Bear's Writing Den

The first time Price had properly set his eyes on you, the Major, you had been chewing him out for a reckless endangerment of a few intel operatives he had borrowed from you in a low-stakes retrieval mission. Previously, He had only known of you through various messages down the wire and a shaky rough handshake before hopping onto a shaky escape heli when you had replaced the last old waste of space on his mission. He had noticed you’re pretty smile and the beautiful body hidden under military standards then- but work is work and he was not usually the type to linger on working women. Not usually.

Now however, meeting your cold and calculative gaze as you mutter about disappointments in the dodgy light of a rural base, Price can’t help but wonder if you get off on telling tough men to eat shit. It’s a strange addictive allure, watching your form prance in front of him, with your nice and neat hair framing a rather feisty demeanor. He thinks he must of missed something the first time you two had met, because he can’t explain the bubbling interest he has as you argue with him. 

“Are you even listening to me Captain?”

“Of course Ma’am.” 

“Bullshit.” Your voice bit at him as you rolled your eyes, about to turn to a subordinate to wave him off when he jumped on again with another comment.

“You said extraction could have been quicker if I had listened to the operative and gone a few clicks further down south. I was listening.” you stilled, eyes digging into his with a demanding inspection, lips pursed as if soured by his rather smarmy response.

“My office, now, Price.” John tried to ignore the simmering feeling in his gut, as well as the cheeky and amused brows Gaz shot at him as he followed you into your makeshift temporary lodging. He can feel the slight warmth on the back of his neck as he selfishly trails a look at your body- despite wearing a loose shirt and military standard trousers, there’s something about the way you carry yourself that has him nervous for all the inappropriate reasons. The door clangs when it shuts, the two of you left in private as you settle down in your seat behind the desk- small hands gesturing at him to sit in front of you. 

“Cut the shit Price. What’s your deal?”

“Not quite sure what you mean ma’am.”

“Your attitude, you brazen bastard. Don’t like being told what to do? Is that it?”

“Not more than the average bastard, no. not really. But I can follow when it's beneficial."

“Beneficial. right. “ There’s a pause, he watches you click your tongue and card your fingers through various placed files on your crowded desk. “Don’t like being told what to do by a woman?” you speak slowly as if challenging him. He smirks.

“On the contrary.”

The response does little to dull your annoyance with him, and he watches as your hands come to a sudden halt before he’s given another flash of disdain in your eyes. You’re shooting him a warning.

“Careful there John.”

From that point on he’s hooked on hearing you lecture him, liking too much the way you set your sights on him as if he’s aggravates you to no end but he can feel it- there’s something, a nagging pinch that keeps your focus on him as if he’s more than just a chess piece in your little war set. 

He’ll find a way to wear you down. To have you go along with it soon enough.

-

It takes a few more months of close work for you to start getting pulled into it. Everytime he hits you with some smart ass comment or subtle hidden flirt, you’ve punished it well with a warning or even a tedious order for him to run laps with the recruits. It’s a shame really, to have such a high ranking officer like himself squander a great reputation by being a nuisance. Not that you could complain to anyone about it. HR would barely heed your words- what could you tell them? He’s annoying me by following orders a bit too sharply? That John Price, Mr. Efficient and deadly plays skip rope with my expectations- always going beyond and above the case notes and delivering excellence like a prick just to poke at me? The whole squadron would think you’re nitpicking; perfect John Price and his well oiled task force can do no wrong with him at the helm, especially when he seems to be steering it right to your targets. Why would someone complain about that?

But it’s impossible to shake off the uneasy tension that grows between the two of you. Every mission ends with him swaggering into your office, flopping a file down before casually mentioning the optics of a Major and a Captain constantly bearing their teeth at each other. It frustrates you. How disgustingly attractive he can be, the way he’s every bit your type and desperately below you; the inch of inferiority serves to embiggen your constant loneliness and you wonder whether or not you’d have married someone like him if it weren't for being married to the job. You don’t like entertaining the idea. And it’s worse when he too catches the tail end of your daydream with a curious look and a knowing smile.

“Thinking of me love?” he leans back, manspreading as he flicks his lighter up to his cigar. This private debrief becomes more and more unprofessional each second.

“Not more than I should be. Professionally.”

“Shame, can’t say I wasn't."  The words make you blush, a rare image of your skin blooming red as you process his words. A part of you wants to hiss something back, all too easy to fill out paperwork for harassment and call it a day. But it’s like both of you both know- you won't. Not when he always brings you the perfect cup of coffee; Not when he always speaks the best of you to his subordinates and not when he’s doing menial paperwork right now as a means to ‘apologise’ for his latest stunt. You let him stay, him more than happy to linger in your presence as he metaphorically licks your boots by writing lines and lines of near redundant reports.

“You do a good job John.” You always note the way his shoulders roll when you praise him, the way he almost has to gulp it down like he’s thirsty for it. “If only you did it without me nagging you.”

“Easier when it’s you saying it, Love.” He huffs out, leaning over, the cigar wasted and forgotten as it is dropped carelessly into your ashtray.

“Want me to say more?”

“Always.”

You decide to let him kiss your neck goodbye when you dismiss him.

-

From then on there’s a line you’re too afraid to acknowledge that’s been crossed. John Price and his stupidly bold nerves ask you for more private debriefs and push the boundary so much that you begin to worry if others would notice. You rip into him with zero remorse on the 12th time he’s alone with you in your office and you’ve been close to touching each other up.

“If I allow this, You need to act more professional and be good, John.” He tilts his head, half heartedly nodding as you point an accusatory finger at him. “If you don’t I’ll get you reassigned.” The threat snaps something in him, you see his back straighten, legs shift and his arms cross before he nods attentively.

“Yes Ma’am.”

He follows orders even more dutifully, this time, acting extremely platonic and disconnected to you when you’re in front of others. At first it’s somewhat disappointing, the more clingy side of you whining at the loss of his public attention despite you being the one to ask for it. Yet Price, ever the goal-oriented man he is, has no trouble going back to his flirty means when he’s alone with you once more. It’s almost off putting how well he hides it, so well in fact, you’re sure he gets a kick out of pretending he’s annoyed at your ‘high-and-mighty’ position in front of his team. You continue to praise him privately for following your request so well for you reckon it must be hard for a mutt like him to act on command for a woman. 

That is what you believe until you watch him operate with Kate Lasswell.

Some sass, but the amount of respect he has for her oozes out in ways that make a part of you jealous. You know he respects you, but the way he calls her name out and hugs her when they part has you cursing your status. It makes sense, the easy comradery of the two- knowing there's no harm in fraternisation when they are so close in level. And it certainly means nothing, not when you know he always comes crawling back to your barracks. It aches at you more and so when Price comes charging into your private meet ups with Laswell's words coming out of his mouth and her reports tucked in the crook of his arm, you can’t help but throw out a distasteful comment:

“You work well for any pretty bitch who gives you the time of day then?”

The word bitch is nasty. Horrible, you don’t even mean it as you like Lasswell a lot- have had dinner with her and her wife even. It’s not easy to find women in high positions, and even harder to find ones that aren’t gearing to take your spot. Price gives you a small smile, shrinking his form as he coughs under his breath and tries to reason.

“You said not to cause trouble.”

“I said to do your job and be good.”

“I was good.”

You look unconvinced and John stands up before coming to your side. He stands looming over you, before reaching to grab your arm and drag it towards his mouth again- kissing it gently like he’s trying to gain favour once more.

“Down.”

His body slinks to the floor quickly, the bend aching in his knees but he doesn’t care, not when he gets to kneel for you like how he’s always believed it should be. You always blush slightly when he does this- the obedience looking almost out of sorts for a character like him. He continues to hold onto your hand waiting for the next muttered command as if his job depends on it. And in a cruel way, you suppose it does depend on it.

“Apologise. For being well behaved for someone other than me.”

He whispers the sorries into your skin, kissing at it before trying to rest his head against your covered thigh. You nudge at his brown hair, pulling at some of the strands as you get him to look up again.

“Can’t have you please anyone else John.” You bite out, possessive and sickeningly bitter. He eats it up even more.

“M’sorry my Love. Won’t happen again.” And it won’t. Not when you decide to screw it all and politely demand he make it up to you; trousers shucked off as you push him into your seat, hands pulling at his leaking cock while you whisper more concerns you have with him acting all holier-than-thou over his subordinates.

“You always act so cocky for everyone- Can’t imagine what’d they say if they saw you like this Price.” You feel your hand getting slicker as you jerk him off. He’s forced to stay still as he watches, jaw clenched and eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “A true Fucking pathetic mess for your boss.”

A rough sigh leaves his throat and he struggles to stop himself from carrying on your ministrations when you pull off of him to remove your own clothing. You let him suffer even more as you tell him to slow his hurried hands; no mercy when you finally sit your near naked form on the table edge and spread your legs. You order him to please you. Fuck you. Love you.

He's normally polite. Gentlemanly, the composure of a dreamy prince when he meets a pretty woman; yearning with a tasteful and respectful gaze on a normal day. Always one to hold the door open and back off when a girl looks even vaguely uncomfortable. He’s practiced and civil, the very definition of charmingly sweet..

But then he's on a night out.

Drinks clinking, the pint glass just barely hanging on in his grip as he's revving up a crowd of his lads with "Oi Oi Oi!"s. Gaz gets into his head more often than not about doing the right thing but when the bender has him several shots down and near wasted he's as flirty and mouthy as an 18yr old hooligan at his first freshers night wanting to get his dick sucked. It’s as if his own want overthrows his self-control, much to the chagrin of his friends who’ve unfortunately tagged along. Drunk Gaz is loud and cheekier than ever- smart wit coupled with a confidence he usually only reserves for inner thoughts or very good kills of enemies in the field. It’s frustrating for those around him, how easily condescendingly cocky the man gets when he’s loose-lipped and grabby. And when he spots a bird worth peacocking over he’s one more shot down and a slurred voice ready to find his hands all over their thighs. That’s what happens when he meets you, your nervous gait, pushed on the edge of the bar as you wait for a bartender to serve. Before you can inch a word out to order, he’s slapping down a 10 quid note (cash only serving to show off his drunken idiocy, who even uses cash these days?) in front of you and with a finger calling over the waiter to ‘Get the shy doll whatever she asks for.’

Drunk but not sloppy. He hovers round you, can’t stop his eyes from flicking up and down your dressed up form- eyes, mouth, tits, eyes mouth tits-tits….fuck your tits. You thank him and he can’t help but mouth ‘whatever you wish darling’ as if already deciding how he plans on taking you back to his. His jeans feel awfully tight and the air feels so heavy and tense as he can feel the bass of the club's music vibrating his body yet the only thing he can think about is you. It riles him up even more when you shoot him a look of unimpressed but not uninterested: bingo. He likes a good chase, and with the alcohol in his system, he reckons a lost chase is still a fun game to play. You shoot back at him with a comment about the shitty chain he’s wearing, and he presses his mouth into your neck when you giggle at a joke he flicks out as he crawls an arm onto your lower back. His London accent drips prominently in every dirty sentence he whispers into your ear as he presses up against you in the crowded nightclub; His crotch grinding up against your ass as if he’s too impatient, wanting to bend you over on the bartop. He’s simultaneously too lax and too keyed up and he recalls flashes of you dancing with him in the crowded room, the trailing of his feet as you hold his hand walking through 1am streets and a cold London night. The pushing, pulling and grabbing of bodies as he remembers distinctly having you right in his grasp against some building wall.

It’s reckless. Stupid. The kind of memory that Gaz tries hard to forget about every time he wakes up alone and hungover, headache blaring and body regretting. He’s embarrassed by his own lack of impulse and has had too many nights of being led on and rejected in the last few moments of his lingering drunken lust. Far too many nights, far too many times his wallet emptied and body exhausted and unsatisfied, taken for a chump by bloody club girls. He can’t even be mad at their audacity to drink his desperate drunken persona dry; he would do it too but fuck it if he didn’t wish to have a warm body for more than a few minutes after a night where he can barely remember what his 2nd location was.

Which is why his eyes shoot open when he feels a body twitch beside him and feels smooth skin against his palm. Almost breathless when he hears a light feminine murmur as you tell him to stop hoarding the sheets. Beside him, laying in just your panties and crop top sans bra- nipple bud pressing against the cotton in a way that makes his mouth run dry. Your ass pressing against his side, the contact not jarring you ever so slightly when you also finally wake up.

“You-uh, you alright there?” he asks almost shyly, voice near warbling as he cautiously smooths his rough palms onto the plump of your ass.

“Mm ye you?” You ask with a yawn as turn over allowing him to inspect your beautiful face sober; fuck drunk Gaz picked up a fit one, he thanks past him for the unbridled confidence. Then, his panic sets in- did you fuck while you were drunk? Did he go too far- did he-

“Ey boss, no panic ye? We did nothin’ don’t worry.” You mutter as if being able to tell from the sudden jerk of his touch his uncertainty. You even snort when you see his shoulder visibly relax. “...Wanna give it a go now though?”

Sober Gaz think he owes his drunken persona a fucking mountain wad of notes and a pat on the fucking back when he has you climbing into his lap ready to pick up from before you drunkenly passed out together in his apartment. A good morning fuck making the hangover feel tolerable. His dick’s already impossibly hard as he gets to peel the top off, hands ready to play and pinch those nipples just as they are ready to squeeze your ass to keep you on him. Fingers pull at the lacy edges of your panties, and he tries not to let out his huff of amusement when he sees your blush rising up your neck. You’re wet and so gorgeous as he’s curling his fingers into your cun, stretching you out just to hear your little moans before he can slip it in. He groans a prayer when he feels your sweet cunt envelop him in the late mid-morning sunlight that creeps in through his blinds.  You ride on top, his strong arms helping you bounce up and down on his shaft as he tries hard to keep a steady and full pace. It’s slow and viciously delirious as he gets to thrust into you, memories of the previous night of your requited attraction popping up in crystal clear snapshots as he feels your slick mess on top of him. When you both inevitably collapse into a heap of naughty smiles, cum covered and sweaty with a satisfied fervor beside him, he can’t help but swear out of contentedness when you ask if he would like to do this sometime again. 

Johnny is well aware of the pitiful reputation that the Scottish National team has but just like most of his fellow Scottish brethren, they find themselves learning to not care too much about scores- lest they fall into a pit of football-fueled despair. He’s managed to put on a small performative grin, one of minor comfort as he settles on Gaz’s couch nursing his scotch with a minor ache of disappointment at another pathetic zero-goal loss. Lord let him drink like he’s licking his wounds.

“It’s alright mate’ always next time for you jocks!” The slang for his fellow scots rolls of Gaz’s tongue with a condescending snicker and Soap can’t help the little huffed whine that slinks from his throat.

“Oh shush yer mouth ya tommy, not like England’s got much to shout about” He points an accusing finger at the little digital banner that displays the England v Ghana’s loss when the score pages flashes up. It’s a sudden show of his true disappointment which he tries to dampen down. Soap immaturely sticks a tongue out trying to hide his subtle frustration behind childish acts but can feel the slight embarrassment as the rest of his English crew laugh. He can hear Price muttering defensively about the England loss with Ghost nodding along, all too concerned with their own country’s score to really dig into Soap's own self-pity. Sucks being stuck in a room of Englishmen during world cup season, he laments not watching the match by his lonesome, at least then he wouldn’t have to pretend it didn’t ache him to see the amount of sad blue-drabbed fans leaving the stadium on screen.

He’s about to beg Gaz to switch the channel for a bit, at least until the post game commentary humiliation ritual is done, when there’s a loud knock on Gaz’s London apartment door. All of the boys look toward the door with curious glares, Gaz getting up steadily as he puts his drink down and goes to greet the outsider. When the door creaks open, Soaps eyes nearly miss the small figure that stands in the doorway, it’s the happy sound of Gaz’s greeting that catches Soap’s interest:

“You all good babes?” 

“Yeah, except my TV's fizzled out and I want to keep watching the Czech v Mexico match later. Got spare room?” Your voice speaks with a familiarity, as if your presence is normal for Gaz and Johnny can’t stop himself from perking up from his slump. Bonnie, polite thing you are. And he stares. You’re pretty, a quaint looking thing nicely dressed in loose joggers and a tank top that is distractingly fitting. His londoner buddy lets you in with a gentle laugh and ‘of course’ that has you smile so bright that Soap thinks you’re radiating more energy than the summer heatwave sun they’ve all been exposed to. As you pad over to flop onto the couch, Gaz announces who you are, a sudden introduction that would seem awkward if not for how delighted you greet their team.

“Lads, This is my trusty neighbour who always watches the flat for me when we’re gone.” He embellishes your name with the explanation and Soap notices the way your blush a little while you give them all a wave. You catch his puppy-eyed gaze with brilliant coolness. With Price’s manspreading and Ghost’s intimidating mask, you choose to settle yourself in the spot Gaz had left empty, sitting beside Soap, your thighs pressing against his own. With a few hours before the next proper match, and to the insistence of their captain The tv flickers back on to post match musings from the various players. Soap pouts even more, his sudden good mood from your feminine presence shot, sinking further into the cushions as the Brazilian team’s coach postures about tactics.

“What’s got you so down?” You mutter, amused at the stocky figure looking so small and defeated; you give him a slightly concerned smile and before Soap can wave your worry off Ghost chimes in rather annoyingly.

“Scotland got wankered.”

“Oi Quit!” As Johny covers his annoyance with an arm on his face. He feels warm as you, a stranger he’s only just met, gives him more care and comfort than the idiots he’s worked with for years. “Don’t mock me in front of the pretty lass.”

He flushes bright red when he realises what he’s said.

You giggle, eyes widened in the accidental slip of a compliment from him. You give him another apology for the tremendously upsetting score but unlike the rest it’s not one of insult or pride; it’s genuine amusement and empathy for him and his injured ego. You pat his shoulder and the Scot can’t help but lean into it. While the rest of the crew continue to pour drinks and enjoy the rest of the football commentary you decide to entertain the heartbroken Scot with tiktok reels and pictures of the tartan army invading Boston. 

“Lost the game but won everyone’s hearts, If it helps Johnny, I think Scotland’s my favourite.” You say quietly, calmness and admiration pouring out in your words as you continue to wax poetic about the fun of just being a fan regardless of winning and losing. You’re refreshing about it; not trying to reason with failure but instead turning it into something still worth cherishing. His heart feels like stuttering, a bit too warm and delighted when you call him home your favourite.  By the time kick off for the next match plays and you’re clutching a drink cheering for teams that you don’t even belong to, Soap can’t help but push his warm body closer to yours.

You don’t waver, instead adding more to his recovered mood when you start grasping at his jersey in excitement anytime someone goes close to scoring. His focus on the ball falters, too enamoured by the way you cheer and bounce with such hypnotising energy; More entertained by the way your brow furrows when there’s a bad pass and the way your eyes widen when the ref calls a dodgy card. He doesn't notice the raised brows and the amused laughs under their breath as the other three men quietly try to not draw attention to the blatant blooming PDA unfurling on Gaz’ couch; the chemistry between the two of you palpable.Gaz thinks he should bring you to their next pub outing, for the Scot’s sake. A part of him gets cocky enough to drab his arm over you when the games lull into awful hydration breaks, and much to his satisfaction you let him pull you closer, shooting a smirk that makes the whole night much more enjoyable. He wonders what you might say if he invites you to watch the next match at his…

>>> DATA LOG 3 - TAKOBO, CENTRAL SPACEPORT, BAY 1002

The first thing he always lingers on is the lightfootedness of your steps in comparison to his. No matter the pace of your ambling, whether it be the hurried motions of retreat in battle or the joyed leisure of a stroll through a market, You always seem to be soft padded and nimble compared to him. Balletic in some tantalising way. He had insisted on you walking ahead of him through the busy Takobo spaceport. Safety being an easy excuse; somewhere he could always spot you and child. In front of him is a prime view as he watches you breeze past the rest of the bustling population. Safety, and if he was being honest a smidge of selfishness in watching your form move. You’re nice to observe.

In the earlier days of your joint venture with him, Din wondered if the rash decision to bring you along was a mistake draped in his own subconscious fixation on simple beauties. Like when he could watch the light of a thousand homes in big cities flash through windows, mimicking the stars he sees when he pilots. Or perhaps the way planets would slowly get drowned in hues of colours when he’s waiting for sundown on a lonely mid-nowhere stakeout. Those little moments where he is reminded of things besides metallic clanking and the biting taste of blood on his tongue. Every murmur you think he doesn't hear through his helmet’s pickup and the gentle sway of your arms as you walk before him embodies something Din cannot exactly name, only knowing that it comforts something within him. It’s uneasy, how fast his wariness has melted into appreciation for you. 

He tries not to let his thoughts linger. He catches himself doing it more often during hunts like these, when the bounty is simple and the job feels more like a chore rather than a mission. He lets himself fall dangerously into a state of relaxation as you excitedly ramble on about things that take your fancy. Today you are fascinated by the amount of service droids milling about, stating that the cost of running one hangar around here must be enough to upgrade the entirety of Mos Eisley’s depots. Din barely nods, instead letting his neck follow your figure as you dip to the side and stop to watch some droids tinker on what looks to be a near wreck podracer.

“You think you’d ever swap out the crest for something shinier Mando?” You wiggle your brows and nudge him when he comes to a stand still next to you. He stares plaintively at the scene before him. Shoulders raise and fall limply. Not if he can ever help it. The crest is functional and unregistered. It works. He doesn’t say it out loud but it’s as if you can read his mind as you reply to his gesture with full confidence of what he must be thinking.

“Yeah. Probably best to keep what works, plus the upgrade would probably cost so much more credits.” He notices you’re always worried about the money, your past of poverty seeping out anytime something good comes out. A part of him bonds with you over that. You talk out loud for him, magic in the way you understood his wordless motions without difficulty. You do it so easy. He’s pulled out of his thoughts as the child makes its own grunt pointing to a stray spark that comes out as something gets welded. The baby’s slight fear is tempered by your cooing and in that moment wonders if you’d ever dream of true motherhood and not some faux employment he’s strapped you into.

Mothers and children. Wives and husbands. Clan life and domestic sensibilities.

He again tries not to think of it as he gently motions for you to keep moving. The tracker beeps with an incessant noise in his pocket, guiding the three of you just outside the spaceport’s entrance. Mando is quick to grab your forearm before you get past him this time; no longer an inner indulgence of observing you, now, his mind is clocked in on work. The almost-golden tan of the tips of his gloves point towards a market stall where he sees the target. The Ithorian sits rather unassumingly, a glowing sign selling fortunes and promised horoscopes for a reasonable minor fee just next to him.

The context of the hunt was given in a rather frantically written note attached to the puck; Greef Karga had laughed lightly explaining that the reward came from a rather frazzled well-to-do family man whose daughter had gotten swindled by some ‘fortune teller’ who later robbed and threatened her with various accomplices in a back-alley later. Din had figured it would have been easier to catch the scoundrel alone but once it became clear how the fiend operated, you had volunteered to be bait. While something in his gut churned at the idea of so easily placing you in harm's way he has to admit it’s a smarter way to weasel out the accomplices. Brute force won’t always cut it, not in front of you at least. Without so much as hesitance you swaddle the child into the carrier sling and start to walk towards the stall. You play coy, careful to act as if you are a meaningless passerby as Mando slips into the rest of the crowd, lingering like a man bound to something else. For a moment, Din’s not sure it works until the fool of a scammer takes the bait as easy as a bird pecking at a worm that wriggles too much.

“Young Lady! I must ask! Are you from Coruscant?” a modulated voice of the Itharians translator collar flickers to life, muffling the deep rumbling of his true voice. He immediately waves at you, trying to fish you from the crowd and you pretend to be surprised as you get closer and lean in as if amazed by his words. Coruscant is such a vague and wide net, the scammer preys too predictably. Din tries to stifle his own amusement at the act you put on for the target.

“How did you know!?” Your voice warbles with faux excitement; You even put on a little accent that sounds almost jokingly obvious.

“It is my gift, given to me from beyond; Please young lady may I read your fortune? Such an honour it would be to read such a wonderful lady’s fortune. You seem blessed!”

“Why- Oh I’m on my way home I’m afraid, I really must be going-” you feign troubled hesitance so well even Din starts to feel a tad nerved by your words. Easy, Meshla, keep it light..

“I Insist young lady please, I sense you will meet misfortune if I don’t- I’ll do it for free.” You look around, a subtle signal to Din who stands metres away obscured by passerbys. You give the strange eyed creature a bright smile and nod, allowing him to touch your hand and grasp you firmly. Mando’s own fingers twitch on his holster.

“Great danger! You shall befall betrayal so soon if you are to continue the way you go now, oh no no no my dear lady I insist! Thank the stars I got to you soon. Change your path, may I ask where you are going?” The translator struggles to sound as empathetic as the creature wants it to but you continue your great act and murmur to him about going to a caf shop nearby. The Ithorian lets his gangly fingers wrapped around your wrist and points you to another path. Both you and Din know that must be where his partners must be waiting. You nod and thank the leathery skinned creature with thoughtful eyes and you make a bit of a scene arranging your bag and possessions as if taking their advice. As you start to stray off into the direction the man had told you, Din readies his blaster and blade. His movements quiet as he goes to the spot ahead of you through a different unseen path. Just as he can spot a human rogue and another slightly paler yellow Ithorian waiting in the dark side paths, he watches you slowly ramble in. Before you reach the true opening of the quiet isolated street you turn your small communicator mic to be a bit louder- one Din had managed to find amongst his old scraps of machinery and fashioned for you to wear for the mission.

“Mando- Do...uh do you copy?”

“Affirmative. I got eyes on you and the kid.” He can visibly see the nervousness fall off your form as you walk a little more confidently towards your guaranteed assault.

“You reckon you can shoot them before they-”

“I wont let them touch you Meshla.” he hears your breath stutter for a second and through the lens of his helm he can see a slight blush reach your cheeks. The comment leaves you slightly breathless and Mando gives mercy in not teasing you for it. Before you can say much back, you step closer and closer towards the 2 hiding in the shadows. A sudden move, the sound of dust getting kicked up and a slight woosh of air flies past you as the human criminal jumps in front of you, vibroblade nearest to your neck. Then suddenly-

Bang.

As quick as the man had jumped toward you he is shot down by your mando from the hidden view above. The other Ithorian who had been hiding with the thief had already moved out, hands rushing to his blaster and hammerhead eyes trying to follow the trajectory of Mando’s zap fire. You quickly seize his confusion to pull out your own blaster  and shoot him in the shoulder before dashing towards the side, baby yelping in excitement of the sudden adrenaline rushed activity. Din masterfully makes his way down to you from his little hiding spot, he’s already moving to cuff the two idiots who are squirming in pain, voice heavy through his modulator:

“You okay-” He hears on your mic despite being a metre away a sudden gasp and shoots his head up to you. You’re backed up, pressing yourself against the smooth wall of one of the buildings as the Ithorian ‘fortune-teller’ from before has aimed a blaster directly at you.

“Touch her and you're dead, hammerhead.” Mando grunts, hands dropping to his holster and boots kicking away the two dazed out companions. The alien doesn’t back down, eyes squinting at Mando with annoyance before going to aim at him and the other lanky arm latching hard onto your arm as he grabs at you. In a second Din springs to action, a quick use of his flames and a yell for you to scramble as he stomps ahead making the man drop his blaster from the pressure of the heat. You rip yourself away from the wall and watch as the Mandalorian is quick to punch the orange-skinned being, knocking him down. The man scrambles and hears the moans of his two tired and beaten up comrades nearby and looks up at your armoured partner with stress. Din, true to his word, shoots the scumbag right between the eyes before turning to watch the other helpless idiots.

“Yield.”

The others nod shakily and both of the remaining men are apprehended and cuffed. Boots shuffle and the pace back to the crest is just slightly less than hurried. Din can’t stop watching you from the corner of his eye as you follow along. Your hand rubs raw at your arm, a small wince as you pull the child closer; You have not confessed your minor injury and Din can’t help but grit his teeth as he juts his blaster in the back of one of the prisoner's body. By the time all three are frozen in carbonite and you’ve perched the baby into his seat, Mando has dug through his stash of medkits to find a small packet of bacta. It’s not cheap and the moment he comes to you with it in hand you pout.

“It’s a waste…It’s just bruised Mando!” His hand shoves it forward still, wordless and determined. Even the child eyes you, as if lecturing too. You try to push his hand away but instead he lurches forward and grabs your inner forearm, grasp sudden but soft. He turns it carefully to see the purplish hues that mark up your soft skin. You can feel yourself blushing once again as Mando spends an inordinate amount of time silently taking it in. Finally he rips open the foil packet, the gel oozes cooly onto your skin and Mando wastes no time in rubbing it against you like a well trained medic. His thumbs swirling the goo in circles until it disappears.

He is thankful you can’t see his face as he watches the blush on your cheeks appear once more, or the way he smirks from watching your eyes flutter about the room as you struggle to sit still under his touch. When he finally finishes up and the sterilised air of the crest starts drying the bacta, you pull your arm hastily away from his grip. You offer to set a course so he can take a break. Your voice is tinged with slight embarrassment and Mando relents. He leaves under the guise of taking a well-deserved nap, giving the green child a little pet on the head as he leaves down the hatch.

----

The bottom of the crest is quiet except the dull humming of the engines and the slight echo of the air being recycled through various vents. Din takes a moment to double check you’re truly occupied, listening in to your hum from upstairs and quiet one-sided conversations with the child. When it’s clear you’re happy to stay cooped upstairs, Mando locks himself in the cramped closet-like sleeping bunk. He shucks off the armour carefully, unwrapping himself and freeing his aching shoulders of the pauldrons with an experienced motion. He rarely does this. Exposing himself with you awake, knowing that at any moment you might come down and demand to speak with him. He shivers at the thought. A little horrid voice in the back of his mind is giddy at the idea, rolls in the fantasy that you might see him as something other than some mysterious metal monster. 

What’s the worry of indulging in small beauties every now and again?

Din knows he shouldn’t want you like that; assuredly older than you and with more gristle in a nail than you will ever have, He knows he’s lusting in a way unbecoming of a true gentleman. The last few weeks have proven that his resolve can and will deteriorate the more honeyed words you pour out to him; contaminating his focus like water slowly dripping onto limestone, dissolving it and grinding it into a smooth and relenting thing. He was really pushing it when he aided you; something you could have done yourself but he just had to insist.

You’re just very pretty. And kindhearted. And the Maker knows he has a soft spot for wily nice things like you. He ponders over the various flings he had in his youth, the rushed and reckless ways he’d pursue. How different they are to you. Those women were all meaningless words and even more meaningless actions. You wouldn’t bend so easily, not one to defer so much without mutual  respect. If he were anything like the younger version of himself, he’d be keen to woo you with a warrior’s show; maybe perhaps spar for your attention and prove himself. Now, with tired aches and more precise hands, he much rather watch you fluster like how you did when he spoke to you before. Observe your little reactions as if cataloguing them in his brain for later. 

It’s later now. And all he wants to think about is how your breath hitched when he told you he’d take care of you. He replays the various iterations of you saying ‘vo’re’ too- ever since learning the word, you’ve slipped the mando’a into your private routines with him; never once saying it beyond closed doors. You keep it private, private in a way that makes Mando groan into his fist as he thinks about how perfectly responsible you are for him. Smooth leather is dumped, helmet pulled off and pushed away as rough palms dig into his flight suit. He blinks away his own guilt as he pulls out his heavy and half-hard cock. He used to be much worse when he was younger; adrenaline from hunts always spilling out into lust and pent up energy. It’s been ages since he’s relieved himself like this, not having the urge for a while- always too busy or uninterested to fantasise. 

You make it too easy. The way you’ve so easily slotted yourself into his life and his dangers. He thinks about it all the times you’ve bent over fixing his shitheap of a ship with no true complaint even etched in your brows. You had said you’d be at his beck and call and that makes something in him come alive, the idea dangerously close to a promise of companionship he doesn’t want to linger on.The small smiles you gifted him fuels his own touch, jerking off like a man too needy to take his time, His head hits the cot with a thump as he goes to lie down. He shuts his brown eyes, letting his mind bring back the way you couldn’t look him in the eyes when he touched your bruise. Fuck, so sweet. Is it so bad for him to imagine a world where he could bed you? Have you touch him back and maybe even beg politely for his praise? The idea of it all is enough to have his own groans and pants  pick up, he ends up having to stifle his own guttural moans with an arm over his mouth and a tempo slowing down. He tries to reason with himself that being trapped on a ship in close proximity with any pretty young woman would make any man this restless; but as he chases his own orgasm with more ideas of how you might look under his body, Din can’t help but admit it’s because it's you.

When the slick cum oozes into his hand, warm and wet, Din sighs.

Maker save him from your stares later.

>>> DATA LOG 2 - SOMEWHERE IN REALSPACE

Space is not impressive. You’ve been on enough journeys that the great expanse does little to impress you. Instead your focus is on the various blinking buttons that twinkle like artificial starlight in the cockpit and the contradictory uncomfortable posture of the armored man in the seat in front of you. Mando has been absolutely silent, and you wonder if he’s feeling as awkward as you must be. Luckily, the child doesn’t seem to notice the uneasy air, much too happy to sit and wriggle in your lap as it points to all the buttons in front of you.

“So…is bounty hunting…fun?” Your words linger as you help guide the child's hand away from a switch he’s desperate to press. Your question is received with nothing and you can tell he’s not amused by your poor attempt to clear the air of the tension. “I mean you must like travelling if you’re doing this…” you fiddle with the cloth of the baby’s swaddle. The Mandalorian merely leans forward to flick another switch. Even with the lack of response, you know he must be listening because there’s a subtle movement of his helmet towards you.

“I used to travel a lot, mostly on outer rim planets but we’d stay on their surface for weeks.” You mumble- your ramblings are a product of your own frustrations, desperately wanting to kill the isolating feeling of the shared space. “In those really undeveloped areas- where electricity is still dodgy and power cells are expensive, he used to bring me to maintain the lines.”

“Lines?” That modulated voice joins the conversation rather timidly. The only sign of curiosity from him is the way his hand pulls off the controls and vaguely gestures.

“Uh yeah- like powerlines. Very old school- they’d trail from homestead to homestead. He was a lineman.” The Mando makes a little hmph, as if amused by the idea of such a primitive job still existing. You try not to feel judged and you shift and your hands move to articulate the example.

“He’d hang about spaceports offering to rewire and upgrade people’s speeders at each spot. We’d make a game of picking out clients- choose them by their ride and make them as efficient as possible in hopes they’d offer him a proper mechanics job.” You say rather distantly, as if you can imagine your father beside you once more. Your memories blur as you think about all the afternoons sitting on top of your dad’s rusted toolbox, staring at all the people passing by. Mando turns to properly face you, watching your own slightly sad expression as if he’s expecting a bit more. You feel like you’re put on the spot, his attention swerving to you like a stagelight.

“They never did. Can’t trust off-worlders. We’d end up on a new planet every month, wherever the work could take us. It kinda…” You clarify. There’s a long pause as Mando keeps staring- you feel your cheeks starting to warm from the attention he’s giving you. “Well it’s kinda like you. Linemen and hunters huh.” You awkwardly chuckle at your own comment and at first you think Mando takes offence; hard not to think that when he quickly turns to stare out his windshield again. That is until you hear a low chuckle from his modulator too.

“Same difference.” He says it definitively, as if speaking costs credits. The fuzzy edge of his modulator sounded almost tired and forlorn by the concept. 

-

You’re not the galaxy’s finest mechanic, but the more you fiddle with the intricate wiring and mechanisms of the Razor crest, the more you realise you’re definitely more adept than the Mandalorian. With every sparking thin wiry cable, and loose busted plates, it becomes clear how dire his need for assistance had become. When Mando comes to check your changes, you start realising that perhaps you and Peli are undercharging for the work you’ve been doing. The worst part of it, is the constant crouching and bending over to reach low panels- squeezing yourselves into the bowels of his ship like descending into a technological cave; Half of the time you wonder how ridiculous you must look as you are shoved through the little metal opening, trying to reach in to grab some loose bits and bobs. You’re quickly rewiring a transistor, temporarily solving an acceleration issue, when you hear Mando’s modulated voice mutter something. 

“Is it necessary to work like that?” 

At the sudden echo of his words, you pull back, waist narrowly getting caught at the bend of the metal and almost slipping onto your knees as you try to respond to him. The slip has the man going to catch you ever so slightly, his large covered palms grasping you and trying to steady you as you weasel out and turn to face him. Gloved hands linger on your waist and it’s only when you turn to look at him in the visor that he suddenly drops the protective grip. His hands quickly drag into crossed arms and he looks to the side, and he mutters another moment, this time in some language you don’t understand.

“gar're a chayaikir dala…”

“What?” 

“Nothing- it’s- uh.. is all that work needed?” He fidgets slightly, as if he’s not sure what to say but points to the open panel you were just bent into. You furrow your brows and shoot him an annoyed glare. 

“Do you want to get stranded? I’m fixing your accelerator so it doesn’t die on us! So yeah, very needed- anyway what’s up?” The man seems taken aback at your almost confrontational attitude, but he nods before asking if you require any materials, if there was anything he could do for you seeing as he planned on stopping somewhere soon. You don’t miss the way he suddenly starts shifting his body weight to mirror you, as if wanting to shift his focus solely on your response.

“Thanks but I am at your beck and call Mando, I’ll do whatever you want me to.” You announce sincerely yet Mando stills. Hands go to rest on his holster and he seemingly eyes you up- the prolonged examination makes you want to fidget, cheeks burning as you realise how that might have sounded.

“Right. Of course.” He affirms, there’s a short intake of breath you barely notice through his modulator before he gives a jerky but distinct nod of approval. “This is the way.” 

Days on the razor crest from then on are comfortably routine; The Mandalorian sets the course, reads his quarry notes, checks his trajectories before the two of you go through maintenance checks on the armoury and battery. Despite your reassurance that you wish to assist however you can, he seems restrained in his requests. You’ve given him your name but he still stays shrouded in anonymity, avoiding at all cost any pestering about who he actually is. You take what you can get, and you give what you think he can take. Your tirade over his engineering logistical nightmare continues and this culminates into a  little bit of a lecture when he eventually shows you the manually operated laser turrets that haven’t been calibrated properly. 

“Seriously? For a guy whose weapons are his religion, you suck at laser focusing.” you critique him and he just stands with his arms on his hips again. It’s been a good week in each other's space, no longer feeling like you have to think carefully of what to say. You've started teasing the man. 

“I was calibrating phasers before you were even born, Kid.” He sounds so smug as he says it, knowing how your face scrunches up at the comment; still calling you kid in a way that is not entirely unpleasant (though you try not to think about it when you’re lonely and have too many issues to unpack). His voice is low, as he watches you tinker. It seems to be a recurring theme whenever he talks to you- constantly pointing out your youth as if it stuns him how independent you can be. 

“Yeah? How much before? Am I being kidnapped by some old bantha in a walking metal coffin?” You point at his form. “I’m not even that young! I travel on my own all the time-”

“I’m not sure your mother would-”

“Peli’s not my mother! Kriff!” you exclaim with horror at the absurdity of the idea- you’re flustered and the Mandalorian seems almost apologetic as he laughs. His gloved hand goes to rub the back of his neck as he comes close to move one of the pieces you’re working on.

“Right. Sorry I assumed..”

“Assumed wrong.” You go to point accusingly at him- poking his helmet from the side as he’s slightly shorter than you as you stand on some box to reach upper wires. “Sure, She’s taken care of me since I started showing up with spare parts but she’s not my mother.” Your eyes trail to look at the door of the sleeping bunk where you know the child is currently napping in. “She’s…more like a crazy aunt. Who cares- family is complicated."

At this statement, Mando seems to shuffle over, he goes to grasp at your wrist and pulls it away from his helmeted face. He nods once more, as if absorbing the implicit request to change the topic. stuck in his own haze of a memory, he doesn't let go of your wrist until you cough slightly in nervousness. He drops your wrist before retreating fast.

“Oi- you didn’t answer me then. How old are you then?” You wonder what he’s thinking whenever he openly glares at you like this. He doesn’t say anything, his feet slightly move in thought of whether to turn and ignore your question.

“Old enough.”

He leaves you to finish up your work.

-

You ask him about all the planets he’s been to before he met you. He confirms your suspicions when he just shrugs and says something passive like ‘too many to keep track’. Not that it really matters, the names and the coordinates don’t make up his worth or value as a space-faring adventurer. His worth as a traveller comes in the way he seems to be able to map and track bounties like they are easy games, combat being a breeze as he shackles them all easy; his expertise comes to a frightening forefront when you watch how quick-thinking he can be when you’re pulled over by authorities and the sort. Sometimes, when Mando tells you to handle the baby while he interrogates or deals with those he’s captured down below, you get a brutal reminder that this older man could kill you in one single move before you’d even get a chance to say stop or ask why.

And honestly, you think that initial fear breeds more haphazard interest in your heart.

It’s not hard to estimate when you started having a tiniest bit of a crush on the mandalorian. You’ve always had a little bit of a flirt with danger and you can’t deny that those broad shoulders and heavy steps make you ache a little thinking about what it would be like to be under strong arms and steely gazes. What’s made worse is the way he treats the child, as if domesticated and docile- nothing like his gruffness when he’s working. You accompany him outside of the ship every now and again, trailing alongside him like a strange unconventional family unit. You’ll carry the child, resting him against your hip like you imagine your mother once would have you, with his metal pram hovering behind following you and the Mando through busy market streets. It’s strangely civilian at times: Mando will search for work while you and the child slum it in a cantina, picking at something more decent than a ration pack and sipping caf that’s a bit too burnt. You’d take the child to a stall where you barter- sometimes finding a steal you know you can thrift off at the next spaceport or maybe even something you can nick knowing Peli will find good use for it. The kid always seems intrigued. He’s not used to the quieter notions of underhand dealings; it’s as if the child only knows business the way his dad does- etched with sly comments and minor violence. Even so, The man always meets up with you again, sometimes a bit battered but most of the time oozing pride. He’s never empty handed when he returns, either a bounty already tied up or a new lead sending you down another planet-shaped rabbit hole. 

His competence and consistency is why it's shocking when you end up having a discussion about precautions and responsibilities.

“I need you to learn how to fly.”  His voice crackles with a subtle sense of concern and anxiousness as he stores away his phase rifle and unclips some charges, energy still fizzling as the 3 of you hurried back onto the vessel. You look at him like he’s a madman as you clutch the child against your body like a safety pillow. The rendezvous had ended quite spectacularly with Mando practically grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you back on board with the baby and jumping into hyperspace in less than a minute flat; You reckon something had gone awry and now the man has truly lost his mind.

“I barely know how to take off, let alone make a getaway, Mando! And your ship is always one hit away from falling apart, Surely priority should be fixing-” 

“Priority one: A lesson on how to get you and kid outta here when I’m not able to. You said you’d do whatever. You learn.” he practically growls as he lays a heavy palm on the small of your back, guiding you to sit in the pilot's seat. You don’t argue back, not when you can feel the press of his palm through his leather gloves. Your body slumps into the worn out captain’s seat, and your hands tremble slightly as he gestures for you to put your hands on the dashboard and one of the flight sticks. You try to focus on the way he mumbles out directions- buttons all having distinct functions that seem to confound you a little. When you manage to maneuver the vessel confidently at sublight speeds, Mando makes a pleased noise. 

“Good progress.”

It makes you preen- as if a pet wanting more praise. Just like that, the routine adapts; you spend a minimum of 4 hours practicing flight and movement all under Mando's constant watch. You start to notice his delicate way of correcting you, and the easing comfort of company when he starts to crouch close to you whenever he’s pointing out to a sightline, whispering the instructions as you try to guide. Within the week, responsibilities shift to equal out the piloting load- while Mando continues to be the navigator during hunts, he trusts you to take the seat when it’s simple stop and go. Other days when he’d prefer to keep the two of you off the surface, you’re happy to orbit and muck about flying the Crest nearby (so long as it doesn’t waste his fuel!). His expert instruction and teachings  finally come to use when just past the planet Aldephi, Mando’s voice rings out frustrated and tense over the commlink; he sounds slightly out of breath as you hear blaster fire in the background. You had been spoonfeeding the child some broth and watching a generic holovid when the noise came crackling to attention.

“Get ready to hyperjump- Quarry incoming, company to follow. Extraction 2 klicks away.”

At that sudden notice, the baby’s dinner is forgotten and you hurry to saddle into the pilot's chair. You can make out the blurry view of your Beskar-clad boss practically dragging an unfortunate captive  towards the Crest. The moment Mando manages to shove the handcuffed prisoner on and you can hear the heavy presence of his proper return, you close the ramp and manage to accelerate straight away- your getaway perfectly executed with so little of a light turbulence when you find yourself securely parsecs away. 

“Good job Meshla.” His voice clings to your ego, feeding you grand delusions that you could get more attention from him. The adrenaline of having successfully saved him has you more cockily proud than before.

“Wasn’t that crazy?! Do I look like a cool bounty hunter yet?” You joke as you swivel to face him, stretching out your arms and doing little jazz hands as if flourishing your deeds like it’s a performance. You see his gloves twitch as he puts away his blaster and leans against a metal panel as he seemingly debates the question.

“Copyc. Should film it next time”

There it is again, You hate it when he does that. Sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, or when he’s trying to avoid a true answer the Mandalorian resorts to a language you don’t understand. You have asked multiple times for clarification or a courteous translation but he seemingly shies away from the request. You frown, and as if he feels some guilt in not letting you in on his mysterious words, Mando decides to pat you on the shoulder and give you another signature nod. You wish it was more than that as you lean into his touch.

“What language is that?” you asked determined to drag it out of him; you can recognise the slurred vowels of Huttese, and you decently understand droidspeak with the practice of the one back in the Hangor but Mando’s words get lost and jumbled up as you try to parse what he’s always murmuring. 

“Mando’a.” He retracts his touch from you as if burnt by your words but you’re too nosy to drop your investigation.

“Oh! Right, should have guessed it- I’m guessing it’s not much use outside of Mandalore…” You look toward the child, who gurgles when you bring it up into your lap, obviously wanting to resume his feeding from earlier. “Will you be teaching your son Mando’a then?”

“He’s not….” Mando stutters- which catches you by surprise at the almost upset tone he takes as he looks at the two of you. “He is not…Mandalorian.” You try to make light of the awkward comment, shifting the baby in your lap and reaching over to grab the spoon you had been using with him. 

“Aw man, guess I can’t convince you to teach me-”

“No.” Suddenly Mando moves away, ignoring your sheepish smile, instead stating the rejection so promptly hurts the burgeoning affection that’s been building. 

-

You regret making that joke when Mando refuses to speak Mando’a in your presence for about a week. Like a snail, he also tries to hide away in the little closet of his bunk when he can, as if avoiding speaking to you. It makes you worry; you had enjoyed the progress you had with the older man, but it feels like you’ve been once more shut out like a quarry who talks too much.

You wish to remedy the little broken part of your companionship and so one particularly safe day, when a bounty’s been handed in and you’re able to slip away to a market you purchase a slightly expensive treat as an apology of sorts. It’s not much but you suppose it’s the most you could do- not that Mando is very open with his wants or tastes. You package away the gift and later when the three of you sit preparing the ration packs for dinner you push into his hand a poorly wrapped container holding the two delicate slices of jogan cake you managed to buy. 

“What is-”

“I’m sorry for pushing on the mando’a a few days ago. I thought I'd apologise for the overstepping.” He stares at you through his visor, clutching the container rather weakly before unpacking it and inspecting it like he’s never seen a desert before.

“Oh kriff I don’t even know if you like jogan-”

“Vor'e.” He blurts out, pinching the box slightly as he goes to show the child who sits practically drooling at the sight and smell of the fruity aroma. Your eyes light up! He’s back to speaking it- you try to ignore the fluttering feelings of accomplishment in your belly as you hang onto his words. “That means thank you.” You like it. You like how soft he sounds when he says it, and you roll the word over and over in your head before you test it out.

“Vor’e!” You say excitedly, you got to take one of the packaged slices of cake out of his hold and start to unwrap it for the hungry child. It feels special knowing that Mando has given you one of his words; you feel like you've won a prize, unlocked something from such a shut case of a man. Mando hums and watches as you feed the green child and you can feel the shift back to the comfortable silence you had earned before.When the child is promptly fed and you’ve had your fill of mediocre ration pack (and a small nibble of the dessert that was pushed into your face by the child) you watch Mando get ready to smuggle his food into his private bunk. You ponder what it must be like to be unable to share a meal with others, if it gets lonely. You mutter out before he can leave your view:

“Have a good dinner Mando! Vor’e for tonight!” You cheekily use the new word, happy to be gifted the translation and eager to use it before it loses its novelty. You hear a slight modulated breath as he nods..

“Vo’re. Goodnight Meshla.” He leaves before you can ask for that clarification, the door making a disappointing swish as it closes behind him.

Meshla. Must be some nickname.

The child gurgles, tiny fingers squeezing yours as it tries to check if there’s any more of the blessed cake.

-----

TRANSLATIONS “Gar're a chayaikir dala…” = You’re a tease woman… Meshla = Beautiful Copyc = Attractive (Beyond just physical.) Vo’re = Thanks (Informal)

“And I need you more than want you And I want you for all time And the Wichita lineman Is still on the line.” >>> DATA LOG 1 - 9ABY, TATOOINE, MOS EISLEY, HANGAR 3-5

Many planets on the Outer Rim don’t have the unconventional charm like Tatooine does with its warm afternoons and dusty nights; the place is, as usual, bustling with various travellers and suspicious characters that you try not to pay close attention to. Your usual choice of loitering venue, Hangar 3-5 in the town of Mos Eisley, luckily keeps you away from the blaster end of dodgy characters, allowing solace from the riff raff beyond the lot’s walls. Instead it has turned into a somewhat semi-profitable experience. Peli, as kind as she can be gritty, has gotten used to your usual comings and goings- much too happy to take any crap parts you happen to scrounge for her on your various whistle-stop journeys through the planets. Subsequently, on your end, nothing will stop you from accepting the credits she doles out. It’s not easy being a scavenger of sorts, yet it’s even harder to settle the way Peli keeps offering you to. Positions of a comfy but busy life working full time at Hangar 3-5 sound stifling, but with the slightly steady income she’s been giving you, you find yourself not minding the little bit of loyalty you’ve cultivated in yourself working for her. That being said, mechanical work sometimes bores you when it’s the same old everyday- Case in point, as you watch your dear older friend fiddle with an old engine as you hover around her, bored out of your mind.

“I’m just saying, would it kill you to stay here and work a real job instead of dreaming about dangerous men and sleazy backwater dumps?” Her nagging voice mutters as sparks from her welder nearly fly into her face. The two of you are trying to pass the time in her slightly rundown garage. She is waiting for the next job, and you are waiting for your life to begin somehow. With most days like this in between jobs, the two of you always end up in some sort of passive-aggressive discussion about your plans and goals. The curly haired woman always ends up sounding like a concerned aunt in your brain, replacing the long-gone family you may have once had.  Your face crinkles, irritation in your gaze as you lightly argue back.

“It’s not about dangerous men or other planets. I can’t just be a scavenger or even a spaceport mechanic the rest of my life. It’s about doing something interesting, helping people.” You kick at the metal tin box that she’s sitting on as you twirl a wrench absentmindedly in your hand. You can tell she’s once again not buying the excuses.

“Pfft. Join the kriffing New Republic if you’re keen on that sweetheart. Doing good my ass-” Her scoffed remarks and reply get interrupted as you hear a sudden rattling and noise from outside the office window. Arriving barely held together, a rare ST-70 Razor crest comes down into the Hangar’s space; it lands rather carefully despite its near-torn-apart exterior. Both you and Peli scramble to the window to gauge who it is, but as the ramp slides down and the pit droids get ready to start work, blaster fire pulls you both into a bit of a tizzy.

“Hey! HEY! You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” Peli goes rushing outside, ready to reprimand the tall beskar-clad stranger, with you following suit. Instead of joining Peli in her attempt to point out every flaw with the man's gunship, you wander warily towards the 3 droids who had retreated in fear. Your gentle hands cradle and pet the one who nearly got shot, and you bite your lip as you watch the conversation unfold from a settled distance. There’s an urge to stare. How could you not? The man is seemingly draped in complete Beskar armour, the glint and shine distracting and unnerving. You’ve heard of their kind, hidden in secrets and insular notions. You had made note of the rumours of some hanging about on the nearby planet of Nevarro, just in case. Like before, your mind repeats the mantra to stay out of the way of the wrong end of a blaster of suspicious characters. As Peli goes on about carbon scoring, broken thrusters and a tremendously egregious fuel leak, you find yourself snickering at the contradictory state of man’s armour relative to his ship. You think he must be more narcissistic with the armour than pragmatic with his ship. You regret the giggles when the man glares at you from the side as Peli continues her spiel. When he promises her pay and shoots you another disturbingly steely glare with his helmet, you find yourself moving quickly to grab your mechanic kit. It’s been a while since a man’s stare has made you feel so on edge. This man would require his ship as quickly as he dumped it here, and you’re not looking to disappoint a man with that much weaponry on his arms alone. The man accepts the deal with a pitiful deposit and a less-than-promising agreement to come back with more. He grouches out another bark on droid work, and you feel a tenseness aimed at you as he stalks off.

“Yeah. No droids. I heard ya. You don’t have to say it twice.” Peli pockets the meagre amount and whistles at you and the 3 pit droids to bring her own kit.

“Are you seriously taking his measly 500? Half of Mos Eisley won't even take imperial” You croak out, your action of zipping up your coveralls at odds with your own uncertain voice. 

“Work’s work, kid. You either pick it up or you piss off. Besides, didn’t you say you like being helpful?” She snides as she throws you a rag to start cleaning up the grease on the ship. You can hear the confidence in her voice, knowing precisely that you wouldn't leave even if she tried to exile you. You care too much. You give her a playful pout, eyes then focused on the hunk of junk that the mysterious bounty hunter had left. 

It still beats scavenging.

-----

“You know, this would go much faster if I got some help.” You loudly complain when you accidentally smack your head rolling out from under one of the panels. It’s been about an hour since the man had left his vehicle in your possession, and Peli had decided to put you on wire checks, which turns out to be actual spaghetti strand hell. You spare her an annoyed look as you spot her ‘busy’ playing cards with the DUMs. You whine as your back aches from being on the roller.

“You heard the Mandalorian, no droids. Customer’s demands.”

“Last I checked, you’re made of blood and flesh, Peli,” you snort, throwing one of the rags you’ve used to wipe the sweat off your brow to your side, ready to go back to messing with the wires.

“I’m supervising, someone’s gotta be able to pull you out when you catch on fire messing with that regulator. I’m not convinced the Mandalorian’s been the best with maintenance.” You chuckle, pulling at some loose and questionable wires, trying to cut and strip bare the ones that are obviously in need of dire replacement. 

You can hear her upping her stakes as your hands fiddle with one of the wires, when suddenly you hear a loud thrum and hiss, you feel the ship shake slightly as the ramp comes down- opening the Crest. You’re about to ask Peli if you’ve accidentally made it malfunction when you hear her hush the droids and flick her eyes to you before asking for her blaster. She sends you a look of unease, signalling you to stay still as she moves forward carefully, ready to shoot any criminal who may have been recklessly left inside. Kriff, bounty hunters are careless with cargo. You try not to draw attention as you watch your boss nervously checking, your own hands searching your boilersuit for the small vibroblade you keep on hand just in case.

You slide out and stealthily go to stand up, and just as you’re about to jump beside her and be a daring hero, you hear Peli’s voice soften with genuine confusion. You nearly drop your own blade when you round the side and make eye contact with the unexpected guest that waddles out of the Razor Crest. You can tell Peli is immediately smitten as she picks the creature up, and you too can’t help but feel a little guilty for having your blade out in response to such a sweet little green thing. You want to coo at it as Peli cradles the baby. Peli commands you to get some of the leftover bone broth in the kitchen, and when you come back ready to spoon-feed the child, you hear her already muttering a plan to extort more money from the bounty hunter.

“Let’s not swindle money using a child, Peli, I fear that's unbecoming of us.” You murmur as you go to take the child out of her arms; it nestles softly into your grasp, pushing its jutting ears against your chest as if trying to find the comfiest spot of warmth. Your thoughts wander back to the mess that is the heap of junk sitting in the hangar- Why would he leave a baby on its own? The Mandalorian seemed reckless with his property, but you can’t truly imagine he would be neglectful of a child; perhaps your understanding of Mandalorian culture was too ancient and wrong.

You don’t have enough time to ponder the thought, not when Peli immediately goes to pick up the bundle of wire and welding material from where you were just working. The rest of the afternoon is spent trying to fix the ship as the child runs around like a wild porg in a crowded cantina, bumbling and pestering each one of the pit droids and the treadwell droid. It touches nearly everything, and you can’t help but let it with its endearing big eyes, daring you to stop it. After a few tiresome hours of chasing it and trying to fix a clogged-up filter, the baby decides it wants to lie in your lap. Your legs fold carefully to let it nest as you sit below the ship's main hull. You hum a tune from childhood, one that you’re not quite sure how you remember, considering the blurry visions of lost parents and separated homes. The child seems not to mind, swiftly falling into a slumber that reminds you of a docile pet. Nails quietly scratch at some rusted metal, and your palms move diligently buffing out the orange when you hear heavy footsteps from the entrance of 3-5.

The Mandalorian is back. And he wordlessly moves to the inside of the ship, not noticing the way you are perched under the main body still tinkering. You carefully clamber up, tiptoeing to yield the womprat of a being to Peli, who immediately begins to gently bounce the baby back into a dream-filled lull. You want to approach the man and give him a rundown of the repairs you’ve already finished. You’re barely past the side when you sense his panic. You can hear the hurried and almost anxious way he slinks around his ship, that is, until the slight reverberation of his movement stops, and the bounty hunter comes out quickly from his ship as if something sizzling about to explode. 

And he seems particularly distraught and aggravated.

“Where is he?” 

Peli steps forward quickly, the child is already stirring and you roll your eyes- The child immediately turns to gaze at its father(?) before locking its attention on you. The small 3-fingered darling grasps the air, pointing to you and Peli wastes no time in handing you back the child as you both approach the bounty hunter. Peli is first to ridicule him.

“You can't just leave a child all alone like that.” With that comment the man’s intimidating presence seems to melt away, instead his helmet looks down at the cooing baby in your arms almost with a sense of shame. From the way he almost seems to shrink at Peli’s criticism, you wonder if the man is new to having kids. “You know, you have an awful lot to learn about raisin' a young one.”

Mando doesn’t attempt to wrestle the child out of your arms, and the baby itself doesn’t seem to be too eager to leave your doting attention either. You can feel the stranger’s focus on you through his helm, but something about the way his shoulders seem to relax, you can tell it’s not out of hostility like before. Peli natters on about the repairs and your voice calmly joins in when she mentions the fuel leak.

“I’ve rewired quite a bit, to make it more efficient in hyperdrive. Minimise fuel usage…” Your words drift off into another hum when the baby coos halfway through your explanation. The Mandalorian seems to be intrigued, head turning to glance at where you pointed at on his gunship before going back to watching you rock the baby. It’s endearing the way the baby continues to babble in your arms and you get too distracted by it’s little babbling to pay true attention to Peli’s one sided conversation. You instead focus on swaying slightly with the baby, your soft smile focused on the way its ears move with every gentle noise you make. The Mando seems to also be enamoured by the two of you as you start up a lil hum again, listening to Peli’s review with his helm stuck on your figure instead. When the Mandalorian finally lets out a restrained thank you and starts leaving you look up a bit panicked that he’s not taking the child with him. 

“Oh, I guess I was right. You got a job, didn't you?” Baby in your hold, both you and Pel scramble to follow him back out of the Hangar's entrance where you spot a bounty hunter who you recognised has been lounging in the local cantina the past few days. Something tells you that it’s not trustworthy, especially with the sleazy stance the younger man takes. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything but nods as he stops in front of the speeder bikes. Definitely not bringing the baby. 

“You know, it's costing me a lot of money to keep these droids even powered up.” The way Mando looks at Peli over that statement suggests he could care less about your robot coworkers, so Peli-, ever the smart businesswoman, instead flicks her head and points to you. “And the girl needs taking care of too- to keep her off the street.”  The metal stranger pauses, then nods, and then he nods precisely at you, as if deciding that Peli was in dire need of his credits. It has your cheeks flush a little in embarrassment. Curse Peli for using you as a pity chip. 

The other man, who is closer to your age, shoots you a wink; his poor attempt at a smirk has you cradling the baby a little firmer and the man looks far too amused with his brows raised as he watches the baby wriggle in your arm. You hope to god the Mandalorian is as good as they say his armoured brethren are- with a partner like that you doubt they get much done. You watch as they speed off into the warm afternoon and once again Peli says an offhand comment about how obnoxious the guild lot could be. When the baby starts muttering again, She tells you it’s time to redo some more panelling.

-----

As the night approaches and the streets outside the hangar quieten down, you’re thankful the baby seems well entertained by the task of sorting some nuts and bolts you had in your tool box. The work on the ship has been mind-boggling and exhaustive but you can’t help the little bit of pride that swells up in your chest as you take a step back and admire it. It’s pre-imperial, so the engineering of the craft is less regulated. Every inch of it has tech you rarely get to work on. It's exciting how you get to work on it- so many tweaks and features make you daydream about what daring space battles and chases it must be getting into. 

Peli has gone to pick up some more fuel, leaving no one but you, the child and the droids who sit and watch from the messy corners of  the Hangar. You mutter little stories to the baby, sometimes asking questions of the baby but it doesn’t reply; not that you’d expect it to- it’s far too small and immersed in figuring out your tool box to tell you its name or why it’s with that scary man. You’re so engrossed in your tasks that you assume the footsteps that you hear just behind you must be the Mandalorian as Peli would usually be shouting about prices if she came back.

“You’re a bit earlier than expected but I did manage to finish working on the front end-” 

A click. Hard metal presses against the back of your head and you still. You see the baby’s ears dip, it’s looking up at the person who got their blaster hazardly aimed at you. You nearly gasp as you watch the baby back up terrified- it can sense that whoever this is, it is not a friend of his or you.

“Grab it.” The grating man’s voice commands and you flinch as he nudges the barrel against you once more. It’s the guild guy from before. Where’s Mando? There’s a slight tremble as you stand up to go pick up the child, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try to remain calm.  You slowly reach out your hand to the green child who scuttles to duck behind the red metal toolbox in nervousness. The man groans impatiently, boot kicking your thigh as you lurch. “Hurry up.”

“L-let me- let me just comfort him.” you snap back, as you try hard to communicate through your expression that you intend to not let this man hurt it. The baby comes closer, scurrying quickly into your arms and you let out a breath of relief as the man lets you hold onto it, hugging it as if it was your own.

“Any ideas of using your commlink and you’re dead meat.” You keep your eyes focused on the floor and on the baby as he grabs you by the scruff of your boilersuit and pulls you to the inside of the razor crest. He’s quick to tie you up- wrists itching with the rope and jaw aching with the cloth he gags you with. He lets the baby continue to sit with you as you’re forced to wait and watch him fidget- pacing around the Mando’s ship mumbling about how ‘Toro Calican’ will be the guild's newest and finest hunter. 

“Hey! I’m back- got some roasted tip-yip for the baby in case this turns into a 2 day job..”

When you hear the expected clanking and relaxed footsteps of Peli’s return, you stupidly yell out into the cloth despite knowing it wont make much difference- The baby shrieks slightly when Toro kicks your kneeling body to shut up. Immediately you hear Peli drop the battered fuel canister and the bag of stuff while Toro makes a dash to aim his blaster directly at her too. She scowls but her expression changes to concern the moment her gaze spots you and the baby sitting in the ship. The sleazy guy makes little effort to tie Peli up, this time just constantly holding the gun to her face and promising to shoot the child first if any of you make an attempt to overpower him. 

It’s a horrifically tense waiting game. You pray the Mandalorian cares enough about the baby to keep you somewhat alive too- maybe in saving the child the green thing will beg his father to save you as well. As if the child can sense your faltering faith, it goes to push its body into you, settling to sit and stare at the bounty hunter while simultaneously comforting you with gentle pats and cooing noises. You close your eyes. You imagine what you were doing at this exact moment yesterday; you were probably just playing cards out of boredom with Peli, still stuck on fanatic ideas of going somewhere else, on saving the world or something ridiculously naive. Fuck. Should have wished to stay bored. Beats being tied up.  Peli tries to reason with Toro but he yells a bit more telling her to shush. You try to not watch the nervous movements of his fingers as they twitch on his blaster. He himself is uncertain of what he’s doing. Your brain supplies a reminder, clear as can be, that your knife is poking at you, stuck in your boot! If only you could get it out and free yourself. Maybe you could overpower him or snatch that damn weapon out of his greedy mitts. You want to scream at yourself for being stupid enough to not have locked up the entrance earlier- if only you had your knife you wouldn't be in this mess and-

The child nudges you.

Its big bulging eyes stare up at you and it makes a noise. You tell it to hush, fearing what the man might do if the baby makes things difficult. Maybe it's fussy? Hungry? Not the time baby! You can feel a wave of panic build up as the baby continues to wriggle. The baby obviously wants something as it starts moving. Toro is too distracted by Peli’s ramblings about the Mandalorian and you are about to knock your head against the box you’ve been leant on to try and get it to stop fussing but to your shock little green hands go to pick at your work boot.

The vibroblade! It knows you have a vibroblade there. How?

You don’t question it as your eyes widen. You watch it carefully and sneakily pull it out from your boot and it goes to helpfully drag it to your hands tied behind your back. You try to mouth a  thank you to him through the cloth gag, and the green creature goes to sit in front of you again, playing innocent  as if knowing now this is just a waiting game for when his guardian comes back and you can make your escape. The Mandalorian doesn’t take too long to arrive. He is so light on his feet that you almost don’t hear him pass through the hangar’s entranceway. He is wary with his blaster already out as if he must have known something had gone awfully sideways. Toro makes a dramatic show of it: pushing Peli forward and grabs the baby in his arms roughly. It takes everything in your self control not to lunge at him with your hands already free. Toro suspects nothing as he continues his theatric monologue. As the man tells Peli to cuff the mandalorian, you see her own eyes sparkle with confidence, she’s signalling to you that the armoured man with his hands up has something up his sleeve as well. In a sudden flash of light which you can only assume is a flare charge, Toro staggers and you surge up now free to grab the child out of his grip and take a quick slice at his waist. The criminal yelps out as he drops his blaster trying to feel the blood oozing out when the Mandalorian shoots him. He drops dead alarmingly quickly and you’re still huffing as you hang onto the child for dear life- frantically checking it to see he wasn’t jostled too much in the scuffle. As all of you calm down and regain your wits, you continue to nurture the child. You pout when Peli motions for you to give him to the Mandalorian. Your heart aches a little, hands hesitant as you give the Man his child. The beskar-clad warrior dumps a bag of credits into Peli’s hand. It is far more than necessary, not that Peli would ever tell him that.

“That cover me?”

“Yeah. Yes, this is gonna cover you.” Peli is trying to not show her underlying joy of being overpaid. She’s about to let the man go off without another word before her attention spots you and the endeared way you look longingly at the child. You’re concerned. How can the Mandalorian be trusted with a child? Had it not been for you both it may not have survived the encounter. Peli’s shaken with a devious new idea…

“It’ll cover the repairs but not my girl you know?” Mando turns to face you and then tilts his head to Peli in what can only be assumed as confusion. “Had to work her overtime since you said no droids. Could have had her scavenging all day. Lost income cus of that!” You’re about to say something in your own defence when Peli shoots you an expression of ‘shut the fuck up’ as she continues bullshitting.

“Look, we both know what kids are like. They need some experience. How ‘bout this, you take my girl here to scavenge while you bounty hunt and I’ll give your next maintenance check a discount. Kriff, she’s a damn good mechanic too- wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have someone on board to keep an eye on your gauges and on the baby of yours.” You’re about to vehemently protest, what a stupid idea! A Mandalorian isn’t going to agree to take you on what? Some joyride through the planets just so he can have a babysitter-

“You want to?” His modulator makes his voice thrum low, but there’s a soft firmness to it as he looks at you. He’s serious in his offer. The baby is staring at you too and gurgles. Fuck.

“Yeah. Yeah that would be great actually.” you answer before you can really process what’s being agreed. 

“It’s a deal.” The mandalorian shakes Peli’s hand and motions for you to get packing as he walks over to the crest. You rushedly take your usual overnight bag that you use for when you scavenge and you look back at Peli nervously as you make your way up his loading ramp. She waves goodbye with a gleeful grin and gestures for you to call her on comlink when you can. The mandalorian points to a ladder up to his cockpit and closes the ramp with a satisfying thump. Gingerly, you go to sit in the cockpit, the baby joining you as it waddles around the floor pleased to see you joining them. When the Mandalorian joins you and silently engages the craft to leave you can’t help but close your eyes once more. You try to be optimistic- deep down you know this chance does excite you regardless of the anxiety of it all.

Tatooine wasn’t that great anyway.

It’s a strange comedy scene, one he can imagine playing out in the likes of a corny play or maybe even written about in some girly romance comedy novel: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, sat daintily on your couch like some exhibit, moodily quiet as your civilian friends harp on about some random drama you’ve had at work. The contradictory quality of his broodiness between the delightful giggling of your peers has him almost gagging, but of course, he’d do pretty much anything for you at this point. Anything to keep you happy, to keep up this perceived tameness of his intentions. He will play docile if it means getting to prowl in your herd of peaceful sheep.

His tea is his only current lifeline, the mug cradled in his big palms as if it will slip away the second someone shunts their attention onto him. You’d been so eager to invite him into your wider life- friends now being texted with his name mentioned wherever possible with pride. The label ‘boyfriend’ slips into your vocabulary as easily as the weather, like you’ve known him as that for centuries. He revels in it. Tonight you’ve invited a variety of friends over for dinner (“it’s called Tea dove, none of that southern ‘dinner’ nonsense” he had jabbed at you when you were planning it all) and it’s been painstakingly awkward to avoid some of the stares that linger on his simple black medical mask, or the dragged looks as they eyed up the difference in his stature to yours. An odd pairing. Odd if they didn’t know how much you fulfil his distant dreams of complacency, Odd if you don’t take into consideration the fact you’re well known for keeping the difficult few controlled. It’s simultaneously hard and easy to play politely. A nod here, a gentle hum of agreement or a practised chuckle he uses when he's trying to appease superiors; Simon has learnt it all and prepped himself the moment you told him they were coming over.

“So you’ve known each other since secondary?” The upturned grin of a woman who leans forward towards him makes him a bit wary- as if he knows she's trying to delve too deep into your past as well as his. He gives no more than a murmur of a yes.

“Your girlfriend hardly ever talks about her past life, fancy she’s been hiding something from us with the way she’s practically flustered when she gets a text from you.” Before he can even try to muster an awkward response, your voice interrupts, hurtling through the conversation like a quick arrow shooting past. It’s a warning of sorts. You whine at your friends for putting him on the spot, and Simon tries not to shirk.

“Got any cool army stories to tell?” One of the few boys in your group calls out, typically overly interested in the fantasy that is their view of the armed forces. Thoughts of bloody bandages, gunfire and debris don’t mix well with his now cold tea. His nose scrunchies, of course, It’s natural they’d be curious, they’ve heard you mention how often he’s gone. Seen how lonely you go home.

“ er..nawt much to say..”

There's a flicker of disappointment from most of the small, intimate crowd, and Simon has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes and cuss most of the group out. As if trying to remedy the near disappointment in their voices, Simon rambles on needlessly, a shy attempt at bonding with your crowd:

“‘I’m at the local barracks a lot- training the typical band of idiots…gym- uhh..” his eyes flicker around the group as if sitting in some sort of strange interrogation or perhaps some damned ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ counselling. 

“I read a lot. Read quite a bit- actually met her through reading. I guess.” He stumbles on each bit, wincing at how silly it all sounded- such a big buff beast of a man hunched over small novels.​

When the interest in him finally fizzles out, and he’s managed to fend off any more questions of his character, He excuses himself to help tidy up some of the random cups and plates littered around your living room; the remnants of ice cream melted and messy stick on his finger as he retreats. He makes his escape carrying the dishes as if in a balancing act. As he dumps them in the basin of soapy water that you’ve left out, he has half a mind to return when he hears your cheerful laughter amongst a chorus of cheers from the room next door.

It aches his chest a little. You sound pleased. He’s relieved to have made you sound so pleased- somehow amusing you with his poor attempts to fit into your secure lifestyle. His finger dragged remnants of silky dish soap around ceramic, lazily fiddling with a tea plate as he tried to listen to the muffled noises from nearby. He’s mercifully grappled out of this wandering thought when his phone buzzes incessantly, a rare text from Gaz flicking up on his screen.

[Down for a drink on Saturday? Coming up for a gig. I’ll Take the train and meet with Price and Soap, then Manc]

Ghost tilts his head as he contemplates the offer- coming up for a gig tends to mean that Gaz would like to crash at his flat; save some pounds rather than spending a valuable £50 on a shitty Premier Inn (Not acknowledging that the £50 inevitably gets swept away in the pint purchases regardless).

[Can’t. Busy.]

[Since when were you the busy sort? Manchester burning down?]

His eyes twitch at that. Was it so hard to believe that perhaps Simon Riley was a busy man off duty- that he was just as charming, adept and interesting as Ghost? His life was becoming something other than sitting around waiting for the next mission. The rest of 141 probably would implode at the very imagery.

[My business.]

There’s a long enough pause where no reply pings that Simon stupidly believes that Gaz has accepted his excuse. This is shattered in mere moments when his phone beeps with a buzz. Insistent text messages start invading his inbox; this time it’s not the Londoner but instead it's the other obnoxious Sergeant that he has the pleasure of being harrassed by. Fucking Gaz is calling in reinforcements.

[Gaz says you’re bailing on us!!]

[I’m not wasting train tickets for you to bail, LNER ain't cheap, spooky boy!]

It becomes clear as the two hooligans text and Price only sends him an apology for not replying, that saying no was seemingly an ‘irresponsible and unacceptable’ answer, from a professional standpoint, of course.

[I know where your missus lives, we can just ask her :)]

Soap jokingly threatens. It does get a slight chuckle out of him. The group liked to push his buttons, but surely they weren’t serious?

-

Horrifically, they were serious. His captain decides the best way to force Simon’s hand is to simply forward a screenshot of incoming train tickets and a map preview of the distance it would take from the Manchester station to Ghost’s flat. He cringes, about to send some frankly rude messages and perhaps block them all when you come looking for him. You look adorable, even with another myriad of cups and plates in hand and looking a little worn out from all your guests who are already abandoning the small get-together. You give him a quizzical glare, watching him type furiously, but he simply leans down to give you a gentle kiss on the forehead as he continues to scroll through the socially intimidating threats of his friends.

“Simon…You’ve got that annoyed face on.” You tease despite not being able to see his lips pursing through the mask. Your voice is still light and airy from the gleeful energy of before.

“The lads are being right asses.” He massages his brow. At the mention of his friends, you perk up. It’s been a few days since you last discussed the idea of him sharing that part of his social circle (can it be considered a circle if it’s more like a square of 4 people?), and he can tell there’s a constant itch that seems to bother you- wanting to dig a little out of curiosity about this more regimented version of him. 

“They…might be coming on up. To Manc. Saturday”

Simon wants to smother down his frustration, maybe shoot it dead, when he witnesses an almost cunning sly version of you, poking at his side, nestling in like some alien trying to burrow deep into his ribs. You have gained a sort of unexplainable determination from the idea of getting to meet his brothers-in-arms.

“They’re not-”

“Oh come on Si, I can be so friendly-”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Dove.” he shoves his phone into his back pocket and goes to grab your shoulders as if needing to stop your attempts to placate him into agreeing. A rough palm caresses your cheek, and he leans in, forehead to forehead. “They’re not… house-trained much..like your…lot.”

He says it rather conspiratorially, gesturing to the background banter of your friends packing up, as if there’s a mystery to why his colleagues can’t be anywhere near you with a 5ft pole. You scoff and push back on his rejection, and Simon tries not to get more disgruntled by your perseverance. He mulls it over in his head when you give him a pleading pout and reckons as long as he can control where, when and how, then maybe this will go the way he wants it to. He doesn’t want to be exposed any more than he already has for you; his other life is already blurring too much in every soft touch of the expanse of your skin you give him. You can have Simon’s flesh. They can have his blood. Fuck- you have his soul, and they can keep his spirit. He will dole out the parts that make him the two versions of himself until they no longer conflict with each other.

“Fine. Fine, you can come, shite, but-” You’re already tiptoeing to give him a kiss. He takes it greedily. He’s a weak man. “No questions about work. Please.”

You nod hastily, not one to let opportunities go wasted.

-

Saturday rolls around rather anxiously. Simon can feel the distress seep and trickle slightly in his bones. His flat feels even more of a void of comfort now that he’s spent various nights in your sheets, and so Simon finds it mind-numbingly monotonous cleaning it up and adjusting what he can before people come over. There are some lingering signs that you exist; one of your jackets lies limp yet territorial over his couch, and your various hair baubles can be found scattered amongst his shelves and tables. Simon wonders if he should stow them away, store them somewhere only he will check, as if letting them see more pieces of you would be allowing them to take what belongs to him. As if it’s even possible for him to have a claim over you just by grasping onto one of your possessions.

He told you to come by after he’s received them. Treating it like a drop-off or military rendezvous, he plans meticulously when they will be around and when you need to come over. He is constantly stressing the importance of not making a big deal of it when they inevitably hound you, to which you reply snarkily that it’s he who is making mountains out of mole holes. He knows he’s overthinking it, but Simon at least relaxes at the reminder that you’ve offered him to crash at yours so that Soap and Gaz can rest soundly and not pay daylight robbery for a hotel. Not a mission without a planned exit, a good bailout if anything.

He hears the hum of the taxi before it even stops outside his grey, dreary building, spots it through his window blinds like a stakeout. Soap is already bursting at the seams, fizzling with an almost vibration-like excitement as he tumbles out of the car and starts to hop over to the building’s door. Gaz carries a duffel, but more importantly, what looks to be a shopping bag full of tinnies. The dark-skinned man whistles at Johnny to come back and help pick up the slack, annoyed he’s been given the whole lot of goodies. His captain, always the leader, clambers out too, sluggishly relaxed. Ghost watches as he fishes out some notes and tosses them to the driver as he leaves. Never one to rush without reason, Price simply steps to the curb and pulls out a pack to smoke.  While the sergeants amble with more stashes of snacks and beverages, Price doesn’t hesitate to take his sweet time, deep in thought. Simon doesn’t appreciate the way that John manages to catch his observations through the blinds- catching him with a smirk as he stomps out the cigarette, and does a little wave as if it’s normal to actively scope a civilian building.

When Ghost reluctantly lets them in, chastising Johnny for not keeping his voice down as they come up, there's a weird tenseness. An ache in his shoulder and a soreness in his neck; his previous injuries flare up as if suddenly remembering their own horrendous existence. Being reunited with this band of idiots seemingly antagonises the more worn-out versions of Ghost.

“Missed us, big guy?” Johnny chirps out, patting him on the back before shoving a heavy crumpled Tesco bag into his grasp. “Got you gifts! Bought some things for the hen too.”

Simon tries not to immediately wrangle the bag open at the comment, feeling already regretful of the situation when Johnny gives him a wink. The bag luckily contains nothing sinister or embarrassing but a nice bottle of cider and a fancy-looking tin of Scottish shortbread. The Scotsman has already settled down on his couch, humming to himself in a way only a satisfied stray cat could.

“Speaking of her, where is your lady Ghost?” Gaz asks casually as he puts away some of the stuff they’ve brought into his fridge.

“Later,” he grunts out, trudging his way to pass his friend the Cider bottle after a quick inspection that it would be something you’d actually enjoy. “She’s preoccupied right now. She’ll join later”

“Aw, here I thought you were tryna hide her away from us, LT”

“Probably is- doesn’t want us to see the bird that slapped-” A loud cough and the demanding presence of Price juts in, having made his way into the flat and into the conversation.

“Let’s not antagonise our host, shall we, boys.” The Scot and Londoner both give a mock and fairly limp salute as they shut their mouths once more. Price gives Ghost a handshake and a nod, already confident in his jeans and sated by the smoky puffs of a cigarette gone by. The gig that Gaz intends to drag them all to is tomorrow, so the aim of Friday is to simply play the rest of them into a modicum of leisure. It feels very much like nights in base common rooms or the hours Ghost has spent listening to the ramblings of his teammates when they have no other entertainment but themselves. His thigh aches, legs moving on it’s on as it bounces- he checks his wristwatch with semi-focused jitters. Usually, he is steely and composed, but as he finds himself sinking into a careful companionship with his group, Simon’s own nerves play him. Ghost is relaxed. Your boyfriend Simon Riley is not.

[I hope I haven’t missed much!]

[I’m stopping to pick up the pizza. ETA 20?]

[Omw Si! be there in 5 x]

He knows what five minutes can feel like- he’s spent multiple five-minute periods of his life in combat, with bombs near exploding or with him tied in a room and not knowing how long extraction could take. Your five minutes, however, feels infinitely longer. Your boyfriend tries to focus on the words of his coworkers (already moved on to some forgettable football rankings) when the bare-knuckled rapping on the door has him shoot up from his position. You’re mid-knock when he swings it open and immediately goes to try to carry the heavy boxes of delivery you picked up. As if they are a group of waddling ducklings, he can hear Soap and Gaz saddle up side by side. Gaz at least has the decency to pretend that his eagerness is so he can help take the weight of the food off your hands, whereas Soap fails to contain his shit-eating grin much longer.

Ghost is about to pull rank and call off the mutts that are his teammates when you instead greet him with that heart-melting smile and pull his mask slightly down to give him a sheltered kiss. You don’t say a word except a thank you to Gaz as you push your way into the flat past a dazed Simon as if your composure couldn't care less about such public displays of affection.

“Nice to finally meet ya, lass! Cannae we all get kisses then?”

Oftentimes, Ghost doesn’t mind the toils of his rank; he can stomach the paperwork and the day-to-day boredom that is dealing with recruits and low-level soldiers so long as he gets the occasional break from the monotony of it all. He feeds off schedules and direction, so when things get particularly tricky and repetitive, he craves alternative guidance. He could argue that lacking a lot of it while growing up has conditioned him to enjoy the clarity of being told what to do and how to do it. Which is how he supposes he’s found himself breathless and panting as you sit in his lap, barely moving with a half-amused grin and an evil glint in your pretty eyes.

“F-fuck love please-” He grits out, a groan melting into a slight yelp when you cause him to buck up as you shift directly over his crotch. There’s a low hum in your throat as you tut and move off his strong thighs. There was a command for him to sit still that loops in his brain as you fidget and purposely drag your hands across his hefty panting body. You’ve told him he’s been too pissy coming home, too volatile, and unforgivably neglectful. He hangs his head in shame at the playful taunt, knowing exactly what you mean. It’s been an aggravating experience being stuck on base for the last few months, and it had started to melt into his home life despite his reassurance that he’d never bring back work stress. Any moment he’s managed to get back to your shared home, he’s been a right prick- minor snaps and short fuses that always ended with him having to bite back unnecessarily petty comments that pop up in his brain.  He knows he’s been too stressed to be the usual calm and collected lover he usually is with you.

There are moments where you like the abrasive creature he becomes, the one that groans dirty things into your ear and demands good behaviour, but today? Today, you hold the invisible leash that has him tied up and torn. He came home so silent, only answering your questions with short, annoying murmurs, and it was only when you had finally had enough and barked at him a demand for him to put his ‘fucking shit’ in the closet properly that you noticed how his body perked up, shifted to face you fully as he expected more from your usually soft voice. It was as if a switch flicked, and you were dealing with a much more attentive figure, who was waiting to hang onto every word you had to shove toward him. 

“I-I Agh- God shit...” His words were coming out more strangled as you continued to lightly run your palms against his chest and down, barely pressing the tender touch on his thighs. Your fingers stop just by the base of his length before you kiss his neck ever-so-gently, so that you hear his breath hitch. He watches obsessively as you move to climb onto the bed behind him, your knees knocking into his lower back as you continue to torment him with your proximity. When you whisper into his ear from behind about being quiet and patient, you swear you can hear a minor whimper that escapes him. His grip fists the bedsheets next to him as you force him to sit up straighter and keep his flustered eyes to the front of your dark room.

The heat of his dick in your palm as you go to stroke him burns. The first stroke is clumsy, the girth of it making it hard to get a good grip on him as you position yourself in a way he can’t see your face while you pleasure him. The next stroke is punishing as you feel his pre-cum slide down against your fingers. He likes this. Likes being used a little, being punished for being the asshole he is when he’s had it bad at work. You feel it in the way his back tenses, then relaxes the more you jerk him off. You can feel the simmering energy that’s waiting to burst as he follows orders not to move. Good soldier. Good, perfect soldier who listens to the orders of women much smaller and weaker than him. When you start to hear his breath getting heavier and feel the sweat start to collect on the back of his neck, you move off of him, hand leaving his weeping cock as quickly as it had begun. He’s near the end. He makes a gargled noise, and you can’t help but lean closer just to remind him that he owes you one for his poor behaviour. He nods frantically, as if trying to reassure you he intends to make it up any way he can. He can and will if it means getting to feel your warmth around him again, like the mindless animal he is. He is close, the edge of heaven personified by the way you press against him and go back to using those fingers to slowly pump him. He gulps and lets his head roll forward as he watches your movements, mesmerised by how slippery your grip looks on his dick- not wanting to tear his focus away from the sensation. You ask him to recite his day back to you, explain what had got him in such a sour mood when he stormed home. You hear an exasperated breathless half-laugh, as if he’s amused by the incredulity of a well-feared lieutenant being picked apart by his darling harmless girlfriend, but as your grasp a little firmer at the base, it’s cut off with a slight groan.

“...C-crap morning drills.. Whinging recruits...then-” He whines when you nip at his neck, “uh..Logistics meetings and paperwork- Cap’ gave orders to deal with some fucking naff shit-” You squeeze a warning for the swearing, and he moans pathetically but nods and backtracks. He continues with the rambling, rattling off the tedious task he’s had to do all week. It makes sense, his pent-up behaviour, the image of your tall, bulky boyfriend stuck in strategy rooms and sequestered at a desk has you kissing his scarred face with a pitying, affectionate kiss. Simon leans into you, as if trying to get more from you, knowing how much he needs it.

When he’s done talking, barely able to say much more than pant another beg for you to keep jerking him, you decide to be merciful as you slink off the bed and off the heat of his back. Simon immediately tries to grab at your waist as you pad your way in front of him, wedging yourself in between his legs as you glance at his long cock that’s hard and glistening with his pre. You push against him, hands fumbling to drag his rough palms into your hair- silently permitting him to hold onto you as your breath hovers above his tip. You don’t move as you feel his stare fixating on your lips. When you meet his eyes, you can see him lost in a trance, waiting and wanting with such dangerous patience. When you finally murmur the instruction for him to fuck your face, he moves quicker than a bolt of thunder. His fingers twist into your hair, and his hips press into your body as he goes to shove his desperate dick down your throat. He groans like a madman as he bucks into your mouth with precise and firm thrusts, as if he’s doing this with a practised and regimented rhythm. You can feel the drool pooling and dripping from the corner of your lips, and your eyes well up with a little bit of tears from the harshness of his movements.  Then, just as your hands go to rub more into the flesh of his thighs, you feel the stuttering of his movements, hear the moan of complete exhaustion as Simon suddenly yanks you by the hair off his dick.

He cums. Spurts of his mess on your face as he throws his head back and lets out the lowest moan you’ve ever heard from the man. It’s disgustingly satisfying watching him relax and falter as you stand up shakily, your bones aching slightly, tired from kneeling. You clamber smugly back onto his lap. His softening dick twitches beneath you, the milky white drips getting over your clothes as you settle back into the first spot. You try to wipe off his semen onto the bedsheets as you go to speak to him once more. You point out a cruel and cunning thought: You didn’t tell him he could cum yet.

Captain John Price is used to overly eager rookies. He’s used to gung-ho “Yes sirs” and nods of constant respect from subordinates; Even with his boys in the task force, there's a certain level of commanded regard that he’s become accustomed to. While Ghost, Gaz and Soap don’t necessarily bootlick the way others do, there’s never a cold indifference to his advice or disinterest in his orders and his passive musings.

Then he met the newbie. She had been an operative on loan, a recommendation from his sergeants as someone they had spotted and bonded with during their times on base and other various deployments. Price had to admit there was a level of unimpressed doubt when her hefty file had appeared on his desk; Surely the boys had simply picked out a pretty bird to cajole onto the squad- a simple addition to solve their ongoing crisis of not having a logistical and medical expert. He thought carefully as he read through each flattering note written about her. The statistics were impressive, and her record was almost unbelievable, which is why he couldn’t help but be skeptical. Oh well. Might as well choose someone easy on the eyes. He was wholly unprepared for the first interaction he had when they showed up for a trial mission, and he met her for the first time. She had walked into the temporary warehouse base with barely a bothered glance towards the looming glare of Ghost. She had brushed off Soap’s hug with a firm pat on the shoulder, and when Gaz gave her a pleasant “nice to see you again”, she just nodded. Despite this rather indifferent arrival, the boys had been so buzzed to see her, all encapsulated by a strange energy towards the woman as if her presence was something of note. It caught Price off guard and suspicious. 

This woman seemed not to give a single shit about being invited to TF141. It was almost as if the privilege of working with them was nothing but a leisurely exercise, a random task she could do for the sake of boredom. And yet, she was so efficient, her work and ability far surpassing the already glowing paragraphs the others had left about her. Price had been almost insulted at how she shrugged so carelessly when he had offered her the full-time position, but he was even more surprised when she signed the contract quickly without much but a soft hum. She barely thanked him before excusing herself from his office as if he had asked her a meaningless question. That irked him. The woman had not strayed much from that point- always polite, reserved, and only cutting through their bullshit on the rare occasions when she would entertain the team with pointed and precise snark. Price was fascinated. He’s used to the endearingly confrontational attitude of Farah, and Lord knows he’s become well-tuned with talking to Laswell; both of those military combat women being paramount examples of strong, domineering characters. This newbie, on the other hand, was not even challenging or stubborn- she was simply unfazed by the beratings or the pressures of those around her. She was above the constant anxiety he had expected from her.

It was hard to garner any sort of reaction; The puzzle of the woman was truly decentered from the male patriarchy of modern military service. Price supposed she had to present herself in such a way; perhaps as a mechanism to prevent arguments or accusations of career climbing through unsavoury means. He would have stuck to this theory if it weren’t for the way he had seen him interact with the utter dregs of the male gaze. No, this wasn't a coping mechanism; this was simply the way she was- unbothered by men and the likes of people like him.

“Looking cute there, sweetheart.” The drawl in a man's voice hardly made her look up from her drink. The team had settled and decided to wind down in some generic pub beer garden at the end of a day near base. The establishment had been teeming with off-duty officers and soldiers, practically drooling at the sight of the newbie in her casual civvies (An infuriatingly well-fitted tank top and distracting shorts Price swears he’s only seen in obnoxious workout ads). With Ghost busy having a smoke, Soap mingling with some bartender, and Gaz ordering a pint, Price was the only one to witness this man getting aired by the newbie’s usual nonchalance.

“Hey, I’m speaking to you. Playing hard to get, eh?” The voice continued, and Price was ready to shift in his seat and maybe flash his credentials. His back was already shifting to sit up when she finally seemed to take note of someone speaking to her. She had simply looked up, as if only noticing the flirt's existence, and tutted as he blocked her sunny view of the rest of the beer garden. There was a string of silence as her hands only moved to pull her straw closer to her mouth as she drank her cold drink, and then lazily tilted her focus to the man's eyes.

“Do I know you?” Her voice cut sharply with each word sounding so uninterested. Price could feel the hair on the back of his neck. The man's cocky grin morphed into one of disgruntlement.

“I know you’re one of TF141’s lapdogs.” He said mockingly, half-heartedly pointing to Price, who wanted to see this scene play out. She didn’t react, no more than a tight lip and a sigh as she leaned forward- icy drink pushed towards her captain. 

“Is that all you got, mutt?” The man’s face bloomed a bright red as she continued to stare him down and lazily play with her straw. When he finally got the message and stalked off, Price couldn’t help but watch the way the girl's finger twirled the paper straw and how the condensation on the cup clung to her fingertips.

“You alright, Sergeant? I can get that guy-”

“No need, Captain.” She brushed it off like nothing, not even wanting any comfort from her superior. Price suddenly had a strange inkling at the back of his mind. The more he watched how relaxed she was as she continued to reject offers of phone numbers and pitiful attempts at flirting, Price couldn’t help but bounce his leg in an almost impatient confusion. Her entire demeanour had made a mark in his brain.

Later that evening, Price couldn’t stop thinking about it all. The way she didn’t even preen when he would compliment her, or the way she seemed to ignore obvious fawning and near-babying from others. The girl was not easily swayed, if it was possible to sway her at all. When Price found his mind drifting onto it while he slaved over paperwork, he couldn’t help but replay all the gentle nods and slow blink she’d give when he asked something of her. Constant. She was constantly calm. 

Price wanted to see her falter. At first, it was a silly desire, a curiosity just to know what she’d look like, bothered and riled up. To see how her face might change if she held any interest in the words he wanted to say to her. He began to experiment. It began with changing the firmness of his voice- harsher when critiquing her. That had resulted in nothing but a salute and quicker times as she barely flinched at his demands. Then he had tried giving her more tasks- tasks of which she simply took without any complaint as well. In a sort of last resort, he had even tried to frustrate the rookie- long hours, needless paperwork, then the opposite with a subtle compliment about her technique, her hair, her smile- All for nothing. All he got in return was a “sure” or a “whatever, sir,” or “Got it, captain.” She was driving him mad. He knew he was being unfair, a bit embarrassed when even Gaz pointed out he was seemingly pushing the new girl for some unknown reason. He was picking on the poor rookie. The older man was racking his brain himself. He didn’t understand why he was so fixated on the lacklustre reactions he was getting from the much younger recruit- why did her nonchalance bother him so much?

It all came to a head when he found himself sitting in the dark of his private quarters. A long day of running practice drills with her as his assistant and exemplar had still resulted in no new changes in her attitude towards him; She had been so obedient yet emotionless to his commands, as if being beside him as he yelled at recruits held no worth to her. Price had treated her like his new project, and she seemed to pay no mind- no mind to the way he wanted to have her. His hands twitched as he sat by his desk. His jeans suddenly felt uncomfortable as he recalled the gaze of the unfazed woman. He was definitely going mad, maybe from the loneliness and frustration of all his work. Price tried to reason with himself- it had been a while since any woman had piqued his interest, and the shame of it being her was fading the more he imagined her eyes staring into his.

He could envision it. She would be sitting across from him, watching lackadaisically as if his existence was nothing more than a blip in her life; How would she look if he rutted into his own palm at the sight of her? Disgust? Annoyance? Interest? He’d take anything. Anything to see some sort of reaction from his most perfect and deliberate recruit. His rough fingers found their way into his waistband, a soft huff leaving his chest as he couldn’t stop himself from fantasising over it all. With slow, languid strokes, he grasped himself for the first time in ages as he tried to picture what she might look like sitting on his bed or beneath him. It was filthy, the way he began to lust over the idea of having her gasp or even whine if she saw what he was doing. What she might be like if she knew what he was thinking of; his thoughts supplied nothing but glorious imaginations of her presence impacted by his depraved dreams. He felt insane for jerking off at the idea of her tutting or pursing her lips, perhaps even mocking him as he came into his large hands. Any reaction from her to seeing him would undo the very controlled strings that made up his existence.

John had barely rested from the fantasy, his hands being cleaned with a towel, still slightly sticky and breath heavy as he tried to look up at his ceiling and regain his own pride. He knew he was fucked up for being so turned on by a woman who was an expert in ignoring him. Someone under his command, no less. As he mulled over his dilemma. His head suddenly jerked at the sound of a knock on his door and the voice of the woman he had just lusted over:

“Captain. I’ve got your paperwork.”  The tall man got up nervously, tried hard to look professional as he shoved his cock back into his pants and shuffled hurriedly to open the door with his own version of tempered nonchalance. 

“Yes Thank you, Sergeant. You’re dismiss-” He had muttered, not being able to finish his words with one hand going to grab the folder out of her hand, when suddenly she stilled. Those dangerous eyes looked him up and down, as if examining him. Eyes flicking to his slightly messy hair and the near guilty look on his face. It was as if she could read him like a well-worn book. Captain John Price suddenly felt like an experiment himself, being judged as the smaller beauty peered at him. As if she knew his weakness and of his cursed attraction to her, the edge of her lips curled ever so slightly, a soft and knowing grin as she pushed the folder into his chest before turning to leave.

“Have a good rest of your night, Captain.”

Johnny thinks he’s a sinner. That’s a statement doused in fear and existential conflict, as his knees press against the worn-out cushioned kneeler of the rickety church pew. The church he grew up in has not changed, unlike the nature of his sins; its comfort has not waned since he last set foot inside for prayer. He is softened by the way the light still flickers through the tall windows- the multicoloured stained glass with unmoving eyes judging the way they always do over the various years he finds himself crawling back. The way the preacher sounds is the same despite being someone different, droning over the congregation as they are invited inward, sounding so full, yet the words are etched with a loneliness in every echoed sermon. 

Remember to keep holy the Lord’s Day. 

He’s not been to Mass, let alone confession, in at least several months now. Johnny reckons he makes a poor excuse for a Catholic. His confessions always feel half-baked, as each year it’s always punctuated by the same hushed murmurs of how many he has killed and by how many he has wronged; no matter the intention of his deeds, the blood that washes over his spiritual body drowns him in some level of distinct childish shame. Each word feels shaky despite the number of times he’s done it, a level of subtle anxiety as if the hidden figure on the other side will be cruel in not absolving him. Every syllable of his act of contrition leaves with a tone of tiredness, and when the ‘Amen’ leaves his lips, he bites the inside of his mouth waiting for the reassurance that, even as a sinner, Johnny is good. Johnny will be saved. 

You shall not kill.

He is not one to break his beliefs without good reason, the ten commandments bearing down on his psyche when he least expects it. And if, for some Godly reason, his Lord had blessed him with his deadly skills and would praise him for fighting the good fight, Johnny will own up to the misdemeanours he commits. With tight grasps and joking words- He can sin without guilt. He can continue walking in the world knowing he is only Catholic in the name he’s been given and not in the blood he’s spilt- not truly. Until he is met with her.

He spots her down the line of the pew in front of him, nestled beside what looks to be a man not far from his age. The Scot’s eyes flitter to the way the dress she wears flows gently on her form- the silhouette pure and homely, just like the one his youngest sister is clad in today. “Catholic girls and Catholic sensibilities”, he hums to no one but himself as he watches with slight intrigue in the way the new woman seems to fidget while the sermon proceeds. Uncomfortable and out of place, as if she feels no safety within the hall or beside what Soap assumes is her lover. Johnny tries not to linger on the way her shoulders knock against the man's, the way her cheeks blush when she struggles to fish out a note for the collection plate and the slight sniffle of embarrassment when she nearly drops the bible while searching for the right page. 

At first, he knows he’s just staring out of wonder; He’s known this church long enough to recognise the man as a neighbour of a neighbour, a boy he’s probably seen once or twice growing up, perhaps even in the same dusty schoolyard many aeons ago. But her? No, he can’t recognise the beautiful doe-like movement, or the light sound of her voice when they all finish up their words and start to file out the heavy church doors. By the time his family start pushing him to meet everyone again, to partake in pleasantries that are deemed necessary for a Sunday afternoon, he recognises worryingly within himself that he is staring at her out of attraction. His sister nudges him in the arm, elbow jutting and quick as his family drags him in front of the woman and her accompanying man. He feels oddly as if he is a mutt before a wolf that is snarling as it stands slightly in front of the pretty woman- protective stance not doing much as he watches the way she lingers nervously. 

“Have you met Harry’s wife?” His sweet mother’s voice is full of friendly intention, pride swelling as she explains to the couple that Johnny has returned home temporarily, free from the constraints of his ever-busy deployments. The pretty figure nods politely, quiet but focused, still like a statue as her Harry shakes his hand. The man is no match for the brutish build Johnny fills out. He could win a fight against this man easily, the true chase and fight being between him and the hen. It is with the way Johnny catches her glare, curious eyes digging into his and running away with a quick flinch to the ground when caught. He is a mutt, and she is a pedigree, all dolled up with a collar in the form of the golden band on her finger.

You shall not covet your neighbour’s wife.

The excitement of churchyard discussion lulls, and as they all bid farewell to the various people Soap’s grown up with, he can’t stop himself from daydreaming about the life he could have once had if he weren’t such a bastard. The self-sacrifice of his title and dedication to being a soldier is losing its charm. The rosary beads in his back jeans pocket make him wiggle in the car seat out of discomfort.

---

His darling mother had not been as pleased as he’d hoped when he first sent the letter home that he was promoted to Sergeant. It made him feel slightly slimy when he picked up the temporary phone to the slight wailing of distraught cries in the background and the annoyed murmurs of his oldest sister telling him his ageing mother was beside herself. Even Years before that, the announcement of his enrollment into the army had already been an angry battle of emotion-filled disdain and concern for his safety. His parents had not been pleased at the idea of potentially losing their only son to the rage of gunfire or worse- the sin of dying in a useless cause; ignoring the grace of God’s peaceful retreats. 

Honour your father and mother.

So, in reflection of these past aggravations he’s brought upon his family, Soap tries not to talk about what he does when he’s off in some faraway land and to make peace with any of his parent’s demands. He will be the good Catholic boy who follows family routines to a tee when he's home. He avoids military talk like some plague that he must ward off with light-hearted jokes and painstakingly domestic chores like picking up his youngest sister from her local bible study group. When he pulls up to the address he had been texted, he admires the beautiful end-of-the-street terrace house; the brick is weathered, and the sidewalk is a tad worn, but it looks stable and strong, as if a beacon of perfect domesticity. It looks like the kind of perfect shelter he’s only seen in children’s books. It is nothing like the modern studio flat he has in central Glasgow. It almost amazes him how this is still a part of the same overpopulous city he’s always lived in. To him, it’s a different world.

He parks up and jogs slightly to the door, pushing the little doorbell that chimes out with an electronic buzz. He hears female laughter and hurried steps from the other side of the nicely painted door while swaying on his feet in slight impatience. He nearly stumbles slightly when the door opens with a wild swing, and he is faced with the bonnie girl from church a few days ago. She looks surprised, head tilted, before her eyes sparkle with what seems to be pleasant recognition. With a charming small smile, she lets him in; constant mutters that his sister is to be found somewhere in the lovely little house. 

Johnny slips off his slightly mucky trainers, where he can see various shoes of her other guests lying, and pads rather awkwardly into the unknown property. He dilligently follows the vision of the woman as if a follower of a saint. He gives a kind nod to the faces he recognises in the lively living room, immediately seeing his sister huffing to rush and pack away her items as the rest of the prayer group seems to be busy enjoying cakes and coffee. He tries not to make a scene when his sister loudly and exasperately begs to stay a bit longer to finish her dessert, and Soap can’t help but relinquish control and relent when both his sister and the pretty lady offer him a slice of Dundee cake on a rather girly teaplate. 

Polite conversation. No crude references or dark jokes. No laddy banter and certainly no mention of his team that is seemingly nightmares away in the moment. He tries to play it cool with the new girl whose supposedly a staple in his family’s life; no one had told him Harry’s wife was such a distinct and prominent member of the church society, and they certainly did not inform him of how close her mentorship with his sisters was. He feels like he’s a spy, listening to a life his family lives without him, a life that has her within it. It makes Soap covet something that he’s never really missed or wanted. A nice suburban house, a living room filled with happy people, a place to call his own that didn’t feel so empty.

You shall not covet your neighbour’s goods.

In the midst of polite sips of a fruit tea in a mug he’s been given, her conversation has him falter- unlike those who avoid discussing his dangerous job, she picks at it like a bird picking at the ground, digging with a pointed beak search for something, hungry and interested:

“Out there…when you fight. Do you still believe in God?”

The question is spoken without shame, as if she isn’t looking for debate but rather confirmation. As if she can see through the familyman veneer that Soap is trying to play up as easily as an angel asking Joseph if he trusts in God’s words. With a furrowed brow and a nervous gulp, Soap leans closer to reply, eyes wary of the company they keep- surrounded by believers who would no doubt cast him aside at an inkling of disloyalty.

“Aye. I’d wish him to be true,” she purses her thin lips into an unsatisfied line, yet her glance lacks the sting of hatred he had expected from such a callous answer.

“Wish? Not hope?” She chooses words like they mean something deeper, as if there’s a stark difference between hoping and wishing, and for once Johnny is thrown into a loop of perilous and grievous thoughts. Hope is to dream of something tangible, to believe in the good graces of something you believe would come, to know something might be there and be lucky enough to be at its mercy. To wish is to doubt if it even exists, but want badly for it. 

“Dinnae ken the difference lass” He shrugs, the words gritted as he stirs the teaspoon in his mug rather plainly, hoping no one notices the tension that is building between the two of them.

“Then hopefully God will show you the difference soon enough.” She says rather ominously, dainty hand going to rest on his shoulder in a soft and gentle pat- Soap tries not to melt in the way her palm feels through his shirt or the way she looks more insightfully. From this interaction alone, He finds himself wanting to linger in her presence, shadow the enigma that’s making him reconfigure where his beliefs lie. How much forgiveness can he wring out from that pleasant smile and patient voice, he wonders.

Later, when his sister is riding shotgun in their parents’ car, and he’s tapping the wheel with some unknown anxiety, his sibling is busy chatting on about the wife he can’t be thinking about. Talks of what she’s like, how kind and caring she can be, how utterly faithful she is, and Soap has to wrangle with the fact its the same woman he feels is clawing at his heart like some demon already. Impossible not to think of.

“Thanks for picking me up- usually she’d drop me off but ta shitheap of her car broke down and she cannae get it fixed easily.” His sister mentions offhandedly, clearly missing the way his hands still and then slide over the steering wheel in sudden interest.

“Is tha right? Whattya mean bonnie cannae get it fixed? That’s what her husbands are for…” he tries to poke out, a masculine urge to prod and criticise the competition even if there's no audience or brawl to champion over.

“He cannae fix a car. Tried and failed- ain’t paying for a mechanic either, mind you- awful right?” Soap hums in agreement. He can fix a car- hell, he was working on engines and twirling wrenches before his oldest sibling had been born. His chest swells in a sort of sick glee at the idea that a man who had managed to snag such a devout and blissful beauty was not able to commit himself to simple duties like providing for his wife. He’s about to make a comment of passive interest when his sister suggests pure temptation.

“Eh, Johnny, why dun you go help hen? You can fix her car. Sure, she’d be well pleased, and it means she can go back to picking up stuff for the church sale!” Immediately, Soap flusters, and there's an awkward level of excuse-making, but as he listens to his sister go on about the various church services being delayed by the woman’s lack of a vehicle, he thinks he could make it an excuse. Help the woman, and it won’t mean anything by it- he’s solely doing it for the goodness of his community, to return the favour of the churchgoers he pretends to mix with. To hide his black wool in the flock of sheep that is his parish, and pray that the lass is a kind sort of shepherd. 

It’s how he finds himself once again at her doorstep, standing under the porch light as if a sinner coming in for repentance. When he meets her and looks her down again, he finds himself unable to tear away from the bruise that is blooming just above the collar of her cardigan. He doesn’t comment, not when she’s letting him in quickly and grabbing his hand like he’d get lost. She thanks him as she leads him to the garage where the broken car sits, and he tries not to pout when he notices the way she holds one of her arms tight. There’s an unspoken pain that he is not allowed to uncover- not unless he wishes to doom them both. He lies when she asks if he’s interested in joining the bible study group. Says the reason is his long departures and busy drills when he’s on base, not that he can’t think of the gospel or of psalms when he’s too busy daydreaming of her. His hands get covered with slick and inky grease, and he revels in the way he notices her stay to watch him tinker.

“Where’s tha man of the house?” his accent shortening the words a bit too much. She spins him a tale of long nights alone as her husband is away on business, sales of some sort, the kind of job that leaves her in too big a bed cold. He tries not to fixate on the way she spins her ring. He feels a level of guilt knowing that if she were his, he’d be doing the same with his deployments- leaving her vulnerable and isolated.

“He left just last night. Won’t be back for a week.”

And suddenly something shifts. His guilt turns into something else: a pang of interest at the unspoken tone that pervades the conversation. When he looks up at that clarification, the woman is close. He can smell the flowery scent of her laundry that clings to her cardigan. He can feel the needy loneliness that practically oozes off of her. He doesn’t stop her when she goes to pull him into a kiss. Her lips tremble against his, and his dirty, greased hands go to ruin the woven fabric of the light coloured cloth, pulling her closer as they nip at each other like the devout drinking water once more. Death, Life, meaningless meaning- everything and nothing makes sense as the smaller figure pushes her body into his with reverence as if she’s offering herself like a lamb to a dangerous spirit in sacrifice.

You shall not commit adultery.

Johnny knows he’s a sinner. Knows it well to punish it with painful repentance when his knees knock the bannister of her staircase while they rush to clamber into the private room of another man’s wife. Knows it as he helps push up her skirt as she lies down spread on some frilly duvet, underneath the watch of a crucifix hung up on the nearby wall. Rough hands go to grope and grasp, his touch warm like Hell’s fire as she keeps murmuring encouragement to continue their sinful ministrations. They are both complicit in this damnation. The soldier follows orders well, as if it’s God’s own command to defile the woman before him.

His hands hover and still over her bruises, the purples and blues looking too oxymoronic for her untainted skin. When he goes to rub his fingers in careful worship af if a healer trying to salve, she grabs at his wrists and whispers words of mercy and forgiveness- she is okay, that she is not harmed now; that God is protecting her. His mind floods with anger and upset that someone so naive could be used in such an unholy matter. He is plotting ways he can out the cruel man she calls her betrothed. He is about to submit to the desire to track him down until his own shame hits him first. He is no less than a user of her, too, a hypocrite as he continues to grind against her and bury his face into her neck, licking and kissing treasured murmurs of an adoration he’s not supposed to be giving her. He, too, is a man who has been given a playtoy of the heavens- but fuck it if he breaks his toys.

This routine continues over the next few days. Johnny leaves his flat under the guise of aiding his community, fixing a fellow congregation member’s car for the greater good. Doing it so that his little sister’s favourite church leader can come back to picking her up, totally not because Johnny can bury himself in the heavenly sin that is the woman with wild eyes and honeyed words. The woman who would somehow absolve his sins even without the power of some Pope or Holy Spirit. By the time the deadline of her husband’s return elapses with no sign of the devil himself, Johnny finds himself committing another sin. The whole community whispers on Sunday when she walks in alone; her gait more sullied and her stature shrinking when she can sense the rumour already bubbling under the surface of the parish’s ocean of fake smiles. Johnny is doing well. Benign, as he is kind to his neighbour, he waves at her instead, signalling for her to sit beside him and his family and trying to shoo away the unwanted attention her lone entrance had brought. Later, after service, when she bids them farewell she is bold enough to give Johnny a lingering hug; his family voice their concerns and prayers for her spirit.

“Bless Bonnie, such a worry to have a woman like that alone and distraught. Do you think he’s coming back, Johnny? What's going on in men’s head when they abandon a gal like that?”

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour.

“Am sure he’s just delayed, is all. Busy man. He’ll come back for his lass, will be a blessing when he does, Lord knows- I know he should. He’s a good man that Harry,” He says rather quietly. He lies as easily as reloading his gun, tactical and precise. He’s seen what that bastard’s done to her. He does not hope he will return. The words feel so bitter and venomous the more he dwells on them. He doesn’t face his sister’s look of concern out of remorse for the joy the woman’s loneliness has brought him.

Her husband doesn’t return before Soap is sent word of another mission. It’s nauseating thinking about how he’s going back to military-issued bedding and commanding orders. This time around, however, his deployment doesn’t begin with a cold, quick lock-up of his flat or a slightly clingy hug from his sisters. It instead starts with a sweet, delightful lass insisting she host a good luck get-together before he goes. As thanks for being such a kind soul. A caring soul. A good man. Crossing the threshold of the flat for something other than a quick screw and church responsibilities has him shudder slightly. In his hand, a metal tin of store-bought shortbread rattles against his watch, taunting him as he thinks of ways he can play coy about having to leave once more to a life of harm and hurt.

The going-away party is full of his neighbours from childhood, his family unit spread across her living room as if this is one of their own territories. The idea is dangerously close to the fantasy that he’s been allowing to play in his head when he sees the church girl, to slot her into his second life so swiftly, like a puzzle piece of domesticity. He kisses his dear mother on the cheek and says words of excitement to little cousins and close-enough neighbours that when he goes to deposit the shortbread on the dining table between the other various deserts, he nearly misses the way the sweet lass calls him over. Beckoning him like some siren.

He follows her out into her tiny garden- her Eden that seems to be protected by brick walls and minor shrubbery. In caressing his cheek and pulling him into a hidden kiss, he thinks this must be what Adam felt when offered the apple from his beloved; torn and blinded by a love more powerful than any saint’s blessing. She does it softly and slowly, and it has him nervous, knowing anyone could catch them if they were to venture out of the main event. 

“St. John Ogilvie was punished for coming home and preaching for the Scottish Catholics in hiding.” She murmurs into his chest as he holds her like some precious holy relic. “Hunted and hung by his own countrymen for believing in a God he had only known after his travels far away…” The story has him hypnotised, sensing an underlying warning in her tale. When she ends it, he does nothing but pull away and stroke her hair out of her face, carding through the locks of hair like he’s counting his rosary beads. She looks dazed and distant, but the moment her holds her cheek, she melts like there’s a blessing in his hold. 

“Let them pray for me, but the prayers of heretics I will not have." She recalls firmly as they go back into the crowd that is awaiting to cheer for him. He’d is to be sent off with prayers and a parish goodbye, promising to beg for his safety while he’s gone. When the evening is over, and the parish files out with good lucks and boons of mercy, the back of his t-shirt is nipped by her hand. She pulls him back into the cursed doorway- asking if he would stay for the night, knowing for a fact he has his military to-go bag already stored in his car’s boot. He wonders if this is God’s intention when its all too easy to say ‘Of course’ and shoot her a wink.

She wastes no time in guiding him back to her once-shared room. They pad through the hallway in a dance of fleeting touches and shallow gasps, the more they pull at each other’s clothing. Naked and exposed, flesh against flesh as he crowds over her, Johnny can’t help but believe there must be some sick saint getting off on his depravity for this woman. They have returned to a state of beasts, ones that feed off of nothing but God’s harvests and the flesh of each other. When he’s able to pinch and pull at her nipples, he thinks of the bairns he could be making if this were his wife. The duties of man, he could fulfil what he promised to strive for long ago- God would make an honest man of him if he let her start it. Call him pathetic and predictable, but the very idea of it all has him spinning. He is a good Catholic boy.

Nimble hands pull at his dick, stroke him till he’s hard and needy for her cunt; he aches when she says his name so delightfully shy- as if she is a virgin once more ready to be fulfilled by something more than pure faith. It’s unholy the way she stretches- the sensation of his head catching on her entrance, making him almost whimper from pleasure.

“Ach fuck- hen, Jesus Christ, you’re tight-”

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

The chorus of moans and the raw way his name leaves her mouth as he makes love to her rivals the heavenly melodies and Ave Marias he has once kept in his brain. There is no other chant, besides her wanton pleas for more. With each thrust in and out of her pulsing walls and slick mess, Johnny feels himself like a man converted- renewed perhaps with a strange calling wherein her pleasure is the only testament he shall dedicate to. Perhaps he will worship not at an altar but at her bedside; Communion is to be with the sweet taste of her lips instead of wine- confession shall be the words he can’t help but desperately admit as he’s fucking right between her thighs and rutting against her blessed form. He is chasing this feral enlightenment like a dog chasing his own tail, circling over and over as he keeps pushing into her wet bliss. There would be no holier imagery than what she would look like down on her knees for him and only him. When he feels her tighten and her body shake in relief and divine filth, Johny can’t help but cum into her. The true believer in him can’t help but praise the fact she’s leaking with his spend, thinking of a time where maybe she might take and be marked as his undeniably forever more.

He falls beside her, rests against her, hands still trailing her skin like he has to know she’s not a figment of his own religiously fueled fervour. When he catches her dainty fingers in his, he doesn’t miss the way her ring is missing- the band glinting on the dresser furthest away from the bed. The girl looks toward him, cheeks all flushed from their connection.

“I will pray for your safe return, Johnny. Promise you’ll come back to me.”

There is a deeper beg in her statement, a wish she has but cannot really articulate. He can’t tell if it’s the fear that he will abandon her like the man before him, or the fear he will be lost without a body to be buried. Johnny lets out a meek ‘I will’ as they fall asleep together.

The next day in the early morning, before the sun has even broken through the dark sky, Soap creeps out and down to fetch his keys- already clothed in his cleanest shirt and comfiest jeans. It’s a long flight out, and he knows he must leave before he is tempted to stay. His fingers sort through the various bits and bobs in the girl’s little wooden bowl near her door; his keys clink against a prayer coin that was haphazardly thrown into the mix.

You shall not steal.

It’s engraved with a prayer to St.Michael. It slips into his pocket wordlessly, and Soap feels like he’s a child pocketing a penny from the collection plate; it’s not enough to make a difference. God has his signs; who is he to not accept them? When he is among his teammates, his brothers in arms, they don’t push when they notice he’s wearing his cross necklace again alongside his ‘RC’ engraved dogtag. Neither Ghost, Gaz, nor Price takes comment on the way Soap is quieter and more withdrawn as they pull into the briefing, nor how he murmurs a prayer before he switches on his comms. His short existence clad in tactical gear will be his penitence for abandoning a blessed woman.

I am the Lord your God: You shall not have strange Gods before me.

It’s rather unbecoming of his character, with how you’ve cornered him like this.

The humiliation of being slightly buzzed and sloppy with his kisses will accompany his hangover tomorrow, yet Rolan finds your touch much too electrifying to worry about all that, as you’ve pressed him against a barrel in the darkened, hidden cellar of Last Light Inn. He’s not sure who grabbed at who first, but a part of him knows there’s no sense in trying to figure it out; he can’t win this game at all- this strange competition of teeth that nibble at each other, the fight to see who can make less noise as the rest of your travelling party continue upstairs without the two of you. You're too good at having him come undone, and as his tail tries to whip itself to grab onto your waist and steady you in his hold, he can’t help but groan when you simply grind harder into his frame.

“Hells. Get on with it-”

“Patience. The world isn’t ending yet.” You nip at him in response, cutting off his protest with a bite on his exposed shoulder- his robe had slipped to expose some of the unblemished red skin. You two had been dancing around each other’s subtle infatuations since the grove, testing the line between bitchy and bratty every moment you’ve gone toe-to-toe. It’s all culminated into this- the sudden eruption of want and desire after being thrown into various near-death experiences and boons of gratitude.

“I’d prefer not to be caught like this in the middle of a crisis, you know.” He nearly complains.

You scoff right before sucking at the spot, creating a hickey that has him rolling up a bit more just to chase the sensation of your skin contact. He knows he’s being mouthy. He also knows you enjoy it, what with your eyebrows raising and the glint in your eye as you continue your frantic assault. He supposes you’re somewhat correct- you’ve managed to sidestep disaster and save his family (And practically everyone else!) once again. You’ve delayed the apocalypse for now. You’re at a checkpoint in your adventure, and he is simply another reward you’ve claimed between each near-unbelievable feat you’ve accomplished. With the way you keep touching him, he can’t find the nerve to be upset at how you’re using and objectifying him. He will gladly be a temporary trophy if it means getting to feel this good.

And fuck does it feel really good. Magic almost. The way your skin feels so soft against his and the smell of you making him dizzy with desire as you murmur sweet words of praise against his pointy ears. He tries desperately not to blush at how you poke and prod at his ego, calling him all wonderful things as if you know how narcissistically perverse he is for this kind of attention. His hands drag across your warmth, pulling you closer so he can lick his tongue further into your mouth and shut you up from teasing him anymore. The silencing works with the hypnotising side effect of getting to watch how plump your lips get from all the kissing when he pulls away to breathe.

He hardly gets time to admire it when you start shucking off your own tunic, armour already long put aside. He’s not used to seeing you so exposed- rarely not covered in grime or some sort of defensive garb, so now, as your pretty tits are put on display before him, he can’t help but stall. His fingers press sharply into the soft, tender flesh, fondling them as he pushes you back, attempting to regain some sort of control over the frenzied battle of wicked wills.

“You’re a blasted being, torturous temptress…a right danger to deal with,” he mutters, every word coming out heavier with lust- the bite in his tone simmering with more arousal as he crowds you in your state of undress. It’s as if he’s trying to recite some wicked spell under his breath just for you. He shrugs off his robes as if they burn his red skin, needing to be rid of them as soon as possible, to match your exposure. Shameless and daring, Rolan finds the urgency to wrangle you so he can press his body against you more fervently. The two of you, in your desperate rendezvous, resort to lying on the floor of the hidden room, thanking the blessed tailor who lined your cape with fur that's plush enough to soften the stone floor- using it as a makeshift duvet of sorts. His bulge throbs hard against your thigh as he ruts, crawling above you, possessed by the need to have more, feel more, be more. As your lips continue to clash and a sliver of saliva from each other's mouths starts drooling against your chins, the tiefling manages to nudge his tip against your wet and needy cunt.

“F--fuck-” He groans, head lulling in the crook of your shoulder, “Gods, let me in…please” the last plea coming out almost as a dreadfully turned on croak. Rolan can’t help himself from pushing deeper the second you mutter approval. His length pulses and fills you up with an agonisingly slow stretch. The slight tinge of pain from his actions has your fingers rush to scratch at his lean back, scrambling to find purchase as you get overwhelmed by the fullness of it all. It’s so much. So much. Rolan, sensing your slight struggle through the way you gasp and keen, helps you adjust- shifting his weight and pausing the invasion of your wetness with kisses against your chest as respite.

“You alright, darling?” The whisper breaks the immense gurgles of the last few moments as he checks in. With a nod and a heady ‘yes’ from your throat, Rolan begins his pace. Measured yet firm, on the edge of depravity as the thrusts get more careless and bold. He hums and moans, the only noise filling the private room being your shared pants and whines. Gentleman be damned, he thinks to himself as his mind gets hyperfixated on the way you sound as he hits that perfect mind-numbing spot. He grinds harder after each push, giving you more pressure on your clit as he tries to make you follow him off to what feels like rapture. He muses that after this, he won’t be able to look you in the face and pretend he wasn’t so depraved for your attention; not when he knows just how you look as you fluster and open your mouth agape in sinful satisfaction.

A jerky thrust has you topple past the point, your orgasm making him almost flinch from the sudden perfect way your walls push and milk his cock. Rolan can’t help but tumble and topple, following right after you. His cum spills out like a shock to the system, the long overdue sensation making his legs feel weak and his head swim. He needed this. Needed to know what you felt like, wrapped around him as he soaked you both in the primal madness of post-danger sex. When he slips out of the messy dribble site of your body and goes to lie his tired body next to yours, he can’t help but blush. He’s not the type to stoop so low as dirty basement trysts (especially not when his siblings who just survived are nearby!), but you- you always seem to drag the very strangest parts of his soul up to the surface, make him commit to plans and impulses he’d not easily indulge.

In his eyes, you’re such a quaint little pretty thing. Your skin is unblemished and smooth without nasty things like the scars that trail across his back or the blemishes that have bloomed on his arms.  Unlike Simon, you are untainted, a pure sight that he gets to ravage and touch and press into when you’re alone and exposed for his eyes and his eyes alone. You, in turn, have a fascination with his tattoo sleeve and the dramatic details he’s willingly gotten etched into his skin; always kissing every bit when you can, despite his breathy protests that they were nothing.

With a cheeky murmur and a passive comment, you had mentioned matching with him; the idea of getting a token of his choice permanently engraved somewhere on your body was tempting. The only thing stopping you from doing so was the intimidating nature of the tattoo pen. With how nauseatingly frightful you seemed to be at the idea of being put under an artist’s needle, Simon had simply muttered into your ear about how he wouldn’t want to have anything ruin your perfect skin. Not at the cost of any of your precious tears and whimpered sounds. He wouldn’t want you to suffer from such an unnecessary process to fulfil a foolish idea he may have once had. No aesthetic was worth your discomfort, not when you were already so beautiful to him. In any case, he could always carnally defile his pure treasure in other ways and satisfy his need to ruin you without the permanency.

​But you saw it. Saw the way his eyes would linger on you, felt it in the way his fingers would press against your back and smooth every inch like he was plotting the art himself. The way he’d stop and stare as if caught in glue when you’d run your fingers over and over again on his inky lines. You could practically see the cogs turning behind his steely gaze every time you mentioned pretty little symbols you liked. He was so obviously intrigued by your own curiosity towards his ink, unable to hide the subtle interest he had lurking underneath the surface every time you made conversation about the art on his body. He wouldn’t so easily admit that the idea of you being decorated with inky designs lingered in his thoughts often.

It was devious, if not almost downright cunning, when you finally found the perfect artist to complete your best idea yet. A strategic move that would finally put to rest the tension Simon held every time he inspected your body. With months of mental turmoil and fighting the instinct to squirm away or turn tail, tucked between legs, you bring yourself to the threshold of a tattoo parlour your friend had recommended. It wasn’t an overly impressive tattoo- you still weren’t quite sure if you were patient enough to lie any longer than the short session. It wasn’t big- but it would be meaningful. Simple. Enough to make Simon’s grip scramble onto you.

It was hard keeping it a secret, even with Simon off on deployment and to ofar way to see your wrap. Your lack of willingness to send him pictures had him concerned that you had hurt yourself in his absence. He thought maybe it was clumsiness making you too shy to show off the way you’d usually do in those rare late-night communications. It had been even more difficult when the ever observant menace that was your boyfriend saw you all covered up, barely willing to prance around in your bra like usual when he got home. Instead, to his dismay, you were hiding your figure with baggy shirts (Not that he would ever truly complain about witnessing you draped in his possessions). At one point, you had to grab at his wrist, shooting out your small hand to slap his touch away as he was trailing too close to your waist when he had settled himself behind you as you typed away at something.

“What's on with you then, Love?” he had grumbled with displeasure as you shooed him from your proximity. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t pry, not even when your excuse was so flimsy it had his brows furrow in suspicion. His nosiness was evident in the way his fingers flexed at the side when you turned to talk to him, all while avoiding his slight clinginess like you were some sort of sick and infectious creature. What were you hiding? Were you sick of him? His mind raced, trying to reason why you were suddenly closing yourself off from his touch.

When it finally healed up, you tried not to be obvious in your excitement to have a night in. You planned it down to the outfit you intended to wear- a skimpy little scrap of lingerie that was hidden and tucked away by one of your favourite stolen shirts of his. Your sudden turn back into a touchy lover had Simon almost dizzy with anticipation. You were definitely hiding something, and fuck, he could be patient. He’s willing to play into your traps if the outcome is as soft and eager as you were being. The movie you had put on in the background barely entertained as the two of you cuddled, pressed shoulder to shoulder with hands roaming. His palms were on a tour of your thighs as he tried to shift you closer and closer to be near him.

“Just tell me already, Love, what’s on with ya?” He nearly purred into your ear when you dragged him to the bedroom to rest. In between all your fleeting kisses and the giggles you tried suppressing, Simon was getting more and more riled up at the surprise you had promised would be coming. You had requested he didn’t laugh- that he be kind about it; your face blushing as you told him to sit with his back against the headrest of your shared bed. You’ve stripped for him plenty, and during the countless nights of each other's pleasure, he has never once said a mean thing about your grace. Simon could not fathom your embarrassment and nervousness, so he simply nodded and hummed, eyes trained on watching your body move before him. You had positioned yourself to sit between his legs as they stretched out across your plush comforter. With your back to him, you try not to blush as you lean forward away from him and proceed to gently and slowly shuck off his old t-shirt. The fabric had barely left your frame when you felt his grip immediately hold you still- Simon had growled out your name the moment he saw it.

Thereupon, your lower back in elegant font, dancing right above your tailbone, was his name marked. Permanently stamped on your shape.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

He gently but firmly pushed your back further down into the mattress as he went to trace his fingers upon the tattoo. Hypnotised by the way you had practically labelled yourself as his property. As you bent over on display, His voice was a low timber of approval, barely saying a word as he admired how possessively perfect you looked with nothing but his name on you.

​“Yer tryna kill me, Love. Hiding this from me was dead cruel,” he whispers. You can hear the guttural desire that invades him when you ask him if he thinks it’s pretty. He drowns you in compliments, and he is quick to press you down and clamber on top of you to kiss your neck in reassurance. He desperately wants to fuck you and mark your perfect skin with more than just his name- cover you in his mess and blemish you with hickies that won’t go away after a day of rest.