it sit on his tongue. You didn't like the way your name rolled out of his mouth.

He nodded as he kept his gaze on the road ahead. Nothing else said between the two of you in the short drive.

The Midway was, as expected, a dump. Neons lit Vacancy above you, missing a few letters with a sign out front broadcasting, “$129 weekly rates”.

“Well, this is it.” He shifts into park outside the small office, as the older woman behind the counter straightening up in her chair at the sight of the Sheriff's car.

"Well, thank you Sheriff Till…" As you reached for the door.

"Roy. And I know you're new to town, so I thought I'd extend an invitation to our church. You can come and sit with my family so you wouldn't be by yourself. I've got a son that seems about your age.”

"Uh, thanks, Sheriff. But I'm hoping my car will be done in a day or two. I don't plan on staying that long." Sliding out and gathering your bag over your shoulder. "Thanks again for the ride.”

"Anytime. Enjoy your stay,” tipping his hat, as you closed the door.

You could feel his eyes trail after you as you walked into the office before he finally drove away.

The older lady stood, “Uh hi, I just need a room for the night, I hope.”

“Sure honey, we only got a double bed.” She eyed you warily. “You know the Sheriff?”

“Huh?” Barely registering what she had said as you were digging for your wallet.

“Sheriff Tillman? You know him?”

“No. He just offered me a ride…” you trailed off. “Why?”

“Don't trust that man. That whole family is a den of vipers. Son gaining a reputation just as bad. I'd steer clear if I were you.”

“I'll take that into consideration,” you took the key from her. “Thanks.”

The room was just as inviting. Cramped space with a small double bed and a flowery duvet. An older style TV sits in the corner making it feel like the place was stuck in the 90s.

No coffee maker or mini fridge. The small bathroom at least looked clean upon inspection though you weren't sure it could be trusted.

The bed provided little comfort. The mattress was lumpy, and the pillows were flat.

Well, at least it's for one night. You tried to shut your eyes and get some rest.

“What do you mean, a couple of weeks?” You whined.

“What I just said, I can't get the part right now. Be a couple weeks.” Frank huffed. “I had to order it, so do you want it fixed or not?”

“Of course I want it fixed. Just let me know when it's done.”

Stomping your way out the garage, you shouldn't have expected anything else really. Not with the way your luck had been going.

You’d walked back to the motel, paying another week in advance and asking the lady at the front desk, Maggie, where you might find some decent work as it looked like you might be here for a while longer.

“Pretty girl like you, could always go over to the Tender Trap, you'd be out of this dump in no time,” as she proceeded to tell you the sort of place it was.

“I think I'd prefer to keep my clothes on.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged, pulling her cigarette to her lips. Puffs of smoke curled up as she exhaled. “Lucky Lizard across the way might be lookin’ for another waitress. Henry said last week his girl quit.”

“Here,” she pulled out a pad and pen, writing a name and number down for you.

“Thanks Maggie.”

You'd met with Henry the owner and resident bartender that afternoon. You'd been upfront about it only being temporary, but he liked your spunkiness and hired you on the spot.

He tried to warn you what you were getting into with the weekend crowd, but nothing would quite compare to seeing it in person.

Your shift started at 4. It started off easy enough. The early crowd were mostly blue-collared guys, interested in a couple of beers before heading home for the night.

Saturday's host karaoke night. The usual crowd is replaced by the rowdy 20 and 30 somethings of Lehigh looking for a good time when there is nothing else to do in nowhere USA.

Drinks flowing, the crowd loving the various renditions of their favorite songs echoing through the building.

The fight broke out before you realized what was going on.

You hadn't seen the beginning, but you were caught off guard when someone shoved you from behind, knocking the tray you held off balance. Bottles of beer went flying across the floor.

Henry called the Sheriff's department as soon as it got out of control and told you to get behind the bar until they arrived.

He had a shotgun there, pulled it out and told everyone to exit the bar. They eventually did.

“This happen often?” You asked him.

“Not usually,” he gave you a weary half smile.

You were beginning to think bad luck was following you at this point.

It didn't take long for a couple of deputies to walk through the door.

One caught your eye in particular. He waltzed in, dick first, like he owned the place. He rested his hand on the gun that was tucked away in his snug thigh holster, slung tight over his camo pants as your eyes trailed up the rest of his frame.

He was wearing the usual kevlar, adorned with a gold star badge on top of a snug long-sleeved T-shirt. You could tell the way it hugged his arms he was fit.

His head was covered with a hat that read Stark County Sheriff. It was shielding some of your view of his face at this angle, but you could make out his sharp jawline and aquiline nose.

Your eyes drank in every detail that was available as his eyes searched the crowd, turning his head slowly finally landing on you. His deep set, hazel eyes caught yours.

You felt pinned the longer he stared. He gave you a lopsided grin before lifting his hand, tipping his hat toward you. You smiled in return.

Then the moment was over, as he caught Henry's attention and beckoned him over.

You started busying yourself with cleaning up the mess the brawlers had left behind. As soon as they heard the cops were called the stragglers hightailed it out of there, along with a lot of the good paying customers.

With no one to pin it on, the cops weren't going to stay long. Statements and descriptions of the men were all they could get, along with some grainy video footage.

You were cleaning up a high top in the corner when he started to approach. You spotted him from the corner or your eye, because you hadn't stopped watching him since he entered.

Heavy boots made their way closer as you wiped down the sticky tabletop.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, gaining your attention as you were finally able to get a better look at him. He was handsome, clean cut. Not something you were expecting in a small-town Sheriff's department.

“Uh, don't believe we've met. Deputy Tillman, uh Gator.”

So, this was who Maggie had warned you about.

“Gator Tillman, huh? I've heard all about you and your daddy.” You shot back.

He smirked, but his eyebrows knit together with confusion.

“So, how is it you know all about me, but I've never seen you before. And trust me, I'd remember a pretty face like yours.” His eyes trailed slightly downward catching the top of your cleavage before moving back up.

You couldn't contain your eyes from rolling. Men were so easy. All the same. Simple creatures with only one thing on their minds.

You smiled and arched a brow, as his gaze set on your face once more.

“If you don't mind, I've got to get back to work. In case you didn't notice, this place is a mess.” You said, turning back to the table.

“I'm here on official business, need your statement. Miss…?” He paused, grabbing a pen, as if he was actually going to write any of this shit down.

You had him pegged from the moment he walked in here.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N.” He spoke. And as you expected, just stared at you. “You're not from around here, are ya’?”

“Nope and don't plan on sticking around either.”

“Yeah, Henry said you're over at the Midway? That place is rough, ya’ could…”

“Yeah, yeah I've already heard. You Tillmans have a savior complex or something?” you huffed out.

“Scuse me?” He furrowed his brows.

“Look, I don't need some hot shot, knight in shining kevlar to save me. I'm not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself.” You looked him straight in the eye, not backing down.

“You're cute, y’know that?” he smiled, and let out a small humorless chuckle.

You watched as he produced a vape from his pocket, placing it between his pouty lips before sucking, as his cheeks hollowed just a bit. The fruity scented cloud billowed out, as he blew it hitting you square in the face.

“Seriously?” You coughed, hand waving it quickly away.

“Sorry,” he smirked again, not meaning his apology in the slightest.

“Sorry? For blowing that rancid shit right in my face? Your mama never teach you any fucking manners?” You huffed, grabbing the towel off the table and quickly walking away leaving him to stare after you.

He took another hit from his vape, letting his eyes trail your curves, watching the way your hips swayed with each step before he was knocked from his trance.

“Gator,” Andy, the other deputy, caught his attention. “Let's go.”

He nodded and bid Henry a goodbye.

He was intrigued. He could usually bat his eyes, puff his chest out a little and any girl would fall over him. Not you.

You were a little spitfire who didn't back down. He kind of liked it.

Gator was never the kind to chase tail, it fell in his lap with ease. You were different and something in the back of his mind wanted to see how far he had to push to see you give in.

You'd all but forgotten about Deputy Tillman in the following days. However, he couldn't seem to get you off his mind.

The way you had spoken so blatantly like you didn't care who he was, or what kind of weight the Tillman name carried in this county. He couldn't deny the way it kind of turned him on. Every other girl in this town was either scared of him or immediately fell at his feet.

You were different, not to mention easy on the eyes with curves that seemed to go for days easily getting any man to eat out of the palm of your hand.

He pulled into the bar, telling himself he was just doing a routine check, on the lookout for drunks.

Deep down, he wanted to catch another glimpse to see if you were truly as pretty as he remembers. Maybe he could sweet talk you into a night of fun. Let him take you back to that trashy motel and have his way with you.

He settled back into the seat, checking the time on his watch, a quarter past 2 AM. The bar had just closed for the night, so he suspected you’d be in until at least another 30 minutes tidying up the place and kicking out the stragglers.

He pulled his phone out playing Candy Crush to pass the time. Placing his vape between his lips every few minutes, getting a little more anxious with each passing second.

He jumped at the sound of someone banging on his window, dropping his vape and almost doing the same with his phone.

He looked over to see you standing there, arms crossed giving him a glare that would rival the devil himself.

It had been a long day. You were about to head back to the Midway after picking up a double shift. You headed out the back, surveying the lot.

The first thing you noticed is a black truck parked off to itself. You grumbled as soon as you saw the Stark County Sheriff logo on the side.

Instead of making the trek back to the motel, you decided to have a little fun, suspecting immediately who it might be.

Your boots stomped their way over to the driver's side door as you placed your hands on your hips. He made no attempt to roll the window down. You could see the glow of that stupid vape lit within. You wanted to yank it out of his mouth.

Growing more impatient by the second, you finally gave in using your fist to bang on the window.

You realized he hadn’t even noticed you walk up when his vape went flying out of his hand. You held in your laugh. Instead opting to hold a stern gaze, forcing your lips together and crossing your arms over your chest.

The window finally rolled down as he came into view. He wasn’t wearing a hat like the last time you’d seen him. His hair was slicked back, shorter on the sides revealing his face even more to you. Damnit, he was handsome.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He spat. Oh, this is going to be fun, you thought.

“Deputy Tillman, is that any way to speak to a lady?” You purred. “And what the hell are you doing out here? Besides looking like a creep?”

He scoffed, “My job. What the fuck does it look like?”

“Your job? You skulk around bars for your job?” You smirked. Each insult slowly getting under his skin.

“I'm watching for drunks. But I don't have to explain myself to you.” He sounded like a child. You couldn't tell in the low light but were sure his face was reddened from how strained his voice sounds.

“Right, well, good night Deputy.” You turned away from him, smirking as you went. His eyes trailing after you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he called. “Need a lift?”

“No thanks! You just stay here and watch for those drunks.” Yelling back and laughing out, the sound traveling across the parking lot back to his ears.

He shook his head and watched you go.

“Shit,” he hissed out, his head dropping back onto the headrest with a thud. Why'd he have to open his big mouth like that?

The following week he seemed to be everywhere.

He was at the gas station as you paid for your soda and nachos, trying to take a break from the motel when the walls felt like they were closing in around you.

A couple of days later, he was at the diner grabbing lunch as you were just finishing yours. He stared at you from over the top of the menu as you left some cash on the table and headed out. If he was trying to be discreet about it, he was failing miserably.

The next day, you bumped into him at the grocery store a couple of blocks away from where you were staying.

You turned the corner with your small cart, bumping into someone.

“Oh, I am so sor…” the words died as soon as you looked up to see him standing there. He grinned, pulling a box of cereal from the shelf and putting it into his own cart.

He looked good. Camo thermal under a black leather jacket with matching black cargo pants; thigh holster in place. His hair was slicked back just like you had seen it in the prior days.

You cocked a brow, “Deputy Tillman, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me.”

“Stalking you? Maybe it's the other way ‘round. Huh, sweet thing?” He moved to lean his elbow on the shelf as he looked you over, missing the edge by only a few centimeters.

He slipped, correcting himself almost immediately, straightening back up and throwing the shelf an accusatory look.

“Woah there, big fella.” You snorted. “You okay there?”

“Fine,” he sniffed, looking down his nose at you once he was back at his full height.

“What are you doing on this side of town anyway? Isn't there a nicer grocery store you could shop at?”

“Well, yeah but I like this one.” Shrugging a shoulder as he spoke.

You eye him suspiciously. So, he did choose to come here. You knew there was another store on the other side of town. It was bigger and newer with all the bells and whistles.

As if he was reading your mind he quickly tacked on, “it's more quiet here. Less crowded.”

You nodded. Slowly moving your cart to finally skirt around him.

“Well, Deputy, enjoy your shopping trip.” Moving past him.

“Hey y/n, how about you let me take you out sometime?” He blurted out before you got too far out of earshot.

“Out?” You turned back around. “Like a date?”

“I mean,” he stepped closer, leaning his elbow on the shelf successfully this time, as he lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, we can call it a date. I was thinkin’ more along the lines of grabbing a bite to eat then you could invite me back to your room…” his eyes slowly trailed down your body as he spoke.

“How romantic.” You batted your lashes up at him before huffing a laugh. “I guess I should be flattered you actually offered dinner first.”

“So?” He cocked his head expectantly, completely ignoring the words that had just come out of your mouth.

“So, no. I told you I'm not sticking around.”

“Who said it had to be serious? I'm just talkin’ about gettin’ some ass s’all. Havin’ some fun while you're stuck here.” His lips curled up. Maybe he expected you to be taken aback by his bluntness, but you weren't. It just spurred you further.

“Oh, is that all? And how do you know I'm not getting’ dicked down on the daily by someone else? Hmmm?” You smirked when his eyes grew darker. Did you just make him mad? Jealous?

“Oh, sweet thing, I don't believe that for a second.” He chuckled. The air between you seemed to grow a little tense as he shifted on his feet a little.

He stepped a little closer, trying to close the gap between you.

“If that were true, you wouldn't be walkin' ‘round here with that stick up your ass.” He paused, looking you straight in the eye, “I think what ya’ need is someone to fuck this bratty attitude right out of ya’.”

You inched forward, letting your fingers graze his chest as you let them tip toe up.

“And you think you're just the man for the job?”

“Sure am.” He grinned, cocky, thinking he had you.

Your fingers moved up, up until you moved them away, only to boop his nose before completely pulling away and taking a step back.

“You're cute, you know that?” Using his own words that he'd thrown at you that night at the bar.

His mouth hung open slightly, as you turned to leave him there.

“Have a good night, Deputy.”

You faintly heard a “fuck” being muttered as you made your way over to the next aisle.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since your car broke down. Two weeks you’d been sleeping in a roach infested dump. Two weeks of sitting in said dump staring at the same four walls. Two weeks of reluctantly being the newest resident of Stark County.

Frank gave you another half-assed excuse as to why your damn car wasn’t finished this morning. You didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or blowing smoke up your ass for the hell of it. Either way, you were about to tear your hair out.

You volunteered for another double shift just to take your mind off of everything, telling Henry all of your woes for the 100th time, but he listened with a sympathetic ear as usual.

“Hey, not to pile anything on you, but do you think you could close up by yourself tonight? I’ve got to head out early.” He asked, hoping it wouldn’t get your panties even more twisted.

“I don’t mind. It’s not like anything is going on.” You held up your hands, looking around the desolate space. “And I would like to avoid going back to the room for as long as possible.” You felt a shiver run down your spine at the thought of sleeping there another night, though you knew it was inevitable.

He finished up what he was doing and slipped out the back.

It wasn’t unusual to be dead through the week, but this was almost unbearable. The last customer left about 30 minutes before Henry, leaving you alone with your thoughts weighing heavily once more.

It was currently a little past midnight, which meant you had two more hours before clocking out.

Most of the closing duties were done, now it was just you against the clock, hoping no one decided to stumble in here tonight keeping you any longer.

Your back was to the door, wiping down some newly washed glasses. As you put away another on the shelf, the front door flew open, startling you. When you jolted, you nearly dropped the glass but regained your composure.

Heavy footsteps were coming toward the bar as you turned around.

Shocked to see none other than Gator Tillman sliding into the stool directly in front of you. He looked disheveled. His usually perfectly slick hair mussed to the point it was falling in and around his face.

“Gator?” You asked hesitantly.

His eyes darted up to you, big and glossy, a little blood shot at the edges. His cheeks were flushed. Had he already been drinking before he got here?

“Oh, so you do know my name?” He huffed out. “And here I thought I was just Deputy Tillman.” It came out a little slurred.

His usual cheeky demeanor was gone. Replaced with this sarcastic asshole before you now; not an ounce of playfulness to be found. He seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” It seemed dumb to ask, but you couldn't help yourself.

“I'm fine Y/N. Just came here to blow off a little stream, s’all. Nothin’ to worry your pretty little head over.”

“Um sure… Gator, have you been drinking?”

He laughed out loud, lips curling into an unnatural smile. “I might’ve had a few. Might’ve run out. S’why I'm here, I need some more.”

“No, I think you need a cheeseburger and some water.” Placing a glass before him, sliding it into his view since he was staring at the bar top instead of you.

“Give me a Jack. No ice.” He said, without looking up.

“No. I'm not serving you.” Standing your ground could end up with a very pissed off Gator but at least your conscience would be clear. You were already thinking of how you could get his keys.

“Where's Henry? He'll give me what I ask for with no lip.” Finally cutting his eyes up. They were dark and intense. That usual flicker of light within now dim as if the alcohol had taken every semblance of the guy you’ve come to know.

“Not here. It's only me and I'm not serving you whiskey. I'll go make you a burger. Drink that damn water.”

He stared at the glass before him as if it would somehow magically turn into the Jack he'd asked for. Reluctantly, he finally picked it up and raised it to his lips, chugging the contents down within a few seconds.

He dropped it back to the bar top with a thud, still gripped in his hand.

“There, now give me a damn whiskey.”

“Gator, for the last time I'm not fucking serving you whiskey.” You had an idea. Your eyes flickered with delight at the prospect. And if he would cooperate, you'd both get what you needed.

He made to get up, staggering just a little, taking his keys from his pocket. This was your chance.

He looked away for a split second, he held his keys in his fist as he stood once more and turned slightly toward the door.

There was a key ring your fingers grabbed onto and firmly wanked them from his grasp.

He realized too late what was happening. His movements are slower than normal, trying but failing to reach back out for them.

“What the fuck. Give ‘em back.” He held out his hand expectantly.

“Hell no. You aren't going anywhere like this. You trying to kill yourself?” You raised your voice.

There was some look that passed over his features you couldn't quite read. He looked defeated at this moment.

“Look, just sit down. I'll make us both some burgers. We can, uh, have that meal you asked me to.”

That seemed to pique his interest, as his eyebrows edged upward. He nodded slightly and planted his ass back down on the stool as you breathed a small sigh of relief.

“Ok, just stay there. I'm going to lock the door and I'll make you the best damn burger you've ever had.” He didn't respond but you put another glass of water on the bar. “And drink that. I'll be back.”

You left him to it, locking the front door and clicking off the neon “Open” sign. You were sure no one would bother coming by this late and if Henry found out you'd just tell him the truth.

Henry usually cooked but had taught you the ins and outs of the kitchen as well. As the patties cooked on the grill top, you checked through the swinging door to make sure he was still there.

You panicked just a bit when he wasn't at the bar, but he had just moved across the room to one of the booths instead. And much to your surprise had brought the water with him. He wasn't thinking clearly but at least he could still follow directions.

You placed the plate in front of him as his eyes lit up.

“Don't say I never did anything nice for you.” You laughed and took the seat across from him.

He immediately started shoveling fries into his mouth. He wasn't much for manners, but you didn't fault him. He was eating like a man starved.

He hummed around the first bite of his burger as you smiled. You ate in silence, hoping a decent meal would sober him up for what you were about to suggest.

He finished his meal, wiping his mouth with his exposed sleeve and chugged the remaining water.

“Thanks, I need that.” He mumbled.

“Feel better?” You genuinely asked.

“Mmhmm… yeah actually. I uh…” he started.

“Nope, let's not do this ok. Don't start a sappy apology. I uh… may have had some ulterior motives here anyway.” You grinned as he finally lifted his head, furrowing his brows as his lips were set in a slight pout as if he were trying to decipher what you had just said.

“What? What are you…”

“I'm saying that I got you sober enough that at least I'm not taking advantage of you. I'd like to take you up on your offer.”

The realization hit, as he silently replied, “oh.”

He sat quietly for another moment.

“No. I don't need a goddamn pity fuck.”

You were taken aback by his brashness. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

“I wasn't trying to give you a pity fuck you jackass. It just seemed like we could both use a distraction. But if you're not interested, never mind.” You started to ease out of the booth.

“Wait, wait.” He grabbed your wrist, halting your movements. His touch setting your skin ablaze.

He looked up at you with pleading, puppy dog eyes that pulled at your chest.

“Look, I am a jackass, ok. But I am interested. You've made it very clear you didn't want anything to do with me. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“What does it matter? We're both obviously dealing with some shit… like I said we could use a distraction.” You shrugged, pulling free from his grasp. Taking both of your plates as you slid from the seat.

He watched you disappear into the back of the bar.

Ok, she's giving me a chance. Don't fuck this up. I'm a winner. Come on. He tried to pump himself up.

It took a few minutes to wash up the dishes and put them away. Emerging from the back, he was still sitting in the booth.

“Listen,” you spoke up. “I've got a few more things to do before I can head out. You wanna just meet me at my room in about an hour?”

He stood, no stagger this time and in a few large strides he crossed the room stopping directly in front of you.

He took you by surprise, grabbing your hips, pulling you completely flush to his.

You let out a little squeak that his lips quickly cut off when they met yours.

He wasn't gentle, fingertips digging in where they met you through your shirt. You didn't need or want gentle. He was doing exactly what you hoped he would.

His lips were slightly chapped but glided against your cherry glossed ones with ease. You wrapped one hand around the base of his neck, nails raking through his hair as your other finds his bicep.

He was guiding you, fingers finding the hem of your shirt, skirting upwards, uncovering the supple flesh beneath.

His touch sent goosebumps across your bare skin. It was then his tongue danced along your bottom lip, begging for entry.

Your lips parted, his tongue immediately finding the opening, moving against yours so naturally.

You suddenly needed more, pulling him even closer, easing yourself upward to meet him on the tips of your toes.

It was suddenly a clash of teeth and tongue. Your hand glided from his bicep to his waist pulling him in.

He broke your kiss with a groan. It gave you both a moment to catch your breath. Pants being shared between you.

You took the opportunity, running your hand lower, palming his now very prominent bulge. You were surprised he was actually backing that cocky attitude.

“Fuck,” he hissed out, breath fanning your cheek.

“You're getting ahead of yourself big boy. I still need to close up.” You nipped at his neck, inching yourself backward.

“No, let me make you feel good. Let me taste you. Fuck, I need to taste you.” His voice raspy, whiny with need.

His words went straight to your core. Not sure what you were expecting, but him offering to go down on you wasn't one of them. Gator seemed very selfish, not someone who would so willingly give.

“Yeah, fuck yeah.” Willing yourself to answer as you nodded. But then it hit you. Where the fuck would you go in here?

As if he already knew what you were thinking, he grabbed your hand leading you over to the pool table.

He let go to shed his jacket into the nearest booth, as you slid up onto the felt lining, easing your ass over the lip.

You'd worn a skirt today, now thanking yourself for the easy access, as you spread your thighs to accommodate his frame.

He turned back to you. Eyes trailing up. You were like prey caught by the big, bad wolf as he licks his lips ready to devour you.

You leaned back, spreading your legs a little further, skirt rucking up, soaked panties on display.

He came to slot himself between your thighs, pulling your hips toward the edge to meet his hard cock coming to rest against your clothed core.

You had no choice but to wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself as you gasped out.

“What's wrong, sweet thing?” He smirked, as he brought his hand up to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair tugging the roots making you meet his gaze.

“I…” smug bastard had the audacity to roll his hips when you tried to speak, nudging your clit slightly, pulling a small moan from you.

“Yeah, that's it. Let me hear those pretty sounds, yeah?”

This wasn't you. Letting a man reduce you to putty in his hands. You decided to throw him off, taking your legs and locking them firmly around his waist, and rolling your hips into his.

“Look at you, like a little whore in heat.” He lowered his head, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “I fucking knew you wanted me.”

You gasped out again when he brought his broad palms against your thighs pushing them back against the table. His thumbs rubbing higher, up under the fabric of your skirt making you shudder.

He pulled back slightly to look down at you.

“Now, be a good girl and sit still f’me.”

His fingertips traveled up, hooking into the fabric so he could pull them down, lifting your ass so he could remove them.

Once he had you bare, he tucked them into his pocket for safe keeping.

His eyes darkened, breath hitching slightly once he caught sight of your bare cunt.

You were positively soaked, glistening before him.

Feeling a little brazen, you spoke up “Are you going to put your money where your mouth is or just stare at me all night like you've never seen a pussy before? ” Wiggling your ass closer to the edge as you spoke.

He didn't respond, you watched as he licked at his bottom lip and began lowering himself to the floor. Once he knelt in front of you, face to face with you, he finally spoke.

“Look at that sweet little pussy, already drooling f’me.” He slid his hands under your ass, pulling you closer to the edge, closer to his waiting mouth.

He pushed your left thigh up over his shoulder, scooting closer still, using his arm to force your other leg further open to accommodate him. His hand delicately moves your skirt further up your hips giving him full access.

You jolt when he lightly runs a fingertip up your slit. Not enough to penetrate but shooting embers through your core.

“I bet she tastes so good, huh?” Placing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another and another. Working his way toward where you needed him most.

“Please…” it's as if the word left on its own accord as it hung in the air between you. It was so breathy you'd hoped he'd mistake it for another moan.

“What's that sweet thing?” No such luck.

You look down at him, he's grinning over your mound with this mischievous glint to his eyes. You know what he's about to say before it even tumbles from his lips.

“Please what baby?”

You roll your eyes letting your head thump back against the tabletop.

“Please Gator, quit teasing. I ne… want you to fuck me.” You quickly huffed out.

He chuckled lightly, letting his finger and thumb part your lips, while his breath fanned over your sticky folds.

He hummed as he looked down, catching a glance once more before he brought his tongue down. Flattening it against your core, licking a fat stripe from your leaking entrance as he let the tip finally catch your clit.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned out. Relief. It flooded through your veins and much as it ignited you further.

He didn't stop, moving his tongue down and back up to expertly swirl it against your puffy clit.

Your back arched, pushing your pussy further into his face. His eyes flicked up to you, relishing the way he was already making you come undone.

He moved his hand from around your ass to wrap it around your leg, making sure you couldn't squirm away as his lips came to wrap around your bundle of nerves. Sucking harshly, then soothing it again with a soft lick.

You fisted your hands at your sides, fighting the urge to run your fingers through his hair.

You felt his thick finger tease your entrance as his lips remained sealed to you.

“Mmmm… yes, please. I need more.” You tried to grind your hips, but he had you firmly pinned.

He slowly inserted his finger, pushing into your velvety walls with ease, as another wanton moan left your lips.

He pulled out, only to insert a second upon re-entry. His fingers alone were filling you up in such a way your own never could.

Your cunt pulsed around him, as he hummed into you, the vibrations only adding to your pleasure.

It had been a long time since you'd been touched by anyone but yourself and your orgasm was creeping up at an embarrassingly fast rate.

He curved his digits upward with every drag, as he was hit that sweet, spongy spot within you. You knew you wouldn't last much longer.

“Gator don't stop. Right there!” He was happy to oblige, keeping his current pace but applied more pressure to your clit, working his tongue back and forth.

Your hands finally found purchase, tugging at his hair. He hummed again, filing that mental note away for later.

“It feels so good, don't… mmmm… don't fucking stop!”

Those embers were fully formed flames, licking up your spine, igniting every nerve within your core.

The pressure kept building, as you were teetering along the edge, ready to let go.

Your orgasm hit with blinding force, your legs began to shake around him as sparks soared behind your eyes, with a cry of his name he worked you through your high.

He unattached his lips, “that's it sweet thing, cum on my fingers. Yeah, you look so goddamn pretty like this, and I haven't even fucked you yet.”

Your cunt clenched around him once more with his words, as you tried to pull away from him, starting to feel oversensitive. He pulled his fingers from you, only to wrap his lips around them sucking them clean of any remnants of your arousal.

“Mmmm… so fucking sweet. I knew you'd taste good.”

He watches the way your chest is still heaving, trying to catch your breath. He takes the opportunity to raise himself up, pushing himself back between your thighs.

His cock is fucking aching and rock hard. He'd fuck you right here and now if you'd let him.

He leans slightly back over you, his cock nudging your cunt, as you whimper and finally open your eyes in time to see his shit eating grin, as he wipes the rest of your arousal from his face with the back of his hand.

“You good?” He finally asks.

There was something in his eyes that told you that you were in for a long night.

You nod pathetically, as you attempt to sit up, but your bones feel like jello.

He closes the distance, caging you in, hands splayed out on either side of you, as he speaks close to your ear, breath fanning your cheek.

“Yeah? You want me t’bend you over right here or are we going back t’your room? Your choice sweet thing, but either way I'm fuckin’ ya’ now.”

He pulls back slightly to gauge your response. You look up at him, soft doe eyes and pouty kiss-bitten lips. He's fucked. He knows it right then and there.

“Fuck, Gator. We can't fuck here. Let me grab my purse.” You push at his chest to give you some space.

He takes a few steps back, as you hop down from the pool table on wobbly legs and straighten your skirt back down.

“You aren't closin’ up?” He chuckled.

“Fuck it,” waving your hand dismissively as you walk to the back. “I work morning shift; I'll do it then.”

You quickly gathered your belongings, throwing your coat over your shoulders, shutting off the lights as you head back up front. You knew you'd be kicking yourself in the few hours you'd have to be back in for your shift but at this moment you couldn't find it within yourself to care.

You shot through the double doors, as his hands reached out and grabbed you from behind, pulling you in as he nuzzled his face into your neck.

“I can't keep my hands off of you. You're so fuckin’ hot.”

You giggle, feeling like a horny teen. It was new, exciting and as you reminded yourself just for tonight.

“Gator, come on. Let's go.” He grabbed a handful of your ass before reluctantly letting you go.

He followed you closely out the door, as you turned to lock up, he stayed there, head on a swivel, surveying the parking lot void of any life this time of night.

“Okay.” You said, pushing your hands into your pockets, suddenly realizing you still had his keys.

“Oh shit, here.” You dug them out from your purse and handed them over.

“Thanks, sweet thing, come on.” He went ahead of you and jumped into the driver's seat, turning the ignition just as quickly. You pulled yourself up, taking the opportunity to scoot right in next to him, thigh pressed tightly into his.

He stiffens as you place your hand high on his thigh, sliding it slowly, close to where his cock rests, still straining against his confines just begging to be released.

At the same time, you press your face close to his jaw, placing small kisses up, nibbling his ear lobe. You continued sliding your hand further up, finally rubbing him through his pants, causing his breath to hitch.

“Fuck, ok, ok. Let me just get us across the road.”

You giggled out, as you sat back in the seat. He seemed just as eager as you were.

“Ok big boy, let's go.”

The Midway was almost directly across the road from the Lucky Lizard, making it a quick trip.

“Which room is it?” He asked, eyes cutting to you for a moment.

“203, just up there.” Pointing in the general direction, as he slowed when he got close.

“I'll let you out, I've got to park ‘round back.” He stopped directly in front of the door.

“Yeah, sure.” You understood but it didn't hurt any less. You knew it was a dump, home to more than a couple of drug addicts but you also knew his job. It would be an embarrassment to be seen here.

You let it roll off you, as you swung the door open and stepped inside. It gave you a few minutes to freshen up and spritz a little perfume to your pulse points, as he knocked on the door.

You crossed the small space, opening the door wide, bidding him in quickly.

“I know it's not much,” you began.

“S’fine.” He said, looking around the desolate space. The only hint that you lived here was the large suitcase in the corner overflowing with your clothes and shoes.

He let his jacket fall from his shoulders, placing it on top of the dresser, toeing his boots off there as well. You had already removed your outerwear leaving you in your skirt and short sleeved shirt you'd worn all day.

He didn't look your way as he sat on the end of the bed, letting out a large sigh as the springs groaned under his weight.

For a moment he seemed distracted, with this faraway look in his eye that had you second guessing yourself, as his hand scrubbed down the side of his face.

As if he felt the weight of your stare, he looked up, “C’mere sweet thing,” patting his thighs. In normal circumstances something like that would piss you off but at this point you'd let it slide.

You crossed the small distance between you. As soon as you were close enough, he grabbed your hips once more, but you were ready this time as you steadied yourself.

Your fingertips hooked under his chin lifting lightly so he would have to look at you. His eyes were half lidded, from lust or the late hour you weren't sure, but his gaze was soft, pupils blown wide.

“Hey handsome, how about I return the favor?” You purred, as his hand roamed the expanse of your thighs, finding your ass and pulling you further into him.

You trailed a fingertip across his jaw, nail catching on stubble that was trying to form as you watched his Adam's apple bob.

Trailing it lower, down his broad chest as you began to sink to the floor between his thighs, knees pressing into the rough carpeting.

Your hands came to rest in either of his thighs, as he eagerly undid his belt and unsnapped the button of his pants. That's when you stopped him.

“Let me,” your voice was sticky sweet, as you batted his hands away, replacing them with your own, taking the zipper and slowly lowering it.

You palmed at his still clothed erection, eliciting a soft hiss from him.

He groaned, as your fingers trailed to his waistband, he aided you by lifting his hips letting you pull his pants and boxers down his hairy thighs.

His cock sprang free, the head landing just at his navel. You knew he was big, but you hadn't expected this much. You were staring at a goddamn python.

He was long, but also thick. His fat mushroom tip was flushed, a prominent vein travels down the underside of his shaft. The thought of him between your legs made your thighs involuntary clench.

“Fuck,” it was just a whisper, but he still heard it as he smirked.

“What's the matter, sweet thing? Never seen a cock before?” That teasing tone was back but you rolled your eyes in response, wrapping your hand around as much of his base that you could.

You angled him more toward you, leaning down spitting on the tip, as his hips bucked up slightly.

“Fuck, you're a dirty girl.” He grunted, the women he usually fucks were all to timid to take charge or even offer a blow job.

You ran your hand up his length, reaching the top, smearing the mixture of your saliva and his precum expertly. Taking the time to run your thumb across his slit and ruddy head at an agonizingly slow pace before finally stroking back down, as you began pumping lightly.

His breath hitched as he watched you, you were focused solely on him and the task at hand.

You brought your mouth closer, lips sticky with newly reapplied gloss as you placed a soft kiss to the tip, before flicking your tongue to the same spot. Getting the response you were after when you heard him whimper.

You grinned against him, ready to destroy this man.

You wrapped your lips around him, sucking lightly before flattening your tongue, taking as much of him as your mouth and throat would allow.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned out, as if you’d taken him by surprise. His face screwed up with pleasure as he closed his eyes. You wondered if it had been a while since he'd felt a woman's soft touch, so used to his calloused hands providing his own relief.

As the salty tang of him hit your tongue you moaned around him. The vibrations made him shudder, relaxing your throat to take him further as you continued to stroke his length.

You began to bob your head, hollowing your cheeks applying more pressure to his member.

“Goddamn sweet thing,” he breathed out, daring to glance down. You were a vision with his dick between your lips. When you looked up at him there were unshed tears along your lash line. It was enough to make him cum right then and there.

It was then you decided to pick up your pace, seeing his fucked-out expression spurred you on.

“Fuck,” he hissed out, gripping the back of your hair, tugging you back until you pulled off with a wet pop.

“You keep doing that, I'm gonna cum. I need to fuck you.” You nodded, as those words went straight to your core, pussy clenching around nothing.

“You uh, you got a condom? I didn't really come prepared.”

“Gator, I just had my mouth around your cock, if I was worried about that I wouldn't have gone down on you. I'm on birth control.” You shrugged.

“Fuck, yeah ok.” He nodded.

You quickly rose to your feet, slotting your thighs on either side of his, sinking down as his cock met your bare cunt, gliding easily through your folds bumping your clit on the way.

You moaned out in unison, as he found the hem of your shirt pulling it over your head. His lips immediately finding the tender flesh of your neck, just below your jaw sucking a small bruise there before soothing it with his tongue.

His hands palm your tits through your bra, before quickly finding the clasp at the back. He's undoing it with expertise, as the straps begin to slide down your shoulders.

He wastes no time, he pushes the cups down as his large palms engulf your breasts. His calloused hands are a little rough against your nipples, causing another moan to escape you.

You pull away slightly to capture his lips into a heated kiss. He wraps his arms around you, only to lift you off the bed with him, moving to lay you onto your back.

You let out a small squeak of surprise but he's immediately back between your thighs, gliding his cock between through your soaked folds.

“Mmmm… Gator, please don't tease me anymore.” You huffed out.

He chuckled lightly in response, but sat up to remove his shirt, kicking his pants the rest of the way off his legs. You followed his lead, lifting your hips and sliding your skirt down your plush thighs.

“Fuck, look at you.” He said, lowering himself back down.

He brought two fingers up to your lips, as he barked out “open.” Sliding them in, letting them close around his large digits and letting your tongue swirl against the rough pads.

“Good girl,” he brought them straight to your aching clit, rubbing tight circles against you.

“Mmmm… fuck.” You moaned out, keening into his touch.

He bent down, laving his tongue between your breasts. His mouth was hot, as he sucked your hardened bud between his lips. Your hands flew to his hair, pushing it back from his face tugging harshly at the roots.

He didn't let up, as he moved off your clit to pinch the other between his thumb and finger.

The sensation has you crying out. You weren't in the mood for any more teasing. The ache between your legs was almost unbearable.

You were surprised at his patience this far. Half expecting him to start railing you as soon as he entered the room.

You pulled his face up to yours, giving him no choice but to crawl up your body, meeting you lips once more. You firmly locked your legs around his waist and rolled your hips.

You swallowed each other's moans, as you repeated the motion, his tip catching your clit at just the right angle.

“No more teasing. Let's see if you know how to use that thing or if that cocky attitude is all you have.” Wiggling your hips against him as you spoke.

His eyes darkened, as he looked up at you as if it ignited something within him.

“I know how to use it, just wonderin’ if that tight pussy can handle it.” He reached between you, lining himself up with your entrance as you spread your legs further apart.

His fat tip breaches, as he pushes in slightly with a groan.

“Oh fuck,” throwing your head back, already feeling the stretch.

“Fuck, you are tight,” he hisses, watching himself as he sinks a little deeper.

Your brow starts to scrunch, closing your eyes as your mouth goes slack, a silent moan trying to escape but it feels caught in your throat.

He starts to move again, inch by inch, he slowly splits you open. You're trying not to think about the smug look he's surely got on his face. If you had opened your eyes, you would have seen he was just as fucked out as you were.

Your nails dig crescents where they rest, fingers gripping his shoulders tighter the deeper he goes.

He finally pushes to the hilt, as you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, coming out as a whimper.

He looks down at you then, the almost pained expression on your face pulls him out of his own stuper.

“Hey, you ok?” The softness of his tone grabbed your attention the most. You looked back up to see his eyes worrying over your features.

You nodded, “mhmm… I just need a minute. It's been a while and, not to inflate your already huge ego, but you're not exactly average.”

His lips curled up into that crooked smile like the first time you'd seen him at the bar. It genuinely made you smile back.

The pinch slowly started to subside, as you asked him to move.

He slowly pulled back, almost removing himself completely, immediately sinking back in. He was taking his time, not at all what you expected. You’d wanted rough, for him to fuck your goddamn brains out.

“Gator, I need more. Harder.” Your heels pressed into his ass to get your point across.

“You sure?”

“Yes, goddamnit! Fuck me!”

He shoved himself back, pulling out of you completely.

“What are you…?”

“Y’want it rough, flip over. Ass up.” When you didn't immediately move, he added “c’mon sweet thing. Up.”

You did as you were told, rolling over and arching your ass up. You looked over your shoulder, as he grabbed onto your hip lining himself up with your dripping entrance.

“You asked for it, whore.” He breathed out as he pushed back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

He wasn't soft this time, didn't bother to ask if you were okay.

You whined out with each pump, as he started to set a brutal pace. He began to pull your hips back in time to meet each thrust.

“That it, huh? This what y’wanted?”

You didn't answer, nodding as best you could with your cheek pressed into the mattress.

His hand came down hard across your ass cheek that sent you lurching forward.

“I asked you a question. This what y'wanted? Huh?”

“Yeah, yes. It's… it's what I… mmmm… wanted.” Panting out as he continued to rail you.

He leaned over, reaching his arm under your chest placing his hand around your throat. Squeezing lightly, as if he were testing the waters.

When your pussy fluttered and another moan fell from your lips when he applied more pressure it gave him all the go ahead he needed.

He hauled you up with him; your back pressed tightly to his sweaty chest with his hand still wrapped around your throat as you gripped his wrist and forearm.

He slowed his motions, only to put his lips close to your ear, “You know what they call whores who like to fuck cops? They're badge bunnies. Y’wanna be my little bunny since y’like bouncing on this cock?”

“Fuck, Gator.” You wailed out.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

He releases your neck, letting you fall forward against the mattress, holding your hip with one hand as he brings the other up between your legs as he quickly finds your clit.

You grip the sheets, as he begins rubbing harsh circles there, his length continuously stimulating that sweet spot within you with every drag against your velvety walls. It had you clenching around him as that coil within you tightened.

“You close bunny?” A little bunny, trapped by the big bad wolf. Ensnared. Nowhere to run.

“Ughhh, fuck, yeah.” All coherent thoughts pushed from your mind.

He was working you toward the edge, tighter and tighter your lower belly wound.

“Please, don't stop! Don't stop!”

He didn't let up, working your clit with the same, unrelenting pace as his cock split you open again and again in the best possible way.

“I'm not sweet thing. Can I… fuck… can I cum in this pussy?” He grunted out, trying to stave off his own. He wanted to feel you cum around his cock.

“Yes! Cum in me!”

“Fuck, I need you to cum all over my dick. C’mon baby. Need to feel you. Give it to me.”

His words only encouraged your orgasm, that coil wound tighter and tighter until it finally snapped.

You came with a shout of his name followed by “oh God, oh God, oh God” as those fireworks flew behind your eyes. It was the best orgasm anyone had ever given you. You were fucking ruined.

He continued to work you through it until you whimpered into the sheets below.

He grabbed your hips with both hands, surely to leave bruises in their wake, pulling you back to meet his punishing thrusts.

Your senses were overwhelmed and your pussy was starting to ache from overuse.

“Gator, please…” you weren't sure what you were begging for.

“Yeah, Bunny? Yeah? I'm gonna fuckin’ ruin this pussy for anyone else. Gonna be all mine from now on.” He started blabbering.

His hips stuttered, thrusts becoming a little erratic, as he started to spill inside of you. He pulled your hips flush to his, as he painted your walls with his thick ropes of cum.

“Fuckfuckfuck… that's it, that's fuckin' it.”

He stilled leaning over your back, as your legs began to give out, releasing the grip on you as he finally pulled out.

He rolled off of you, lying there beside you as you both caught your breath.

“Care if I take a nap here? I'm up in a few hours back on patrol. Don't feel like drivin’ all the way across town.”

It caught you off guard. You hadn't actually had someone sleep beside you after sex in years, but it was just one night. He'd most likely be gone before the sunrise.

“Uh, sure. I'm going to shower.” Getting up without turning back to him, you heard him mumble something under his breath as he made himself more comfortable throwing the covers over his waist.

You showered quickly just to scrub the day from yourself. The hot water heater didn't last more than 10 minutes in this damn place.

When you were finished, Gator was laying on his stomach. Arms stretched under his pillows, hair strewn in his face as soft snores escaped him.

Your eyes drank him in. Curves and plains of his strong back, moles and freckles scattered like a constellation. The sheet just barely covers his ass. You softly roll your eyes when you notice his boxers on the floor by the bed.

Your gaze flicked up, noticing a tattoo on his bicep. Snorting to yourself when you realized what it was. It was hideous but very much on brand. Making a mental note to make sure to give him hell for it later.

The bed was small, but he had scooted as far to the right that he could, giving you room to lay down beside him. Thoughtful, again he surprised you.

You threw on a tank and some clean panties, easing yourself in beside him under the sheets. He shifted just a bit, mumbling to himself before settling back in.

You turned over on your side away from him, making sure to keep a little distance between you before finally drifting off.

Gator woke a couple of hours later, turning slightly to see your sleeping form beside him. It was still dark out, a sliver of light coming in through the slit in the curtains just enough to illuminate you.

He tried to be quiet as he gathered his clothes from around the room easing them back on his body.

He checked his phone. More than a few missed calls and one single text from Roy.

Where the fuck are you?

He knew he'd get more shit as soon as he got home. After their blowout last night he's surprised no one came looking for him but that would actually mean Roy cared about his well-being.

He sat back down on the bed as softly as he could, trying not to disturb you. He watched a cockroach crawl across the toe of his boot as he laced it. His lip curled up in disgust at the thought of you living here.

Maybe he could help you out if you decided to stay but he knew that was wishful thinking. You'd also made it clear last night was a one time thing but maybe he could change your mind.

He used his phone as a light to find a small notepad and pen on your nightstand. Jotting down his number, with a simple just in case scrawled out.

He took one more look at you sleeping peacefully, slowly letting his fingers trace the curve of your cheek, moving the hair from your face.

He finally understood what his dad had always warned him about. He felt weak with this overwhelming urge to protect you. He didn't really understand it. But deep down he was hoping you'd somehow feel the same.

You woke up with a stretch and a groan. You'd slept cramped, pushed to the edge, careful not to touch the man beside you.

You turned over to a cold spot, suddenly wondering when he'd left.

Sitting up, you reached for your water at your bedside, raising it to your lips but stopped, noticing a note left there.

You gingerly picked it up. He'd left his number.

You thought about tossing it but instead grabbed your phone and input the info, quickly moving screens and typing out a text then erasing it.

You chewed the skin on your thumb, as you looked at the blank message, typing it out again.

Thanks. You took my mind off shit for a while.

Hitting send before chickening out, immediately slamming the phone down on the bed.

One time. It was supposed to be a one time thing.

He had responded to your text later that day with:

Sure bunny. you free tonite?

You had thoroughly ignored it for 2 hours before you texted him back, telling him what time he could swing by the motel after a customer had pissed you off.

It had been like that most nights since.

There were also those nights when he'd pick you up from work, always making sure to come in before close.

Taking the same seat at the bar, you'd happily grab him his usual Jack Daniels over ice. It was small talk at first but gradually became a little more.

You would laugh at his stupid jokes or tell him that he should tell his dad off after he had yet another blow out with him. He left out a lot of the details but you had inferred enough to know he was a piece of shit.

And after close, he'd slip his tongue past your lips as soon as you walked out the door, kissing you hard enough to melt the rest of the day away. His hands were all over you until you managed to get him into the truck to make that small drive across the road.

You’d fucked on just about every surface of that motel room, including some sketchy shower sex that almost landed you both in the hospital when you’d lost your footing.

He couldn’t take you back to his dad’s house, so a week later, he’s got you in the cab of his truck bouncing on his cock like your life depended on it.

The windows were fogged up, anyone passing by could easily tell what was currently playing out. He’d parked in a clearing off a gravel road, close to his ranch but far enough away that no one would bother the two of you.

His cock was kissing your cervix each time your hips met his, at this angle it felt like he was in your guts. It was on the verge of being too much but that familiar ache in your lower belly told you to keep going. You were almost to the finish line.

He currently held his hand against your throat, after he'd figured out you liked it, he started taking it a little further each time.

“I feel her gripping me, your close Bunny. Keep fuckin’ goi…” He was interrupted when a banging on the glass startled you both.

Your movements halted, both looking like deer in headlights.

“Gator, c’mon out son. Need a moment.” Roy's voice rang out against the silence.

“Fuck,” he hissed, through gritted teeth, throwing his head back onto the headrest as you quickly moved off of him, pulling down your skirt and straightening your hair sitting up in the passenger seat.

He shoved his now softening cock back into his pants, zipping them up and jumping out of the truck, slamming it shut.

You picked up your panties from the dirty floor, and shoved them into your purse. From this vantage point you couldn't hear much of what was being said, but it was mostly Roy’s muffled voice coming through.

The more you learned about their relationship the more it turned your stomach. It was one-sided, Roy asking him to jump and Gator immediately asking how high.

You had made up your mind about Roy after that first meeting. The way he treated Gator was disgusting.

After a few more agonizing minutes, the truck door finally opened back up to reveal a very crestfallen Gator.

He hopped in without saying a word, turning the ignition and throwing it into drive. He punched the gas, throwing you back into the seat.

“What the fuck, Gator?!” You yelled, gripping the door as he peeled onto the gravel road.

“Daddy really put you in a bad mood, huh?” It slipped out with a patronizing tone.

“Fuck you!” He spat, pulling his vape from his pocket, letting it hit his lips expelling that sickly sweet smelling fruit that you've come to loathe.

“I mean, we tried that before we were so rudely interrupted back there.” You laughed to yourself.

“Goddamnit,” he hit the steering wheel with his fist, “Just shut the fuck up!”

“Fine. Just take me back to the Midway and don't bother texting me later when you get bored. Fuck you, asshole!” You huffed, crossing your arms and sinking a little deeper into the seat before staring out the window.

Regret started to pool within you. It was bound to happen. It always ended like this. You could never hold your tongue, letting insults roll off so easily.

It felt like the longest ride back across town. He'd pulled up to the curb not even bothering to put the truck in park as you hopped out slamming the door behind you.

A few days passed successfully avoiding him all together. You'd contemplated deleting his number, your thumb hovering over the button each time, then slamming your phone back down.

It was just sex. You could cut ties now and let it be. Once that damn car is done, skipping town would be easy.

It was another gloomy, snowy day in Lehigh. And yet another excuse from Frank.

The heat in your room quit working, so you'd spent the morning moving your stuff down to another room that Maggie had gotten ready for you.

You'd hoped a shower might clear your head, relax you for a bit. It seemed to only make things worse. You were tired.

Checking your phone you were met with a text you'd been dreading.

You still in town?

Ignoring it, you laid down hoping a nap would do you some good.

Waking a couple hours later, you had a few missed calls and more texts from Gator.

Can we talk?

I came by the motel. Your room was empty. Did you leave?

Hello?

You groaned, sitting up.

Finally relenting and typing out a reply.

You almost sound worried, big boy. I'm fine. You can kindly fuck off now.

It began to buzz in your hand as you hit ignore. It continued off and on most of the day. A few more missed calls and messages, later that afternoon it finally stopped.

You breathed a small sigh of relief, curling back under the covers shutting the world out. Just how you preferred it.

You dozed in and out of consciousness. The TV provides soothing background noise keeping you snoozing all afternoon.

You were wrenched from your slumber when someone began to pound on the door. Dazed for a few seconds, before the pounding started again.

“Fuck, give me a second!” You yelled across the room, stumbling from the bed uncaring how you looked, sleep shorts and thin tank top with your hair askew.

Immediately jerking the door open, you’re face to face with a very agitated looking Gator. He must have been working today, dressed in his vest and gloves.

“Fuck no.” You said, and started to close the door. He was quicker, placing his boot clad foot in the way preventing you from pushing it shut.

“Move Gator.” You hissed.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“No shit. I told you not to bother. I should have blocked your ass. Now, move!” You shoved a little harder to no avail.

“What the fuck are you mad for, huh? You didn't get to cum that day, that it? There's a lot of things you don't understand. A lot of shit I can't talk about.”

You swung the door open, as you locked eyes with his.

“Oh, no I get it. I see it. You let daddy tell you what to do. You've been sneaking around with a whore and finally got caught, right?” He looked away, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. Bingo.

Nodding your head as he finally looked back up to you.

“Yeah, that's what I thought. It's fine.”

“No, it's not fine.” He finally spoke up. “Can I come in? Just for a few minutes.”

“Why, Gator? We both know what this was. Just some fun, nothing serious. Remember? You don't owe me an explanation. You don't owe me anything.” You laughed, but it died out once you noticed the look on his face.

If it was nothing serious, why did he look at you like you'd just knocked the wind out him? Big, glossy puppy dog eyes just like that first night you'd hooked up.

If it was nothing serious, why did your chest ache at the thought of hurting him?

“Gator, I…” You couldn't finish that sentence, he moved so quickly and in your groggy state before you could register what was happening, he placed one hand on your hip as he brought the other up to cradle the back of your head.

He kissed you so deeply, yet it had you yearning for more. You surprised him when you kissed him back, sucking his bottom lip between yours before letting go to look back up at him.

“Fuck, Y/N. I've… I've fuckin' missed you.” It came out quickly. A rushed confession you'd been expecting but to hear him say it out loud, only solidified what you'd been feeling. The reason you'd been so depressed the last couple of days missing his company.

You'd been on your own for so long, you'd forgotten what it actually meant to miss someone. For someone to miss you. It wasn't just about the sex anymore.

“It's only been a couple days.” You grinned, pushing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck.

“I know, I just thought you'd left and…”

You brought a finger to his lips.

“It's ok. I'm here.” For now.

“Yeah, you are Bunny. And I'm not letting you get away so easily.”

You didn't want to put a label on this or did you? Would that be so bad?

You started moving quickly, helping him out of his jacket, his shirt flying over his head in a flurry. He walked you back, letting your knees hit the edge of the mattress, laying you back slowly.

His lips sealed to yours with a searing kiss. You were needy. Tongue and teeth. Pushing and pulling at each other.

Your hands flew to his buckle, undoing it with ease. Taking him in your palm as he moaned into your mouth.

He palmed your breast through your shirt as his thumb grazed over your nipple. Your body arched into him, already craving more as he began peppering kisses along your jaw.

“I fuck… Gator… I need you. Now.”

“I've got to get you warmed up sweet thing.” He chided.

“No, now. Please.” You whimpered.

He moved his hand lower, sliding your sleep shorts to the side, immediately his fingers trailed to your entrance already dripping arousal.

“Fuck, so wet.”

“I told you, I need you. Don't make me beg.” You pleaded.

He moved his digits up, swirling them around your clit, eliciting those sweet sounds he was looking for.

Removing his hand from you, he lifted himself up so he could push his boxers past his hips. He brought his palm up to your mouth, “Spit. Yeah, good girl.”

Bringing his hand to his cock, smearing a mixture of your spit and his precum down his length.

He slid your sleep shorts back over with one hand and guided himself to your entrance.

You had to will yourself to breathe as his tip began to stretch your inner walls. It was too much and not enough.

He slowly filled your aching pussy, as you wrapped your legs around him, eager to have him pressed into you.

“How are you always so goddamn tight?” He said, as you whimpered out, his cock pushing in to the hilt.

Immediately, he pulls out, only to push back in feeling deeper than before. The force of his hips pushing you further up the mattress with each thrust.

The pretty noises he drew from you only made him double his efforts. Picking up his pace, but rolling his hips a little upward each time. The wiry curls at the base of his cock nudging your clit each time his hips meet yours.

“Gator, I'm… mmmm… I'm close.”

“Yeah, bunny? Gonna strangle my cock? Gonna let me have it?”

You nodded as your eyes rolled back, it was closer than you thought.

Your orgasm hit with a scream of his name, as your pussy clamped down like a vice around him.

“Oh, fuck.” He tried to work you through it, but with your cunt pulsing around him he was done. He spilled his thick ropes inside your velvety walls as you milked everything from him.

“Fuckfuckfuck, filling this pussy full baby.”

He finally stilled, collapsing onto you, nearly crushing you in the best possible way.

He moved his arms up under your back pressing his face into your chest, mumbling something you couldn't quite hear as you brushed the hair from his face.

“What, baby?” You whispered down to him.

Baby. Baby. Baby. The first time you'd called him by a pet name. He grinned from his spot on your chest.

“Nothing, sweet thing. Just talkin’ to myself.”

You hummed absentmindedly, raking your fingers through his hair.

“How'd you know where I was?” Suddenly remembering all of those desperate texts and calls.

He pulled his head up to look at you, resting his chin on your sternum.

“Well, I asked that lady at the front desk. Tough old broad to crack.” You giggled, Maggie would never rat you out. “So, I started bangin’ on all the doors until I found yours.”

“Gator! You're crazy.” You laughed out.

“Crazy for you.” He mumbled pulling you on for a slow kiss.

“Wanna shower and stay the night?” You asked when he pulled away.

“Of course Bunny.” The nickname was unfortunately sticking around but you didn't mind.

You'd showered together, he didn't care that he'd go back home to Roy in the morning smelling like your vanilla body wash or rose scented shampoo. He'd made up his mind you were worth the shit he'd hear from him. That's all it was, shit.

He pulled you into his chest as you curled up into the sheets. Neither of you were very tired so you watched some TV and talked long into the night until your eyes grew heavy.

He'd be there when you woke up this time, groggy smiles and giggles between the sheets as he fucked you slow, taking you to breakfast afterwards.

It was the first time you hadn't felt like you were hidden away.

After that last night, things began to shift between you. The lingering looks, soft touches and post orgasmic bliss of tangling your limbs together while falling asleep wasn't something you shared with someone you didn't care about.

The secrets shared in the dark, confessions from you both crumbling that wall you had built up so high you were sure nothing would bring it down, especially someone like Gator Tillman.

He's arrogant, disgusting and rude. But somehow exactly what you need because he'd do anything to show you he's there for you.

You know it wasn't a coincidence your car was fixed the day after mentioning it to him. Frank had been jerking you around, thinking he could get more money out of you.

He was sporting a newly broken nose and wrist when he handed over the keys with a frown etched to his face.

The car was fixed. The one thing holding you back from leaving Lehigh for good.

As you pulled up to the Midway, he was parked there waiting for you, leaned against the truck, his favorite green cap on backwards with a cloud of smoke exiting his lips, slipping his vape back into his pocket when he spotted you.

You got out, your heart hammering in your chest. Neither of you ever had questioned what might come next.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as you came to stand in front of him.

“So?” He tilted his head, looking down at you.

“So…” You looked at the keys held in your fist. That voice in the back of your head kept warning you. Time to run, little bunny. Make your escape while you still can.

“Your car's fixed. You uh… plannin’ on leavin’?”

“I haven't thought about it.”

He snorted, “Yeah, that's bullshit.”

He moved, as you watched him walk around to the front of the truck.

“Hop in. I wanna show ya’ somethin’.”

He drove you across town, and winding down a few back roads.

“If you wanted to go parking, you could’ve just said so, handsome.” You laughed.

He rolled his eyes, “It's not that. Just trust me.”

Trust. Such a powerful word. Something the two of you built over the last month. You did trust him.

You reached over to intertwine your fingers through his, as he smiles back at you.

He pulled up to a house off to itself, on the smaller side but it was quaint and charming.

“What're we doing?” You asked as he parked.

“You'll see. C'mon.”

You followed behind as he led you to the front door, producing a key and opening it for you.

“Whose house is this?”

“God Bunny, you ask too many damn questions. Get your ass in there.” He nods, leaning on the doorframe as you walk past.

It's a two bedroom, one bath home. Nicely kept. Clean. But you were still confused as to why you were standing here.

“She's yours if you wan’ it.” He finally said, as you whirled back around to face him.

“What're you talking about?” Your brows furrow, confused by the sudden statement.

“Well, I mean, if you wanted to stay here in Lehigh. It's a rental.” He shrugged. “And, no girl of mine is stayin’ in that roach infested dump another day.”

You felt heat creep up your cheeks, but shook your head. “Gator, I can't afford this place.”

“Sure you can sweet thing. It's a steal at $500 a month.” Placing his arm across your shoulders, pulling you into him.

"$500? That's cheaper than the motel.” You squinted up at him, moving from his grasp. “What did you do?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” Gesturing to himself. “What makes you think I did somethin’?” He finished the sentence with a not so subtle grin.

"This place is easily worth double that. So, Gator Tillman, I'll ask you again. What did you do?”

"I didn't do anything. Just know someone owes me a favor s'all." You eyed him suspiciously, still wondering if it was a half truth.

"Well, I'm sure I’ll still need the deposit, so it'll be at least another month."

"No Bunny, like I said, someone owes me.”

You mulled it over for a moment, chewing your bottom lip.

“I can't.” You watched his face fall, but you quickly put your arms around his waist, pulling him in. “Not unless you stay here with me.”

He wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on top of your head.

“So, you stayin’?” He mumbles into your hair.

“For now. Until you piss me off.” You smiled from where your face was pressed into his chest.

No more running, that urge was quelled with him. You finally felt at home.

Home was never a place to you, so it made sense that it ended up being a person.

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artificial-transmutations · 8 months

Text

Your wish is my command

People knew when James approached pretty soon. Even with his 31 years, he still pretty much looked - and behaved - like the popular high school boy he used to be. He was loud, obnoxious and always surrounded by a group of friends - mostly his male buddies, but from time to time also one of his cardboard cutout girlfriends.

With his youthful looks and beautiful face, it wasn't very difficult for him to find a new girl - a fact he well knew and exploited. So, in general, his relationships rarely lasted longer than a few weeks or months until James got tired of his current girlfriend and dumped her for a new one.

Cathrine was one of them, a brunette smart girl who got picked up by James four weeks ago. Even though she quickly fell for him for his good looks and natural charm, she slowly felt annoyed by his constant bragging and immature behavior. However, she had agreed to let the group of friends hang out in her grandmother's antique shop this evening, a decision she started to regret already.

"Hey, look at these things. These are pretty weird, aren't they? What's this even supposed to be?"

"That's a gargoyle. They usually guard churches or the like. Or are supposed to bring luck." Cathrine explained.

"Hah! Bring luck. More like bringing ugliness. How is anyone supposed to see luck in that, huh?" James laughed and prodded the figure.

Catherine grimaced. "Honey, please don't touch anything. I had to promise grandma that nothing would be broken."

"Relax, Cathy, everything's fine! I'm not gonna break anything. Hey, do you think grandma would miss one of her creepy statues?"

"James, please!"

"Okay okay", he joked and looked around the shelves before something caught his eye.

"Hey, guys, check this out!"

He quickly stepped closer and, ignoring Catherines sigh, took the object from the blue pillow it was placed on.

"Cool! Is that a magic lamp, like from Aladdin?" he asked. Really, the brass object looked like a prop from the film. An old-fashioned oil lamp, with an oriental flair to it.

"Please, be careful with that. I don't know much about it, but I know it's an antique and really expensive."

"Yeah, yeah", James waved her off and continued to examine the lamp. By now his friends had gathered around him to watch. Giving them a show, he rubbed the lamp theatrically, but of course, nothing happened. Nevertheless, it brought him cheers and hollers from his buddies.

"The genie is just shy!", one of them joked.

"Oh, a shy one? Perhaps it's a genie lady that just needs some proper motivation?" James immediately agreed.

He raised the lamp to his face and made a kiss-face. "Don't be shy, miss genie! Oh, what is that?"

He held the lamp to his ear as if he was listening to a voice from inside.

"You want me too... what? Oh, you're being naughty miss genie! But I'm not complaining; your wish is my command!"

With that, James lowered the lamp to his groin and held it in front of his package. When he began humping the brass object, his buddies were already laughing tears. Catherine was a little annoyed on how immature James acted but couldn't help but smile as well.

What happened next, however, came as a surprise, not only for James but for Catherine and the guys, too:

In the span of seconds, James' body became engulfed in blue smoke. No, that wasn't exactly right: A more precise description was that James' body *became* blue smoke. It began at his hands, holding the lamp and quickly spread up his arms. The brass oil lamp fell to the ground as the blue smoke that had once been James' hands had not enough substance anymore to hold it.

But even dropping the item didn't stop the process. His entire upper body was turning into the ethereal blue smoke.

"Guys... Guys! What's happening?", he yelled out, but his buddies had no idea either. They were watching, perplexed, as James' body began dissolving. After a few moments, only smoke remained where moments before, James had been standing. Then, suddenly, the smoke was being sucked into the lamp, leaving James' friends and girlfriend behind in shock.

James found himself floating in twilight. He had been caught completely off-guard by his body dissolving into smoke, and he didn't have time to react or run away then. Now there was just... nothing around him. Gray twilight, and apparently no gravity surrounded him. There was some sort of light and air, but this world he now floated in lacked any point of reference whatsoever.

James checked his body, but apparently, it was alright. No sign of the blue smoke, just his regular body was hanging suspended in nothingness.

"Hello? Guys?", he tried, but nobody answered.

"Guys! Where are you?", he shouted out again, but the gray space just swallowed his words.

Suddenly, a tingling feeling ran over his body. When he looked down again, he noticed his clothes one by one fading away, until all that was left on him was his pair of underwear.

"What the fuck is happening to me?", he mumbled, a bit panicked.

The strange feeling he had only intensified however, as his very body was changing - again. However, this time, it didn't dissolve into smoke. Instead, it felt like his skin was stretching - or rather, the amount of his body was stretching. His limbs were growing and thickening, while his torso widened. At the same time, his skin became darker, reminding him more and more of a middle eastern heritage rather than his usual fair complexion.

His chest and arms ballooned out with muscle. It wasn't like he had been skinny or scrawny before - but now he didn't just look fit - he began to look more and more like a sort of body builder - one of those muscle bulls you only saw in TV or in the gym. His six-pack was becoming more visible, and his shoulders stretched wide and broad.

His legs, too, thickened and swelled, but that wasn't all. His thighs grew not just wide, but thick as well, and his calves became almost disproportionately large. Above all else, hair began to spread on his now darker skin. But it wasn't the blonde hair James was used to having on his head - it was coarse and thick hair that was dark and clearly visible on his muscular chest and arms.

At the same time, his haircut changed. While the hair on his head turned black as well, it became stylish, yet unlike anything James had tried before. The sides buzzed short and the top gelled up, he was beginning to look more and more like a young Arab hunk, perhaps from the Iran. As if on cue, dark stubble set in and covered his chin that was becoming squarer by the minute. James didn't have a mirror, but his fingers were exploring his new facial features in disbelief. As a final treat, his boxer shorts morphed into a tight pair of a simple blue fabric underwear that filled out as his manhood began to take more and more place, leaving behind his previous pretty average bulge and settling on a huge, almost obscene size.

The changes had finally stopped and James found himself suspended in the gray, twilight world, confused, scared, and sporting a very new look. He had never thought of himself as attractive before, but the changes he had just gone through had made him a prime stud.

However, he hardly had time to react, as he felt a pulling sensation all through his being. The scenery changed and he found himself back in the shop - but now, he was somehow floating a bit off the ground and looked down to one of his buddies, Greg, who held the lamp in his hand and had apparently just rubbed it.

"Whoa!", Greg exclaimed. "Who are you?"

"Guys, it's me, James!" James answered. "I somehow got sucked into the lamp thing and now your wish is my command, master."

A moment of silence followed and James realized what he just said. Despite his impressive muscular new body, the last words, which he had not meant to say at all, had sounded respectful and submissive.

"What is this bullshit? Who are you and what are you talking about?" Greg asked.

"I'm... I'm James" James stuttered. "And, apparently, your wish is my command. Just say 'I wish' and I will make your heart’s desire come true."

Again, James had only partial control over what he was saying. The last part had come out without him meaning to.

Greg was taken aback somewhat. "I wish...? I dunno. You're pretty gay like that!"

James only realized what was happening as he felt a mighty surge of power move through his body and heard himself say: "And so it shall be."

Did Greg just wish for James to be gay?! Luckily nothing seemed to be happening, until all heads turned as Catherine exhaled a low surprised moan.

James watched in horror as now her body was changing. Her breast flattened in a matter of seconds and her hair shortened to a stylish men's cut. At the same time, her body widened and her shoulders became broad. Her skin became rougher and little hairs spread all over her body. By the moment, her clothes were becoming too tight on a lot of places and too loose on some others. Catherine's face became a masculine version of itself, just like it would look like if she had been born a boy. Her nose was now strong and prominent, and her jawline was becoming stronger. Her face, too, was covered with a dark stubble that continued down her neck a bit before stopping at about where her now pronounced Adam's apple sat. When she let out another shocked noise, it was at least an octave lower than before.

Her new lean masculine look was completed by a bulge in her pants that quickly filled out with the last part of her new distinctively male anatomy.

At first, James had hated to watch Catherine's... No, Kit's feminine features melt away like that. But the longer he watched the better Kit looked, James decided. When his new cock popped into existence, James even felt himself get a bit hard from watching his lover. Kit was his soulmate, his one true love. James didn't care how gay it was - he liked men - and this man especially.

He turned back to Greg with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was happy about having Kit, but on the other hand, he was horrified about what was happening to him. He needed to beg him to stop!

But instead, all that came out was: "You have two wishes left, master."

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#male transformation #straight to gay #muscle transformation #racial transformation

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the-froschamethyst4 · 7 months

Text

Blindfold

➤Day 7

𖤐 Pairing: Duke! Ghost x Duchess! Reader

𖤐 Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐 Warnings: Smut, NSFW, fantasy, language, P in V, eating out, married couple, ass slapping, choking, passing out, bondage, biting, teasing, smoking and drinking, some hints of jealously, a tad aggressive

𖤐 Summary: The Duke aka Simon Ghost Riley has a very strict relationship with his wife The Duchess Y/n. He had set rules for her when they married, and it was that she'll never see his face ever. She lives her life around the castle normally but at night when she's alone with her husband, she has to wear the blindfold, that she absolutely hates

———————

It was early in the morning, Y/n woke up in darkness, she touched the silky fabric over her eyes, and she moved her hands around in the bed to see if her husband Ghost was there or not.

"Don't take it off yet, I'm trying to get ready," she jumped at the sudden deep and dark voice.

"Okay...Simon? When can I see you?"

"Never."

Same old answer anytime she asked. When Simon and Y/n got married she wore a lacy blindfold, she could barely get a good look at him face, she found it dumb that her own husband would ask her to wear a blindfold...to her own wedding.

She then for 3 years wore a blindfold...3 years...she absolutely hated it. It became like her normal routine; she's never seen his face. Even when she was being arranged to marry him, she was told to wear a blindfold.

She didn't even know if she has a handsome husband, decent looking husband or an ugly husband.

Ghost walked to the bed and cupped Y/n's chin making her look up at him. He leaned down and kissed her lips, he smirks as Y/n was stunned by his quick action.

"I'll be gone today, so don't wait up on me," he said as he kissed her lips again.

"O-Okay," she stuttered.

She heard the door slam shut and she untied her blindfold. She let it fall on her lap and looked around the bedroom. She rubbed the back of her neck and got off the bed to get her day ready.

----------

Y/n walked down the castles long halls. She carried the blindfold around her wrist in case someone let's her know that the Duke was around and she needed to put her blindfold on.

She looked down at her feet and headed into the large dinner hall. She saw the large, long table set up with different breakfast and drinks and candles even lit.

She smiles as the housemaid and Y/n's personal maid came walking up to her.

"My lady, good morning, Chef Gaz has prepared you many different breakfast options."

"I see that, thank you Ms.Mary, let Gaz know I appreciate his breakfast idea."

"Of course, my lady," Mary walked to the kitchen.

Y/n sat down in her own chair and started to get her breakfast. She smiles at the different breakfast options. She started to eat, and Ms.Mary refilled her coffee every now and then.

"Thank you, Mary...what's on the agenda for today?" Y/n asked, looking up at Ms.Mary.

"The wizard Alex would like for you come and see him to talk about some healing potions because of the Duke's last battle...the villagers would also like to see you come around and join them on their festival."

"Of course, I'll join the villagers, I love their festivals," she smiles at Mary. "Let me get done eating and go see Alex, go see what he wants and then I'll go to the village and join in on the fun," she smiles once again.

----------

"ALEX!?" Y/n called from the bottom of Alex's wizard tower.

"Come on up, my lady."

"You're insane, you want me to walk up these flight of stairs."

The stairs would more likely be at least 14 stories tall. Sure, Y/n has walked up farther but she was tired.

"Come on," Alex encouraged.

"FINE!" Y/n yells. She hikes up the bottom of her dress and hiked up the long flight of stairs, it felt like HOURS for Y/n to get to the top, she opened Alex's chamber doors, panting and looking frustrated at Alex.

"Why do you wizard like being so high up?" She pants.

"I think it was better air flow," he laughs as Y/n rolled her eyes.

"What do you need, Alex?"

"Right, so, after Ghost's last mission almost half of his men were injured and we didn't have anything to help heal them, half of the died of their injuries. So, we need to make some sort of potion to help them, and then make plenty of it to help the next time any of them get injured."

"Right..." she said as Alex placed down and spell book with some potions ingredients that are normal ones to help with healing.

"We need basil, calendula, poppies, plantain, for the herbal potion," he had about 5 different potion ingredients pulled up.

Y/n spent quite some time in Alex's quarters coming up with new potions.

"My lady, the Duke is coming up," Mary said as Y/n quickly put her blindfold on as the door was quickly pushed opened.

"I heard my wife was up here," he grumbles.

"I'm right here, Si," she said in her sweet tone of voice, she uses with Ghost versus with Alex.

"Why are you up here, I've told you before that I don't want you fooling around with magic," he cups her chin.

"I-I'm sorry," she uses that type of voice with him because she's afraid of him because she couldn't see his face, so she acts sweet to let him know, she's a bit afraid of him and that she's not trying to disobey him in any way.

"You should be...come on, leave Alex alone..." he drags her out of the tower.

"S-Simon, you're h-hurting me," she cried.

"You should have listened to me," he growls.

"O-Ow," she says as she was pulled into a room and was pushed against the familiar soft bed.

"I hate it when you don't fucking listen to me, Y/n."

"I-I'm sorry," she still apologized.

She could hear him start taking off his clothes, some hitting the floor and she could hear him unbuckle his pants, he snapped his belt making her jump.

"S-Simon, I was told he w-wanted to s-speak to me about helping you with y-your army," she stuttered. He snaps the belt again she jumped.

"I don't care, I told you not to mess with magic and you fucking disobeyed me," he growls again.

"I-I-"

He snaps again. She jumps up.

"P-Pleas-"

And again. She jumps again.

"Fucking stop it please," she begs.

Ghost smirks, she felt something being placed next to her probably the belt he was snapping to show his dominance over her.

She felt his hands go behind her back and started unbuttoning her dress and letting it fall, she gasped at the cold air hitting her bare body and making her nipples hard.

He smirks and bends down kissing her lips again. He moves his hands down and grabbed that belt again and then tied her wrists behind her back. She moans at how tight he ties the belt around her wrists.

"S-Si."

"You have some nerve," he says. She felt his lips on hers, she just wishes she could see his face. But she could feel how the energy in the room changed. His hands were all over her body, gently squeezing her, pinching her, and just tightly holding her probably leaving marks on her body.

She moans at his touch, she wanted to remove the blindfold to see him, she's tired of looking at darkness when her body gets touched by him or when she's even around him.

Her knees then get pushed open and she feels something wet touch her lower half. She moans and her body jerks up into the wet feeling around her. She knew it was it mouth; his tongue did wonders on her.

Going in and out of her, he nipped at her bud earning a soft moan. She pulled at the belt wanting to break free from the belt restraining her.

She wants to grab his hair and let him keep going with no stops. She bucks her hips up again; she moans at his tongue, he licks between her wet folds and kissed between them as well.

"Ah~ S-Si-AH! I-I'm g-gonna-" she doesn't even finish her sentence and came in his mouth.

"Wow...you taste so sweet," he mumbles.

He quickly and swiftly flips her on her stomach, her ass gets put in the air, she moans when his big hand collides on her ass.

Ghost then slowly pushed himself into her, she moans at his dick immediately hitting her g-spot. She muffled her moans into the bog soft pillows.

She started to move her face back and forth on her pillow, she was trying to be sneaky about it and pull her blindfold down off her eyes. She made sure that Ghost didn't see that her eyes were uncovered by the blindfold.

Ghost's hands were on her waist squeezing her a little bit too tightly. His forehead was resting on her shoulder blade, and he bit between her shoulder blades.

She moans at the sudden pain.

"AH~!" She moans as her blindfold was around her neck, she could easily turn to see Ghost if she wanted to.

"You are very much naughty, my lady," he growls.

Ghost knew that Y/n had her blindfold off, he could see it around her neck and not up over her eyes like it's supposed to.

His big hand went around her neck, squeezing a little tight, she felt like she could barely get any air in her lungs. He leans forward.

"What did I tell you at our wedding? That the blindfold...stays...on..." he growls as he slammed into her. She moans and sound like she was choking on her spit from the lack of air.

She couldn't speak and just ended up coming on his dick as he kept going faster and harder inside of her, she felt her vision go black, she felt weak.

----------

"My lady? My lady? Are you awake? Wake up," she heard Mary's soft voice calling to her.

"Mary?"

"Hi, my lady, can you see me? How many fingers am I holding?"

"I'm fine Mary and...four, by the way," she smiles. Mary smiles and is relieved that Y/n was okay.

She hears a bottle slam on a table. She turned and saw Ghost sitting on a chair by the balcony, and then she realizes...she doesn't have her blindfold on.

"Simon?" She saw him smoking a cigar with a bottle of alcohol in his hands. She saw how handsome he was, perfect body, perfect face, dirty blonde hair and some scars around his face, nose, above his left eye and the corner of his mouth.

"Leave us, Mary," Ghost demanded and Mary left.

"Simon?"

He gets up and walks to Y/n, he cups her chin again making her look up at him in the face this time.

"You want to know why; I choked you out and didn't fix your blindfold?" She just nods. "Because...I get jealous when I was told you were up in Alex's tower...The reason why I didn't want you messing with magic...is because I see how Alex looks at you and I don't want you near him."

"Ghost...nothing was going to happen any ways...I'm married to you, my vows were to you, not Alex..."

"It doesn't matter...wives cheat on their husbands all the time and I didn't want that with you, my duchess," he says.

"Again, it will never happen between Alex and I...if anything we're just friends...I will never fall for someone like Alex, he's just a friend..."

"What about Mary, is she not your friend?"

"I can't talk to Mary about certain things, only Alex...I was taught to never discuss royal matters with a maid because you don't know what their intentions are, so I go to Alex sometimes."

"I get it but...stay the hell away from him, do you understand?"

"YOU CAN'T JUST DICTATE THAT! I NEVER ONCE GOT TO SEE YOUR FACE AND THE ONLY PEOPLE I CAN SEE I'M NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO CONGERGATE WITH THEM!! THAT! UGH!! I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this," she has never yelled at Simon before, like I said, she always spoke nicely to him because she was afraid of him, and now...she just lost her temper.

She got up and walked around the room, Simon watched her walk around with her head down and he could hear her mumbling to herself.

"I'll leave you alone then," he gets up and leaves Y/n to her thoughts, she groans from frustration and fell on the silk couch in their bedroom, she groans and looked up at the ceiling.

"The sad thing is...I love him with all my heart."

#cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #fandom #fanfic #call of duty #mw2 #cod #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader

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vanderilnde · 2 months

Text

a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands.

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges.

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable.

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos.

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips.

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car.

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist.

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride.

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate.

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway.

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose.

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him.

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves.

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled.

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes.

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back.

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings.

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different.

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles.

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt.

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews.

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend.

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–”

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters.

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night.

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?”

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock.

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants.

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back.

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls.

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls.

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up.

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters.

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all.

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago.

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava.

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head.

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock.

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick.

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face.

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked.

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed.

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long.

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth.

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response.

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way.

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it.

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

#my writing style here is so old and gross and clunky #ghost/soap #ghostsoap #soap/ghost #soapghost #ghoap #simon riley x john mactavish #ghost x soap #ghoap writing

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