maggyme13

[maggyme13]

❤❤❤ poor lass! Can't wait to read what happens next!

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Four

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: post-apocalyptic au, swearing, dubcon elements, touching, kissing, dirty talk, sexual content, jealousy, possessive behavior, manipulation, mild degradation, oral sex (female receiving)

Word Count: 4.5k

You make yourself an offering. You and Ghost give into your base urges. Soap comes knocking.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Warmth at your back. Solidness against your thigh. A comforting halo of safety.

Home.

Where there is a hammock on the porch. Where the garden calls your name. Where you sit amongst your archive, losing yourself in the endless books.

Inhaling through your nostrils, you exhale through your mouth, yawning slightly as you stretch your leg muscles, the tension melting away, feeding into the moment of peace.

You’re floating. Content.

There are no marauders. No gunshots. No skull-faced lieutenant dressed in black.

A dream is all it is—a distant nightmare that has passed into memory. It will no longer plague you like an itch. Freedom is in your hands. Vast. Open. A field of endless flowers.

Beside you, something moves, and all that peace is yanked from behind your eyelids.

One eye opens, searching. As you turn your head, a sliver of sunlight cuts through your vision. With an annoyed groan, you retreat from the light. You sniff, and the place smells wrong. It doesn’t smell of home.

“You’re moving too much,” grumbles a male voice.

British. Gruff. Familiar.

We’re taking her with us.

You don’t belong to me.

Your eyes snap open. The wall is an off-white with a hint of yellow, not the florals you’re used to. Above you, the ceiling is the same. This is not your bedroom. This is not your space.

Not a dream, then. Which means—

Ben.

The blood and bullets return, creeping in until it consumes, forcing you back to a moment you long to forget. Unable to contain the pain, you release a little whimper, sounding like a kicked dog.

A large hand gently grasps your upper arm. It’s warm—a little rough. “What’s wrong, love?”

Lieutenant Riley. Ghost. Captor.

A wave rises—laced with grief. Last night, Ghost insisted he could not take you home. That he would not take you back. Home has been ripped from you. By him.

The hand upon your upper arm squeezes in reassurance, urging you to turn toward him. Part of you resists. Refuses. But the pull of comfort is a siren’s song, and there is a man here willing to give it.

You roll onto your back, only for Ghost to push up onto his elbow, leaning over you. The middle of his brow is creased with concern, his whiskey-brown gaze roaming over your face before checking the parts of you above the sheets.

“Are you hurt?”

The tenderness in which Ghost asks surprises you. His grip shifts, cradling your cheek, thumb gently brushing back-and-forth across your skin.

Ghost’s head tilts, gaze roaming over you with an assessing look. “I was rough with you.”

You swallow, saliva sticking in your throat. “You were,” you agree.

His fingers curl slightly, catching on the small hairs on the back of your neck. It’s just a light tug—a redirection, but you surrender to him, allowing Ghost to draw you in.

“Are you in pain?” Ghost’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

You shake your head. “Not the physical kind.”

The corners of Ghost’s mouth slightly turn downward. “I can’t take you home.”

“I know,” you reply, voice cracking. Your eyes burn, tears threatening to claw themselves up to the surface. “You said that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it sounds like he means it.

The future is uncertain, laced with the unknown probability that you will likely never return to the life you knew. But this new world shaped you—made you understand that you don’t always have a choice.

Whatever happens—whatever life you’re about to be handed—you will survive.

You always do.

“I want to believe you. But I don’t trust you.”

Ghost leans in further, the tip of his nose nearly brushing yours. “You shouldn’t.”

Piercing. Sharp. A hollow point on impact. The pain runs deep through your veins, seizing your blood.

This man is no savior—no sanctuary. But he is all you have now.

What will you do after processing, when you’re reintegrated into society? Will they dump you onto the street? Force you to fend for yourself?

Your answer is cradling your cheek, asking if you’re all right.

Survival. Always survival.

“What do you need?” asks Ghost, a husky bite in his voice.

The pain will swallow you up if you allow it, shredding your resolve until you waste away from despair. Dust. Smaller than dust. A scattering of atoms. A small drop in a large ocean. Yet a life raft floats in front of you, asking you what you need, inviting you to grab hold.

Placing your hand flat against Ghost’s chest, you splay your fingers wide, gently caressing. Ghost groans low in his throat—the sound nearly a growl.

“I want to forget for a bit,” you whisper. “To not be afraid.”

Ghost shifts closer, his grip tightening to a possessive hold. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes,” you gasp as Ghost’s lips linger just shy of your own, teasing the promise of a kiss.

“Do you know what you’re asking for? With me?”

No.

“I don’t care,” you reply, sounding more desperate than you mean to be.

This is a power play, a way to draw him in, to want you enough that you’ll be protected once you make it to the safe zone. Nothing about Lieutenant Riley’s behavior says that he’ll force himself on you, but his actions haven’t entirely been pure. He might be a bad man, but he isn’t the worst of them.

“Won’t lie,” he growls. “You’re a bloody tempting thing.” Ghost’s thumb drops to your throat, pressing lightly against the pulse point.

You press yourself into him, showing interest. A low groan escapes him, his pupils dilating with arousal. Showing a bit of vulnerability with Ghost might result in nothing. Give him your body for the morning, allow him to rut and fuck to his contentment, only to toss you aside once you arrive at the safe zone. It’s a real possibility. A true fear.

Yet there is hesitation speaking in your ear—whispering.

He comforted you during the executions.

He placed Ben somewhere Zac and the others will find him.

No one tried to take advantage of you with him around.

Small acts of kindness. Moments of gentleness. Each is a confusing justification for how you’re feeling. Ghost is not to be trusted, but you might be able to rely on him in this unknown world.

But you also remember his boot on your back, the way he shoved you against the armored truck, how he joined you in the shower uninvited. They negate the good, and you’re left with a neutral reservation of how to approach this man to your advantage.

So you fall into what you know.

“Then take the offer,” you sigh, offering your mouth.

Ghost lingers in the moment, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Thumb sliding up your neck, Ghost presses it to your bottom lip, dragging it down to admire your teeth. Releasing, it pops back into place.

“And what are you offering, hm?” he muses, snuggling closer to you.

The boxer briefs he wears hide nothing, outlining every inch of what he has to offer. There is no mistaking his interest.

“Me,” you answer, all breathy and soft. “You can have me.”

“And I make you forget for a bit?”

You nod, and Ghost shakes his head. “Do you really want this?”

The answer is unclear like swamp water. Ghost isn’t shoving you down into the bed. He’s not forcing your legs open to slot himself between. But he isn’t pushing away or denying you. Either would be preferable. At least you’d know where you stand.

This back and forth is worse.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” you entice, tilting your chin.

“Yes,” he replies automatically. “Badly.”

Badly is a growl, bordering on desperation.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s grip on the back of your neck tightens—almost hurts. You attempt to move and find that you cannot. “You called me a selfish bastard last night. Now you want to have it off with me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” you counter.

Ghost smirks. “No.”

“You’re familiar with a woman hate-fucking you?”

His smirk becomes a knowing grin. “A good hate-fuck is my specialty, love.”

You roll your eyes, the palm against his chest no longer a caress but a barrier. Pushing at him, you attempt to scoot closer to the wall—to create some distance.

“No,” he says, the singular word full of authority. Ghost surges forward, rolling you beneath him, trapping you against the bed.

“Get off me,” you snarl.

“Thought you wanted to forget?” he chides. Ghost’s knee slots between your legs, forcing them open a bit.

The only thing between your bodies is the shirt you wear. Nothing else. Can Ghost sense your arousal even though you deny it yourself?

“I do,” you answer. Ghost arches a single eyebrow. “I did,” you correct.

“I don’t believe you,” he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, lips dangerously close to falling upon you.

Like a flint strike, a spark snaps into existence. Ghost’s hand delves downward, fingers featherlight as they skim over your bare thigh, only to curl under your knee. He urges your left leg out and then up against his waist. Through his boxer briefs, Ghost’s erection settles where your pelvis and hip meet.

“What would I find if I touched you?” asks Ghost, his hand sliding higher. “Would you be wet for me?”

“No,” you lie.

Ghost clucks his tongue like he knows the truth. His hand moves higher. Higher. Higher. With a roughness that makes you moan, Ghost squeezes your upper thigh, fingers digging into your skin.

“Should we find out, love?”

That large hand of his shifts to your inner thigh, creeping closer to your exposed sex. There is no underwear to create a barrier, and the shirt you wear is bunched around your stomach. As his thumb brushes over your labia, your hips involuntarily rock into his touch. Ghost’s response is an answering groan, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he nuzzles the side of your face.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, voice a whiskey-bite of a caress.

Breath heavy, chest heaving, you open your leg wider, giving Ghost complete access. It’s just a touch, brief and tentative.

“You are wet for me,” he sighs, thumb pressing to the entrance of your pussy.

You can no longer deny—no longer pretend that his closeness isn’t affecting you. You hate this man. You want to push him away, to claw out his fucking eyes, to scream and curse him with all your energy. But he smells nice, his touch gentle, and the intimacy in which he holds himself over you speaks to a desire within him that seems to go beyond the bonds of simple arousal.

It makes no sense. It’s absurd. Infuriating. Confusing.

You are breaking. Fracturing. Is this even survival anymore? Are you simply giving in?

Just a small twist of his wrist and Ghost’s thumb ascends to gently circle your clit. You gasp with pleasure, head falling back to expose your neck. Ghost dives in, running his tongue along your throat.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“A hate-fuck doesn’t have to be rough,” croons Ghost. “Can take you just like this.” His thumb plays with you, circling and circling until the soft tingle of pleasure becomes a building, pulsing thing that vibrates under your skin. “Make you beg for me,” he breathes.

With his other hand, Ghost grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. He holds you close, lips just shy of touching.

“I’ll fuck you slow. And you can tell me how much you fucking hate my guts as I rearrange yours.” Ghost presses his thumb directly against your clit, making you shiver. “What do you say, love?”

“I think you talk too much,” you murmur, purposefully goading Ghost to action.

“Then let’s put our mouths to better use.”

He moves first, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours. Acceptance is all you can do—all you can offer. You’ve started this game, insisted on this, and now there is nothing but to follow through. You need Ghost to want you, to keep wanting you.

Grasping the back of his neck, you meet him with equal need. While you need him on your side, you also need to let go, to release some of this tension and pretend that your life hasn’t been upended.

His hand between your legs gently strokes, slowly building you towards your release. You gasp against Ghost’s mouth, and he chuckles, going in for one more kiss before descending, peppering your neck with affection.

Your hand roams over his muscled back. There is no consistent smoothness to his skin. Scars are present. Some clean and thin and solid. Others jagged. Rigged. And you briefly wonder where he obtained them all.

Ghost’s tongue tastes the hollow of your throat. “This needs to fucking go,” he growls, tugging at your shirt.

He ceases playing with you, both of his hands grasping your shirt, pushing it up your body. A sudden wave of apprehension rises. The shirt is a barrier, an illusion of safety. And there it goes, right over your head, tossed to the floor.

Ghost’s grasps the sides of your ribcage, planting a kiss between your breasts. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his head to tease the underside of your left breast with his tongue.

“Lieutenant,” you mewl when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

You fist his hair, tugging Ghost up your body. He makes a pleased sound as he rises to meet you, seizing your mouth with a kiss that steals your breath. His strength is a powerful thing, yet the way he kisses you—touches you is almost reserved in its intensity. There is no intent to harm, to make you fear him.

Ghost breaks the kiss, easing his weight onto one arm. He reaches between your bodies for his boxer briefs, shoving them down and over his thighs, kicking them away. There is nothing between your bodies, not even the sheets.

Sitting up, Ghost settles between your legs on his knees. Every inch of Lieutenant Riley is on full display. Solid, thick muscles. Criss-crossing scars. Tattoos on his fingers and an entire sleeve down his left arm. Whiskey-brown eyes with pale eyelashes that pierce right through you.

This is a wraith. A Sentinel of Hell. Dangerous. Fierce.

And you’re beneath him, panting with the anticipation of bringing your bodies together.

“Tell me you hate me,” he commands, voice gruff and laced with lust.

“I hate you,” you murmur as Ghost reaches out and caresses your inner thigh.

His hand roams upward, smoothing over your stomach. “Again.”

“I fucking hate you,” you say a bit louder.

Ghost fists his cock and pinches one of your nipples between thumb and index finger. “Again,” he growls. “With more venom.”

“I hate you,” you moan. “You’re a selfish fucking bastard. And I hate you.”

Another pass of his hand, fingers tracing lines down your body, sending little sparks of pleasure through you. It’s blissful agony, and though you do hate Lieutenant Riley and the situation he’s put you in, his touch is welcome.

Your legs fall wider.

“Bloody hell,” breathes Ghost as he slides his hand up and down his cock.

In other situations, like this, when you were simply trying to feed yourself or put a roof over your head, the men would already be on top of you, grunting like feral animals for a few thrusts before finishing. There was never any pleasure in it. Never any desire. They would quickly fall asleep, leaving you hollow like an abandoned burrow.

Predators. Every. One. They all leered—sneered at you like you were filth, as if the only place you belonged was beneath them.

Lieutenant Riley doesn’t gaze at you like that. There is appreciation in the way he takes you in. A longing. A…yearning that makes you question all his motives for taking you in the first place. Under his attention, you feel wanted. Desired.

Another stroke, and a bead of precum blooms. You lock onto it, gaze focusing in as more emerges from his slit. As if sensing your thoughts, Ghost wipes it up with his thumb. Reaching out, he presses his thumb flat against your skin between your breast, drawing a line of cum downward.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You comply, and that thumb slides past your lips and over your tongue. A slightly salty flavor flowers. Now you know his taste.

Ghost drags his thumb over your tongue, then your bottom lip, and to your chin. “Grab your thighs. Draw your legs up. Keep yourself open for me.”

Refusing his authority and pushing back is natural at this point, but in this, you submit. And you’re glad to.

Ghost lowers himself, lips finding yours. It’s not a tease of a kiss, but an embrace, surrounding you with lustful need. You’re going to enjoy this. Deep within you, you understand this, and you want to explore this primal intensity.

Another kiss. Lower. Down your neck. Over your breasts. Across your stomach. Descending. Further. Further still.

His tongue teases, and a little cry escapes you.

“LT!” You nearly come off the bed as someone pounds on the door. “You awake, Ghost?”

“Shit,” mutters Ghost, his warm breath brushing against your inner thigh.

Releasing your thighs, you sit up slightly, staring at the door. There’s a stranger here, wanting entrance. The lusty haze over your eyes evaporates, your head clearing like a rainstorm surrendering to the sun. You went too far. Ghost has his head between your thighs and you were holding your legs open for him, enjoying every second of his tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper as a spike of panic rises.

You start to draw inward. Even your legs are retreating, pulling away from Ghost.

“No,” he growls, large arms hooking under your thighs. He drags you back. “We’re not done.”

The stranger pounds on the door again. “Ghost!”

“Piss off!” he shouts over the top of your thigh.

Whoever is on the other side of the door laughs. “Captain sent me.”

With a deep sigh, Ghost rests his forehead against your stomach. “Stay here,” he murmurs. He lifts his head, lips glossy, and there is so much hunger in his gaze that it momentarily spears you. “I’m not done with you.”

Jesus Christ.

Ghost pushes off from the bed, and you remain the stagnant deer, frozen to the spot. The pounding comes again, the door rattling loudly in its frame. He strides forward, steps purposeful and pounding.

Disengaging the lock, Ghost yanks open the door. Bright sunlight pours in. “What the bloody hell is it, Soap?”

Soap. You know that name. He sat beside Lieutenant Riley in the Humvee.

Without the plain black balaclava on, you have a clear view of Soap’s face. His eyes are a lovely blue, his dark brown hair is styled into a short mohawk, the sides shaved but not bald. In his arms is a stack of neatly folded clothes.

Soap’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. He whistles, taking in all of Ghost’s nakedness. “Damn, Lt. What a greeting.” He shrugs, smiling like an idiot. “Feel a bit overdressed.”

“You’re taking the piss,” mutters Ghost. “What do you want?”

Soap opens his mouth, clearly intending to deliver a message, but his gaze snags as if caught on a fishing hook.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he focuses in on your nude body.

You snatch the bedsheet, covering yourself quickly.

“Eyes on me, Sergeant,” growls Ghost. There’s no kindness in it—only authority.

Soap’s gaze lingers for a few seconds, eventually shifting back to Ghost. “This an open invitation, Lt?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?” asks Soap. He starts to lean to the side, peering at you around Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost steps into his line of sight, cutting you off from his view. “Put one foot inside this door and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Soap snorts. “Okay, Lt,” he laughs. “I’ll back off.”

Tucking the sheet around you, you scoot down the bed, leaning forward to listen in.

“What’s all this?”

“Clothes,” answers Soap. “Clean uniform for you. Things for her.”

Ghost grunts and extends his arms. Soap surrenders the clothes to him. “Should grab breakfast before it’s all gone.”

“We’ll do that,” mumbles Ghost.

Soap shrugs, and then a wickedly mischievous grin spreads over his face. “Unless this is your breakfast?”

Ghost’s answer is to slam the door in Soap’s face.

There will be no continuation. It’s clear from the heave of Ghost’s shoulders before he turns around to face you. And it’s not like you want to anyway. The fleeting moment of desperation and craving for human connection is shattered. Reality has made a home in your bones, sobering you against the lust you felt only minutes ago.

“What did he bring?” you ask, sliding to the edge of the bed.

Ghost walks up to the bed, dropping the stack on the edge. He starts to sort it, dividing everything into two piles.

“There’s pants and a long-sleeved shirt for you.” He tosses them into your lap. “Socks. A jacket.” Ghost goes through the clothes one more time. “Nothing else.”

No bra or underwear. That’s fine. You can go without for now.

As you start to turn away with the intent to dress yourself, Ghost’s arm rises, his large hand grasping the side your neck. You’re forced back around, staring up at him. He takes a step forward into your space, but you don’t break eye contact. You don’t dare look away.

Everything is falling back into place.

You hate this man even if his mouth made you moan. All you know has been ripped from you, and Ghost is leading you toward a huge unknown without even considering what you want. It’s wrong. It’s fucked up.

It’s a drowning.

In an act of defiance, you attempt to jerk out of his hold, but Ghost remains firm, squeezing until you comply.

“If you want to belong to me, just say the word. I can make it happen.”

You remain mute. Silent.

Fuck him. Fuck all of this.

You are not a toy. Not a piece of property. You are a person, and that should be enough. At home, you were an equal, and no one dared lay hands on you. But this is not home. This is…society. What’s left of it. The very dredges of humanity.

And it’s like scraping the bottom of a shit pot.

Whether Ghost likes your silence or not is unclear. When he releases your neck, he doesn’t ask again, and he doesn’t make conversation. He completely turns away from you, dressing like you’re not even in the room.

Tears form, threatening to spill over, to make you appear weak and frail before him. Angrily wiping at your eyes, you drop the sheet and give Ghost your back. He’s already seen you naked. Fuck—you were holding yourself open while he tongued your pussy. What’s a bit of skin?

You dress quickly, wanting to fix your hair in the mirror before you leave. But as you turn around, you find all your thoughts leaving you. Ghost is a masterpiece of a human, and that ember from earlier sparks again, insisting when it shouldn’t.

His pants are black camo. On his upper body is a long sleeve tactical shirt, solid black in the front and back while the sleeves are black camo. Ghost reaches for his gun, attaching it to his thigh. Next are his knives which he lays out on the small desk nearby. You observe but say nothing as he laces up his boots and slides one of the knives into it.

You expect the skull mask, the eye black. Instead, Ghost slips on a plain black balaclava. On his upper bicep is the flag of the United Kingdom and of the United Nations. Neither of those should exist, and you don’t entirely believe what Ghost said last night. There are still questions lingering in your mind, and though you desperately crave answers, this doesn’t seem like the time.

Ghost clears his throat as he adjusts his belt. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A bit of bite comes to the surface. “As I recall,” you begin. “You were wanting to put something else in me just a few minutes ago.”

Ghost stills, his hands still on his belt. “Are you already on your bullshit today?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Guiding the belt through the loop, Ghost tugs, tightening it. “You said you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“How am I causing problems?” you reply, extending your arms outward as if the problem is a physical thing in the room with you.

Ghost shakes his head, giving the belt one more tug before securing it. “My control is thin right now, love.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your ‘love.’ I’m not anything to you. We’re not friends. Or lovers.”

Ghost chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Use my fucking name.”

Just a few steps and Ghost is on you. You stagger backwards, falling onto the bed as he cages you in. “It is taking everything in me not to rip off your clothes and bend you over.”

“Fucking try it,” you snarl.

Ghost is completely calm, unfazed by your outburst. “You’d look so pretty full of me.”

You know he’s goading you. And you fall for it. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’d keep you here,” he continues. “Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.” Ghost pushes in, and you have nowhere to go. His face is so close, the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. “Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.”

No. No.

“You’re no better than those men you killed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bird. With me, you’d be protected. Cared for. You’d want for nothing.”

“You don’t even know me,” you reply. “Every word you say is a lie.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I don’t lie.” You scoff, but he continues. “And you can’t take back what happened this morning.”

With both hands on his chest, you shove at him. Ghost doesn’t budge. He is a rock. Immovable.

“You wanted me,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” you stammer, shoving at him again.

“So wet,” he purrs. “And it was all for me.”

“Stop,” you plead, giving him another shove.

Ghost pushes off from the bed in one fluid movement. Grasping your wrists, he yanks you up and onto your feet.

“I’m not your enemy,” he says like his word alone is enough for you to agree.

It’s all fucked. All of it. You need to survive, to make sure you’re safe for whatever comes to greet you, but you’re afraid. Fearful, like a cornered animal.

Lieutenant Riley is your enemy as much as he is your protector. It’s maddening. Unfair.

I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home.

You lick your lips, trying so desperately hard not to fall apart in front of him. “Then show me,” you plead.

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[maggyme13]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, abduction, forced proximity

Word Count: 4.4k

The skull-faced lieutenant takes you back to base. The two of you are forced to spend the night in the same space.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

The scream is a gunshot.

You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”

The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.

“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.

You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.

Danger. Danger.

“Hey.”

Another crack, followed by begging.

“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.

He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.

And Ghost never looks away. Not once.

Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.

A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.

Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.

A curiosity. Blooming.

But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.

Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You pass one armored truck. Then another.

“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.

We’re taking her with us.

“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.

Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.

Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.

“Wait!”

With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”

Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.

It’s a dumb fucking move.

Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.

Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.

Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”

He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.

But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.

“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.

Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.

“That’s not an option.”

From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.

Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.

You give one final attempt before you start swinging.

Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.

Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.

Sweet victory sings in your veins.

Men are all the same.

All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.

Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.

“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”

No. Fucking no.

This is your chance. Your one chance.

The world tilts, and you switch gears.

With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.

You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.

Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.

Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—

Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.

Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.

Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.

You immediately go limp.

It almost works.

Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.

Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.

You hit the ground. Hard.

With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.

“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.

Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.

A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”

You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.

“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”

Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.

His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.

“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”

“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”

“Wrong answer.”

With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.

This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.

But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.

As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.

“You have to bring him with us. Please.”

Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.

“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.

“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”

Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?

“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”

You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.

“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.

“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”

Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”

“Does that matter?”

Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”

“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”

“You could be lying to me.”

Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”

Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.

You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.

Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.

Panic. You’re panicking.

You’re fucking panicking.

Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.

Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.

“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.

You find the handle. Tug.

Nothing. It doesn’t budge.

“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”

He’s locked you in.

Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.

When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.

There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.

“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.

You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.

“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.

“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.

The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.

“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.

He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.

“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.

Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.

As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”

When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.

But you’ll be long gone.

Elsewhere. Somewhere.

Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.

You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.

The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.

It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.

There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.

After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.

How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?

These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.

The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.

“Base this is Bravo.”

A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.

“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”

“Returning. Ten minutes.”

“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”

To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”

Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”

Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”

Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.

“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.

You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.

In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.

You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.

“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.

It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.

Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.

You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.

It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.

The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.

You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.

“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.

He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.

“Soap! Ghost!”

“Captain!”

Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.

“Successful?”

“Brought three back for interrogation.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“Dead.”

“Good lad.”

Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.

Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.

“Who is that?”

The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.

Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.

Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.

Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”

“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.

“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”

“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.

“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”

“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”

Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”

“The mandate.”

All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.

Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”

Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”

Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.

“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”

Processing. Processing?

“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.

“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.

“No,” answers Ghost automatically.

Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”

“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.

There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.

Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.

“I’ll take her there now.”

Price nods. A dismissal.

The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”

You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Come with me then.”

Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.

Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.

Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.

The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.

Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”

“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”

“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.

“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”

“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”

You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.

The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.

Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“I have to pee.”

“Then pee.”

“With you in the room?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”

“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”

Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”

“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”

“True.”

“Then step out!”

“No.”

You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.

With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blown. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”

Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.

“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”

You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.

Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”

“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.

With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”

Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”

“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.

“What do you think, love?”

You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”

“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”

“Likely.”

“You—”

“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.

Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?

“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”

“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”

You freeze, staying perfectly still.

Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

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[maggyme13]

Uhhi interesting interesting interesting

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter One

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, threatening language, death of a minor character

Word Count: 4.6k

On a scavenging run, two unknown groups arrive unannounced. Through the gunfire, you’re separated, cornered, captured. A skull-faced Lieutenant makes a decision, changing your life forever.

Chapter Two

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Eden is a home.

It is a person. A place. A community

It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.

You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.

Preservation.

Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.

It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.

You are but one piece of a large whole.

“What are you doing here so early?”

You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.

Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”

“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.

Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”

“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”

“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”

“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”

Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”

You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”

“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”

“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”

“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.

Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”

“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”

“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.

Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”

With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.

As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.

“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.

“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.

You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”

“We’re going to need it.”

“For a small town?”

Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”

“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”

Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”

“No activity then?”

“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”

“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.

While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.

Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.

You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.

“And helping me haul books,” you add.

Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”

Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.

Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.

It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.

You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.

“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.

“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”

Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”

You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”

“No thank you,” he mutters.

The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.

“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.

The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.

“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”

All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.

While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.

Adrenaline surges within you.

A few wiggles.

And then—

Click.

Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.

“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”

Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.

Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”

“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.

Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”

You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”

“Sure. Got it. Understood.”

Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”

You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.

This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.

Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.

Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.

But you know better. You do.

Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.

Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.

Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.

“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.

Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.

Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.

Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.

You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.

Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.

Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.

Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“There are people outside,” he whispers.

That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.

You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”

Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”

“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”

Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.

We’re not getting out of this.

There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.

Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.

Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.

“Is that them?” you ask softly.

Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”

Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”

Two groups. Two different groups.

Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”

“Who are they?”

Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”

He pauses, gaze growing distant.

“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.

He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”

All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.

Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”

“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”

At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.

“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.

The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.

There is no one around. No one. And yet—

A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.

You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.

Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”

Horror floods your lungs.

Blood.

Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.

“Oh my god. Ben.”

You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.

“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”

Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.

Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”

He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”

With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.

“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.

You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.

It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.

“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”

You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.

Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.

In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.

It is everything.

With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.

The blow comes out of nowhere.

You witness a brief taste of freedom.

And then it’s yanked right from under you.

A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.

“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.

“Stop your fussing.”

A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.

 “Look at you,” he laughs.

It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.

“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”

His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.

With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.

“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”

A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.

The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”

You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.

“Told you not to fucking move.”

The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.

The stranger’s gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.

While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.

When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.

“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.

Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.

A small trio of them standing nearby turn.

The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.

He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”

Breeders.

You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.

Survival. Always survival.

He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”

Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”

You glower, and don’t comply.

He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.

“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”

“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.

The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”

You don’t like the implication.

“What’s this?”

A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.

The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”

All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.

Instead of an American flag, it’s a Union Jack.

His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are their numbers that low?”

“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.

“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.

Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”

“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”

Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”

You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”

“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.

“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”

Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.

“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.

You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”

Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed.

“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”

These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”

“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face.  “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”

Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”

“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.

Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”

So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.

“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”

The very idea sobers you.

“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.

Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.

Ben is not with them. Ben is—

Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.

“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”

Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.

“You’re riding with me.”

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[maggyme13]

❤❤❤❤

Tw: Cussing, Firearms, Shock.

Part 6

Sugar, Spice & A little bit of Vice

- Part 7

It’s been days.

Days since you last saw him.

Since that late-night conversation. Since that quiet, weighted text.

And Happy hasn’t come by once.

No watching you work from his usual spot near the counter. No low-voiced “Hey, girl” like it’s just for you.

Just silence.

You slice through a hunk of butter with your bench scraper. The metal scrapes against the counter—sharp, harsh.

It makes you flinch.

You shouldn’t think about it.

About what he’s done.

But it keeps creeping in.

The weight behind his hands. The steadiness of them.

They’ve hurt people.

You press the blade into the butter again.

Firm.

Controlled.

You imagine Happy holding a knife, but it’s not for cutting pastry. It’s for something else.

For someone else.

Your stomach knots.

Not because you’re scared.

But because you’re not.

And that’s terrifies you.

You push your palms into the dough, rolling it against the counter, trying to force your focus onto the rhythmic movement.

Press. Fold. Turn.

Again.

Again.

You know Happy’s capable of hurting people.

But hearing it. Knowing it. Thinking about what it looks like—

What it would look like if he was standing in front of someone, dark eyes blank, body steady, doing whatever needed to be done—

You squeeze the dough too hard.

It splits under your fingers.

You freeze.

Your breath is too shallow.

You let go.

Step back from the counter.

Swallow the tightness in your throat.

The guilt burns.

Not for them.

Not for the people he’s hurt.

But for him.

For the distance he’s putting between you now.

And for the fact that you don’t know how to fix it.

The next task should be easy.

Chopping chocolate into chunks.

You reach for the chef’s knife.

Curl your fingers around the handle.

Lift it.

It’s heavier than you remember.

You glance at the blade.

It catches the bakery lights, gleaming.

For a split second, you picture Happy holding it.

Not here.

Not in a kitchen.

Somewhere else.

Doing something else.

Doing god knows what.

You set the knife down fast.

Take a step back.

Your stomach twists.

Not because it’s a knife.

Not because of him.

But because he’s not here.

Because if he was—

You wouldn’t be feeling this way alone.

The bakery is still dark when you unlock the front door, the soft glow of the streetlights barely cutting through the early morning dark.

You step inside, letting the door swing shut behind you, and flip on the lights. The familiar hum of the refrigerators surrounds you as the fluorescent lights kick in, the air already smelling faintly of vanilla and yeast.

Then—your phone buzzes.

Your heart stutters.

You haven’t heard from him in days.

You fumble to pull it out of your pocket, hands slightly shaky, thumb swiping across the screen.

Happy: Morning, Girl.

Your chest tightens. It’s short. No explanation for the distance. No mention of why he’s been gone.

But it’s him.

And that alone makes the tension in your shoulders loosen—just a little.

You start to type back, but before you can finish, the bell above the bakery door chimes.

You glance up—

And your stomach drops.

Three men step inside.

Not customers.

Not at this hour.

They move with a kind of purpose that immediately puts you on edge.

Jackets too bulky for the weather. Hands shoved deep into pockets. Eyes sharp, scanning the room.

The lead one—a guy with a thick beard and a cold stare—locks eyes with you.

You tighten your grip on your phone.

"I'm sorry" you say, voice careful. "We’re not open yet."

He smiles. It’s not friendly.

"Yeah," he says. "We know."

Your stomach churns.

He nods toward the register.

"Go ahead and open that up, sweetheart."

Your pulse spikes.

The weight of your phone in your hand feels useless. Your fingers grip it tighter, like maybe—maybe—you can text Happy back.

But then you see it.

The glint of metal as one of them shifts his jacket.

A gun.

And just like that, your body locks up.

Your breathing turns shallow. Your hands tremble.

"You—" Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. "I—we don’t keep much cash here."

"Not my problem," the guy says. "Open it. Now."

You hesitate.

His expression hardens. He steps closer, and instinctively, you back up, bumping against the counter.

Your phone screen bumping agasint your palm.

"Now, sweetheart."

Your fingers fumble against the register keys. It beeps. The drawer clicks open.

Your stomach is in knots.

This is real.

And you’re alone.

A part of you wants to cry.

Another part—the one that’s been lingering ever since Happy told you what he does—wonders what he would do if he were here.

Probably something violent.

Something effective.

But he’s not here.

And you don’t know how to get out of this on your own.

Your phone is still in your hand, half-hidden by the counter.

They haven’t noticed.

Yet.

You try to move slowly, subtly—just enough to tap the screen, just enough to send something.

Your thumb hovers over the send button unsure who or what you've typed or sent.

You think you tapped it, but you’re not sure.

You're might not be fast enough.

One of the guys catches the movement.

And then—

He grabs your wrist.

Your breath snaps out of you.

"Ah, ah," he taunts, yanking the phone away. He glances at the screen. "Happy, huh?"

Your blood freezes.

The guy chuckles.

"You think your boyfriend’s gonna save you, sweetheart?" He pockets your phone.

Your chest tightens.

Terror coils in your gut.

Your hands are shaking.

The register is open, cash stacked in neat little piles, but they want more.

“The safe,” the bearded one repeats, voice sharp. “Open it.”

Your breath catches.

“I—I can’t.”

His jaw tenses. “Wrong answer.”

One of the other guys steps forward, the movement making your heart lurch.

“I’m serious,” you stammer, backing against the counter. “I don’t have the code. My boss—he’s the only one who can open it.”

The bearded man narrows his eyes. He doesn’t believe you.

You see it—the flicker of something dangerous in his face.

And that’s when you hear it. The deep, unmistakable rumble of an engine pulling up outside.

Your heart stutters.

The bell above the bakery door chimes.

And Happy walks in.

The air changes.

Happy doesn’t speak right away.

Doesn’t need to.

Just stands there in the doorway, dark eyes taking in the scene—your shaking form, the open register, the three men now turning toward him.

His fingers flex at his sides.

His jaw tightens.

And then, finally—

“Walk away.”

His voice is low, calm in a way that makes the threat worse.

The bearded guy scoffs. “And who the hell are you?”

Happy takes a step forward.

“Last chance.”

The weight of his words settles into the room, thick.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, you see it—

Doubt.

The guys glance at each other, shifting on their feet. The one closest to you grips your wrist a little tighter, and before you can even flinch—

Happy moves.

It’s fast.

One second, the guy is standing next to you, gripping your arm—

The next, he’s on the ground, groaning in pain.

You don’t even see what Happy does, your hands instinctively cover your ears and you sink below the counter.

You know what Happy does, but that's very different from seeing what Happy does.

Just hear the muffled thud of a fist connecting, the scrape of boots as one of the other men stumbles back.

Happy doesn’t stop.

He’s relentless—stripping them of weapons, twisting arms at unnatural angles, knocking the fight out of them with practiced efficiency.

But he doesn’t kill them.

Not even when the bearded guy spits at him, glaring from the ground.

Happy crouches, pressing a knee against his chest.

“Try this again,” Happy murmurs, voice quiet, “and I will put you in the ground.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a fact.

And the bearded man—he knows it, the fight drains from his body as fast as the colour drains from his face.

Happy watches for another second, then finally, finally—

He stands.

“Leave.”

The guys scramble up, not even bothering to grab their guns as they stumble out the door.

You don’t move.

Can’t.

Your heart is still pounding.

Happy looks at you.

“Girl.”

It takes you a second to realize the sounds have stopped—your hands are still covering your ears, your eyes squeezed shut.

Like you were waiting for something worse.

For a body to hit the ground and stay there.

Slowly, you lower your hands.

Your throat is dry.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You didn’t kill them.”

Happy’s expression doesn’t change.

“Didn’t have to.”

You stare at him.

Because that—that doesn’t fit.

The way your minds been conjuring images about Happy.

You swallow hard. “But… you’re…”

His gaze stays on you, unreadable.

Then after a beat. “Not a monster, Girl”

Your hands are still trembling.

The bakery feels too small, too bright, the buzzing fluorescent lights making everything feel sharp, wrong. The register is still open, the cash untouched, but none of it feels real anymore.

You feel lightheaded.

Happy watches you.

He’s standing between you and the door, arms crossed, his dark eyes unreadable. He hasn’t spoken since the guys ran off, but he doesn’t need to—his presence alone keeps you steady, keeps you from falling apart right here, in the middle of the bakery.

Still, when you take a step toward the counter, your legs wobble.

You reach out, gripping the edge of the register, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the lingering shaking in your limbs.

Happy is there in an instant.

A firm hand on your wrist.

“Stop.”

Your breath catches.

“I—I need to—”

“No, you don’t.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

You look up at him, wide-eyed, and for the first time since this started, you realize—he’s angry.

Not at you.

Not even at the guys who just ran out.

Angry at the situation.

At the fact that you’re shaking like a leaf in front of him.

That you had to see any of this.

Happy exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, with no warning, his hands are on your shoulders, turning you toward the door.

��C’mon.”

You blink. “Where—?”

“You’re not workin’ today.” His voice is firm.

You almost argue.

Almost.

But then his hand moves to the back of your neck, not heavy just there, a steady, grounding presence, and you let him guide you out the door.

The morning air is cold against your skin.

The world outside is just starting to wake up—soft golden light spilling over rooftops, the distant sound of cars passing by.

And Happy’s bike is parked at the curb.

You hesitate.

Happy doesn’t even blink.

Before you can say another word, he’s placing his helmet on you.

Sliding it over your head, fastening it.

He doesn’t wait.

Doesn’t ask.

Just pulls you up behind him with one easy, effortless motion, like you belong there.

And for some reason, that makes you feel safer than anything else possibly could.

Happy’s place is exactly what you expect—and yet, nothing like you imagined.

It’s functional. Not much in the way of decoration, but lived-in enough to feel like his. The scent of leather, gun oil, and something sharp lingers in the air.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the counter, steadying yourself. The ride helped, but now that you’re standing still again, the events of the morning come rushing back—

The sound of the bell above the door.

The gun in your face.

The way your own body betrayed you, too frozen to move, too scared to fight back.

You exhale shakily.

And before you can process it, Happy is there again.

Not saying a word.

Just watching you.

Assessing.

Then—without warning—

He moves.

One arm under your legs.

The other at your back.

And just like that—

Your feet are off the ground.

A startled yelp leaves your lips, but Happy doesn’t react.

Doesn’t slow down.

Just carries you through the dimly lit apartment, down a short hallway, and into a room.

There’s a bed.

Big. Unmade. Sheets tangled at the edges.

And before you can so much as protest, Happy drops you onto it.

Not hard.

Not gentle, either.

Just decisive.

You blink up at him, stunned, heart pounding in your ears.

“Happy, I—”

“Sleep.”

Your lips part.

“But—”

“Sleep, Girl" His voice is level.

Your brain struggles to catch up.

Because—this is his bed.

And he—

Your cheeks burn.

But Happy is already stepping back, pulling his kutte off in one smooth motion. Not to climb in beside you—no, he tosses it over the chair in the corner, arms flexing as he cracks his neck.

He doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t sit, either.

Just stands there.

Like he’s making sure you won’t argue.

Like he’s waiting.

You swallow.

“Are… you getting in?”

His gaze flicks to you.

“No.”

That one syllable carries more weight than it should.

Like the idea never even crossed his mind.

Like this was never about anything other than making sure you were okay.

Your chest tightens, hesitantly, you shift under the blankets. The sheets are cool, the mattress firmer than you expected, but safe.

Happy watches.

And when you finally exhale, when you finally let yourself settle—

He nods.

Then—

He steps closer, knuckles grazing the side of your face, the touch brief but grounding.

“Rest.”

And with that, he steps out, leaving you in the unfamiliar quiet of Happy Lowman’s bedroom.

You don’t know how long you stare at the ceiling.

How long you listen to the faint noises from the other room—the creak of a chair, the click of a lighter, the deep inhale of someone lost in thought.

Happy took you here without hesitation.

Carried you, put you to bed, made sure you stayed there.

And yet, he never touched you beyond that.

Never made a move.

Never expected anything.

[maggyme13]

Something that has been on my mind.

Taskforce 141 with a smol reader who can sleep anywhere because she just fits into all the small spaces around the base and everyday it's a game between the taskforce on where they find the reader dozing off on the base! 🙈

Hope you have a good day! 😽

The Great Task Force 141 Hide-and-Seek Champion

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Tiny!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, ridiculous amounts of fluff, protective 141, jealousy, cuddling

Author's Note: i tried making this poly. You might be able to see it if you squint so… yeah :)

Summary: You have an uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. Thanks to your small size, you manage to squeeze into places no one expects, turning the base into your personal nap zone. At first, it was a game—finding you before Price lost his patience. But slowly, things change. Now, the boys aren’t just looking for you—they’re making sure you’re safe, warm, and taken care of. And maybe… just maybe… they’re realizing they don’t just want to find you. They want to keep you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Day 1: The Supply Closet

"Where the hell is Mouse?"

Price’s voice echoed through the barracks, already laced with exasperation. It had only been an hour since they'd last seen you. An hour. And you’d already vanished.

Gaz, standing casually by the doorway, sipped his tea. “Check the supply closet.”

Soap narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would she be in the—”

Ghost, moving like a man far too used to this, didn’t wait for the debate. He walked straight to the supply closet, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.

There you were.

Curled up on one of the metal shelves, wedged between a stack of MREs and a pile of folded tarps. Your cheek was pressed against a plastic-wrapped ration pack, arms tucked under your head like a damn cat.

Soap stared. “Yer kiddin’.”

Price sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "How the hell do you find this comfortable?"

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before sleepily muttering, “Warm.”

Gaz snorted. “Comfortable, Mouse?”

A small nod. “Mm.”

Ghost studied you in silence, then turned and walked away.

Soap gawked. "We’re just leaving her here?"

Ghost shrugged. “She’ll wake up eventually.”

Price sighed. He wasn’t paid enough for this.

——

Day 5: The First Shift in the Game

It started small.

The first time Soap found you tucked into an abandoned supply box, he huffed out a laugh, shook his head—and left his jacket over you.

The next time, Gaz found you curled up under a desk and quietly slid his extra hoodie beneath your head.

Price, despite all his grumbling, was the one leaving snacks.

And Ghost? He never woke you. Never disturbed you. But he stood guard.

The others didn’t notice at first. But after a few days, Soap started eyeing him.

"Y’know, mate," he smirked, "fer someone who acts like he don’t care, you sure stand ‘round a lot whenever Tiny’s sleepin’."

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

But the next morning, when you woke up in your favorite nap spot, there was a blanket over you.

——

Day 12: The Wrong Soldier Found You First

This was not part of the game.

Normally, it was them who found you. Normally, you’d wake up to soft teasing, grumbling, or just being carried away in Soap’s arms.

But today?

Today, some random soldier found you first.

It was innocent at first.

The guy had walked into the break room, noticed your small form curled up in the corner, and let out a snicker.

"Christ, does she ever actually work?"

The temperature dropped.

The conversation across the room stopped.

The soldier barely had time to react before four very dangerous men turned to look at him.

Ghost’s voice was low. Cold. "What did you just say?"

Soap moved first, stepping closer—a little too close. "Say it again, mate."

Gaz threw an arm around your shoulders, very pointedly shifting you away from the guy.

And Price? Price just gave the final nail in the coffin.

“She’s with us.”

The soldier left.

Quickly.

——

Day 20: The Final Nap

At this point, Price was done.

"Alright," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Where the hell is she now?"

Soap groaned. "We've checked the barracks, the mess hall, the damn armory—"

Gaz cut in. "—and all the lockers."

Ghost, silent as ever, merely looked up.

The team followed his gaze.

And there, sticking out of an open vent, were a pair of very familiar boots.

Soap wheezed. “Oh, no bloody way!”

Gaz just stared. “I don’t even wanna know how she got up there.”

Price turned on his heel and walked away.

“I don’t care anymore,” he announced. “If she falls, she falls.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “She’ll come down eventually.”

Soap grinned. “God, I love this game.”

——

Day 27: The End of the Game

They weren’t expecting to find you here.

Ghost stopped in the doorway first.

Soap nearly bumped into him before looking past and freezing.

Gaz, coming up behind them, just blinked. “Well… shit.”

There you were.

Curled up in Ghost’s bed.

And not just curled up—wrapped in his blanket, half-buried under the heavy black comforter, nuzzled into his damn pillow.

Ghost just stared.

Soap broke first. He grinned. “Oh, this is rich.”

Price, arriving last, sighed. "At this point, she’s not hiding anymore. She’s just making a statement."

Ghost finally moved forward, stepping to the edge of the bed. He tugged at the blanket.

Nothing.

You made a soft, grumpy noise, burrowing deeper.

Soap snorted. “Mate, she just claimed yer bed.”

Gaz smirked. "Might as well get in."

Ghost glared.

Price, done with all of them, turned to leave. “You deal with it.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose before sitting on the bed.

The shift in weight made you stir, eyes cracking open.

"...Ghost?"

He hummed.

You blinked sleepily at him before mumbling, "...Warm."

Soap grinned. "Y’know, mate, if ye just let her sleep with ye, we wouldn’t ‘ave to find her all the time."

Ghost stared.

And, to everyone’s surprise…

He laid down.

Didn’t move you. Didn’t wake you. Just shifted so you weren’t alone.

Soap gawked. “No bloody way.”

Gaz smirked. “I think she wins.”

Ghost just closed his eyes.

Fine.

She wins.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[maggyme13]

The truth of it 🤣

[maggyme13]

[maggyme13]

The boys still couldn’t believe it. They had just taken down Makarov, Johnny barely surviving it, and now they were somewhere in America, in a beach house with a strip of private beach. All curtesy of Kate, apparently it belonged to her family but was hardly used, so the boys using it was a welcome change.

They had been uncertain if they wanted to accept the (paid for) vacation, but after they all finally got released from the hospital, Price decided it was time for a break and some relaxation. So, they packed their bags and flew to the States. Kate had given them a brief introduction on what was where over the phone and the excitement grew, especially when she mentioned that there was scuba diving equipment.

So, the moment they arrived, after quickly dumping their stuff in the entry way and changing, they grabbed the equipment and set out into the waters. Even Simon couldn’t suppress a small smile or hide his excitement. At first, they stayed fairly close to the surface, but after Johnny saw a colorful fish he wanted to follow, they continued on into deeper waters. And that was when they heard it.

At first, it sounded like a wounded animal, but nothing like anything they had heard before. Either way, a sudden protectiveness coursed through them as they followed the sound to the source. And then they saw it. Or rather her. You.

Your tail had gotten stuck in an abandoned fishing net and you couldn’t get out. Originally, you had tried to reach your people with your cries, but no one came. Well, except for these four men suddenly in front of you. The few encounters you had with humans so far, had never ended well, so no one could blame you when you shrunk back in fear, reaching for the dagger that usually rested in its sheath on your hip, but you had lost it when you tried to free yourself earlier.

The men and you starred at each other for a few moments, before one of them approached. Immediately you tried to swim away, momentarily forgetting about the net, but you were immediately pulled back as the rope cut into your scales. A pained wail escaped you, as blood slowly seeped into the water. The man quickly raised his hands, before slowly gesturing to the net and then to his thigh, where you could see a small knife. You could see his eyebrows raise, as if asking for permission, and you slowly nodded, hoping that they would just let you go afterwards.

He mirrored your nod, before slowly approaching you and taking out his knife. With precision that was unknown to you, he cut through the rope until you were free. Out of reflex, you darted away, your tail swishing hard enough to send the man back a bit, making him loose his grip on the knife and you watched as it disappeared into the darkness. You glanced back at the four, before diving into the darkness, after the knife. Along with it, you found your dagger, which you put back in its place, before swimming back up, just to see the four still there, as if they hadn’t moved. Slowly, you swam up to the man who freed you and held out the knife with both hands, a small smile gracing your lips.

He took it from you, nodding in thanks. After one more glance over all of them, you turned around and swam back to your home, taking a few detours in case they were following you. But when you came to rest later that day, you mind stayed with the men. No matter what you did, you couldn’t stop thinking about them. And little did you know that they had the exact same problem.

A/N: Inspired by a post by @beloveds-embrace. Should I continue this?

[maggyme13]

Aaannd I am gonna turn int a Kangaroo

Uh oh! You are now a were-animal! This means you become a human-sized animal hybrid with uncontrollable bloodlust every night!

Spin this wheel to get your species

[maggyme13]

Oh god I love it!

I need to know what's gonna happen !

more Adam, meeting Ren's family, setting up Simon's rut

a/n: getting to the best part of this idea arc is taking longer than anticipated. hopefully the rut and big talks next chapter 🤞🏻

cw: omegaverse biology (male pregnancy, ruts / knots), fluid sexuality

previous

Before you leave, you make sure to swing by the base admin building. The cold sterility of the grey hallways makes you sad, but Adam's desk near Price's office is always a ray of sunshine. He isn't at his desk, but his lemon cinnamon scent lingers and is perfectly accentuated by the succulents on the shelf. The space feels warm and bright despite being several halls away from a window. There are photos of several task forces tacked over the copy machine. The 141's photo is recent as you're in it, but you have no idea where it's from or how Adam has it.

He comes over as you're staring at the image. You point at it as he sits down and trip over yourself, asking, "Where is that from? How did you get it?"

He interrupts with a finger across his lips and whispers, "I never give away my secrets."

The train of thought barreling away seizes and you stop cold, a smile slowly breaking through. You chuckle and remember why you're here in the first place. "Hey, I wan'ed to thank ya for suggesting to Price I head home for leave."

He starts to wave off your thanks, but the words dry on his lips when you place a pint of Magnum Classic and two Flake bars next to his keyboard. He gives you a look of pure adoration as he stutters, "What in the...how did you know?"

You smile indulgently. "I listen, just like you do," you tell him with a wink. "Don't wait too long to eat that. 'S probably best if ya don't refreeze th' Magnum. And I know if ya try and wait 'til ya get home, Charlie will try an' steal it from ya." You couldn't count the number of times Adam told you about how he and his pack's alpha often fought over sweets around the house to the point where Bridget, the pack omega, kept separate stashes for them both. You loved hearing about Adam's pack. It made you miss your family a little less when he spoke about his.

Adam stands again and walks around the desk to where you are. He holds his arms open in invitation, and you step into the hug. He squeezes you tight for a moment before stepping back. Still holding your shoulders, he says, "Enjoy this time with your family. Be good. Have fun, but not too much. And come back safe, yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah, Adam. I'll be good." Your ride to town leaves soon, and then its a four-hour train ride home. If all the transportation runs on time, you'll be home for supper and can help Mum cook. You feel a little guilty about not letting Dad and the moms you're coming home, but you hope the surprise of your presence will make up for it.

The house doesn't look any different. The brick is a little more weather-beaten than when you joined up, but the shape of the house is unchanged. Three skinny stories with black shingles on top. The dormer windows on the third floor belie the open plan of that floor with the family nest along the back wall. That's where Dad is until the birth. From the curb, all you can see is the pale blue curtains. Somewhere in the back of the house, Mum is probably already starting on supper, Mama corralling your brothers and sisters.

You push the front gate open and step onto the flagstone walk. It cuts across a neat patch of green grass, though you notice the bikes tucked inside the front wall. Clearly with Dad on bed rest, your siblings are taking liberties with putting those in the garage.

Not for the first time, you second-guess the surprise of this visit. You know Mum and Mama won't say how worried they are about Dad and the litter, but you see it in their eyes when you call. Dad, too, teases about being on bed rest, but the last two losses weigh heavily on him.

You take a deep breath and knock. There's nothing for a few moments, but you hear scurrying behind the door and can imagine the triplets arguing about who gets to open it. Your middle siblings may or may not be home from uni, and if they are, they're not going to race for the door like the fifteen-year-olds. The door opens a crack and an eye peeks out. When it catchs sight of you, the owner squeals - must by Norah - and the door flings wide. "You're home!" Norah crows, throwing herself at you. "You're home! You're home!"

"I'm here," you echo, hugging her back. You look over her shoulder for the boys. Ben is making his way to you, but Davy isn't in sight. As he closes in, Ben pushes Norah out of the way and pulls you inside. "Mama was just going to call you," he says. "Or maybe she already called, since you're here?" You shake your head. "Anyway, the moms are going to take Dad to the birth centre-" Your gasp stops him mid-ramble, and his eyes go as wide as saucers. "Oh! No! They don't think this is bad. Mum said something about Dad's internal temperature increasing. They think the litter's ready."

You barely hear Ben's last words as you race to the back of the house and find Mama pacing the kitchen. She stops short when she sees you and flings herself into your arms. "Oh God, oh love, what are you doing here?" she half laughs, half cries, phone cradled in one hand.

"Had some leave coming and thought I'd surprise you. But it looks like I'm the one in fer a surprise!"

Mama's laughter is bright, light and happy. "Yes, you are. Mum's getting Dad's bag. They should be coming down now." She hugs you tight. "I know you just got here, but do you mind waiting here with the triplets?" she whispers into your hair.

Your laughter matches hers. "Not at all, Mama." You definitely owe Adam for suggesting you take leave and come home. You might have missed this otherwise. You shoo Mama to go grab some of her own things, listening for Mum and Dad on the stairs, while you pull together a small bag of waters and snacks for them. You toss in the crisps Mum hides but will want when she stress eats and the candy you know Dad will crave once he's allowed to eat again. You also put some healthy options in for all three otherwise Mama will scold the others the whole time and you do not want to induce that stress.

By the time the moms and Dad are in the front hall, you've pulled the car into the drive, put the snacks in the front seat, and opened all the doors. You help Mum get Dad comfortably into the back seat. Neither was as surprised to see you as you thought, so Mama must have given them a warning when she went to gather her things.

You kiss Dad's temple as you help him settle, then steady Mum with a squeeze to her hand. "Have ya called Michael or Helen yet?" you ask, leaning through the passenger side window. From the look Mama gives Mum you know they haven't. "I'll do it before you're out of the drive," you tell them. Mama puts the car in gear and backs out. You follow, shouting at them to keep you updated. You stand at the bottom of the drive long after their car disappears around the corner.

The team pack is pulling up to their house in the Lake District about the same time as your parents leave. Unlike your family's home in its neat little row on the outskirts of the city you grew up in, the pack's house sits on land nestled between the Irish Sea and the western edge of the Lake District. The cottage, or what was a quaint cottage before the pack expanded the buildings and outbuildings on the property, is a slight distance from any lakes or towns meaning they're fairly isolated. They're not entirely off the grid, but Laswell and Adam know not to reach them for the next week. They haven't told you to go no contact: though you aren't pack yet, none of them are ready to go more than a week without hearing your voice or seeing your face.

Price is already making plans for how long he'll give you before he reaches out to check in. His presence during Ghost's rut is more of a formality as the pack alpha. When they established themselves as a pack, Price's and Ghost's alpha-only ruts were rough. Both men bear a number of scars from the warring instinct to rut and to fight another alpha. Neither man was averse to a cock in his ass, but being bitched was another matter altogether, both alphas struggling to take the others' knot until they had first Gaz then Soap join the pack.

Price's role this week is making sure there is enough food and water for Ghost and whomever is helping him. There's a pallet of waters in the boot and a wholesale box of granola bars. While Soap and Gaz unpack the car, Price sets up the bed in the first floor master suite with protective pads. Price also makes up an air mattress in the second floor office. It's not comfortable, but for a handful of days, it's doable. He works hard not to think about his rut in a few months. How, if you're pack by then, he won't take his rut with Gaz or Soap but with you, sinking into your slick heat.

He knows Ghost's struggling with having you on the team but not part of the pack yet, which is why he brought a little treat for Ghost. As they rolled out of their barracks, Price grabbed the throw blanket from the rec room couch and shoved it into a plastic tote. It was a shared blanket, yes, but you'd been wrapping yourself up in it the last few days because the barracks were too cold for your omega. Despite your scent blockers keeping them from your true smell, there's a lingering scent of citrus from your toiletries. Any of them would recognize it. Price pulls the blanket out and leaves it in the middle of the master bed for Ghost, even though his own alpha growls and scratches about giving the scent of you away.

It's going to be a long week.

next

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust

[maggyme13]

— under their noses — chapter two

a series made by © luvbabydoll

the briefing

soap slammed his hands on the table. “we need a plan.”

across from him, gaz nodded solemnly. “a proper one. can’t keep runnin’ around like headless chickens.”

ghost, arms crossed, sighed. “this is the dumbest shit I’ve ever been a part of.”

price just pinched the bridge of his nose. “why am I here?”

because obviously, this had escalated.

after weeks of failed covert testing, the boys had finally accepted that their efforts weren’t enough. they needed a strategy. a mission.

and so, they had gathered in the barracks for what soap had officially titled “operation angel.”

gaz pulled out a whiteboard. “alright, lads. let’s break this down.”

he uncapped a marker and wrote PHASE ONE: in big, blocky letters.

“step one: we confirm the voice.”

soap nodded. “already tried that, didn’t work. but we have confirmed she calls people sweetheart.”

ghost grumbled, “that’s hardly proof.”

“yeah, yeah, which is why we move on to—” gaz drew an arrow. “step two: spot the mannerisms.”

soap leaned back in his chair. “already got a list going.” he tapped a fucking notebook on the table. “lip biting. head tilting. that little—y’know—that thing she does with her hands when she’s thinking?”

gaz snapped his fingers. “yes. the wrist tapping.”

ghost stared. “you lot are fucking freaks.”

price exhaled slowly. “i cannot believe i’m listening to this.”

but the boys ignored them, too deep in the mission.

gaz turned back to the board. “step three: test her reactions.”

soap grinned. “push her a little. see if she slips up.”

ghost raised a brow. “and how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”

soap just smirked. “oh, i’ve got ideas.”

the execution — attempt #1

they were not subtle.

and the worst part?

you noticed.

it started small.

soap, lingering in the med bay for no reason, watching you like a hawk.

gaz, conveniently bringing up onlyfans in casual conversation.

ghost, lurking in doorways like a fucking cryptid, staring.

and price?

price was just done with this entire situation.

“why are you still in here?” you finally asked soap, who was sitting on the exam table, legs swinging.

“dunno.” he kicked his feet. “maybe i just like your company.”

you narrowed your eyes.

then, slowly, “…are you okay?”

soap nodded. “yeah. you could say I’m in pretty good hands.”

there was a beat.

soap just grinned.

you tilted your head. “...alright, out.”

soap groaned. “damn it.”

the execution — #2

the second attempt was even less subtle.

gaz, sitting next to you in the mess hall, sighed dramatically.

“y’know what I could really go for?” he mused.

you looked up. “what?”

gaz stretched leisurely. “a nice, soft-voiced woman tellin’ me i’ve been workin’ too hard. maybe calling me love.”

you blinked.

ghost audibly sighed.

soap hissed at him. “too much.”

gaz winced. “shit, yeah, that was too much.”

you just stared at them.

“...you guys are acting really weird.”

the execution — #3

downright pathetic.

soap, leaning against the med bay door, casually went:

“hey, what’s your opinion on side gigs?”

you didn’t even look up.

“depends.”

soap nodded. “cool, cool. ever done any? like... online stuff?”

you froze.

not much. just a flicker.

but the men saw it.

ghost, across the room, zeroed in on you.

soap grinned widely. “huh. that’s funny, because i swear i’ve seen—”

you turned around, smiling sweetly. “soap?

soap blinked. “yeah?”

you handed him a giant fucking needle.

“hold this.”

soap immediately backed away. “r-right, y’know what? forget I said anything.”

the debrief

the boys sat in the barracks, defeated.

soap groaned. “she knows.”

gaz exhaled. “oh she definitely knows.”

ghost just leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “and yet, we still don’t have proof.”

price sighed. “i hope you idiots realize how stupid this is.”

soap threw his hands up. “we can’t just ask her!”

price gave him a look. “why the hell not?”

silence.

gaz rubbed the back of his neck. “i mean… it’d be weird.”

soap nodded. “yeah. like, ‘hey, we’ve all been following your account for months, any chance that’s you?’”

price rolled his eyes. “christ. you lot are pathetic.”

but the worst part?

the absolute worst part?

despite all their efforts—despite the failed plan, the awkward encounters, the hours spent investigating—

they were still no closer to confirming it.

and you?

you were having the time of your life watching them struggle.

[maggyme13]

Love this series! Need to know howshe reacts once she figures it out!

Ren's adventures continue

a/n: the family pack is back!

previous

"How's training going, honey? They're not pushing you too hard?" Mum asks.

Before you can answer, Mama cuts in. "Of course they're training her hard. This is an elite group of soldiers. Only the best of the best to serve Queen and country." She looks at you with a gleam in her eyes. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Dad rolls his eyes at their antics. It's clear they're all crammed into the nest where Dad's been since the doctor seconded your moms' idea for him to be on bed rest. Seeing them together, knowing Dad's due in a few weeks, it makes you miss them all so much more. Just as Mum and Mama start debating the merits of your service, again, Dad says, "You look good, sweetheart. Happy."

They see your unconscious smile. You haven't spoken to them much since you joined the task force, too tired most nights for anything more than a few texts, but you had a light day and wanted to check on how Dad was doing with the litter. Now you have a captive audience and weeks of stories to share.

You mention how well you fight hand-to-hand, joking how an old schoolyard bully "wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me now." To prove it, you send them a quick video Gaz took of you getting Ghost on his back a few days ago. "That's my Leftenant. He's an 18 stone alpha!" They watch the video, and you track their reactions: Mum's saucer-wide eyes, hand over her mouth; Dad wincing at the thwump of Ghost's back hitting the mat; Mama's nearly-manic grin.

You leave out how quickly he flipped you and got the upper hand.

The video is followed by pictures Soap took on the shooting range, several weapons artfully arrayed around targets with groupings so tight there are fist-sized holes in some. "They're training me on some of the sniper rifles, Mum, so I'd be watching their backs instead of breeching the building." You see the slightest drop of her shoulders as she exhales and know she'll hold tight to that kernel of hope for your safety.

You're most excited to tell them about the records you've set. "And Captain Price was the one who put my name forward. Kept me an' my secondary gender out of it entirely, jus' my call sign-"

"Your call sign?" Mum says. "What's that?"

"It's like a nickname. 'S what th' other soldiers call ya. Mostly based on the dumb shit-"

"Language, young lady," Mum says sharply.

"Sorry, Mum," you mumble, heat flaring along your neck at being scolded.

"Leave the girl be," Mama says. "She's an adult and can use whatever language she wants. Let her finish her story."

You smile gratefully and mouth thank you when Mum glances away towards some sound in the house. "So call signs are usually something you have to learn to deal with because it's a constant reminder of how you screwed up. But not always. An' the guys call me Ren because I'm good at lots of things."

"A modern Renaissance Man, er Woman, huh," Dad comments.

"That's what Captain Price said." You look at your dad and blurt out, "I think you'd like the Captain, Dad. He reminds me a lot of you and Mama."

"So about those records?" Mama asks, redirecting your focus again.

You glance at your parents then dart your gaze briefly down, bashful about bragging. "It seems I set a few base records on the shooting range and with my speed. An', like I said, they're up with my call sign, so no one really knows their mine, but that's not the point."

Dad takes the bait you don't realize you left. "Then what is the point, sweetheart?" he asks quietly.

There's no mistaking the pride in your voice and the joy in your eyes when you tell him, "They make me feel like I belong."

He smiles indulgently, and a loaded glance passes between your moms. The conversation continues a few more minutes, and you get the feeling your parents want to tell you something but don't. As you say your goodnights, you tell them you'll speak to Price about getting a few days of leave when the new litter comes. The call leaves you feeling both lighter and sadder, though you can't articulate the reasons for the second.

After the call to your parents, you start spending more time in the 141 barracks. The call home made you miss being part of something, and when you spend your down time with your team, the ache inside feels less raw, the hurt less sharp.

The easy camaraderie of the gym and mess becomes an uncomplicated cohabitation of video games and movies and parallel quiet time. One night you find yourself reading on one end of the couch in the barracks' rec room while Soap sketches. A tremor runs through you; the team keeps these rooms far colder than you're comfortable with, and you don't have an extra jumper today. Soap catches you rubbing your hands together and gets off the couch, heading to a small footlocker in the corner. You track his movements as he lifts the lid and pulls out a standard issue olive green jersey. He doesn't pull it on as you expect but drops it in your lap as he returns to his seat. "Nae point in bein' cold, Ren," he says with a smile.

You return the smile gratefully. "Thank you," you reply, pulling the jersey overhead. As you sink into its warmth, you take a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of sunshine and fresh cotton. You appreciate the smell of clean laundry. It's far more pleasant than the mothballs you were expecting.

You glance at Soap, surprised to see unbridled joy on his face. "Everything okay?"

He nods quickly. "Yeah, Ren. I'm aces."

You continue sitting in shared silence until the others come in from whatever they were doing. All three men pull up short at the sight of you and Soap on the couch. Looking between them, you worry you did something wrong despite having spent the last few nights with them until heading to bed in your barracks. "Er, what's wrong?"

Price quickly shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs. "Nothin's wrong, Ren. Just a little surprised is all. Didn't think you-"

"The lass was cold, Cap'n," Soap blurted suddenly. "Figured if the jersey wasnae 'nuf tae warm 'er, Ah'd show 'er where the blankets are."

Price nods absently. "Right. The blankets." He takes one more long look at you, gaze assessing. "Well, glad you aren't cold, then."

The solitude you and Soap shared sits uneasily now with the others around. Something's shifted. You can smell it, like a bite of cold air preceding a storm. You try brushing off the unease, but you can't ignore it. It becomes nearly oppressive by the time you head to your barracks, waving goodnight to the team.

Once the door shuts behind you, Price gapes at Soap. "What were you thinking, giving her Gaz's jersey without telling her?" His tone is angry, but it's betrayed by the concern in his eyes as he looks at the beta.

"She was cold," Soap says simply.

"Yeah, but, one of my jerseys when you could have grabbed the blanket?" Gaz wasn't angry about you walking out with the jersey. He seemed nervous.

Price points at Gaz. "Yes, that!" He runs a hand down his face. "Giving Ren Gaz's jersey when we haven't broached courting 'er could backfire spectacularly."

"Ye were nae here, Cap. Took a big 'ole lungful a' 'is scent and held it. Wouldn't be surprised is she wears it tomorrow night." He looked from Price to Gaz and finally to Ghost, who met his pleading look with a hard reproach.

"It was a bold move, pup. Don't do it again without us all talking first." He voices everyone's shared desire. "We want 'er as pack, as ours. But she's smart, and she's wary, even of us when it comes to being our omega."

Price picks up the thought and says, "If we want this, and want to do it right, we need a plan."

next

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevale @boogeysmoth

[maggyme13]

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

[maggyme13]

Y'all check this fic out! Can't wait to read more ^^

Off to See the Wizard (8)

previous | next

cw: poorly attempted accents

Soap offers to walk you back to the barracks after dinner, and you can't bring yourself to tell him no. You've put in more than a full 12 hours, and can't find a way to use your office as an excuse. When he suggests joining the others in the rec room, you tell him you'd prefer a quiet evening alone. You hope he understands and takes the message back to the rest of the team. He's given you a lot to think about, and all you want is some quiet to parse through it and your own feelings.

Three heads whip in his direction as Soap comes through the rec room doors. Gaz immediately notices he's alone while Ghost watches the door for another moment, hope in his eyes that's dashed as Soap shakes his head.

"Sit rep?" Price asks.

Soap shrugs and responds, "Tol' 'er Ah cared for 'er. She asked about las' night, about yoo and me," he motions between himself and Ghost, "bein' close, so Ah said Ah cared for ye too. She got a real funny look on 'er face, so Ah said Ah thought mah heart was big enough for more than one. Dinnae ken 'ow she took it cuz she went quiet after."

Price sighs heavily, running his hand over his face. "Well, it wasn't how we planned to tell 'er, but it was a good call, Soap." He eyes the other man. "Did ya mention me 'r Gaz when ya talked about yer big heart?"

Soap shakes his head quickly. "No' at all. Could see she was struggling wi' me carin' for her an' Si. Didnae wanna make it worse."

Price's head falls back against the recliner. He takes a deep breath and huffs it out. Then he looks at Gaz. "We're down to four days, Garrick. Don't know if ya wanna try tonight or wait, but we're still countin' on ya to close this." His eyes rake over his lover. "Soap laid the groundwork after last night's disaster, but it's up to you to make her see wha' we have an', more importantly, wha' we want."

One of the first emails you see the next morning is from Laswell. She's asking you to meet with one of her contacts at a location off base. You're glad John told you where to get the bus into town, but you don't know the town well enough to know where this location is. You debate trying to find one of your the boys for help, but between movie night and Soap's confession, you're not quite sure what to say to any of them.

You did some digging on your personal device, using untraceable proxies, to learn more about having multiple partners at the same time. You came across the phrase polyamory, which seems to fit what Soap was hinting at, but you're not sure. And you definitely don't feel confident asking.

Like any other problem you can't solve, you're putting this one off to the side for now to focus on other things. Like how to get to the meeting location.

In the end, you find Corporal Avery and ask her where you should go. She's able to provide you a rough map of town including where the bus will let you off and how to get to your location. She offers to accompany you, and when you worry she'd get in trouble, she says, "Can say it's part of my official duties per Captain Price's orders, ma'am." She smiles big, and you remind yourself to lean on her for company when the 141 are gone. But you decide to head to the meeting alone. You don't know who this contact is, and with Kate, their personal information might be classified or confidential in some way. You can't bring Corporal Avery for the safety of whomever you're meeting, a thought that leaves quite quickly when you step into the cafe two hours later to see it empty of everyone except the girl behind the counter and Kyle.

You look around, waiting for someone else, someone you don’t know, to make an appearance. Instead it’s simply Kyle who smiles big and waves you over. You stop just short of his table. “What are you doing here, Kyle?” You work to keep your tone level, curious, not accusatory.

“Asked Laswell for a favor. Needed ta see you, Oz,” he tells you. “You’re avoiding us.” There’s no pretense, no hiding. It’s unlike him to be so blunt.

“I’m doing my job, Kyle,” you say. “The one Laswell sent me to do to help you.”

Kyle stands and pulls out the other chair at his table for two, clearly indicating you should sit. “What yer doin' isn’t helping us, doll," he says softly.

You rear back. “Not helping?!?” you whisper hiss, sitting down. You lean over the table, masking your hurt with anger. “What the hell does that mean?”

Kyle quickly sits to join you. “Shit, no, that’s not what I mean,” he rushes out. He runs a hand down his face and mutters under his breath.

You shift back, annoyed, trying to get as far from him as you can while staying at the table. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and don whatever armor you can for what seems like a rather unpleasant confrontation in the middle of the Costa. “If I’m not helping, maybe Laswell should send someone else.”

You can’t believe you’d been so excited about finally meeting your the boys. You refuse to cry, but this conversation needs to end quickly if you’re going to keep from balling your eyes out.

“Oz, doll…” Kyle trails off, mouth opening several times as he tries to pull his thoughts together. “This is harder than I thought it’d be,” he admits wearily. He tries to catch your eye but can’t match your glare. “We don’t want someone else. We want you.” He reaches for your hands, and despite how much you want to hold onto anger, you know it’s your heart you're trying to protect.

But that traitorous organ can't resist, so you timidly slip one hand in his. Kyle grips it like a lifeline. “We want you, Oz. No one else is better at this job than you.” You both know he’s stretching things a bit as Laswell is clearly better suited to this than you, but she can’t be in all places. It’s what she trusts you for.

You take a shaky breath. “I think I need you to explain it to me, then, Kyle. If you want me here, if you don’t want or trust someone else to do this job, then how is it I’m not helping?”

You know you must look ridiculous because you gape at him for several long moments in which he says nothing, does nothing. He waits for a reaction. You can see the tension in his shoulders, and he still has both of his hands wrapped around yours, but he doesn’t push, and he doesn’t clarify.

“Yer amazing at what ya do,” Kyle quickly replies. “But ignoring us isn’t helping us.” He must see the confusion on your face because he adds. “Yer helping the mission, but ya aren’t helping us.” He widens his eyes at the end, trying to tell you something, but you can’t figure it out.

You shake your head and are about to tell him you don’t understand when he squeezes your hand in his and asks you to look at him. “Doll, we want you. Not for the mission but for us.”

You think about what Soap revealed at dinner last night. About Simon’s outright declaration. About John’s not-so-subtle pick-up line. About Simon and Kyle and Soap practically cuddling on the couch. About John and Kyle’s kiss. The pieces are there, but your brain refuses to believe it. “Are you saying you and…” you trail off, not sure where this thought is actually going.

“Me and Ghost and Soap and the captain, yes,” he says, helping to refocus you.

“Are you saying you’re all together?” He nods. “In…in…in some kind of polyamorous thing?” Kyle admits he isn’t sure because he doesn’t know what polyamorous is, never felt like he needed a label for how he feels about the others. “So you’re all together together. And you all want me?” It’s almost too much for your brain to comprehend.

"Yes." Kyle says it so simply, as though his declaration makes every bit of sense. "'s been you fer us fer a long time. Only you."

He looks at the table where his hands are wrapped around yours and says the next so quietly you can almost pretend you don't hear it. "We weren't meant to be together. Not like tha'. We're supposed to be task force. A fighting force. A killing force." He shrugs, almost lost in his thoughts. "Somewhere along the way, tha' changed. I can't speak fer the others, but I never expected any of it. I never expected to be involved with my superiors. Never thought I'd love these men as anything more than Brothers in arms. But it happened. And now it's us. Us against the bad guys. Us against the world. Us watching one another."

He takes a deep ragged breath. And then he looks at you, looks right through to the very heart of you. "Then you came along. And you watched our backs. And you kept us company on those long, lonely nights. And you made sure we were safe. That we were making it back to one another whole. So yeah, it's you, Oz. We thought we were enough, but yer the peace we're missing. And if we're too much, if we read this wrong, then we'll just go back to what it was before. But we needed to let you know what we want before we go off on this mission where we might not all come home."

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 9

~~

Taglist: @blackhawkfanatic @starriestarlight @grayskel @mxtokko @imjustheretofightforlove @miss-vanta-likes-to-write @thriving-n-jiving @madsothree @silly-starfish @danielle143 @beelzebee @nova-willow-541 @alchemyfreak321 @lilynotdilly @eternallyelvish @viylikescats @erintaro @hidden-treasures21 @lil-writer-523

[maggyme13]

totally not at all inspired by a real life snowboarding injury, I present poly!141 x injured!reader

cw: hurt/comfort, accents attempted

You're sat in the hospital bed doing your best not to cry. You hold the tears at bay not because you're fine. Not because you're proud. Not because of the shock running through your system. No, you try hard not to cry because you don't know how your boyfriends will react if you're in tears when they show up.

The spill was the most ridiculous accident, comical in its cartoonish nature: ice on the steps. You were rushing to catch The Tube, desperate not to be late. You knew if any of your men were home, they would have chided your footwear. The pink heels were absolutely impractical, but they matched your pearl grey dress so perfectly. On a normal day, you would have worn something sensible and simply brought the cute shoes to wear around the office.

But today was not a normal day. Today was your anniversary, and you had lovely dinner plans with your men scheduled. You wouldn't be able to come home after work, so you needed to look perfect all day.

You were almost home free when the last step ruined everything. Your foot slid, your bag fell, and you put your hands out to stop your forward momentum. So many bad ideas all in a row.

You felt something pop, heard a snap, and knew immediately you were very injured. Pain radiated all the way up your arm, leaving fire in its wake. Signals weren't making their way from your brain to your hand; it flapped, unresponsive, in your lap.

Thankfully your neighbor, Mrs. Gillen, was on the curb, and while she couldn't help you when you fell, she called 999 for you. She asked if your men were upstairs, and when you shook your head, she called John. You knew she had everyone's number, but as she'd learned, a call to John usually got everyone.

As they loaded you into the ambulance, you heard Mrs. Gillen ask an EMT where they were taking you, only to relay that information into her mobile.

So now you wait in A&E, arm in a sling, hooked up to an IV of fluids and pain meds, to see just how bad things are. You hear your men before you see them, John's voice low, demanding information on you. You don't hear a response, but John's growled response means he didn't get what he wanted.

Next you hear Johnny, frantically shouting your name as A&E techs try to shush him for the benefit of other patients and their families. A nurse comes in, unease in his eyes, and says there are several people asking for you. He tells you they have a code they can call if you're not safe, if the people looking for you need to be directed elsewhere or handled by the authorities.

You roll your eyes and assure the nurse it's okay. You pass him your phone, open to a picture of the five of you on holiday in Majorca last summer. "They're mine," you tell him ruefully. "Best let them back if it isn't against protocol, otherwise you'll be dealing with a big ruckus."

He eyes you hesitantly, despite the evidence on your phone. "Really," you say. "We're together. They'll be harmless if they can see me."

He steps into the hall and you watch him talk with a doctor and a man in a security uniform. They all come in and you have to explain your unconventional relationship, all the while listening to Johnny's shouts grow more panicked and Simon's rumble join John's. The only one you don't hear is Kyle, but you sure it's because he's restraining Johnny, who would be running through the halls pulling open doors if he could.

Finally the nurse, doctor, and security guard leave. Within moments the door bangs open so hard it strains the hinges. The hall light is blocked by a mass in the door, breathing heavily.

"Hi, Simon," you say sheepishly. He steps into the room, strides eating up the distance to where you are. You watch his aborted attempt to hug you. You raise your uninjured arm and he quickly shuffles into the space, pressing his face to your hair and breathing deeply.

"Oh, darling," you hear John sigh, "what happened?"

You feel your face heat and won't meet his eye. His gaze tracks from your injury down your dress to your legs. And those pink heels. You see the realization hit. "Please tell me you did not leave the flat in those shoes." His voice is muffled by the hand he's dragged over his face.

"I wanted to look perfect for tonight," you reply. "And now I've ruined it all," you sniffle.

"Och, hen," comes Johnny's voice. "Ye didnae ruin anything," he coos, coming over, elbowing Simon out of the way to press kisses to your hair and cheek. "We were so worried when Mrs. Gillen called. We jus' wan' ye safe. Yer already perfect." He kisses you again and again.

"Ya mind if we wait with ya, love?" Kyle asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

You were nervous about being in A&E alone, scared of what damage you did to yourself. "I wouldn't want you anywhere else," you tell him.

They boys take up various positions around the room, Simon looming behind you, eyes crossed, watching the door; John in the chair near the door, looking at your chart; and Johnny on the bed with you, your uninjured hand in his.

When the attending finally comes in, she pulls up short at how full the room now is. She looks at your men, then at you, and says, "Do you want this medical information shared, or shall we ask everyone to wait outside?"

Suddenly the room feels smaller, the air stuffier. You know it isn't harder to breathe, but your men are expansive, and the idea they might not be welcome as the doctor tells you the extent of your injuries is too much.

"No, doctor," you say, trying to head off a confrontation. "They're with me. And it's best they hear whatever this is from you." You look at John and add, "I'm sure they'll have questions."

The doctor holds your eye for a long moment, and you see the moment she decides to trust you. She comes to the end of the bed and holds her tablet out, waiting for John and Kyle to come around and join Simon behind you.

She brings up the first scan of your forearm and you see it before she says anything, the glaring black line across the solid white bones. Combined fracture of the radius and ulna. She brings up a second scan of your shoulder where the injury is less obvious. There's no bone break, but the doctor points out where you tore the ligaments in your glenohumeral joint.

The more she talks the more the words blend together. You hear surgery. Physical therapy. Weeks of recovery. John's voice joins the doctor's. Then Simon's.

You tune them out, worrying about what this means for your job, for taking care of the house when your men are on deployment, for the burden this puts on the others.

You feel a warm weight on your thigh and glance down to see Johnny's hand, thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth. The sharp line of his jaw digs into your uninjured shoulder enough to get your attention. You turn your head to glance at him. He leans forward, breath warm against your cheek as he whispers, "Stop thinkin' so hard. Takin' care a ye isnae hardship. Hell, it's gunna mean ye cannae tell us tae stop."

You frown and whisper back, "I'm not supposed to be a burden," mouth twisted into a frown.

He scoffs. "Ah dare ye tae tell LT or the Cap'n yer a burden."

A throat clears, and you look away from Johnny. The doctor looks resolute; John's eyes are full of pity. They both seem to wait for your reaction, but to what? You were spiraling until Johnny drew you back to them, but what had John and the doctor said to make them look at you like that?

Your eyes dart between them, mouth opening and closing in your best imitation of a fish until the doctor saves you further embarrassment. "We can't do anything more today. The bones in your arm can't be set until the swelling goes down, so we can only put you in a temporary splint until a real cast goes on in about a week. And I don't want to schedule the surgery until the bone is in a cast, and preferably not until it's healed, but I need more imaging on the ligament to determine how quickly it needs surgery. I'm going to have to send you home with pain medication only. You're going to need quite a bit of help for a while."

At first, the most you manage is a small, "Oh." You clear your throat and try again. "Thank you, doctor. Er, when should I schedule the imaging for? And how should I do that? Oh, and where do I go for the actual cast?"

The doctor sighs and looks at John first before the others. "I gave your, er, friend all the contact information for the orthopedist and imaging specialists. He said they'd make sure you have your appointments set. I also gave him your script for pain medication to help you manage these first few days."

You thank the doctor again as your boys escort you home. You hold the tears at bay on the drive home, waiting quietly in the car when Kyle takes your prescription into the chemist. You make it up the stairs in Simon's arms, cradled against his chest like a fragile bird. It isn't until you're back in your flat that the tears come.

A torrent of pain snakes down your arm, stealing the breath from your lungs when you try to shrug your jacket off. Simon is only a step behind you, and he lunges forward, hands under you as you crumple, sobbing, to the floor.

A pair of warm, calloused hands gently cup your face. You can't see through the tears, but you smell sunshine when Kyle shushes you, telling you they're there.

"I don't want to be a burden," you cry between sobs. Your lungs are beginning to burn, everything throbbing in time to the ache in your arm. "Now I've messed everything up!"

You're picked up, gently, from the front hall. The smell of gunmetal tells you it's Simon. His soft steps thud along the floor. There're too many steps for you to be heading for the den, you think. The realization strikes that you must be going to the bedroom. The arms holding you deposit you in front of them on the bed.

Your hair is maneuvered over your uninjured shoulder and you hear the rasp of the zipper as it slowly descends. Simon carefully manipulates your good arm out of its sleeve while Johnny kneels to take your cute shoes off. Then Kyle and Simon work together to carefully, cautiously shift and support your arm to get your other sleeve off. You have a momentary flash - I'm glad A&E didn't cut my dress - before it's overwhelmed by the agony of getting your other sleeve down.

By the time the top of your dress has been slipped off, you're practically panting, teeth clenched tight to prevent the scream from clawing its way up your throat. The boys get you the rest of the way undressed and into your pajamas.

You look around and notice John isn't in the room. You look behind you to Simon, the one most likely to give you a straight answer, but when you ask about John, he pretends not to know him at all!

John walks in a moment later with some flowers you recognize from the vase in the kitchen. "I know you're disappointed, dove. We all are, but not because we think we're missing out if you're not there." John gets down onto one knee. "This isn't what we talked about. This isn't where we wan'ed to do it." He pulls a ring box out. "Was gonna do this at dinner, but I think you need ta remember, dove, you're our world."

You blink back more tears as Simon's voice vibrates your ribcage. His voice rumbles, " Wan' ya to be ours fully."

You look at Kyle and see the giant grin splitting his face.

You don't have to look to see Johnny's sitting, energy practically vibrating off him in waves, waiting as patiently as a kid on Christmas morning.

Your eyes land on John again, still kneeling. Silly man, putting himself through hurt for you. "Marry us, dove?"

Despite the unfounded hopelessness seeping into your bones. Despite the self-pity drowning you under waves of all you haven't done yet. Despite the agony rippling through your arm to the rest of you. Despite all that, you're answering before he fully finishes his question.

"Yes!"

[maggyme13]

The man who approached you didn’t even get a chance to hit on you before “my boyfriend is crazy, he kills people” came out of your mouth and you pointed over to Simon who was giving a death glare to the man. Simultaneously stepping out from behind him were Soap and Gaz (they definitely choreographed and practiced this) “and his boyfriends are also crazy and kill people”