#xintothewoodswegox

He works in one of the best restaurants in the city, which is as fantastic as it is annoying, because it means that you hardly ever see Johnny at normal hours.  His shifts can start at half seven in the morning or two in the afternoon, and they’ve easily gone on for fourteen hours some days.  It’s not entirely unusual for you to be pulled out of deep sleep for a minute or two almost every other night—you’ll hear him try his best to be quiet sneak into your shared flat at and you’ll sleepily wonder if he’ll stick around the next morning long enough for you to make him some coffee or have breakfast together. 

And, of course, when he’s not working or sleeping, he’s studying. 

Your flatmate’s biggest and most well-kept secret is his university degree, one he’s determined to see through while he continues to work.  You wonder how he isn’t closer to burn-out, but you know him.  You’ve known him for a long time.  

He’s one of the hardest working people you know, the most cheerful, the life of the party, radiant and glowing, both inside and out, and you love him you love him you love him—

The front door clicks quietly shut and then—“Bonnie?”— and you smile.  

“In here,” you call out, and hop off the couch to grab him a beer.  He meets you halfway—when you close the fridge door, his goofy smile greets you—and oh.  The man makes your heart flutter, even after all this time.  Especially after all this time.  “Hi,” you whisper, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.  “Alright?”

“Better now,” he says, smiling.  In a few fluid moments, he’s taken the bottle of beer in his hands, used his teeth to open it like the complete savage that he is, lifted you up and set you on the counter.  “So much better now.”  The words are muffled on account of his face being buried in your neck, arms naturally going around you.

The actual time Johnny can spend with you feels like it comes in peaks and troughs, but never his affection—you’re always spoiled in that regard.  

You’ve never bothered labelling this thing you have with him because you don’t need to.  You share the lease of your flat, just as much as you share the good and the bad of your lives.  He’s your best friend, your flatmate, your confidant, your pillar of support, just as much as you’re his bonnie, his emergency contact, his mother’s favourite, his his his.    

“Mmpf—smell nice,” he murmurs (the words muffled against your skin make you shudder and you feel goosebumps along the length of your arms, but Johnny never notices).  Only when he pushes away from you do you get your first proper look at him.   

He looks tired, so so exhausted, but even then, nothing can hide the fact that he glows.  His eyes are melted lazulite under the dim kitchen lights, all the colours of the bright blue sea melted into one.  They hold you captive, and you almost miss his tired babbling.

“...knew it was gonna happen, but right now?  Been just months, wasnae expectin’ it, hen!”

“Wait, what?”

“What?”

You roll your eyes and try to get him to repeat himself.  “What weren’t you expecting, what happened?”

Your words make him roll his eyes mockingly, and he boops your nose lightly.  “You weren’t listenin,’ bonnie?  Simon.  The mad lad’s only gone and married his lass!”

“WHAT?”  Your brows kiss your hairline in shock, and you’re left gaping at him.  “Seriously?”

“Seriously!  Saw her rock on her finger today, massive thing!”  He shakes his head with a smile, and you know it’s in fondness for Simon and his new wife.  “Said Simon wasnae havin’ her hide it anymore.”

“God!  Married!  It’s so…grown up?”

“Suppose so, bonnie.  Nice, though.”  He pushes himself away from you and chugs  half the bottle of beer you’d given him.  “Debrief on the couch?” 

“Yes, please,” you groan and jump off the counter, massaging your buttocks.    

You follow him outside and he plops on to the couch, but there’s no sign of his usual routine of turning the telly on for some football.  You watch as he puts his beer on the coffee table (completely ignoring the coaster, of course) and leans his head back against the couch, looking deep in thought.  

Johnny looks beautiful in that angle, you think—broad shoulders leaning all the way back, his neck exposed and looking ripe for your mouth, your tongue on his skin.  You watch in a daze as he brings his hands up to rub his eyes with his palms, then stretches lightly and relaxes.  “Come sit wi’ me, bonnie,” he says, without opening his eyes, and you’re walking towards him without even registering the fact.  

He draws you in effortlessly, and each time, you fall into his orbit without even the pretence of resistance.     

“It…bothers you?  The fact that Simon’s married now, like a real adult?”  You busy yourself, looking anywhere but him, mindlessly moving his beer onto the coaster.   

“Naw, bonnie…no, it doesnae bother me.  I just…dunno, just bein’ a twat.”

“Maybe,” you say without preamble.  “You’re not…jealous?”

“Shit.  Maybe ah am,” he concedes.  “Dunno, it’s never bothered me like so before.”  He turns to you with a sceptical look in his eyes.  “Ye don’t want it?”

“Marriage?”

“Aye.  That and…to fall in love.”

Ah.  Your mind thumbs through the collection of moments you’ve felt over the years—moments where you’d been so sure that you’d crumble before him, beg him to feel about you the way you felt about him.  The memories flip in your consciousness painfully  until you have a measured response for him.  One that doesn’t give you away.  

“Doesn’t everyone?” you whisper.  

“Aye, of course.  But it’s different.  Girls are supposed to want it more?”  He says the words with a mischievous grin, and you have to scoff at the obvious attempt to rile you up. 

“That’s very feminist of you.”

“Just saying’ what ah’ve heard!”

“And yet, you’re the one bitching about it, John.”

“John?!  Ach, bonnie, you cannae call me that!” he says in mock-horror, hand reaching up to grasp at his chest.  And then he smiles at you again, sincere and full of light and so, so him, that you return in, almost involuntarily.  “Ah’m happy for him, of course.  He’s happy.  In love.  Happy.”

You laugh out loud before you can help it and take a second to notice his glare.  “Sorry, sorry!” you wheeze, sounding decidedly not sorry.  “You sounded like you wanted to fuck him there, for a second, I’m sorry!”

“Aye well, he’s handsome, no?  I’d go fo’ him!”

“...yeah.”  You sigh dreamily as you think about Johnny’s boss—tall and handsome, with arms the size of trucks—and the appeal is obvious.  You’ve met Simon several times over the years, and he’s only ever shown you respect and polite interest.  He’s not exactly your type, but even you can’t turn your nose up at a man that looks like Simon does.

“Okay, that’s enough daydreamin,’ brat!”  Johnny laughs, knocking into your shoulder with his own.  “Lustin’ after a married man.”  He shakes his head dramatically.  “Yer shameful.”

“Nah.  I’m happy for him too!  And…you needn’t be upset about this, Johnny—”

“I’m no’ upset at all—”

“I know.”  You put your hands up in surrender.  “You can be happy for your friend, and for Simon, and you can want it for yourself too.  Nothing wrong with that.”  You try to keep your voice calm, but understanding.  After all, you know all too well the feelings of both, coveting and being happy for your friend.    

 “Guess not.  N’ these things take time, do they not?  It’ll happen?”

“It’ll happen,” you confirm.  “Just need to find the right person and feel the right feelings for them.”    

“Gosh, this conversation’s makin’ me miserable!  Hate bein’ single, y’know?  S’not good for me.”  He leans against the backrest again, and turns his head just so he can look at you.  “We’re both single at the same time in a long time, bonnie.  Ye realised that yet?”

“Shit.  Yeah, you’re right!  Wow.  I hadn’t realised that!”   In fact, you hadn’t stopped thinking about it.             

“We oughta do somethin’ abou’ it?”

You hope to god your laugh only sounds nervous to your own ears, and that you don’t like a character in a Sunday morning cartoon with your shifty eyes that don’t dare stray in the direction of Johnny’s face.  “How about, tomorrow, I pick you up after your shift and buy you a drink?  We’ll even stop at that nasty chicken shop you like after.  So you can’t complain that I don’t do anything nice for you!”  

His eyes melt, and you along with them.  “Thank ye, bonnie.”

“Always.”

You can’t help but smile when his eyes radiate pure happiness at your words.  It takes so little to make Johnny happy and you want to spend a lifetime doing it.  So lost are you in the thought, that you don’t notice the twitch in the muscles of his forearm at the look on your face, how his fingers tremble as they cup your cheek.  When he kisses your forehead gratefully and leans away from you, you don’t hear his heart speed up or his shaky exhale, don’t feel his clammy palms.   

“And you’ve ne’er felt it, eh?  The right feelin’ for the right person?” he quotes you.

“No,” you lie.  I love you.  “You?”

“No,” he lies.  “But…maybe someday, eh?”

It's quiet, but you know intimately of this kind of quiet’s transient nature.  You focus on the soothing, familiar motion of your knife on the chopping board, while he stands behind your station, methodically sharpening his knife.  The only sounds in the kitchen are the low, electric hum of the walk-in, the wet whooshes of his knife moving down the body of the whetstone and your constant chop chop chop of the seemingly endless bunches of parsley in front of you.  

It’s a crisp morning, not quite warm in the kitchen yet but…you’re glowing from the inside.  It’s him.  The cosiest jumper you own and the spiciest hot chocolate you’d ever had doesn’t even start to compare.  His presence warms you from the inside out, and it’s strange to dwell on it for too long, making you feel like the ground under your feet’s been swept away and you’re falling, falling, falling.

When he walks past you, his arm brushes yours, and it’s ridiculous, the speed with which your heart takes off in your chest.  You stand in front of an open flame for a living and still, your cheeks have never been warmer, all from that one action.  He’d loved you for hours the night before—and you him—and still, your heart tries to beat out of its chest at that single touch, maybe the most innocent one you’ve both shared.  

But, oh.  He freezes for a moment when the back of his hand makes contact with yours too, and you wonder if he feels what you feel.  Warmth and electricity and a gentle, insistent voice in the back of his mind whispering yes, this is right, this feels so right, doesn’t this feel so right?

You take a deep, shaky breath and try to bring your attention back to the herb in front of you, vividly green and curly and fragrant and—

“Coffee, love?”

To your utter embarrassment, your breath sounds shaky when you exhale.  When you look up at him, he’s too close.  Clouding your mind and your judgement and god, you want to kiss him.  You want to feel that sharp jaw under your fingertips and his slightly crooked nose against the side of yours, and that shudder in his spine when your tongue touches his—

“...love?  Coffee?”

“Yeah.  Please.”     

____

The last time Simon takes his mask off in front of you is when he comes to your house on that day.  

You only have to hear the sound of the key turning in the lock for a smile to break on your face, almost involuntarily.  It’s been about two months since you’ve seen him.  You’ve both gone longer without seeing each other, of course,  but this one’s special.  This time he says he’s on leave for three months.  This time, it’s the middle of December and bitterly cold outside.

This time you’re going to pluck the courage to ask him to spend Christmas with you.

So when you hear the door open, you’re up and sprinting. Simon only gets a split second of a warning before he’s dropping whatever’s in his hands and opens his arms for you.  And when you crash into his arms, he lifts you off of your feet with a small oof.  He takes a step back—it’s only later that you see the bandages at his side and note that he seems to be favouring one knee over the other—but you bury your face in his neck, trying to crawl inside him. It’s nothing short of bliss.  In any case,  it’s not like he seems to mind—his arms tighten around you in silent understanding.  You both don’t say a word for a few moments, choosing to languish in the calm, the sweet silence, the welcome quiet of his homecoming.  

You’re the first to break contact, and he takes a deep breath—inhaling the scent of your hair?—and puts you down on your feet.  You’re astonished at the reminder of how big he is compared to you.  He towers over you—large and broad and fucking gorgeous, and if you could see yourself right now, you’d see your eyes shining up at him, your affection and your love and your attraction trying to make themselves known to him in your glassy stare.  

You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, but it seems he’s not done making you moon over him yet.  He tugs his face covering off— a simple black surgical mask today—and shakes his hair at you, spraying you with cold water, making you giggle.  He’s not done though—he leans forward, a whispered hi at your ear, and presses cold lips to your cheek, making you squeal and squirm from him, before he’s kicking your door entirely shut, and dragging you to your bedroom.

He seems like he wants to savour you, but you’re overcome with sudden desperation, feeling feral for this man.  Please, you beg.  What you don’t say is that you want him to take his time with you, give you all of him, demand that you give yourself to him in return. 

But what you need right now, more than anything, is for him to put his hands on you, remind you of what you’ve both been deprived of for weeks.

But Simon is nothing if not intuitive, and he’s always been entirely in tune with your body.  He knows what you need, and he’s more than happy to oblige. 

He kisses you like it’s an art form, his tongue soft but moving deliberately.   His hands are on the sides of your face, and if that wasn’t enough to make you completely melt into him, he moans when you grind into him, the soft noise sounding almost involuntary.   

There’s barely any time wasted after that, and in a matter of moments, he’s pressed deep inside you.  He hasn’t even bothered removing his clothes, you note, nor yours.  Your panties are quickly slid to the side, and he’s pile-driving his hips into yours.  The deep rocking motion has you sliding upward, and in a moment of desperation you’re throwing your arms up, hands wrapping tightly around the posts of your bed so you don’t slide away from him.  

But the image of you in that moment— your arms above your head, breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts and your silk top pooled around your waist, head thrown back and your mouth slack from the exquisite pleasure—is too much for Simon, who bends over in half to stoop down to you to kiss you.  Fuck, love, he whispers against your mouth, and your eyes almost roll back into your head at the accompanying thrust.  His hands come to your hips and hold tight, the way he knows you like, and you just know that you’ve got the most glazed-over look in your eyes, but he doesn’t care, holding you still and making you take it.  

Makin’ a mess on my cock, pet, he says, and you look up to see him watching where you’re joined and it’s almost in slow motion that you see his hand leave your hip and make its way to your clit when—

You’re jolted out of the dream by a blaring alarm.  Fuck.  

You can taste the evidence of brackish water on your skin and your head pounds behind your eyes from lack of any meaningful sleep.    

It’s the morning after you were the architect of your own doom, but the world hasn’t shifted from its axis—though yours certainly has—and you’ve got work and responsibilities, but still no Simon.  You glance at your phone quickly, checking for a missed call, a message, anything to show that he’d wanted to fix things and talk to you with the same insane desperation you did.  

There’s nothing.

You get dressed idly, wondering if you’ll see him waiting for you outside your flat, or at the restaurant, or at the supermarket.  In the days that follow, you even wonder if you’ll see him in your flat one day after work.

(That line of thought dies a gruesome death when you wake up one morning to see an envelope with your keys, sitting on the floor inside your flat.  You cry yourself to sleep that night.)      

You cast a golden net for him, and he falls in, just as helpless and flailing as a newborn babe...and yet.  It’s Ghost.  It’s the man you’d kill in his sleep if you could be bothered with the mess it'd make.  It’s the man you’d have killed in his sleep if you could be bothered to arrange it all.

But you’ve found something infinitely better.  He shows a moment of humanity—a flex of his stupid gloved fingers when Price had chewed you out over something—and you’re ready to take advantage.  It’s just the way things are between the two of you, you tell yourself.  This is how it works.

 ___

Ghost takes the bait, hook line and sinker.  It’s pathetic and humiliating and if he could kill you, he would, and yet.  It’s you.  He’s seething, his rage palpable around him, shimmering along his silhouette and he’s ready to kill.  More than ready to kill.  Both you and the puny, worthless rookie you’re currently fucking.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re bossy,” the rookie whispers pathetically, and Ghost hears your breathy moans in response.  Fake, of course.  Ghost knows what you sound like.  He knows that when you take it, you’re quiet.  You’re so fucking quiet, your brows furrowed, head thrown back, tits bouncing as he slams you on to his cock and it always always makes you—

“— think you’d look fucking hot on top of me.”  Your voice is silky smooth and sultry in the cocky way only you can manage and yet, it’s fake. Again. Ghost knows how to make your mouth stay blessedly shut, knows how well you swallow his cock, your lack of self-preservation around him equally as mind-blowing as your lack of gag reflex, and he knows—

Ghost hears a low, constant, buzzing vibration, and fuck.  He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected you to play this dirty.  Hadn’t expected you to come on the rookie’s cock, had banked on your frustration from your own plan leaving you high and dry. But Ghost know that with that vibrator against your clit,  it would take you exactly two seconds to—

“Fuuuck,” he hears you moan, and you draw out the word like you can’t even be bothered to finish it.  Ghost hates, no, despises how the sound of your voice, how the first real sound of your pleasure makes his own hand work faster on his cock.  He hates what you’ve reduced him to—horny and angry and feeling more and more out of control and less and less like himself with every day he spends around you.  Listening to you come with his cock in his hand and his ear to the wall.  No better than the rookie you’re fucking to torture him.

When you finally come, so does Ghost, panting, groaning into the fist he’s biting down on.