sometimes i have to make jacking off more sexual intentionally because honestly most of the time itās just like. idk getting my oil changed but im the car
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heavily fw that dynamic where two masc guys beat each other bloody rather than admit they want each other, then end up aggressively making out through split lips and bloody noses and grabbing at each other like they canāt get enough.
"Your love language is what you were deprived of as a child" actually no you're allowed to want, prefer and like things without everything tracing back to some dormant unprocessed trauma. You can just say you want to bounce on it without having to explain how as a child you always wanted - but never got - a trampoline.
ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words
cw: none. 18+ mdni
[masterlist]
your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.
If she was perturbed by his demand that she put on her beanie before she hopped out of his truck, whatever look she gave him when he suggested that he carry her to the door was ten-fold.Ā
Not an offer he made to be a gentleman, was never in his nature to be one. Wasnāt about to lay his coat down over a puddle for her to step over. It was the pragmatic thing to do, he thought, because the girl was already teetering on the edge of early-phase hypothermia and there were no socks on under those slippers. Last thing he wanted was to have to strip off her wet clothes and stick her in front of the fire wrapped in blankets, because he was sure sheād kick up one hell of a fuss if he tried.Ā
Her circumspect squint twisted into a gawk of disapproval once she had processed the offer, standing in front the garageās open side door with her arms crossed like a crabby little girl.Ā
āWhat? Thatās ā no, Iām fine, thank you.āĀ
She had to yell it over the volume of the gale, whipping through the towering pines that surrounded his cabin and hammering against the open door, snow blowing in from the thick coating on the ground outside.Ā Ā
āSnowās a foot deep,ā he growled, and when she shook her head he scoffed irately. āFuckās sake. Fine. Move it then, snowās gettingā in.āĀ
She only chuffed, marching out into powder once he stepped aside to give her room ā impeded immediately, because the ever-thickening layer of fresh snow reached her knees. Watching her try to wade through it might have made him laugh if his tempers werenāt so high.Ā
It was genuinely a miracle he even managed to get the truck up the long driveway and into the garage, considering how deep the snow was already ā and it was still growing deeper, the snowfall was so dense he could practically see it accumulating in inch-thick layers with every passing minute.Ā
āCāmon,ā he barked, planting a firm hand on her shoulder to nudge her forward the porch, guiding so that she didnāt hit the rocks and bushes hidden under the snow.Ā
Smirked when she failed to conceal her chill from the ice filling up her Uggs, a bright squeak as the biting wind nipped at her cheeks. Not a long walk from the garage to the cabin, only ten-odd metres, but he had no interest in tending to frostbite if she was completely snowblown by the time she toppled through the front door; so he was not gentle.Ā
āWhat about my stuff?ā She moaned, as he jostled her up the porch steps until she was under shelter, and began punching his code into the lockbox by the door.Ā
āJesus, girl,ā he grumbled, exasperated, almost snapping the lid off the box in his ferocity to open it, sheer frustration turning his hands into bear claws. āIāll get your shit in a second. Getting you inside first.āĀ
She was bouncing on her toes as he unlocked the door, already shivering and whimpering in the cold; her hair was covered in a sprinkling of snow, white flecks caught on her lashes and melting on her cheeks. Once he managed to unlock and open the door, he hooked an arm around the small of her back and unceremoniously hurled her inside.Ā
Fucking dog started barking immediately, those ear-splitting husky yelps he let out whenever Simon came through the door; only exacerbated by the surprise arrival of a stranger. She squealed in fright, stumbling backwards until she fell against his torso ā and that startled her even more, she chirped and bounced off him like a ball off a racket.Ā
Couldnāt help but chuckle at her, as he reached around her and tousled the dog between the ears.
āCareful,ā he sneered. āHeās aggressive.ā
A joke. He was a well-trained pup but a miserable failure of a guard dog. He didnāt jump or mouth, just rested his chin expectantly on her belly and wagged his tail like a whip, panting like he had just run to the lake and back. Had clearly chosen a new favourite already.Ā Ā
āThisās Johnny.ā He cleared his throat, because the name made his mouth dry to utter aloud; and only then did he realise he hadnāt spoken it in months. Only ever referred to the dog as boy. Shorter, simpler that way. Didnāt leave burns on its way out.Ā
āOh,ā she bleated, once she had caught her breath, releasing it with a sheepish chuckle. Gave the blue-eyed husky a timid pat on the forehead. āHi Johnny.āĀ
He stepped around her, then, shutting the door behind him and heading towards the woodburner in the corner of the small sitting room. Added a few logs to the embers to get the fire going again, blowing on it until the pile glowed amber and a puff of ashes sprinkled over the stone tiles around the hearth.Ā
āCāmere,ā he ordered, as he shut the firebox door and twisted the wrought iron knob to seal it.Ā
āHm?ā She hummed, distracted by the dog who lavished her in attention, and her expression was not nearly as dour than it had been not a minute earlier. Boy seemed to have that effect on everyone.Ā
āHere,ā he repeated, no give in his tone.
She meandered over without dispute, dog nailed to her hip and looking up at her expectantly. Kiss ass.Ā
āDark in here,ā she remarked.Ā
āMh. Iāll start up the generator in a minute,ā he said, dusting the slivers of wood off his palms and heading back towards the front door. āWarm yourself up.āĀ
āWhere are you going?ā Her arms crossed, pup as attentive to his departure as she was.Ā
Didnāt like that the concern in her question made his throat sting like he had swallowed something sharp.Ā
āUnloading the truck,ā he said.Ā
First thing he did was start up the generator.Ā
Needed a top up on diesel, but it started without issue thanks to the antigel, and through the sheets of snow he saw the lights flicker on through the bathroom window once he stepped out of the shed.Ā
The blizzard was somehow worsening, though, and in the few steps from the toolshed to the garage he felt shards of ice form in the mucosa of his nostrils, skin of his cheeks threatening to blister in the cold ā so he decided to unpack the truck proper in the morning. Anything perishable would be better preserved in the frigid air than his freezer, anyway. He took in the fuel cans, though, so the petrol wasnāt frozen by morning, and begrudgingly grabbed the girlās enormous suitcase from the backseat. Weighed a damn tonne.Ā
She stood uneasily in the corner of the sitting room as he lumbered back into the cabin, pushing shut the door with significant effort against the incursive gale and sealing it with a switch of the lock. He kicked the snow off his boots as the dog wandered up to him and gave him a welcoming sniff.Ā
She watched him like he had committed some wrongdoing, rigid and white-knuckled, perched close enough to the fire to feel some of its warmth but not curled up like heād hoped sheād be.Ā
āWhat,ā he grunted, shucking off his thick black jacket and hanging it from the hook by the door, the snow that had coated it dusting over the hardwood. There was a churlishness in his tone he didnāt intend to put there.Ā
She only returned with a mutter, crossing her arms. āNothing.āĀ
āWhatās the matter,ā he repeated, impatient, as he walked in her direction. āYāwant a bite?āĀ
She didnāt seem appreciative of the offer. āNo thank you.āĀ
āWhat do you want, then?āĀ
He didnāt mean to snap like he did. Abrasive was an apt description of him upon reflection, because every word that came out of his mouth was acrid with irritation. He was irritated, though. He just lacked the ability or care to conceal it.Ā
She only huffed like a child, turning to look into the woodburner instead of at him, as he came to a stop in front of her. She seemed to shrink when that close to him.Ā
āUse your words, girl. Canāt be arsed with sulking.ā
She gritted her teeth as she chewed on a response, still averting his gaze, pinching at the fabric of her hoodie as though some habit borne of discomfort. He was sure he was making her uncomfortable just by being in the same room as her, but that was something sheād just have to suck up or get used to.
āIām just tired,ā she mumbled.Ā
He sucked his teeth. āRight. Well, couch is there if you want to sleep.ā
Not the most appealing thing to sleep on, heād admit. A two-person loveseat with wooden armrests and thin, overused cushions that had lost their spring after forty-odd years of exiled military asses sitting on them. Place was built in the eighties, he guessed, and half the furnishings were mummified remnants of the era.Ā
Stiff shit for her, though. He could see her wrestling with it, eyes peeling away from the sapless couch to flit around the room, as if she might find a more comfortable alternative.Ā
āThere a problem?ā He asked, amused at her hesitant expression when she met his eye. Heād have loved to tell her that her only other options were his bed or the dog bed. He was sure sheād have chosen the dogās.Ā Ā
āNo,ā she shook her head.Ā
Her belligerence did little to obfuscate how afraid she was. She was riddled with it, pre-programmed by a swollen amygdala to keep her still and chary as a trapped animal. It left him exasperated more than anything ā because there was seemingly nothing he could say, nothing he knew to do to assuage her overwhelming distrust. Unlikely she would sleep a wink that night while in the cabin with him, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be sleep-deprived and crabby when the news of her inevitably extended stay was broken.
He wanted to tell her he wasnāt a bad man. He didnāt think he could say it with a straight face. Couldnāt convince himself, let alone the girl he dragged in out of the cold.Ā
He let out a harried sigh and rubbed his brow with his thumb. āScared Iāll do something, are you?āĀ
Her glare pinned to him, and he could all but see the battle waging behind her forehead ā deny politely or risk honesty. Asking her so bluntly was probably not the most couth way to go about it, and he she tightened up at the notion.Ā
āI justāā She hesitated, squeezing her shoulders with the hands wrapped around herself. āI donāt really know you.āĀ
He nodded, tilting his head in concession. Not quite a clear answer, but she confirmed it implicitly.Ā
So he turned and went to the tall cabinet by the door, rummaged through the drawers within for a moment, before returning with his glock. Was never good at storing his firearms properly. It was fortunate she didnāt register what he was holding until he held it out for her to take, grasping it by the barrel, grip in her direction.Ā
She gawked at it, horrified, and for a heartbeat he dreaded that he had made everything worse by presenting her with the very tool she feared heād murder her with.Ā
But she reached for it tentatively, fortunately understanding he intended to give it to her and not point it at her. Whispered what the fuck to herself as though forgetting she had spoken aloud. He found himself amused by how gingerly she took it from him, holding it like it was liable to jump from her grip or explode if she touched it wrong, eyes not parting from it for a second. Tiny hands made the thing look twice as big.Ā
āSafetyās on,ā he mumbled, turning the gun over in her palm to show her the switch, before flipping it. āNow itās off.āĀ
āThis is⦠why would youāā
āSāyours,ā he said dryly. āIf I do something bad you can shoot me with it.āĀ
āI ā you ā but Iāā Short-circuiting, evidently, eyes darting from the pistol that suddenly looked more comfortable in her hand and back to him, her supposed captor.Ā
āWonāt need to, though,ā he said dismissively, giving the dog a pat on the side before he turned and wandered towards the narrow hallway. Dog was staying with her tonight, apparently, because he remained by her side instead of following him to his bedroom like he usually did. āBlankets are in the basket under the couch.āĀ
āWhere are you going?ā She asked again, and he bit down on nothing.Ā
āBed.ā
He anticipated silence, or some more whingeing, or perhaps even a bullet to the back of the head on his way out.Ā
Instead, an apprehensive murmur. āGood night.āĀ
He didnāt know what to say to that. He responded with only a grunt.Ā
His dreams were ugly.Ā
Axes and lumbered logs, too wet and rotten to burn. Blood where it shouldnāt be, splashed over the stump, smeared on the throat of the axe grip, in the shape of his handprint. A futile effort to wash the red off his hands, and while the water ran rusty down the sink, the stains remained.Ā
Only when they were rubbed raw, finally clean, did he find a splinter in his palm ā tried to squeeze at it, pick it out with his fingernails, scratch off the flesh it was embedded in ā he woke up with his fingernails burrowing into his hand, with sweat clammy on his neck and and his blankets kicked off.Ā
The heater in his room had been humming all night, and the cabin was well insulated, so he had almost forgotten the extent of the snowstorm until he slipped off his bed and tugged open his plaid curtains.Ā
White.Ā
All he could see. For a moment he thought the snow might have been deep enough that it swallowed his entire house ā instead it was more whiteout, thick cloud that obfuscated much of the horizon he was used to. The snowfall was lighter, though, and the wind had somewhat settled. The lodgepole pines that were once spindly and deep green were thick with a coating of fondant, branches drooping under the weight of the cover.Ā
Hard luck for the wee girl on his couch.Ā
He remembered she was there as he wandered out of his bedroom in his sweatpants, rubbing his eye with his palm and grunting huskily to clear his sleep-coated throat.Ā
He could smell her. Only in the warmth did the faintest hint of her perfume fill the air, or perhaps her deodorant, even just the scent of her skin ā utterly alien in the permanently dust- and tobacco-tainted air of his cabin.Ā
She was, bafflingly, still asleep when he made it to the kitchen. He spotted her curled up on the scratchy woven rug on the floor, a stolen sofa cushion under her head and two woollen blankets pulled up to her cheeks. The fire had gone out overnight, and she and the dog were as close as possible to the hearth without sleeping on the stone surround. Dog must love her already, squished up behind her with his chin resting in the hollow of her waist. That, or, she was a good source of warmth.Ā
The couch must have been that uncomfortable. Couldnāt bear it for even a single night, princess and her damn pea. He wondered if heād be able to find her an alternative for the next few nights sheād be stuck with him, but heād cross that bridge when he got to it.Ā
He heard a faint moan as he lumbered towards the kettle, filling it up with water and setting it on the gas burner. Must have woken her up. He hadnāt made any particular effort to be quiet, though such a thing was near impossible for him. So damn heavy that every step shook the floor.Ā
She was still fully dressed as she stumbled over to the kitchen archway, same clothes as yesterday, though she had her pompom-adorned beanie on the top of her head. Must have been cold overnight, once the fire went out.Ā
āMorning,ā she said, voice all croaky from a rough sleep, rubbing her eyes with her fists.Ā
āCouch no good?ā He asked derisively, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the counter.Ā
āIt was a little um ā yeah,ā she dithered. Yet unwilling to be frank with him. āItās fine, though, I slept alright.āĀ
āOn the floor?ā He questioned, smirking, his back to her.Ā
āIt was fine,ā she repeated.Ā
He shrugged. Unwise suggesting the only alternative just yet. He grabbed the tin of teabags from the cupboard.Ā
āTea?ā The offer was bitten out short and impatient, a grunt more than a word.Ā
āIād like to hit the road pretty soon, if thatās okay with you.ā
He let out a hoarse sigh. Too fucking early for a conversation he didnāt want to have at all. He had hoped sheād have come to terms with it on her own, the obvious fact that she was there to stay. Spared him the argument.Ā
Her eyes flicked up from his chest as he turned to face her, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He might have grinned if he wasnāt filled to the ears with beleaguered dread.Ā
Birds used to love it when he forsook a shirt in his days of being an active field operative. Back when he was nice and chiselled, all carved abdominals and lean around the middle. Two years of hibernation had thickened him up, though. He had grown a hearty padding of fat that wrapped his meat and kept him warm, muscles bulked up by the manual labour of living off-grid. The slight paunch of a man too familiar with alcohol and a diet of mostly red meat and baked beans.Ā
Not a pretty sight, in his estimation āĀ but he wouldnāt begrudge her skittish glances. Liked that she looked a little sheepish when she met his eye.Ā
He chewed on what to tell her. How to say it. āHave you looked out the window?āĀ
āYeah, itās pretty snowy, soāā
āIt is,ā he grumbled.Ā
āāSo we should probably head out before it gets worse.ā
Just about rolled his eyes. Scratched his stubbled chin instead. āUse your head, love.āĀ Ā
āWhat do you mean,ā she questioned accusingly, āI am. I want to make sure I can get to a ā a town, or something, before I get stranded.ā
Seemed she wouldnāt reach the conclusion on her own. āYou already are.āĀ
Her brows scrunched up at that. āNo ā itās, but you saidāā
āI know what I said,ā he disputed. āI said if the roadās open Iād take you.āĀ
āYou donāt know that itās closed,ā she spat, āyou havenāt even gone out to check.ā
āMh. Go on, check then.ā
āButāā
āFind the road for me.āĀ
She scowled, scoffed, turned up her nose as she stomped over to her nest on the floor and shoved her feet into her Ugg boots. He found himself chuckling as she unlocked and tore open the front door, only to be met by a wall of snow on the porch that met her knees.Ā
For a misguided moment he was satisfied. Patent evidence that there was no chance of driving anywhere, smack in front of her, surely that would suffice ā but then she stepped into it.Ā
āFuckās sake, girl,ā he barked, marching to the door. āI wasnāt serious.āĀ
She was unfazed. Waddling through the powder like she might walk all the way back to fucking Hazelton.Ā
He was woefully unprepared to follow her. Only item of clothing he had on were his grey sweatpants ā no shirt, no socks, no shoes. Hardly enough time to put his snow boots on before she got too far and vanished into the whiteout, so he left them unlaced as he ordered the dog to stay and hurried out into the snow.Ā
Lucky that the residual body heat from his fitful sleep meant he could handle the gelid morning without a jacket. Hoped it would last as long as it took to catch her.Ā
It took him a moment to spot her through the cottony haze of cloud ā a moment too long for his liking, because he felt his chest tighten up when he couldnāt find her, until he saw her silhouette meandering towards the garage.Ā
Fortunate that he was well-practiced in trudging through snow, and she manifestly was not; must have got her foot caught on something, because he watched her topple forward and land arms-first into the powder. Heard her squeal get muffled by the snow as she sank in it.Ā
Growled indignantly as he shambled towards her, where she scrambled and bleated like a tipped goat, failing to push herself to stand. He hooked her by the belly once he reached her and reeled her out of the chalk-white snow, hoisting her up like a limp animal, cold and wet.Ā
She didnāt kick, didnāt squeal, didnāt even wriggle in his grip; instead she disputed with only a moan, a pitiful appeal; āput me down.āĀ
Her defeat was tangible in her laxity, though, flopping her arms over his shoulder as he hauled her back to the cabin. Snow that had stuck to her hoodie melted into his skin and his frustration only distended, gelid water dribbling down his spine and soaking into the waistband of his sweatpants, and he might have called her a stupid girl if the circumstances didnāt make him feel like a reprobate.Ā
āAny luck?ā He grumbled, needlessly facetious, as he carted her up the snow-coated steps and finally had her back inside. Shut the door with his boot before he dropped her to her feet.Ā
She stood there with her arms crossed, snivelling quietly to herself, refusing to look at him or take a single step in any direction. Perhaps he would have felt guilty, if she hadnāt forced him to venture out into the frigid morning to prevent her from getting herself killed. Again.Ā
He pinched the thick fleece of her hoodie between his fingers. Soaked with melt.Ā
āYou gonna do that again?ā He asked grimly, watching the flakes of snow on the top of her beanie deliquesce into the holes in the yarn.Ā
She was obdurately silent, wiped away a smelting snowflake with the sodden cuff of her sweater as she glowered at the wall to her left.Ā
āI donāt wanna be stuck here,ā she mumbled, somehow spiteful. āI donāt want to be stuck here with you.āĀ
He couldnāt suppress a mordant chuckle at that. A puff of droll air out his nostrils.Ā
āStiff shit,ā he said. āI donāt exactly want you here, either.āĀ
The grimace she gave him could have turned him to stone, but it only made him grin in placid amusement. A cruel twist of fate, wasnāt it?
āThen why wonāt you take me back?ā She asked bitterly, and his amusement was snuffed out as quickly as a blown candle.Ā
āYāthink Iāve kidnapped you?ā He questioned, vexation poisoning his tone. āSāthat really what you think?Ā
Seemed she wasnāt willing to say as much, that she wouldnāt stoop low enough to make an outright accusation, but she wore her conviction plain as day in the crease in her brow.Ā Ā
āYou wonāt let me leave,ā she murmured, her voice suddenly infinitesimally small.Ā
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they ached and he saw red blooming, because she was, regrettably, probably right. He had no intention of letting her leave. Not one. Heād sooner tie her up by the ankle to the radiator than let her wander out into the snow on her own.Ā
Heād like to think it was merely fervid protectiveness. An inborn and insurmountable need to safeguard the vulnerable that was only fostered by a decade in the military. The pathological need to obviate any further responsibility for someone elseās death.
That was a charitable excuse, though.
He could feel something uglier in his gut. Something dark and desperate, borne of a malignant and omnipresent familiarity with loss. A void that both forcibly assured its vacuity and yet still hungered for something living and beating to surfeit it.Ā
Worse, still.Ā
She was such a pretty thing.Ā
He loathed that he liked the smell of her, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Even in spite of how she irked him; a prickly rosebud in the thorn-ridden bramble of his solitude, one that he quite selfishly enjoyed the presence of.Ā
āNo,ā he admitted, through teeth. āI wonāt.āĀ
Wet little eyes fixed to his. Scleras all pink from welling tears and a restless sleep. Pupils blown wide and black, looking for something. He could feel it, picks mining away at the stone walls surrounding his motivations, like there might be something obvious within them. He wasnāt even sure what sheād find.Ā
āSnowstorm will last a couple days,ā he said, eventually, amidst a sigh. āThen itāll clear up. Snowāll melt. When it does, Iāll take you wherever yāneed to go.āĀ
Then, miraculously, she nodded. Slowly, warily, but he was grateful for even an iota of acquiescence, so that he didnāt have to confront the possibility of forcibly restraining her.Ā
āHow long will that take?ā She asked, taking a preparatory breath.Ā
āWeek, maybe.āĀ
Good timing from the dog, as he meandered over from his bed and sniffed at her thigh, and she seemed to loosen a little. Gave him a scratch behind the ears.Ā
āDo you ā have you got supplies for that long?āĀ
āāNuff to last a month,ā he said. āNot my first time being snowed in.āĀ
She nodded again, and he felt a weight lift from somewhere he couldnāt pin. āOkay,ā she breathed. āFine. As long as you promise youāll take me to town the moment you can.āĀ
āCross my heart,ā he grunted. Plain in her expression she understood how brittle a promise was from a stranger, but he was pretty sure he meant it.Ā
The silence that followed was prickly. Clear she had no clue what to do with herself, as if awaiting permission or instruction, because she was somewhere she wasnāt supposed to be.Ā
āYou should put on something dry,ā he said, as he turned to head back into the kitchen. Kettle needed to boil again. āWant a tea or not?āĀ
She said nothing as she went back to her spot on the floor, and he heard her unzip her suitcase and burrow around in the doubtless mountain of clothes within.Ā
āUm ā yeah, thanks,ā she said, and after a moment she appeared in the kitchen archway with her arms wrapped around a bundle. āWhereās your bathroom?āĀ
āFirst on the left.ā One of two doors. Decided against warning her that it didnāt have a lock.Ā
She came back a moment later. āIs it ā um, is it okay if I use the shower?āĀ
āUh-huh.āĀ
āDo you have a spare towel?āĀ
āCupboard in the hallway.āĀ
āCan Iāā
āUse whichever one you want, I donāt give a shit,ā he grumbled. āJust donāt use all the hot water.āĀ
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+18 mdni one night stand!simon riley x reader (reader and simon are avoidants lol)
you've been out of a toxic relationship for a year or two, haven't seen anyone since. not that you were stuck on your ex, you just couldn't be bothered with the whole relationship shit. a few flirts, some half-assed texting, a date or two where you ordered the cheapest drink just to get out faster. nothing stuck. serious isnāt your thing.
it wasn't his either.
he hadn't come out for anything. just a quiet pint or two to take the edge off.
then you walked in.
not loud, not flashy. a dress that skimmed your thighs but didnāt cling. laughter soft with your friends. a pretty bird that didn't belong in a pub full of older men nursing their big pints watching football.
and then your eyes met his. brief, but deliberate.
your friend leaned in, whispered something. you just shrugged, glanced back at the bar. at him. you were here on holiday, might as well indulge a little bit.
he noticed the glances. the way you lingered near the bar like you wanted him to see you, but werenāt desperate for attention.
the subtle lean closer when you ordered another drink. the way your spine arched just so his eyes could wander.
the smile you gave the bartender, held just long enough before you turned to meet his eyes across the room. how you swayed your hips walking away with the repeated rounds of drinks he knew you and your friends couldn't finish.
and some time later you sat near the bar after your friends left.
coincidentally. openāa quiet invitation for him.
in his field of work he's been there long enough to know when something wasnāt quite a coincidence. knew how to read people. situations. signals.
then here you were, back in his hotel room. your heel lay by the door, the other stubbornly half-on as you tried to peel it off between kisses, both of you fumbling just enough to feel alive. his hands slid down the dip of your waist, tracing the flare of your hips before tugging gently at the hem of your dress, pulling it over your head in one swift motion.
everything else fell away and finally what felt like forever you were sprawled under him, his strong forearm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, forcing you open as he drove deep into you.
your half-lidded eyes raked down to where his abdomen flexed, every brutal thrust sending muscles tightening and releasing. glimpse of scars, pale lines etched to his skin.
you remembered asking what he did. he muttered something about his work being military-adjacent. no rank, no details, just a shrug and a swig of his pint. you didn't press further.
"oh...fuckkk." your head fell back, lips part when he hit that sweet spot. the moan crawled up slow, rumbling in your throat before spilling out. soft and wrecked, half a sigh, half a sob.
"that's it..." he murmured, voice low and rough with that thick accent you found so hot. the filthy slap of skin against skin echoed through the room as he fucked into your sopping heat.
"good girl." his coo made you clamp down on him like a vice.
he shifted forward, pressing in deeper with a grunt. the forearm braced behind the back of your thigh now pushing up against your chest. a moan tore from your throat, breath hitching. he had you bent, and folded into a mating press. his breath, hot and sharp with whiskey, fanned against your lips.
he fucked you like he knew you, he fucked you like you weren't just some stranger from the pub he gave into entertaining tonight. he fucked you like he wanted to forget and remember all at once. like he needed it. like he needed you.
his cock had you drunk, more than you can say about the shit drinks you forced yourself to order, just for an excuse to hang around the bar and be near him.
his forearm pressed tighter into your thigh, pinning you as he fucked you hard, fierce, raw, urgent. then his calloused hand curled at your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his before he pulled you up for a bruising kiss. the kiss was raw and real. like he needed to claim you, to remember you.
the kind of intimacy that clawed at something inside you, that usually made you pull away, that leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable.
for him, the kiss held a quiet frustration, an ache buried beneath the surface. the sting of knowing this was only one night, impossible to be more.
everything you both always walked away from, laid bare in that moment.
and when the wave of pleasure hit, it hit hard.
your walls spasmed around his cock. eyes fluttering, lips parted. his nameāno, the fake name he gave you, spilled from your pretty lips in a broken moan. and for a moment, he wished he'd told you the real one. just so he could hear it.
a guttural grunt deep in his chest as he buried himself to the hilt, a bruising grip at your waist. you arched into him, one hand clawing at the bicep flexed beside your head, the other caught awkwardly between your bodies, pinned between your ribs and the press of his shoulder blades, as if you weren't ready to let go yet. his breath burned against your neck, hot and uneven, the weight of him all around you.
when you both came down from your high, he slid beside. chest rising and falling, heavy breaths, the smell of sex thick in the room.
part of you wanted to tell him your flight wasn't actually tomorrow, but the night after. that maybe there was timeājust a little for something. but the words caught in your throat, you swallowed them down.
you slipped out of the sheets, moved slowly. he watched as you got dressed. quiet. didn't ask, didn't reach. just breathed.
he called the cab for you. not in a trying to discard you kind of way, but like someone who understood you both got what you came for. but also, who knew if he let you linger even a minute longer, it might start meaning more than it was supposed to.
might open a door to something dangerous, something neither of you were ready for.
no numbers exchanged. no kiss goodbye. just left it at that.
that night stuck with you more than it should've. you caught yourself thinking about it often. mentioned it offhand to friends. at first, they listenedāattentive. but their responses dulled over time, less curious, less amused. like they'd heard it one too many times, you didn't even realize.
finding little things to meddle you about (he tells himself it's just his attention to details)
you're prepping for a mission. ghost does his usual quiet scan, then-
"holster's loose." he says, low. flat.
you brush it off, say it's fine. he doesn't argue, just steps in and adjusts it himself-tight, precise. then again, same tone, not raising his voice: "i said it's loose." there's no softness, no warmth, no explanation. he doesn't explain and he didn't need to, you knew.
tries to impress you- or should i say he doesn't need to try, you are impressed.
you're on comms, keeping an eye out for any movement, feeding ghost intel as he maneuvers through the building.
"two tangos outside the storage room." you informed him.
"i see them." he responded- a bit too quick. then you offer to ping him a route, expecting him to take the extra help but instead, his voice crackles through the comms, low and dry.
"nah. just...watch."
a breath and you could already hear bodies on the ground, clean, effortless.
"wow."
"still watching?" you could hear the smirk in his voice.
he won't coddle up to you or give you pep talks when you're nervous, he'd say little but the right things to get your head out the gutter. he doesn't do shit for you bcs he knows you're capable, just gives you a lil push when you need it.
you're deep in a warehouse, alone this time. tension's high, dark as hell. your breaths coming faster and he could hear it. ghost's voice cuts through your earpiece-
"bit quiet back there, love. you dead yet?"
you don't answer right away, scanning corners, hands clutched on your weapon. he waits a beat, no panic, he knows you won't die easy.
"still breathing," you mutter.
"good. try not to embarrass yourself. soap's taking bets." you roll your eyes, but your nerves died down. he didn't ask if you were okay. didn't have to, he knows you're tough. you just needed the noise.
your strength is what he admires most about you. he won't insult you by acting like your knight in shining armor, but when you're in trouble he offers a quiet backup. he knows you can handle yourself though, it's only when situations like these he'd step in.
you're cornered, outnumbered, but still holding your ground. a shot rings out from behind- ghost, clean and quick.
"i had it." you exhaled, annoyed.
"didn't say you didn't." ghost, casually reloading. you glanced over, he stood calm and poised.
"you're welcome." he shrugs.
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hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god
Finish reading a fanfic and feel awful about one's own writing then proceed to try and create works "as good as" that story. Or try to replicate that authors writing.
Scroll through social media for what fandoms are popular right now to see where you can join and get your writing seen.
Take in every piece of writing advice there is and then stress, trying to create an award-worthy fanfic story.
Crying because you can't describe your bedroom scene the way your fave fanfic writer did in their story; or because you can't describe your character's facial features like the way the advisors of writing on Tumblr said you should.
I must include this and exclude that to get my fanfic-writing respected and seen
I'm nervous about whether others will like or hate my work when I share
I don't wanna write, I have no inspo, but I must write cause I'm in this fandom that's hot right now and all my fellow writers in said fandom are posting
What fanfic-writing started as and should be;
You enjoy a piece of media, art, song, etc., you're hungry for more and so you write an extension of the universe to include stuff you wanted to see, that the original creator didn't include. No rules, no standards, and no restrictions.
Excited to just write and share a work. If others love it, it's a plus
If you want to write excellent fanfics, that's very fine as long as you're having fun and you're not stressed.