#SO THAT NO ONE WOULD KNOW HE SHUT THE VEST OFF

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 15 - Special Delivery

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic. CW: Death, use of weapons, violence, military inaccuracies. AN: I'm sorry but none of you are ready for the next part...

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

It feels like every time you walk into a room with them it’s more and more awkward. You feel like eyes are digging into you as you walk over to the table in the room and put the laptop down.

“Give me your boots.” Johnny says coming over to you. Before you even question him you’re already taking them off. “I’ll dry them by the radiators.” You nod, Gaz walks up to you as you open the laptop.

“Can you help her set up a keyword search or something?” Price asks.

“What are you looking for?” Gaz asks, pulling the laptop towards him. You look over at Ghost sticking a cloth into some part of a broken down weapon. 

“Here, type in what you want to search for.” He says turning the laptop back to you. 

“What should I search for?” You ask the room. 

“Try Makarov.” Price asks from the doorway. You type it into the search bar, you have no idea what Gaz has done or how he managed to get it working so quickly. In fact the search part seemed to take the longest. You pull a chair over and sit down clicking through each thing. 

“Just some emails, nothing really. They’re talking about the post being shut down.” 

“Try missiles.” Gaz says you nod typing it in if you try Arabic first and nothing comes up so you switch to Russian. There’s only one document, you open it and there's a list and pictures of missiles, at the end there’s a link. You click it and it opens to a video. 

It’s Makarov, he's talking about something, it looks like he’s in some kind of lab or something. He picks up a vial of something. Everyone but Ghost have moved over to the table now.

“What’s he saying?” Gaz asks. 

“He’s talking about a chemical. Those missiles in the garage they’re-” You stop continuing to listen to him. “Chemical bombs, he's using the missile casings to make chemical weapons.” 

“If those are empty shells outside, where are the insides?” Johnny asks.

“Probably with Al Qatala.” You say, the video finishes on a freeze frame of Makarovs face. You look up, Ghost has started putting the weapon back together now. 

“What kind of chemicals?” Price asks. You go back to the document turning it so Johnny can see, he scans over it for a few seconds. 

“That's like white phosphorus.” He says pointing at something. “This is some kind of gas.” 

“Like in Urzikstan?” Gaz asks.

“Like Urzikstan?” You ask.

“He had sarin gas. This is different though.” Johnny says you raise an eyebrow looking up at Price who has his arms crossed with a concerned look on his face. 

“What do we do now?” Gaz asks. 

“We send this to Laswell, let her start looking through it. Tomorrow when we follow them to Makarov we’ll know more.” Price says then moves away from the laptop. 

“I can keep looking.” You say moving the laptop back towards you. 

“Laswell’s programs are faster, besides we need to get some rest. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” He says. You nod pushing the laptop back to Kyle.

…

Everyone wakes before the sun is up. You slept uncomfortably, not because you had no bed and you were basically sleeping on the hard floor. Because Johnny had the building so hot you woke up in a pool of sweat. At least your clothes are dry though, mostly. 

“Tea?” Johnny asks, passing you a plastic cup. You yawn taking it from him.

“Carry tea into a warzone with you all the time?” You ask.

“Cause, how would we function without it?” You look over at Gaz sitting next to you, you smile at him. 

“No time for a tea break. They could be here any minute.” Price says. You sip the tea anyway; it's sweet and milky not like the kind you’re used to. You get up going over to where all the gear is drying and pick up your vest. It’s still damp but it’s better than being sodden. 

You walk over to the window where Ghost and Price are standing. 

“When do you think they’ll be here?” You ask, tightening the vest. 

“Anytime now.” Ghost says.

“How are we going to follow them without being spotted?” You ask.

“We’ll take the car they left yesterday, if they do see us we’ll hope they think it’s one of them.” Price says. You don’t know if that will work but you trust him. 

“When we get there what's the plan?” You ask. 

“Haven’t got that far yet.” Price smiles and turns to look back into the room. You raise an eyebrow, Johnny comes up next to you throwing his arm over your shoulders. 

“Hey, wanna cozy up with me in the back of the car when we leave?” He says winking at you, you feel heat rushing to your cheeks. 

“You’re driving.” Price says smiling. Johnny’s arm leaves your shoulder as he starts to complain. You chuckle going back over to the window. 

“C’mon, help me pack. You two keep a lookout.” Price says walking past you. You lean up against the window, looking out at the garages. 

“So. What's with the mask?” You ask looking over at Ghost, he turns slightly and crosses his arms looking at you. He doesn’t answer, you frown at him. 

“I think it’s cute.” You tease. He scoffs going to look back out the window. “Are you shy or something? You don’t seem shy.” 

“I don’t like people knowing what I do.” He says. It’s not really a satisfying answer. 

“What, you don’t want people knowing you're military?” You ask. He just lets out a sigh.  

“I get it.” You say looking back out the window. “You want to keep work and home life separate. Do you have someone at home waiting for you?”

“No.” He says quickly. “Not anymore.” 

You don’t press him any further, it feels like you’ve hit a nerve. You’re not waiting much longer, the sun has only just started to break over the horizon when a truck pulls up to the gate. You all make it outside and climb into the car they hid round the back of the building. 

You all wait in silence hearing the garage doors open and close. Johnny doesn’t turn the engine of the car on until you all hear the distant click of the front gates slamming closed. By that point everyone is getting somewhat restless, you’re sat in the back between Ghost and Gaz. Price is in the front with the laptop on his knees. 

“Laswell thinks they might be heading to an old cold war base a few hours from the border of Kastovia.” Price says. “Satellite images have been promising and Russia has no troops in that region.”

“And they would have no reason to lie.” You say raising an eyebrow. You shrug when Price looks back at you. 

“Let’s move, we don’t want to lose them if we’re wrong.” He says gesturing for Johnny to drive. 

…

Price was right, they end up driving into what looks like an old cold war air base. Grass is peaking through the cracked concrete of the runway. The surrounding fence is rusted and collapsed in some places the buildings look rundown and barely functional but you all watch as one of the doors to one of the hangers open and the trucks drive in. 

Price orders Johnny to drive round to a forest about a kilometre away from the place and you all get out. 

“How can we be sure he’s there?” Gaz asks as he closes the boot of the car. 

“He’s there.” Price says confidently. 

“What about the others, The Butcher and Khaled?” You ask as you follow them through the trees. 

“No, they haven’t been spotted. This is a cold war era building though. Chances are there’s an underground tunnel system they’re hiding in.” Price says.

“That explains why we didn’t see many guards.” Ghost replies. 

“Right, besides I don’t think it’s going to be getting in that's the problem.” Price says. You let out a sigh, this feels too easy. It feels like you’re rushing, he’s in that building but like Price said there could be miles of tunnels hidden underneath. He could have a whole army in there just waiting. 

You follow them in silence listening to them talk strategies. The plan seems to be to go in as quietly as possible, cut the alarms, locate Makarov and take him out. Then confirm where the bombs and chemicals are so the US and Russia can come in and clear them up. 

It was a plan, not one you’re particularly happy with but it’s a plan nonetheless. 

“Gaz, Soap. You get in to see if you can find a maintenance room of some kind. Something we can use to tap into their systems.” He hands them the laptop. Gaz takes it then they start making their way down to the building. 

You’re all hidden behind something you think was once a barn but now there's a tree growing out of it and it's collapsed on one side. Ghost has binoculars looking around the place, the sun is out and the sky is clear which is way better than the thunderstorm from last night. 

“Place is quiet. I don’t like it.” Ghost says after a few seconds. 

“Makes our job easier.” Price says. You straighten up when you see the doors of the hanger open again. 

“Eye’s up Ghost.” 

“I see.” He replies. You squint trying to get a better look, you can’t see anything really from this distance, you wonder if Soap and Gaz are having any better look. 

“Shit. That’s Makarov.” Ghost says handing the binoculars over to Price. He brings them up to his eyes. You see a smile on his lips. 

“Got you now fucker.” You hear him whisper under his breath as he takes the binoculars down and hands them over to Ghost. 

“Update Soap and Gaz. I’ll get Laswell in the loop.” He says before turning to walk away. 

“Soap, Gaz. Makarov is heading into the main building.” 

“Copy.” You hear Gaz call back. “How’s our way in looking?”

“You’re clear. Watch yourselves.” 

“Always.” Soap replies. You turn behind you to see Price talking on a phone. You try to look for them but you can’t see them at all. You watch as Makarov makes it into the building with his entourage. 

“We’re in, making our way to the building now.” Gaz says. 

“Copy, watch your step, we have no intel you’re going in blind.”

“Copy, won’t be blind for long though.” Gaz whispers. You’re holding your breath, your palms have gone sweaty. You’re nervous, you want to be with them, helping them. What if they get hurt? They know what they’re doing, they’ve been trained for this. 

“How’re we looking?” Price asks as he comes back standing next to you. 

“We’re in, looking for a maintenance room.” Soap whispers as if on cue. 

“Good. Let us know when you have access then we’ll move.” Price says. It feels like you’re waiting forever, the seconds feel like minutes, you find yourself constantly checking your watch. 

“Nervous?” Price asks. You look over at him and smile. 

“Never.” He smiles back nodding his head.

“We’re in. Looks like Makarov is sitting pretty at the top of the ATC. Can you get a visual Ghost?” You all look up at the tower, you can’t see anything from here. 

“Copy. I see him.” Ghost says after a few seconds.

“We can override the security and lock him in there?” Gaz asks.

“Good, do it. Any signs of tunnels?” Price asks. 

“Nothing, everything seems to be above ground.” Gaz responds, you look over at Price. It feels too easy. 

“How many inside?” 

“A few dozen, 30. Maybe 40.” Soap says.

“Civilians?” 

“Negative.” 

“Stay put, we're coming to you.” Price says tapping Ghost on the shoulder.   

It doesn’t take you long to make it to the part of the wall Soap and Gaz made it though. Ghost and Price are faster than they are. More sure in their movements, they handle their weapons in a way you’ve never seen before, its second nature to them. You all slip through a side door and walk into a dimly lit corridor. 

“Were in.” Price says. You see Soap stick his head round a corner with his weapon drawn before lowering it. You all walk over to him seeing Gaz kneeled down next to the laptop hooked up to what you assume is some kind of server. 

“Gaz, stay here. Guide us, we’ll clear floor by floor. Make sure Makarov doesn't try anything. He’s not getting away this time.” Price says. Gaz nods and the rest of you make it out the room closing the door behind you. 

“Which way Gaz?” Price asks as you all stand there looking to him for direction. 

“Door to the left will take you through to the main entrance, then right through the double doors will take you into the mess.” Gaz says. “You’re looking at about 15-20 people.” You swallow hard. That’s a lot.

“Are you sure we can take that many people at once?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Soap chuckles and you feel embarrassed. 

“We’ve dealt with worse odds. Besides, we have an advantage.” Price says. You frown, shaking your head at him. 

“They don’t know we’re here.” Price says, clicking the safely off his weapon and turning to the left. 

He was right again. Surprising them was a big advantage. Gaz was good at calling out hazards too. You knew where they were before they could even find you. It felt clinical, maybe you’re used to it now, all the killing. It’s not hard when you’ve done it a few times. 

You don’t think about it, you just shoot, shoot them or they will shoot you. You don’t think about if they have a life outside of this. They’re the enemy, they’re making bombs and chemicals to hurt actual innocent people.  

“Mess and kitchen are clear. You’ve got people coming from the west side of the building.” Gaz says. You all get into position before the first few soldiers manage to get shots off. You have to duck under a table slipping on something and fall on your ass. 

You hear Soap chuckle coming over to you and grab your arm pulling you up. 

“Change your mag, I'll cover you.” He says. You nod, pulling the almost empty one out and pressing a new one in. The firing has stopped by the time you’re ready to fire again. You look over at the pile of bodies in the doorway. The room stinks of blood and gunpowder. 

You don’t think that is something you can ever get used to. 

“Looks like you’re clear.” The last few soldiers are with Makarov. I would hurry if I was you. I had to trigger a security lockdown so they couldn’t leave the ATC tower. He’s trying to override it. I don’t know how long you have.” Gaz explains. 

“Copy, we’re moving.” Price says already jogging out the room. When you make it back outside the building you see people coming out of the hangar towards you. 

“Go we’ll hold them off!” Soap shouts grabbing your arm to stop you. You nod at him and watch as Ghost and Price run off towards the ATC tower. You fire off shots with Soap, some are hitting, your adrenaline is pumping and your hands are sweaty. 

He grabs your arm pulling you to cover behind a roadblock. Now it’s your turn to cover him so he can reload. You look over the block and fire off shots trying your best to make them land. You can’t tell if you’re getting better or not. The last one falls as he gets back up. 

“C’mon let's catch up with the others. You watch our six, yeah?” You nod and follow him up the winding stairs of the tower. 

You hear an explosion. You both freeze for a second, your eyes meeting before you’re sprinting up the stairs. It takes the wind out of you sprinting up the steps trying to keep up with Soap. By the time you make it to the top you have to brace your hands on your knees and take in lungfuls of air. 

When you look back up Soap has gone, the doors to the control room are open. You walk in hearing voices. 

“You think you can stop us all Captain?” That has to be Makarov, his thick Russian accent cutting through the air. 

“Maybe not. But we’re going to give it a damn good try.” You hear Price say as a shot is fired. You make it round the control panel just in time to see his body flop to the ground. 

“Gaz, target down. Where’s the control room in this place?” Price asks as he turns, your eyes meet. There’s something different in them now, you quickly look back down at the body. His eyes look dark, focused. This was personal, you swallow hard, your throat feeling suddenly dry. 

“Main building second floor.” Gaz says. You’re already turning to move back down the stairs before them. You feel a shiver up your spine. They got Makarov, they’ve got the weapons, now all they need to do is get the Americans and Russians in here to clear the place out. 

It felt weird, like something had changed between you all. Well something had changed, they’ve completed their mission. You feel a shiver run up your spine remembering the cold look in Price’s eyes. 

It’s not even over yet Jamal and Khaled, they're both still out there, they’re both probably involved in continuing Makarovs work. He was right, they can’t stop them all.

You make it to the control room first Gaz is leaned over a laptop. The room looks out of place almost like they just slammed a concrete box down in the middle of the building, maybe they did. You had to walk through a set of metal sliding doors to get in. 

“Where are the others?” he asks looking over your shoulder, you turn to see no one following you.

“They must have got turned around.” You say. 

“I’ll go get them, stay here.” he says. You nod, swinging the weapon off your shoulder and putting it on one of the tables. You hear them before you see them, they must have not been that far behind. You walk over to the door to meet up with them. It slides shut and you step back for a second then step up again. Nothing changes, you frown looking up at the sensor waking your hand. 

You sigh, maybe it can only be opened from the other side, you can see them walk into the little room you can only describe as an airlock. This building really is as old as the cold war. When they make it to the door it doesn’t budge. 

They look at you confused. 

“I don’t know.” You say reaching over to press the red emergency open button, it doesn’t do anything. Suddenly you hear a hiss and a clank, they all turn watching the door behind them slide closed and lock. 

An alarm rings out. They look at Gaz who looks down at the laptop, you can see him furiously clicking on the keyboard.  

“The whole system’s gone into lockdown.” He says, you see panic on his face. Fuck. Price looks back at you. 

“Did you touch anything?” He asks. 

“No of course not!” You shout back defensively. Suddenly there’s another hissing, this wasn't like the one in their room. This one sounds different. You look up trying to place it. 

“What’s happening?” Price asks. You look round, it’s the vents, a few seconds later a thick smoke starts to seep out of them. It almost immediately makes you gag and cough. You bring your arm hand up to block your nose and mouth. 

You look back at Price, now you can see panic on his face. 

Fuck.

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Banners by plum98

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Verdict Due

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1)

Innocents Among You (Part 2)

The Guilty Plea (Part 3)

Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: You head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

Simon's steps are slow, lacking energy or purpose. Releasing the buckles strapping his vest down to him, he finally arrives to his door, lifting the camo from himself.

His forehead pressing into the wooden door, he finds it harder and harder to open everyday, seeing reminders of you every moment of everyday, when he closes his eyes, when he lays down in bed. Hell when he opens the door. He hated this room now.

Outside of the place that you both had made your home away from war, from battle, from the base, this was where the two of you had once spent most of your time.

He raised his head off the door, before bringing it back down on it, then doing it again, this time hard enough to hurt. "Fuck," he cursed, cursing himself, his stupid decisions, the times he'd never get back, the mistakes he'll never be able to erase. Huffing out bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut, he's still for a moment, before banging his fist against the wall. "Fuck!" There's a crackle along the wall, a clatter of dust and dried paint hitting his feet.

A shuddered breath leaves him, swallowing down his grief, his anger at himself. But, he can't help it. He's ruined everything.

Simon's head stays there against the doorway, he doesn't want to go in.

His head turns a bit, seeing a figure down the hallway, straightening up, dark eyes squinting. "Johnny?"

Quiet and Still. The Scotsman's mouth is set in a hard line, he runs a hand down his face, smearing the mess he'd made of himself. "I..." he breathes deeply. "I saw her today."

"You what?" Simon perks up, eyes wide. He looks past his comrade, seeing the open doorway of your room, "She's here," he speaks, voice alight and hopeful. Making his way past Johnny, "She's here?" he asks this time, bracing himself at her doorway.

But, the room is a mess and void of you. He'd nearly forgotten how the soldiers had left it, the day it happened he could watch it, it would've been too finalizing of what he thought was your betrayal. Today was meant to be the day they'd clean it all up, due to plaguing themselves with missions and ops that required long weeks, long hours. No one wanted to think about what they'd done.

But, now they'd only made another mistake in waiting too long. And now you had to be greeted by this mess.

"I didn't know it was--" Johnny couldn't turn back to the room, back to Simon, as he spoke. "I didn't know we did so much to her. I thought--how long--how could I--" he shakily began. "--how could you?" Simon's eyes flicker to his friend, dark circles and sunken cheeks seem to worsen. "She was so...she couldn't even look at me, Si. Like I'd make her sick, like I'd--hurt her again...I've never--" his fingers claw at his chest, hoping to rip away the ache in his heart, eyes haunted to tears and staring into the dark of his memory as he thought back. "I'd never--" he can't finish.

"She was here?" Simon asked again.

Johnny's clouded eyes look to Simon, opening his mouth before opting for nodding. Clearing his throat, finally seeming to get a handle on himself, "Just left."

"She what?" Simon bolts out towards the stairs, pushing through the doorway and jumping down the first flight to rush through the rest.

As he gets to the lobby floor, he shoves through the door, revealing the hallway to him, running down the long stretch before ramming into the side wall to catch himself at the corner. He continues down the way, running as fast as he's able, before bursting through the side doors of the front lobby.

He sees you immediately, beyond the glass doorways.

"(Y/n)..."

He's running before he can think to get his legs moving.

---

Leaving the dormitories, finally leaving behind the spare hospital wear that you had swapped for your own clothes, you waved down the first vehicle you'd seen.

The driver letting you into the truck, the two of you unaware as he begins to drive off, Simon shoving his way through the residential doors and coming to a stop in the middle of the street as you drive away.

You, having hopped a ride with one of the soldiers making his rounds, the Jeep shakes with the changing terrain, providing more conversation than the trooper that was much too quiet. Shifting his shoulders, adjusting his fingers around the leather, glancing one too many times through the mirror.

It was getting weird. But, you were a familiar face on the base, unfortunately now, it used to be because you were good at your job, the best sniper they had on the force. But now, it was because you were the first proclaimed traitor of the force in decades and the first to be wrong about.

So, the new attention is nothing to be pleased about.

"Find something interesting to look at, soldier?"

Back straightening, body stiffening and eyes facing the road, the trooper swallows thickly at having been caught eyeing you. "No, ma'am!"

"Then I suggest you keep your eyes on the road."

"Yes, ma'am!" clearing his throat. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't mean to stare."

Arms crossed, head turned to watch the smaller buildings go by, your jaw clenched. "It's fine..." you breathe, before relaxing a bit more as the drive goes farther and farther away from the residential areas. Eyes flickering over to the still tense trooper, you mutter. "Ease."

His shoulders drop, head turning, flustered. "Sorry, ma'am."

It was always strange to be called 'Ma'am' by fellow soldiers, usually you were only a year or so apart, others you had been younger by ten years or older by five. But, this trooper was new to the force, young, clearly still jumpy, you had been the same after your first missions on the Task Force.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the trooper then speaks, shakily.

"You don't have to keep--"

"About what happened to you," he continued. "I'm not sure if you heard that yet, but it's--that sounds--I can't imagine. I'm sorry that happened to you."

For a moment too long you're quiet, holding your breath, staring at the scenery as it whistled on past, the wind whipping through your hair. Your nails tearing into your skin as you rake them over your scars, smearing the line of blood left after ripping out your IV line, abandoning it as you found a ride.

"Get any cool scars out of it, at least?" he jokes, lightheartedly.

Your eyes snap his way, his eyes widening before he looks back to the road, back to stiff.

You open your mouth to speak, but you can't. You're just angry, too angry to find the words. But, you don't want to take it out on him, he was just attempting to alleviate whatever burden he imagined to be on your shoulders. But, all it was was a reminder, this was all anyone could think of anymore, when it came to you, this ordeal.

The apologies, the reminders, the quiet looks, the whispers, the fucking gnawing pain still splintered through your spine, you were tired of it.

The car pulls up to the largest administrative building on the base camp, hopefully you were right and this was where Laswell was posted up.

Quickly pulling the car handle as the trooper steps out of the vehicle to assist you, you hurriedly speak as he reaches to touch you. "I've got it," you hiss out, harsher then you meant. Stepping down and off the platform, onto the sidewalk, you forget you don't have your IV pole to at least stabilize you. So, when you stumble, he grabs your arm, his other resting on your shoulder.

"Woah!" his grip lacks gentleness, though not bruising, it's enough to set you off.

Your arm goes back and over his arm, shrugging him off, roughly. "I said I got it!" Your palm pushing into his shoulder and sending him back and off of you, he shifts back and nearly off his feet, catching himself.

"Alright, jeez!"

You're stumbling back into the light pole luckily a few steps behind you, leaning yourself against the cemented metal, you balance yourself. Shaking off the buzz in your ears and rubbing away the tension built along your skin, taking a few shuttered breaths, turned away from the soldier.

The trooper takes a few steps away from you, expression lifted to frustration and annoyance, rolling his eyes, brows furrowed and back pedaling to the Jeep. "Fucking crazy," he mutters to himself, adjusting his gear and stepping up back to the vehicle.

But, he doesn't make it very far until you're on him.

"What the fu--!"

Taking the opening of his kevlar and yanking him out of the vehicle, unable to catch himself fast enough to get to his feet. You hold a steel grip on the collar of his uniform, literally holding him up by his straps, pulling his entire bodyweight off the ground, leaning down so you're face to face with him. "Say it again," you snapped, eyes dark and boring into his skull. "I wanna have a good excuse for what I'm about to do to you."

He was taller, probably stronger, but looking up at you, he could see the years of mayhem and chaos that's burned itself into your irises, made you the lieutenant he'd tripped up on properly respecting. "I didn't--I didn't say anything! I'm sorry, ma'am, it won't--it won't happen again!"

Nostrils flared, eyes flickering between his wide, fearful ones, your hands loosen around his gear. He falls forwards, landing on his forearms with a groan, releasing a relieved breath.

He looks up, watching as you turn and make your trek into the building. You had seemed so fragile before, with a limp in your walk, scars head to toe and those braces along your legs, he assumed you had no fight in you. He couldn't have imagined, five minutes, he'd be wrong.

---

"Laswell."

The Station Chief turns, manila folder files in hand, brows raised at the intrusion before her eyes widen at the sight of your tired figure.

"Gray..."

You don't wait to be invited inside, instead pulling up a chair as you let the door close behind you. Not fully out of a lack of respect but your legs were killing you and surely if you wait a second longer you'll literally tear a muscle. "You free?"

"Never. But, I can make time," she answers. "Is something wrong?"

You bite down on your tongue. What isn't wrong.

"I put in a request for council in resignation, ma'am. I'm just here to know if it went through."

"I did...receive your request," The woman is still quite surprised to see you, a bit off put at your presence, hearing about your scars was one thing, seeing them was another. "Of course. Though, I expected you to wait for my call before deciding to come to me."

"I'm sure," you feigned a slight chuckle that faded as soon as it started. You say nothing else but stare.

Laswell sighs, tossing down the folder she'd been holding. "Look, Lieutenant Gray--"

"Just (L/N)," you gritted out. "Please." You couldn't stand your codename at the moment, you didn't want to carry a single thing this team had given you.

"Lieutenant..." Laswell pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the long table, facing you, "You've accomplished much on the force, saved lives, eliminated threats that had the potential to level the united nations, your honors and distinctions. At the very least, here, your guidance is a treasure..."

"I'd like my resignation to be approved, Chief--"

Laswell continues. "I need you to careful think about what you're doing here, Gray--(L/n). I don't want you to be motivated by what's happened to you, you still have a place on the force, it doesn't have to be beside your team. Don't waste your talents in the field because of this experience."

"Experience," You scoffed at the word, nose cringing up in disgust at the downplay. "I didn't go on a rollercoaster at Disney World, god--I was tortured by my team for weeks while my fiancé threatened to kill me afterwards..." you were about to lose your mind. "What makes any of you think I'd want to stay here? Why can't any of you just respect my decision to leave? I'm resigning."

Laswell settles back into her chair, lips pressing together, she makes a hum of a sound. "I can arrange a transfer," she compromised. "But, my authorization goes through only after informing Price, he also needs to sign off on this."

Your jaw clenches, your fingers tightening around your clasped hands. "Then how about that favor you owe me?"

Station Chief straightens, brow lifting and arms crossed. "Excuse me, soldier?"

Sighing, reaching a hand into your bag, you bring out a folder of your own, some documents signed off. "I had to wonder who the evidence was sent to, given it was right after our mission and Price doesn't even look at his reports to sign off on something in under 24 hours, it wasn't him," watching as Laswell opened the folder, revealing her own name signing off on the interrogation, just a few of the photos that'd declared you guilty. "Thanks for ruining my career, Laswell."

She spreads out the evidence, her own signature on the papers, she breathes out. "And what are you trying to do here, Gray?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Trying to threaten me with what exactly--?"

"Nothing," you answered. "I'm asking for a favor, from someone I thought was my friend," you find it harder to say, Laswell's jaw clicks and she shifts in her chair. "You owe me that much."

"It's the job, (L/n). I was protecting our own, our resources were very promising."

"Until they weren't, huh?" you sarcastically gritted out.

"Yes..." Laswell sighs. "I do apologize, (L/n), but--"

"Just do this for me," you interrupted, pleading this time. "Please. I can't go to him, I can't even look at Simon, let alone Price. Forget about being in the same room with them. I just--I can't be here, this isn't where I belong anymore," looking down at your hands, the scars that circled your wrists. This was a final decision. "I'm resigning with or without you."

Rising from your seat, Laswell stands as you do, "You resign without clearance, they'll take everything from you. Your pension, your insurance, retirement, everything, you'll be dishonorably discharged, you understand that?"

"'Course, I do," you admit. "Honestly, I thought I'd be dead on a mission somewhere before I saw any of that, I don't expect anything out of this. Nothing's...worth any of this."

As you turn the handle to leave, Laswell speaks once more. "I just wanted to enlighten you on what I'm risking for you, signing off on this."

At that, you glance back to her, watching as the older woman sighs heavily, picking up a pen, opening up the manila folder she'd been holding onto previously. Opening it up to reveal your resignation papers.

"If I do this, when I call on you, Gray," Laswell says. "I expect you to be there."

As she wrote her signature down on the dotted line, you swallowed down the ache that's plagued you for weeks, "I swear."

As the station chief continues down the packet, turning to the next page and signing once again, you slowly slide back into your chair, sitting silently as you watch her sign off on your leave from military service.

You bring your hand up fast as a tear runs down your face, wiping it away before Laswell can see, sniffing quietly.

---

Walking slowly down the side hallway of the admin building, you stare out into space, your eyes glistening as you hold the signed resignation packet to your chest, pressing it to yourself tightly.

Passing the front desk, the security posted up at the elevators, you enter the main hall and come to a stop. Your grip on your documents tightening as you watch rain pour out onto the outer glass of the windows.

Watching the downpour outside, you can't seem to get your feet moving to just leave this place. That's all you need to do, just...walk right through it, into a car, past the gates, onto the highway. Just...go home.

As you flinch at the pitter patter of the rain hitting the building, a short burst of thunder, you try to inch your way closer to the doors but the closer you get, the more you can remember. The more you can feel.

The rain gets louder, and louder. It's cold, although you recall it being 90 degrees and in the middle of the desert. It must just be you.

Putting your folder away and into your bag, the automatic doors open for you, but it's too hard to step through. Staring out into the open landscape, the dividing border of the desert land and the gates surrounding the base. The dry ground now turning muddy, trucks driving by and the mud swelling up at the change in pressure, soldiers rushing through the rain, kicking up mud, flicking up umbrellas.

Breathing deeply, you scuff your shoes forwards, feeling the first drop hit your skin, it's warm, but it's no comfort. Gasping at the feeling, you stumble back into the building, the automatic doors closing.

Short gasps of breath quietly leave you, your nails burrow into the skin of your forearm, you stare at the rain as it pelts at the ground, flooding pot holes and falling into storm drains.

The automatic door opens again, you back up, shifting to the side, as an officer gives you a strange look as he walks past and into the rain.

Your hesitance to proceed into the rain was noticed by a few in the main lobby. Like Kyle, who still stood in his mission uniform, dropping off his reports to the main desk, getting off the elevator to see you staring up at the cloudy sky.

His eyes widening in shock, he's lost in his own world when he begins to take steps towards you, lips parting in disbelief, voice cracking as he breathes out to say, to beg or plead for forgiveness.

The automatic door opens again as you shuffle forwards to try to step outside, he doesn't fully notice your fear of the weather when he speaks.

"(Y/n)..."

You turn at the sound of your name and his eyes flicker to the large scar along your cheek, the red of your eye still, that had changed the color of your iris, maybe permanently. The way you hold your bag tight in your hands as if to shield it from the rain before yourself.

You don't say anything, he hadn't expected you to. You stare at him, surprised to see him, then the expression changes to terror, brows pulling inward and hands sinking into your bag to bring it closer. His heart aching at your reaction to him, his lips pressing together, he doesn't know if she should say another thing. Just let you go.

"(Y/n), I..." he can't help himself as he continues, breathlessly.

You back away from him, out of the building and into the rain. The moment it hits your back, soaking through your shirt, rain hitting the top of your head, down your back, you tense up and spin around.

Kyle's brows furrow, before worriedly witnessing as you curl into yourself instantly, crying out in terror, your hands coming up and over your head. "(Y/n)!"

Realizing what you'd done, your back hits the glass doorway, too late for the doorway to register you wanting to come back inside. You stumble to the corner of the building, just next to the doorway and under the too small gutter to find any shelter from the pelting water at your skin.

A loud sob leaves you, squeezing your eyes shut, you can feel the torture starting again, the unbearable freeze of your limbs, the force of crashing pounds of water along your spine. The screams they would pull from you...

Your torment lasts only a few seconds, suddenly the rain stops, but the sound continues around you. A coat settling around your shoulders and over your head, Kyle's hands on your shoulders, he's yelling over the thunder. "Come on, let's get you out of this. Come on, (Y/n)," he takes your arms. "Let me help you, please!"

"You did this," you cried. "I told you. I told you it wasn't me. But, you kept turning it back on! And then you'd leave it like that and it drove me fucking insane. I'll never be ok again, I can't--" hyperventilating. "Don't touch me, Kyle."

Kyle swallows thickly, head hanging low, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before leaning down to you. "I can't leave you here like this, please, love," he hauls you up to your feet. You shove him back, pressing yourself further into the corner, shaking, "(Y/n)--"

"Don't put your fucking hands on me. What don't you get, huh?" you spat. Pulling off the jacket he'd placed over you, tensing at ever drop of rain that fell over you after, but you toss it back at him. "I don't want anything from you. Never again."

"I'm sorry," Kyle clutches the jacket. "I'm so bloody sorry. I'm sorry for every damn thing I'd ever done to you. I'm sorry we didn't listen. I should've never done that to you. I didn't want to, I just--I thought I was doing the right thing for all of us," his voice breaks and he cries under the rain as his little sister, his family, hatefully stares him down. "I thought you'd give in, that it'd be over as quick as it started! I'm sorry I couldn't trust that you were telling the truth all that time."

"I don't want your apology!" you yell. "Cause you'll never know the same feeling. You'll never understand what you've taken from me. What you've done to me--" hiccupping painfully.

Kyle looks away from you, inhaling with a shudder, reddening eyes are covered as he raises his hands to run over his face.

"Your apologies. Your wishes for forgiveness," you seethe. " You should keep them. They mean nothing to me."

With that, you shove on past him, re-entering the building and rushing down the hallway, you turn the corner away from Kyle. Leaving the distraught man out in the rain, the automatic door sliding closed as he looks on after you.

Part 5 OUT NOW!

[luveline]

spencer x reader where she kisses his forehead and he’s 🥹🥹

“Spencer, are you dead?” 

Spencer ignores your question by accident. Heavy head in hand, he’s slowly sinking closer and closer to the hotel breakfast table to rest. His neck twinges with the effort it takes to stay up. 

“Spencer,” you say more sharply. 

His eyes track like the air is honey. He settles on your sluggishly while offering no greeting, tiredness pulling at him. “My eyes hurt,” he offers. 

“Make you some tea.” 

“Um, okay.” He’s disappointed when you leave, then dozing, face pressed to his desk as itchy eyes press along lids. It feels as though his eyelashes have turned inward. 

You return with a cup. Spencer grabs it blindly, lifts his head to squint one eye open. “What?” he asks. 

There isn’t tea in the cup. There are tea bags, two of them, wetted and leaking tan beige along the white china of the mug. Distinctly no tea. You must be tired too. 

“They’re for your eyes, Spence. They’ll make your eyes hurt less. The caffeine restricts your blood vessels to calm the inflammation, and the tea itself soothes sore skin.” 

“How do you know that?” he asks. 

You rest a hand on his shoulder. “I read about it in a book of modern home remedies. It really works. Here, can you tip your head back?” 

Spencer is very, very tired, but your voice is nice, your fingertips gentle against his neck, so he tips his head back. He doesn’t know how terrible he looks, having forgotten his untucked shirt, his rumpled sweater vest, his hair sticking up all over the place. 

“Close your eyes,” you murmur. 

Spencer shuts them. 

“It’s cold,” you warn, “but it’ll feel nice.” 

Spencer doesn’t care. He waits for you to move. The tea bags you place on his closed eyes feel cold and at first they sting just a touch, perhaps tea finding its way through his lashes, and he can’t confess to noticing a difference in soreness. 

“Hey… what’s this? It looks like it hurts?” you ask, drawing a short line over the side of the bridge of his nose. There’s an indent there that feels like a bruise.

“I fell asleep at my desk with my glasses on,” he says. “They dug in.” 

“You were up late, I’m guessing. Maybe you should go back to the room.” 

“No, I can’t. I’ll be okay. Thank you for the… tea.” 

Your hand rests tentatively against his cheek. He can’t open his eyes to see what you're feeling, and he doesn’t need to. There’s emotion to be felt in your slow strokes, how your thumb rests along his jaw as your nail scratches to the top of his ear, then behind the shell of it. It’s intimate enough to summon a different kind of tiredness. Exhaustion swapped for content. He could sleep in the curve of your palm all day. 

“You’re welcome,” you say. “I’m gonna take them off for a second to check the damage.” 

You take them. Your breath draws near. 

A warmth presses to his forehead atop his left eyebrow. Spencer doesn’t know what it is until your nose graces just above it, and your lips part —it’s a kiss. You’re kissing him sweetly, your fingers sewing through his hair. 

He peels his sore eyes open to look at you. You lean back as unhurried as you’d ferried forward, your hand cradling the nape of his neck. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask. 

Spencer stares up at you. In that moment, tired, aching, and balmed, he’s completely in love with you. You must see a little of it, your lips parting again in an unnamed emotion. It’s sheer luck that you’re the only one awake with him, because if any of his teammates saw the way he was looking at you they’d never let him forget it. And, he gets to see your reaction. Your partial smile. 

“Did that help?” you ask. 

You must mean the tea. “I feel better.” 

“Yeah? Do you…” Your voice turns to cashmere, a thread of bemusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Would another one be okay?” 

Spencer can only nod as you wrap your arms around him and position your mouth at the soft skin where his hair meets his forehead. When you kiss him again, his eyes flutter shut. 

“You really need some help with your insomnia,” you murmur. 

Spencer wonders if maybe you’d want to be that help. You must have melatonin in your kisses.

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

goodnight moon

how spencer turns college!reader's bad sleeping habits into very good sleeping habits.

MDNI | smut! word count: 1931 warnings & tags & stuff: fem reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), slightest teensiest bit of overstim, fluff to the moon, spence and reader just being sweet, spence just being obsessed and concerned with every little thing about reader authors note: hiiii. soooo this is TERRIFYING. why is smut soooooo scary and vulgar. but i've been working on this one for a long while and i think i'm happyish with it??? idk. its not really adding anything new or revolutionary to the world but i think its cute!! lemme know your thoughts. i think smut is something i'll get better at writing with time but yk. okay whatever have a lovely day and i hope you enjoy!!

There’s a noticeable tension in your shoulders as you lay down on top of the covers of your bed. Your face crushes into the soft down of many pillows, nose buried into the crevices. You trace out the clean smell of Spencer's shampoo that manages to linger on your sheets even after a week of him being away on a case, the fragrance making your head become even heavier with each deep inhale you take.

You can physically feel the exhaustion clawing at your soul. Eyes shut, blocking out the harsh shine of the overhead light you definitely forgot to turn off, you reach your arm up to work on the knot in your shoulder. You roll it back, feeling an unsettling click that probably shouldn’t be there. 

Spencer would be able to work the knot out like it was nothing, if he were here.

You shift your leg up, thinking. When did he say he’d be home earlier today? You had called him before your final exam this afternoon, for some encouragement and reminders on the principles of astronomy.

The all-consuming fog in your brain prevents you from remembering any of the important details of the conversation, such as when he’d be home, so you choose instead to just replay the soft I love yous he had said into your ear. 

By this point you’re sprawled across a good portion of your bed, back to the ceiling with one leg bent, head turned to the side. Your spine sinks down into the mattress, relieving the aches just a bit, and the sweet, sweet release of sleep ensues minutes later.

Until it gets quite rudely interrupted.

You don’t hear him enter the room. You haven’t even opened your eyes to see him. The only thing you notice when you wake is the feeling that you’re being picked up from your hips and rotated, a complete 180.

“Hello?” you ask loudly even before your eyes open.

When they do open, they see your lovely boyfriend standing above you, grimacing like he’s been caught. Spencer’s hands are holding you mid air, and you look at him, wildly confused, as you blink away the sleep in your eyes.

He’s still wearing his work clothes, the thick sweater vest that you got him last year for his birthday layered over his button-up. He must have just gotten inside, his bag was still crossed over his body. 

“Hi honey. What are you, um, doing?” you ask quietly. His nose scrunches in a cute attempt to push his glasses up his nose without using his already occupied hands.

“Hi. Sorry for waking you up.” He ducks down to kiss your forehead. “You just really shouldn’t be sleeping on your stomach. Bad sleeping posture can actually worsen chronic pain more than any other factor in your daily life,” he explains, setting you down but keeping a firm grasp on your waist. Your mouth forms an awkward little smile, matching his. “I had to intervene.”

“I know. It’s just so uncomfy. But why’d you pick me up? You could’ve just nudged me, or, you know, asked…” you grumble. You make room for him, however, as you speak. He sets his bag down and clambers into bed next to you, body seemingly rivaling yours in exhaustion. He leans against the headboard, turning his head to look at you.

“I wouldn’t normally do that, but I knew you were exhausted, so I figured you’d be less likely to wake up if your body was physically touching fewer things,” he justifies, logic drawing a soft giggle from you. You settle into a comfortable silence, the room still bathed in artificial light and Spencer still in his work clothes.

He eventually breaks the stillness after a minute, turning towards you. “How did your astronomy final go today?”

“I think I did alright. Our study sessions paid off, I think. But it was never my strong suit,” you reply, tracing your fingers over his leg. “I’m so achy now though. It’s strange what four hours of math can do to your body.” 

His hand slides up your arm in response, lightly pressing on the tense spots. 

“It’s strange what four hours of math and sleeping like a contortionist does to your body,” he corrects with his little know-it-all look, fingers circling a bit more firmly into your shoulder.

“I also really, really missed you,” you add, smiling back at him. “So be nice to me.”

“I missed you,” Spencer responds, even sweeter. “And I am being nice.”

You roll your eyes and he reaches over to kiss you gently. “Would you like me to be nicer?” he whispers softly. Your brain is all but short circuiting as you look at him, his eyes flitting between yours like he was searching the stars.

Your head is nodding even before you can actually realize what he means.

Then, his body is gone from yours. You stay silent, trying to regulate your breath, eyes following him as he stands and walks over to turn off the big light. Your eyes flicker to adjust, but with the moon’s gentle shine pouring into your window, it’s absolutely perfect. 

A blush, that you're hoping the new darkness will conceal, creeps up your cheeks when you see the soft outline of Spencer’s back as he takes off his sweater vest and pulls at his tie. He turns back and looks at you, eyes all soft and full of adoration. “Yeah? Not too tired?”

“Nope,” you murmur, convincing yourself as much as him. He finishes getting into his PJ’s and walks back to you. You straighten your back, trying to appear as awake as possible. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he says back at you, voice gentle. “You can barely keep your eyes open.” A kiss, this one to your cheek, softens the blow of his words. You shake your head, but he continues. “You were sound asleep not even ten minutes ago, and you’ve yawned six times in the last five minutes.” His hand strokes the side of your waist.

“Spencer. I'm fine,” you huff. He smiles a little and sits next to you on the bed. His mouth is on yours, kissing you firmly, sweetly. 

A hand, always in motion, always calculated, slides up to your nape and presses you closer. The other slides down and thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing lightly over your skin, making it erupt in goosebumps.

His brow scrunches softly. “You’re so worked up.”

You stay silent, begging him with your eyes. He dips down and kisses right where he touched, and your hips lift a bit in response. 

“Honey. Lie back,” he says, and you do so. He readjusts his body so he’s on top of you, one leg slotted between yours. He kisses your forehead, cheeks, nose, and then moves down to your neck. He kisses that one spot beneath your ear that makes you gasp quietly. He then does it again, and again, and again, in that focused way of his. 

Wordlessly, he slides down further. His nose bumps underneath your belly button, in the thin stripe of skin showing where your top meets your panties. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Please. Please, Spence,” you whimper softly, head feeling like a cloud of gas from the endorphins. He peppers even more kisses there and ghosts his fingers over your hip bone. He slides your panties down an inch and immediately kisses the skin that’s revealed.

“I thought about doing this to you all the time while I was away,” he murmurs. He presses another kiss more firmly on your hips, even closer to your soaked core, sucking gently and leaving a mark. “These should be off by now,” he muses, gently pulling your underwear down. 

His hand is immediately where you want it, two fingers pushing up against your folds, and to your clit. He touches in little circles, sending jolts of pleasure up your stomach, eyes looking up to yours to gauge your feelings. 

You almost hate Spencer for how fucking good it feels. You let out a soft moan, heart pounding. And when his middle finger sinks into your entrance with no word of warning, you toss your head back and close your legs around his hand. Spencer’s mouth twists into that little smile of his, pushing ever so deep into you, and says, “It feels better when you keep your legs open, sweet girl. If you need more, tell me.” You nod immediately, desperately. 

“Yeah. I need more,” you whisper, and he bends down and gives your clit a kitten lick. Your hand goes to his hair, softly pushing him closer. He gets the message and presses his tongue flat against it, eliciting a moan from you.

“You’re so pretty like this, under me. I missed you.”

You really do almost forget just how nice it was to have him on top of you after a week, telling you nice things and making you feel so good. He pushes his ring finger in to match his middle, stretching you slightly and adding pressure to where he knows it feels good. Your eyes screw shut and you furrow your brow in overwhelming pleasure, a soft exhale coming from deep within you.

“This good?” he asks, other hand coming to take care of your clit in his mouth’s absence. You nod frantically, looking down at Spencer. He watches where his hand comes in contact with you, pushing in and out at a steady pace. “You’re not normally this quiet. Is it a lot?”

“Yeah,” you whimper. “Feel so sensitive.” He presses a soft kiss onto your clit, and you jolt.

“Sweet girl. It’s been a little while, huh? Even right before I left, I didn’t use my mouth." You shake your head in agreement. “You’re doing so well for me though.” 

He resumes with his tongue, working you into oblivion. His free hand holds your hips steady, hindering you from writhing away from the mind-numbing pleasure.

His mouth is occupied and your brain is utterly ruined, so the only noises coming from the two of you are your soft exhales and whimpers, and the obscene sound of his hand pushing incessantly into you.

And eventually it does, in fact, become too much. He sends you into orbit. You lift your hips, practically pushing yourself into his face, pleasure coursing through you.

“Spence, I’m. I-” your voice gets caught in your throat. 

“I know,” he says, calm and collected. A stark contrast to whatever the fuck you’re feeling right now. 

He keeps going in the same way, steadily driving you through your orgasm. You let out one last moan and your body relaxes and limps around him, chest moving up and down rapidly. 

You come back to earth and grab his arm to tug him away. But he stays, pressing kisses all over you, watching you with his imploring eyes.

“You can take it. Missed you so much. Just one more,” he says in broken little sentences, parting with your core for just a second before resuming, hand picking up speed again. But this time, you don’t feel as awake. As alert. Your chest feels heavy, and your eyelids even heavier.

The post-orgasmic haze has settled even more into your bones, pressing you down deeper and deeper into the dark chasm of sleep once again.

The last thing you see before you succumb is the moon casting a perfect glow onto Spencer, still diligently pressing soft kisses onto you, holding your hips still so you won’t roll over in your sleep like before.

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A digital comic of Celia Ripley and Samama Khalid from The Magnus Protocol. Celia is a taller, slim, Korean woman with pale skin, short black hair, rectangular glasses, gold piercings, and dimples. She is wearing a coat, vest, scarf, trousers, and nice shoes, all in green and dark purple with gold accents. Sam is a shorter, fat, South Asian man with brown skin, short curly black hair, a mustache and small goatee, and black earrings. He is wearing a coat, turtleneck, cardigan, trousers, and nice shoes, all in brown, dark red, and green.

They are standing in a hallway in front of a closed door. Celia is spinning a set of keys, and they are smiling at each other.

Celia: Well, this is me. I had a really good time, Sam. Sam: Yeah, me too! Celia: We should do this again. Sam: Y-Yeah! I'd like that a lot, Celia.

She goes to unlock her door, peeking back to smile at Sam, who is standing awkwardly, looking away. She opens her door with a creak and gives him a shrug.

Celia: Thanks again for walking me home, Sam. I really appreciate it.

She pauses, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Sam smiles, gesturing about sheepishly. The text as he speaks takes up the next three panels, partly obscured by the two of them and fading towards the bottom.

Sam: OH! Well, you know it was no big deal I just figured you know. It's polite and it gives us more time to talk and it's not always safe out there at night. Not that you can't handle yourself I just you know and I figured company would be nice on the walk back and we were already having so much fun so-

As he talks, Celia calmly steps closer, smiling, lifting her hands up near his face. He notices her hands, looks up at her, and then looks slightly downward towards her lips as she leans closer, his eyes going sparkly. A shadow falls over him as she blocks out the light.

Sam: It's really no.... problem....

She smiles, looking at him with intent and then looks down at his lips. A pink haze appears behind them in the background. She finally tilts her head and kisses him, knocking her glasses askew. The background is all pink with hearts surrounding them. There are two closeups, one of their lips touching and one after they've pulled slightly back, lips glistening and pink sparkles surrounding their faces.

She stands back up, smiling down at him, pink haze fading behind her, before startling slightly. She is still holding his face, slightly squishing his cheeks. His eyes are still shut and he is blushing severely, hair slightly mussed. He opens his eyes, expression vague, with tiny hearts in his eyes and sparkles around him, pink haze remaining behind him, before he suddenly tips back, surrounded by hearts, and giggles "hee-hee". The tail of the speech bubble forms a heart. Celia panics, leaning forward to grab him.

He snaps back, haze gone, with a "POP!" as she pulls him up, and they are chest-to-chest for a moment before Sam pulls back, blushing, looking awkward. He clears his throat before abruptly turning around and walking off.

Sam: OKAY BYE CELIA. (smaller bubble, an aside) Sleep well.

She watches him leave, amused and confused, and chuckles "heh-heh", a couple hearts around her. She waves, heading into her flat as he leaves, embarrassed.

Celia: See you at work Monday, Sam! Sam, in a thought bubble: FUUUUCK

end ID]

~~~~

I FINISHED THE THING YAY please enjoy ripsam being. silly geese <3 after a nice date <3

[buckyalpine]

A one shot where Bucky doesn’t like the reader and makes her life at the compound a little rough? Like enemies (maybe to lover or friends?) and she is like the sunshine personality 🥺🥺🥺

I live for this shit This type of angst where he's mean and finds her annoying even though she's a sweetheart, ugh, yes. YES.

Bucky groaned, trying to ignore the shooting pain that seared in his abdomen, clutching an old t-shirt to stop the bleeding from the stab wound he'd received during his latest mission.

"You good there, terminator?" Sam cocked an eyebrow watching Bucky unconvincingly nod, grunting a half assed yes before squeezing his eyes shut and flopping back on the seat.

"You're gonna need stiches" Steve snorted, shaking his head at his stubborn friend.

"I'm fine" Bucky gritted out, preferring to bleed out on the jet instead of going to the med bay where he'd be surrounded by doctors and needles and if he was really unlucky, you.

"Seriously? That's the second shirt you've bled through, I don't think the serum's gonna cut it, punk" Steve sighed, knowing how Bucky felt about getting medical care but it wasn't like he had a choice. As soon as the jet landed, Bucky was shoved in the direction of the medical wing, pouting and grumpy as he limped with Steve supporting him. Bucky frowned when Steve pushed him to lay down on the examination table, grumbling and wincing under his breath.

"You stay here. I'm gonna finish writing up our reports, don't go sneaking off" Steve chuckled, giving his friend's shoulder a squeeze before leaving. The soldier stared up at the florescent lights, his eyes anxiously darting about the room, hoping and praying that at the very least he wouldn't have to deal with-

"Good afternoon Bucky!"

For fucks sake.

Bucky groaned at the chirpy voice that piped up from the door, his brows knotted together from frustration.

He hated it. You'd ask about his day as if he wasn't there go get sewn up. You'd talk to him like you'd known him for years, almost oblivious to the fact that he was a former brain washed assassin. Every time he saw you, you were so giggly and pretty and bouncy and cute and happy and it irked his soul because it was to the point it was unnecessary. I mean you were just so kind and sweet to everyone as if everyone deserved such amazingness from such a wonderful person, okay that's enough Bucky.

The world wasn't fucking sunshine and rainbows and he had no idea why you acted like it was.

"Steve said you needed a few stitches so-

"Where's Dr. Cho" Bucky cut you off, hoping anyone else would help him so he could get on with his day, willing to take the needle and thread himself instead of having you do it while talking his ear off.

"Oh, she's with another patient right now but it's fine, I promise I'll get you out of here soon, do you mind if I remove your vest-

"Yeah, I got it" Bucky huffed, wincing to get his gear off but you stopped him, urging him to stay down.

"No, it's okay, I just wanted to make sure you're okay with it, I'll cut it off, don't worry"

Bucky nodded, lying back down while you grabbed a tray with medical supplied, carefully cutting around the blood soaked material and discarding it. You cleaned the area, mumbling apologies incase the alcohol caused any pain, moving on to closing the cut.

"I heard about the mission you all went on. I can't even imagine going through all that, it sounded terrifying. You're very brave Sargent" You smiled, tossing your gloves aside after patching Bucky up. Bucky grunted as he hopped off the table without a word, ready to whack Steve on the head for telling you of all people he needed help.

"If you need anything else, let me know! Just get some rest for a few days, it'll heal soon-

"I know" Bucky walked out of the room without looking back, his shoulders relaxing when he was far away from he med wing. There was truly no reason for him to be this annoyed but he was tired, in pain and he knew for a fact there would be a pile of papers for him to fill out in the conference room.

You didn't take Bucky's grumpy attitude to heart, understanding the stress that came with going on missions, getting injured every time coupled with the fact that he was probably still healing from his own past. You put away the supplies before taking a coffee break, running into a very excited Tony along the way.

"Hey cupcake, just who I was looking for, do you like chocolate or vanilla"

"Tony, I told you, you don't have to-

"That doesn't answer the question. Pick one or the other or both or another flavor, all the flavours, but give me something"

You giggled at the way he looked at you expectantly, sighing seeing as he wouldn't let up until you answered.

"I'm not picky, you know I'd love anything. Get something everyone would like, seriously, I don't even need all this, I'm just the nurse-

"Stop that right now, there's no one else like you" Tony huffed, planting a quick kiss your head before texting his caterers about everything he wanted, ensuring everything was perfect, especially when it came to you.

-

You woke up to the sun streaming through the curtains, stretching before getting out of bed and padding over to the bathroom to go through your morning routine. You had the day off, throwing on your joggers instead of your typical scrubs and making your way down to the kitchen, grabbing ingredients for baking.

You hummed, scooping out spoons of cookie batter, plopping it onto the tray and throwing it into the oven, cleaning up the area in between, waiting for the oven timer to go off. You set the chocolate chip cookies onto a tray, piping the last bit of icing onto the top and sweeping away the smidges of frosting that got onto the counter.

Bucky blinked at the smell of baking, making his way to the kitchen for some water after a run. He groaned, nearly walking right back out when he saw you singing to yourself, arranging cookies in a circle, each one decorated for a different person in the tower.

"Good morning Bucky" You smiled while he mumbled, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, "I-I made made cookies for everyone, did you want one?" You asked hopefully, looking at the little dog tags you'd piped on the cookie you made for him while he shrugged in response.

"Why do you keep trying so hard, do you not have any friends?" Bucky scoffed, ignoring the fresh plate of cookies that sat on the counter, not caring that your face had fallen. He wanted to strike a nerve, feeling a sick satisfaction at the way you silenced yourself, giving him the peace and quiet he wanted.

"S-sorry, I just thought-

"You thought what?" Buck cocked an eyebrow, the tick in his jaw making your stomach churn.

"Nothing, sorry" You mumbled, turning back to continue cleaning while he chugged the rest of the bottle. "I've just leave them here if you want one later on-

"No, I don't want one now and I don't think I'll want one later either" Bucky glared at you, tired of you always trying to do things for others as if anyone asked.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't-" you bit your lip hard to keep from crying, not wanting to annoy Bucky more.

"Why do you always act like everything great? Like we don't come back from almost dying, risking our lives while you go about like the world is perfect"

"I just-I didn't mean-

"You didn't mean what, to be annoying? Did anyone even ask for this?" Bucky nodded to the cookies while you shook your head, feeling ridiculous and embarrassed, not realizing others also probably found you annoying.

"I-it was my birthday, I thought-" you sniffled, choking back a whimper, "I wanted to do something nice - never mind" You bit your lip to keep from breaking down, blinking back tears as you scurried off to your room, without looking back.

The initial satisfaction Bucky was short lived as he stood in the now empty kitchen, tossing the bottle aside. The plate caught his eye once more as he walked by, reluctantly stopping to look at each one, your skilled hands decorating each one with clean details. He instantly spotting the one you made for him which had been dusted with silver just like his tags; he had no idea how you managed to get his name and number piped to precisely.

Not that it mattered.

Bucky continued to make his way to the gym, feeling a little bad that he made you cry but he figured you'd get over soon enough, after all that seemed to be your strong suit, you were always happy and smiling anyway.

-

"You're coming tonight, right?" Steve dropped the weights he was curling while Bucky frowned, unsure of what the captain was referring to.

"Why, what's tonight" Bucky grunted, still in the middle of his set.

"Seriously, Tony told us like a month ago"

"Yeah, fine" Bucky huffed, not really caring what it was about, knowing he'd be dragged to go regardless. He finished the rest of his workout, retreating back to his room to shower. He flopped onto his bed after, grabbing a book from his bedside table seeing as there was still plenty of time till he had to get ready.

The book had been a Christmas present from you and as much as he hated to admit it, it was perfect and one of his favorites. He tried to focus on the words, feeling bad again thinking about how your face had fallen earlier when all you did was offer him a cookie.

Maybe he went a little overboard with his reaction...

Bucky shook the guilt he felt, hoping that you'd be running around somewhere getting ready for whatever tonight was.

-

"Where's y/n" Sam looked around the room seeing everyone else present but you, the night in full swing seeing as Tony had gone all out as usual "I swear she said she'd be here, this is literally her birthday party"

"I didn't see her" Nat frowned, putting down the drink she was sipping on, scanning the room again, "Now that I think about it, I haven't seen her all day"

Bucky felt a deep pang in his chest when he realized the party was for you, his stomach twisting in knots.

"Where's our birthday girl" Steve asked as he joined the others, the guilt making Bucky feel even more sick. He ran a hand over his face while the others continued to wonder where you were. "I hope she isn't working, she deserves a day off, she already worked over time for 3 months straight when we were running back to back missions"

Bucky remembered that.

They'd all been sent out on missions spread across different months and you'd been the one on call to patch them up the entire time. You hadn't complained once even through you were thoroughly sleep deprived. At the time Bucky was annoyed you were in such an upbeat mood when they were all scraping by but you had been struggling yourself.

"I fucked up" Bucky groaned, feeling awful for how he'd treated you in the morning and for how he'd been acting towards you in general.

"Why, what did you do" Steve's face twisted in confusion while Bucky's face reddened in embarrassment. Steve was aware Bucky complained about you but he figured it was because his bestfriend got flustered around the pretty nurse, he'd seen Bucky get tongue tied plenty of times whenever you walked by.

"You were a grumpy asshole to y/n, weren't you" Sam frowned seeing Bucky's guilty face. The soldier didn't say another word, leaving the group to find you instead, debating on getting Steve to clock him in the jaw first. Bucky ran to the elevator, pushing the button to your floor, hoping he'd see you making your way down, only to find the hallway empty. His heart broke hearing the soft sniffles coming from your room, the door closed. He gently knocked on the door, your cries quieting down as if you'd silenced yourself to pretend you were asleep instead of opening the door.

"Y/n?" Bucky called for you only to be met with more silence, "Can-can you please open the door?" His heart started to beat faster when he head your footsteps approaching the door, clicking the lock open; you were still in your joggers from earlier, your face puffy from crying.

All because of him.

"Sorry, I fell asleep" you lied, keeping your face trained on your feet, worried Bucky had come to yell at you about the party Tony had thrown for you, "and I'm sorry about the party, you didn't have to go if you didn't want to, I promise I didn't tell Tony you had to come, I know you don' like me-

"No, no baby no, stop" Bucky hushed you, his heart breaking when your voice cracked, rambling out apologies. His body moved on its own, wrapping his arms around you while you started to cry again, rocking you while holding you to his chest. "Please don't cry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you have nothing to apologize for doll, nothing at all"

Bucky held you tightly while your body shook, feeling sick with himself for how he'd been treating you. You'd never been anything short of sweet and he'd made a point of always letting you know he couldn't care less. He lifted you in his arms, walking over to your bed, sitting down with you in his lap, ready to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

"I didn't mean to be so annoying" You shrugged, fidgeting with your fingers, the light that always made your eyes twinkle dimmed from Bucky's words.

"Y/n, please, no" Bucky whispered, pleading with you to stop. "Don't doll. It was never ever you, please let me apologize. I've been awful to you, you've done nothing wrong. You've always been an angel, sweets, it's me whose been an annoying asshole. I don't deserve your kindness but that's never stopped you from giving it to me when I least deserved it"

"You deserve kindness Bucky" you gave him a small smile, one that didn't meet your eyes and Bucky felt his eyes sting. Even when he was the one in the wrong, you were still comforting him with your sweetness.

"Y/n, I don't know anyone that deserves the sort of kindness you give. I don't know anyone that would deserve someone as wonderful as you. You're a light for everyone when its dark. I was a fuckin' idiot for everything I've ever said to you. That isn't an excuse for how I've been treating you doll, I know that. It's just- I've been awful to you and you've never done anything wrong. I'm truly sorry sweets"

"Its okay Bucky" You whispered, reaching up to wipe the tear that streaked down his face, your cheeks heating up when you realized you were still in his lap, "S-sorry, I didn't realize-

Bucky shook his head, holding you securely in his lap, not wanting to let you go.

"You have nothing to apologize for, pretty girl" Bucky shrugged, loosening his hold in case you wanted to get off but your doe eyes darted around instead, settling further in his lap. "You really are like sunshine"

"You're very charming, Sargent" you smiled bashfully while Bucky chuckled, his heart beating erratically in his chest when your hands came up to toy with the tags that hung around his neck.

"Would it-would it be if I kissed you?" He whispered shyly, blushing when you nodded, pressing his soft lips to yours. Bucky took his time kissing you, pouring every ounce of his feelings with soft touches, holding onto you like porcelain.

"Everyone's waiting for you sweets" Bucky gave you a gentle squeeze, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes, hoping that you'd still want to go to your own party. "Would you like to go downstairs?"

You slinked off Bucky's lap to get ready, the soldier watching you with heart eyes the entire time you did your hair and makeup. He knew he had a lot to make up for, starting with the fact that he'd never hurt you again. He was still upset with himself for ever hurting you in the first place but he was ready to protect your innocent heart for the rest of his life. His breath hitched in his throat when you finished applying the last of your gloss, blushing when you slipped your hand into his so he could lead you down.

"Theres our cupcake!" Tony grinned when he saw you approaching, the rest of the team cheering making you giggle. Steve smirked seeing Bucky follow closely behind you in protective mode, keeping his hand around your waist. He spent the entire time, doting on you, following you like a lost puppy.

By the end of the night, he had you in his lap again, shamelessly looking at you with heart eyes while the rest of the team watched curiously, his sole focus on you.

"Happy birthday sweet girl" Bucky whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek while you nuzzled into him with a shy smile, "My little sunshine"

-

Now imagine Bucky doesn't quickly get over the fact that he was a dick. Sure you forgave him because you're an absolute sweetheart but Bucky can't even deal with the way he'd acted, especially when he had a crush on you the entire time and just refused to acknowledge it, acting like a cunt instead.

He's the most lovestuck boyfriend to ever exist. Your office is always full of fresh flowers. He's a clingy little puppy, outside of the medwing until your done, always finding excuses to sneak in and see you. You had to tell him a papercut wasn't a good enough reason for him to request your services.

Neither was a stubbed toe.

The time he nicked himself while shaving was the worst because he was pouty until you kissed him better.

He slips his dog tags around you, his possessive/jealous side occasionally sneaking out.

He doesn't even hide the fact that he's a simp for you, knowing he's the luckiest person on the planet to get the sweetest person in the world. He shows your off like no tomorrow, proud of the angel he gets to call his.

He absolutely loved his sunshine.

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Previous << || >> Next

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: suggestive, non-explicit smut. kissing. smoking. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── · 

I drew inspiration from the TikTok lipstick challenge, which, to be honest, left me feeling incredibly lonely. The whole experience stirred something in me, prompting me to write about it.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Additionally, I was influenced by @fraternum-momentum and their OC, Sol, which added another layer to the idea. As for whether this should be marked NSFW or SWF, I'm torn—it's really more of a playful game involving lipstick, with a soft, romantic vibe and a lot of playful banter and chemistry between the characters. 

It's meant to be lighthearted and playful, with a bit of flirtation thrown in, but definitely nothing explicit! Also, I think I might've missed the birthday of a certain character in the game… I wonder who that could be?

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The student council room was eerily quiet after hours, lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp on the far end. The usual hustle and bustle of meetings, debates, and planning sessions had faded, leaving the space unusually still. 

Except for him.  

Crowe was seated at the large oak table, his posture impeccable as he reviewed a stack of neatly organized papers. His sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. His black bottom-up shirt was loosened but still perfectly modest, and his purple vest hung from the back of his chair. He looked, as always, impossibly put-together.

And that’s exactly why you’d decided to stop by tonight, coming from a late night studying at the library, you could help to pay him a visit, after all, you have the key. He was too perfect, too composed. It was high time someone tested just how unshakeable Crowe’s gentlemanly façade was.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him briefly before clearing your throat. "Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Crowe glanced up, his brows lifting in surprise at first, but his expression quickly softened into a familiar, warm smile. “You have a habit of sneaking up on people, you know that?”

“It’s one of my better skills,” you replied, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind you. “What are you doing here so late, anyway? Don’t tell me it’s another mountain of paperwork.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was?” he asked, motioning to the neatly stacked papers in front of him. “Someone has to make sure this place doesn’t fall apart.”

“Ever the responsible one,” you teased, crossing the room toward him. “But don’t you ever get tired of being so... predictable?”

Crowe raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Predictable? That’s a new one. Care to elaborate?”

You grinned, circling the table to stand behind his chair. “You’re always so composed, so polite, so... gentlemanly. Doesn’t it get boring playing the role of the perfect man?”

“Not particularly,” he replied smoothly, though his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. “Someone has to keep things in order.”

“Mm, but what if someone didn’t?” you murmured, leaning down until your lips were close to his ear. “What if someone decided to mess with that perfect little image of yours?”

Crowe turned his head slightly, his deep blue eyes meeting yours with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Is that what you’re here to do?”

“Maybe,” you said innocently, stepping around to face him. Without giving him a chance to respond, you perched yourself on the edge of the table, just close enough to be in his space without overstepping.

Crowe tilted his head slightly, his deep blue eyes fixed on you with a spark of intrigue. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”  

You didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, a sly smirk played on your lips as you slid off the table in one smooth, deliberate motion, closing the small distance between you and him. Without hesitation, you eased yourself into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs.  

Crowe stiffened immediately, his posture going rigid as his hands hovered uncertainly in the air, unsure where to land. His usually composed demeanor faltered, and the faintest trace of a blush began creeping up his neck. It was subtle, but on his warm, light brown skin, it was enough for you to notice—and grin.  

“Well,” you started, looping your arms lazily around his neck, your fingers toying with the ends of his braided brown hair. “I thought I’d start by seeing how much it takes to make you blush.”  

Crowe’s breath hitched as you leaned in, your lips brushing his cheek in a featherlight kiss. “That’s one,” you murmured, your tone playful, your lips curling into a mischievous smile.  

His jaw tensed, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Are you keeping score?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with a nervous edge.  

“Maybe,” you teased, planting a second kiss on his other cheek. “Two.”  

Your hand moved to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his single braid as you tilted his head slightly to the side. The motion exposed the line of his jaw, and you didn’t hesitate, pressing soft kisses along the sharp angles, your lips tracing the warm expanse of his skin.  

“Three, four…” you counted softly, letting your lips linger just a moment longer with each touch.  

Crowe swallowed hard, the tension in his body melting just enough for his hands to find a place—tentatively settling on your waist. His grip was light as if he were still unsure if this was something he should allow himself to enjoy. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Playing such a dangerous game.”  

“Am I?” you asked, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still idly twirling single braid. Your voice took on a mockingly innocent tone. “Or are you just afraid I might win?”  

He looked up at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smiled faintly. "I suppose that depends on what you’re trying to win."

You smirked, reaching into your bag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. Crowe’s brow furrowed in confusion as you uncapped it, applying the deep crimson shade with practiced ease. 

"And what’s this for?" he asked, his voice carrying the slightest hint of wariness.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his skin, lips hovering near his cheek. “Call it an experiment,” you murmured, your voice soft and teasing. Without waiting for a reply, you pressed a deliberate kiss just below his cheekbone.

The faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air as you pulled back, a perfect lipstick mark standing out against his warm, light brown skin. You tilted your head slightly, inspecting your handwork with a mischievous smile. “Not bad,” you said lightly, as if critiquing a painting.

Crowe blinked, visibly stunned, his deep blue eyes locking onto yours. He didn’t move, his breath caught as if trying to process what just happened.

But you weren’t finished.

Tilting his chin slightly with a gentle finger, you leaned in again, this time brushing your lips along the edge of his jawline. His skin was warm beneath your touch, the tension in his shoulders betraying his carefully composed demeanor. Another kiss followed, slower this time, leaving a bold imprint just below his jaw.

Crowe’s lips parted, his breathing uneven now, though he still didn’t stop you.

“Hmm,” you mused, leaning back slightly, only to trail your gaze down to the column of his neck. “This feels incomplete.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat when your lips found the curve of his neck. A soft gasp escaped him as you pressed another kiss there, then another, just above his collarbone. His hand twitched as though he might reach for you, but he held back, his restraint only making the moment more electric.

When you finally leaned back, Crowe’s usual polished, gentlemanly demeanor was in tatters. His skin was a masterpiece of faint crimson marks—his cheeks, jawline, and neck all kissed and claimed. He reached up hesitantly, brushing his fingers over one of the marks on his jaw, his touch lingering there as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of your lips.

“You—” he started, his voice rough, but you cut him off with a soft laugh.

“Speechless?” you teased, recapping your lipstick and slipping it back into your bag with an air of nonchalance. “I must’ve done something right.”

Crowe’s jaw worked, his lips pressing together as he struggled to find his composure. His usual confidence had been thoroughly dismantled, leaving him looking uncharacteristically vulnerable yet… yearning. The once-pristine picture of composure—the meticulous student apart of the council—now looked delightfully disheveled, his face, jawline, and even his neck adorned with vivid, unmistakable stains.

“There,” you said, stepping back and tilting your head as if you were admiring a masterpiece. “Not so perfect now, are you?”  

“You’ve officially ruined my ‘gentlemanly’ image,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. His fingers hesitantly brushed over the fresh stain near his jawline, his expression equal parts baffled and amused. “I can’t believe you just did that.”  

“Oh, believe it,” you teased, crossing your arms and giving him a satisfied grin. “Honestly, I think it suits you. Adds a little color. You’re welcome.”  

Crowe let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. How am I supposed to explain this?”  

“Explain it?” you said, feigning shock. “You mean you’re not just going to own it? What happened to that legendary confidence of yours?”  

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off by leaning in again, adding a quick kiss to his forehead. “Now you’ve got the full set,” you said with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Face, neck, and...” You trailed off meaningfully, letting the pause hang in the air.  

Crowe raised an eyebrow, his composure slipping as he caught the implication. “You wouldn’t—”  

You didn’t let him finish. Before he could say another word, you planted a deliberate kiss at the corner of his mouth, then slowly worked your way to the center, leaving faint marks in your wake.  

When you pulled back, your face was the picture of triumph. “Now you’re officially branded. Guess that gentleman thing has its limits, huh?”  

Crowe’s deep blue eyes narrowed slightly, though the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”  

“Absolutely,” you replied without hesitation. “And admit it—you are too.”  

He exhaled, his hands resting lightly on your waist as if he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or himself. “You like testing me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, tinged with both amusement and something deeper.  

“And you like failing,” you shot back, leaning in so your faces were barely an inch apart. “Don’t worry, though—I think you wear it well. Lipstick suits you.”  

Crowe’s lips quirked into a smirk, his usually poised demeanor finally cracking under your relentless teasing. “You’re not making this easy,” he murmured, his voice low but laced with a playful challenge.  

“And why should I?” you quipped, settling more comfortably on his lap and letting your arms drape lazily around his neck. You leaned back just enough to take in your handiwork. The soft smudges of lipstick painted a trail of your victory across his cheeks, jaw, and now his neck. A particularly bold kiss near his collarbone had left a bright red mark against his brown skin.  

Crowe raised an eyebrow at you, his deep blue eyes flickering between exasperation and amusement. “I look like I lost a fight with a makeup counter.”  

“Correction: you lost to me,” you replied with a smug grin, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. Your voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “And you didn’t exactly stop me.”  

Crowe huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and rich despite the predicament. “Oh, I’m fully aware,” he said, his tone dry but edged with amusement. “Do you make a habit of ambushing people with lipstick, or am I just special?”  

“You’re special,” you teased, drawing the word out in a sing-song tone as your eyes narrowed, fingers slowly unbutton his shirt. “But don’t get too excited—I just thought someone as put-together as you needed a little... color.”  Your eyes looks up at him with a playful charm.

His breath hitched, and for the briefest moment, his usual restraint faltered. His hands slid up to your waist, his fingers curling slightly as if to anchor himself. “And here I thought you were here to apologize for interrupting my work,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, his eyes darker as they locked onto yours.  

“Apologize?” you repeated, feigning innocence. “For what? For making you look even more pretty? For proving you’re not as unshakeable as you pretend to be?”  

Crowe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.  

“Impossible?” you echoed, shifting slightly in his lap, your fingers lightly tracing upper chest. You leaned in closer, your nose just brushing against his, and your voice dropped to a low, teasing whisper. “That’s funny, coming from someone who’s supposed to be a gentleman. Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know... stopping me? Resisting temptation?”  

Crowe’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to mask the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face. His gaze dropped, lingering on your lips for a heartbeat too long before meeting your eyes again. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your waist, his grip firm but still careful, as though he were holding himself back.  

“And why,” he murmured, his voice lower now, the usual steadiness giving way to something rougher, more deliberate, “would I want to stop you?”  

Your smirk widened, victory already bubbling in your chest. “That’s a good question,” you mused, leaning in until your lips brushed his, the contact feather-light and achingly slow. His breath caught, and you could feel the tension in his frame, the way he held himself still, like he was caught between giving in and holding on.  

“Good answer,” you whispered against his lips before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so composed and guarded, were darker now, his composure visibly slipping. You caught the faint flush rising along his neck, creeping just beneath his jawline, and you couldn’t help but grin.  

Crowe exhaled sharply, breaking the silence as he leaned his head back against the chair, a wry, unsteady chuckle slipping past his lips. “You’re trouble,” he said, though his voice betrayed him—uneven and laced with something softer.  

“And yet,” you replied, hopping off his lap with a triumphant flourish, smoothing the hem of your clothing as if nothing had happened, “you haven’t asked me to leave.”  

Crowe tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as that familiar glint of mischief returned to his expression. He looked at you now with the kind of calm that was just daring you to keep pushing. “Maybe,” he said slowly, his voice steadying again, “I like a little trouble.”  

You laughed softly, stepping back to admire your handiwork. His shirt was slightly wrinkled from where your hands had rested, and his face was a mess of lipstick smudges—on his cheeks, along his jaw, and the faintest stain at the corner of his lips.  

“Good,” you said with a mischievous grin, nodding toward the streak of lipstick on his neck. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Crowe’s eyebrow arched, his lips curling into a small, amused smile as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady and teasing. “Then I’ll be sure to prepare myself,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“Oh, you’d better be,” you shot back, taking a step back from his lap with deliberate slowness, your eyes lingering on him for just a moment longer. “Because next time, I might not be so... gentle.”

Turning on your heel, you strode to the door, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet room. Just before you left, you glanced over your shoulder, your grin still firmly in place. “Try not to miss me too much.”

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Crowe alone in the dim light of the student council room. He let out a quiet breath, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the mark you’d left on his neck. 

A faint chuckle escaped him as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the closed door with a small shake of his head. “You really are something else,” he muttered to himself, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. 

Trouble, yes—but perhaps the kind of trouble he wouldn’t mind getting used to.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The living room was a cozy chaos, with warm fairy lights casting a golden glow over the dark walls and mismatched furniture. The lights draped lazily over the curtain rods, twinkling faintly as if encouraging the quiet mischief brewing within. The couch—a beloved relic, its cushions sagging in all the right ways—sat at the center of it all, surrounded by a battlefield of cosmetics.  

The coffee table groaned under the weight of lipstick tubes in every shade imaginable, from muted nudes to shocking neons. Tissue papers lay crumpled beside an array of smudged hand mirrors, and the faint scent of vanilla and wax lingered in the air. The room was comfortably warm, the heater humming faintly in the corner, adding to the intimate atmosphere.  

You perched on the couch's edge, your legs tucked beneath you, wearing an oversized hoodie that dwarfed your frame but left your enthusiasm unrestrained. A wicked grin played on your lips as you reached for the next weapon in your arsenal—a vibrant crimson lipstick labeled Scarlet Desire.

Sol sat beside you, a reluctant participant in your glamorous experiment. His dark, disheveled hair framed his pale face, strands occasionally falling into his reddish-orange eyes that seemed to glow like dying embers in the dim light. He slouched dramatically, his arms crossed as if that might shield him from the barrage of attention you had planned.  

"All right, Sol," you announced with mock seriousness, brandishing the tube like a wand. "You’ve been chosen as tonight’s test dummy. Congratulations on your moment of fame."  

Sol let out a groan that was half dramatic and half genuine, tipping his head back against the couch and staring at the ceiling as if it might offer an escape. "Why do I feel like I’m about to star in a weird beauty guru horror story?"  

"Because you are," you replied with a smirk, twisting the lipstick open to reveal its bold crimson shade. The color gleamed under the fairy lights, a promise of chaos to come. "Now, sit still and quit whining. Let’s see if ‘Scarlet Desire’ lives up to its name."  

Before he could muster another complaint, you leaned in, one hand gently cupping his jaw to steady him. His breath hitched, his body freezing under the unexpected closeness. The faint scent of your perfume—something floral and sweet—floated between you, making his pulse quicken.  

You applied the lipstick to your lips with precision, pausing briefly to inspect the smoothness in the hand mirror. Satisfied, you leaned closer again, your face just inches from his.  

"Ready?" you teased, your voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper, your grin turning impish.  

Sol’s eyes widened slightly, their reddish hue glinting with a mix of trepidation and something else he couldn’t quite place. "Do I have a choice?" he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.  

"Not at all," you replied cheerfully, brushing aside his weak protests.  

Without hesitation, you pressed your lips to his cheek, the cool touch of lipstick contrasting with the warmth of his skin. The kiss was quick but deliberate, leaving behind a perfectly shaped crimson stain against his pale complexion.  

Sol blinked, his mouth parting slightly as he tried to process what had just happened. His usual indifferent mask cracked the faintest hint of pink creeping up his ears. The lipstick stain on his cheek seemed to burn hotter than the room’s heater, a brand he couldn’t ignore.  

You leaned back, tilting the hand mirror to inspect your handiwork. "Still intact," you mused, tapping your lips thoughtfully. "That’s a point for ‘Scarlet Desire.’"  

Sol finally found his voice, though it came out uneven. “Is… is this going to take all night?”  

“Probably,” you replied, lips curling into a mischievous smile as you reached for another tube. You held it up to the light, inspecting the label. “‘Forbidden Plum.’ Sounds dramatic enough, don’t you think?”  

The deep purple shade gleamed as you twisted the tube, the realization dawning on Sol that this was far from over. He groaned again, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed the fact that he wasn’t entirely upset about the situation.  

“Relax,” you teased, leaning in close, your warm breath brushing his ear. “I’ll be gentle.”  

Before he could respond, your lips pressed softly to his jawline, leaving a perfect, dark imprint just below the curve of his cheekbone. You lingered for a moment, letting the heat of the kiss sink in before pulling back to inspect the mark.  

“Not bad,” you murmured, tilting your head and running your thumb over the stain as if appraising your work. “But I think this color needs a little more flair.”  

Without waiting for his approval, you leaned in again, this time brushing your lips against his neck. The touch was softer, teasing, and you felt the slight hitch in his breathing as your lipstick left another vivid mark just above his collarbone.  

Sol swallowed hard, his face now a canvas of warmth and embarrassment. This wasn’t just a lipstick test anymore—it was a battle to maintain his composure against your relentless, flirtatious charm.  

“Hm,” you mused again, holding up the mirror to check your lips, then twisting open another tube. “Alright, next contender: ‘Midnight Rose.’ Let’s see if it’s as dramatic as it sounds.”  

His reddish orange eyes tracked your every move, flickering between the lipstick in your hand and the playful glint in your eyes. As you leaned in to kiss his other cheek, the cool press of your lips sent a jolt down his spine, and his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the couch cushion.  

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, voice low and unsteady.  

“You say that like you’re not,” you shot back, your tone as playful as the smile that followed.  

This time, you kissed along his jawline again, dragging your lips lightly over his skin before pulling back with a smirk. The fairy lights cast a warm glow over the room, adding to the intimacy of the moment as your laughter filled the space.  

By the fourth or seventh kiss, Sol was no longer slouched but sitting ramrod straight, his breath uneven, and his lips parted in a dazed expression. The air between you felt charged, and every teasing glance you shot his way only added to his visible fluster.  

“Now how… how many more of these are there?” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You tilted your head, pretending to count the remaining tubes. “Oh, only about five or six. Maybe seven. You’re handling this so well, Sol, I might just have to make you my permanent lipstick tester.”  

He groaned, a hand flying to his forehead in mock defeat, but his reddish-orange eyes lingered on you longer than they should have.  

“You must be getting bored with this experiment by now,” he mumbled, though his tone lacked conviction.  

“Bored? Not a chance,” you quipped, leaning in one more time, this time planting a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Though I think you might be getting dazed from all the attention.”  

Sol’s breath caught, and his cheeks flamed brighter than before. He could only sit there, speechless and utterly smitten, as you reached for yet another lipstick tube.  

“This one’s called ‘Velvet Sin,’” you announced, holding it up with a playful wink. “Let’s see if it’s worth the hype.”  

For a moment, he thought about protesting, but then he realized—what was the point?

He was already lost in the haze of your laughter, your teasing touches, and the warm, lingering impressions of your kisses. The pink, purple, and red smudges peppered across Sol's pale skin. He sat stiffly, his black and green streaks bangs veiling his burning cheeks as he avoided your amused gaze.  

You held up the mirror again, turning your head to inspect your lips carefully. "Still nothing, maybe I should just stick to clear gloss,” you said, a triumphant edge in your tone. "It’s like these lipsticks were forged in a lab to smudge. Great…."  

Then you turned the mirror toward Sol, revealing his reflection. His reddish-orange eyes widened as he stared, dumbfounded, at the chaotic array of lipstick marks scattered across his face—his jaw, cheeks, and even a faint smear near his collarbone from when you leaned in a little too close earlier.  

You burst out laughing, breaking the silence. "You look like a really sad art project," you teased, clutching the mirror with one hand and your stomach with the other as you doubled over in laughter.  

He huffed, clearly trying to mask his growing embarrassment, but the corner of his lips twitched upward in a sheepish smile. "You’re enjoying this way too much."  

Sol, typically composed in his aloofness, looked anything but indifferent as you leaned in, armed with yet another lipstick in your collection. His usual mask of stoicism had cracked, replaced by a look of pure, unguarded vulnerability.

“And you’re taking it way too seriously,” you teased, your voice low and dripping with mischief.

Before Sol could respond, you closed the gap between you, planting a kiss squarely on the tip of his nose. The kiss was playful, a soft smooch that left behind a faint, heart-shaped lipstick mark. The vibrant maroon stood out against his pale skin, and you pulled back, your lips curving into a satisfied smirk.

"Perfect," you murmured, tilting your head to inspect the tiny flourish you’d left behind.

Sol sat there, motionless, his lips slightly parted as if he’d forgotten how to form words. His reddish orange eyes were wide, darting to your lips and then back to your eyes. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual brooding demeanor utterly replaced by something unsteady and raw.

You didn’t stop. You leaned in again, closer this time, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Sol’s breath hitched audibly as your lips ghosted over his cheek.

“Let’s try something more daring,” you whispered, the heat of your breath brushing against his skin before you pressed a deliberate kiss just beside the corner of his mouth.

His entire body stiffened, his hand gripping the edge of the couch like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. The lipstick left a bold mark just shy of his lips, teasingly close. You pulled back ever so slightly, your gaze lingering on the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

“Hmm, maybe I should try it here next,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers gently brushing his chin to tilt his face toward you.

Sol’s eyes widened, his lips trembling slightly as you leaned in further. This time, you kissed him squarely on the mouth, a soft, deliberate press of your lips against his. The kiss was slow, your lips brushing his with just enough pressure to leave a faint imprint of the maroon shade.

When you pulled away, his lips glistened faintly, the color smudged ever so slightly. His cheeks were burning red now, the flush spreading up to the tips of his ears. Sol’s expression was a mix of stunned disbelief and something else—something heavier, like a quiet yearning he couldn’t contain.

"Oops," you said with a playful grin, holding up the mirror to show him the faint but unmistakable lipstick mark lingering on his lips. "Looks like you’re officially part of the experiment now."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering there a moment too long before darting back to your eyes. "You... you’re really not holding back," he mumbled, his voice cracking slightly.

"Should I?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you reached for another lipstick. "I think you’re holding up pretty well, Sol. You’re a surprisingly good test dummy."

Sol didn’t respond. He just stared, his lips still tingling from the kiss, his mind racing in directions he wasn’t ready to admit. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. You reached for the next tube—deep plum, almost black, its sleek metallic casing glinting under the dim fairy lights.  

"All right, final test," you declared, twisting the lipstick open with a satisfying click. The color was rich and bold, a shade that dared anyone to look away. You leaned in, closer than before, your breath brushing against Sol’s cheek.  

He stiffened, his head tilting slightly as though torn between leaning away and leaning in. "You’re relentless, you know that?" he muttered, his voice low and strained.  

"Let’s see how kiss-proof this one really is," you whispered, your lips curling into a playful grin.  

Before he could protest, you kissed him, deliberately slower this time. The plush warmth of your lips pressed deeper against his lips, lingering longer than any of the others. Sol’s breath hitched audibly, and you could feel the heat radiating off him as his tension melted into something softer. When you pulled back, you admired your work: a perfect, bold imprint on his pale red lips, perfect and center.  

You shifted slightly, cupping his chin with your hand to turn his face toward you. His eyes were half-lidded, his dark lashes casting shadows against his flushed cheeks. He looked wrecked in the most endearing way.  

"Don’t tell me you’re getting tired already," you teased, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.  

Sol didn’t answer. He seemed dazed, his lips slightly parted as though the words had escaped him entirely. Undeterred, you leaned in again, pressing a kiss to his temple this time, your lips lingering against the curve of his hairline.  

"Still intact," you murmured, half to yourself as you pulled back and inspected your own lips in the mirror.  

Sol blinked, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite manage it. The next kiss landed on the bridge of his nose, soft and playful, and the one after that trailed down to the corner of his mouth.  

"Okay, this one’s holding up really well," you remarked, leaning back to evaluate the results. You laughed softly at the kaleidoscope of lipstick stains that now adorned his face—a collection of reds, pinks, and purples, each mark a testament to your experiment.  

"Sol?" you prompted, tilting your head as you noticed his unusually quiet demeanor.  

He blinked again, his gaze focused on you but far away.  

"Hello? Earth to Sol—" You waved a hand in front of his face, but before you could finish the thought, his hand shot up, gently catching yours mid-wave.  

You froze, startled by the suddenness of the movement and the look in his eyes—smoldering and uncharacteristically intense.  

"Huh…" you trailed off as he guided your hand down, his fingers curling over yours in a firm but careful grip.  

"Enough," Sol murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.  

Before you could process the shift, he moved. In one smooth, almost predatory motion, he pressed you back into the couch, his weight pinning you against the cushions. Your back hit the fabric with a soft thud, and his hands found your wrists, holding them gently but securely above your head.  

"Sol—"  

"You're impossible," he said softly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark hair fell messily into his eyes, and his gaze burned with something raw, something that made your chest tighten.  

You stared up at him, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he leaned closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The space between you felt impossibly small, the room charged with a quiet intensity that neither of you dared to break.  

"All those kisses," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your cheek as his lips curved into a teasing smirk. "And you still act like you’re in control."  

Your heart raced, the world outside the living room forgotten entirely. "Sol, I—"  

But his expression softened, his grip on your wrists loosening slightly. "I think," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "it’s my turn to test your limits, pumpkin."  

Oh shit.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

It’s one of those crisp afternoons, the air just cool enough to send a slight shiver down your spine as you sit on a bench by the archery range. The college campus is quiet, with students scattered here and there, but your attention is entirely on him—Geo. 

The archery field is his domain. He doesn’t know it yet, but you’ve got a plan that will catch him off guard.

Geo stands tall at the center of the field, adjusting his posture with precision, his focus entirely on the target in front of him. The sun casts a soft, golden light across his pale skin, making his aquamarine eyes seem even sharper. He’s dressed in a simple, black, form-fitting athletic shirt, paired with tight-fitting cargo pants that hug his long legs. 

His boots are rugged, the kind that make him look even more intimidating as he stands tall and composed. His hair, dark bluish-purple, is tied back neatly in a low ponytail, the bowl cut framing his face in a way that makes his expression appear even more brooding.

Despite his best efforts to look aloof, there’s something about him that calls for attention. His movements are deliberate, almost as if he knows he’s being watched. You lean back slightly, pretending to be absorbed in the scene but really just observing him, thinking about the plan you’ve hatched.

Geo pulls his bowstring back with precision, his aquamarine eyes narrowing as he takes aim. Everything about him is calculated, a display of discipline honed through years of practice. You bite your lip in anticipation, then grab the lipstick from your bag, uncapping it with a soft click. The color is a deep red, the kind that will stand out against his pale skin. You’ve decided: it’s time to throw him off just a little.

You stand up quietly, making your way to where Geo is, and as you approach, your heart beats a little faster. The air around you feels charged with the quiet energy he exudes. Geo is too focused on the target, his fingers inching toward the release. You take a deep breath, then step forward just as he releases the arrow.

Before he can even blink, you lean forward and plant a bold, quick kiss to his cheek, the lipstick leaving a bright red mark against his pale skin. The sound of the arrow shooting through the air fills the silence as you pull back, watching the surprise flash across his face.

Geo’s eyes widen for the briefest moment. He freezes for a split second, just enough for you to see his cheeks flush under his usual stoic exterior, the pale hue quickly warming to something deeper. The arrow he released flies off course, landing just beside the target rather than hitting the bullseye as it usually does.

He’s caught off guard.

You step back slightly, a mischievous grin on your face. “Missed it,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

Geo’s gaze shifts to you, his expression darkening. His lips part, and for a moment, it’s like the weight of the world shifts. "What the hell?" His voice is low, his tone not entirely angry, but certainly perplexed.

For someone who’s always so controlled, so composed, you’ve definitely managed to make him lose that edge. He quickly recovers, wiping his cheek with his sleeve, and for a second, you wonder if you pushed him too far. But then you see the slightest tug of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t do that again,” he warns, but there’s no heat in his words—just that familiar sharpness that seems to be his natural state. It’s clear he’s still processing, but you can tell this little moment has left its mark on him.

You smile back, not backing down. "I thought I’d get your attention. Looks like I did."

Geo shakes his head, his smirk growing as he nocks another arrow. "You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into," he mutters under his breath, but you can hear the playful challenge behind it.

Despite his usual brooding demeanor, you can’t help but notice the slight curve of his lips as he prepares to take another shot. It seems that, for once, he’s not quite as untouchable as he wants everyone to think. You can feel the tension in the air as Geo reaches for another arrow, but you’re already plotting your next move. The excitement bubbling inside you is hard to contain—this is more fun than you thought it would be.

Geo draws his bow back again, taking aim with the kind of precision only someone like him could master. But before he can release it, you lean forward just enough to interrupt his concentration, tapping his shoulder lightly with a teasing smile. 

“What now?” he asks, his voice as gruff as always, though you can detect a hint of amusement hiding in his eyes. “You want me to miss again?”

You shrug innocently. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if I could make you blush again." You let the words hang in the air, watching as his expression shifts. His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment, you're convinced he’s actually considering the idea of doing something more than just shooting arrows.

Geo takes a deep breath, clearly trying to regain his focus, but before he can, you lean in—this time, a little bolder. You press another quick kiss to his neck line, leaving a fresh red mark on his pale skin. And just like last time, he freezes—eyes wide, jaw slightly ajar.

The arrow that should’ve been heading for the bullseye instead veers wildly off course, missing the target completely and burying itself in the grass.

You burst out laughing. "Not so precise anymore, huh?"

Geo whips his head toward you, eyes narrowed in something between surprise and irritation. “Are you trying to sabotage me?” he growls, though you can see the amusement hiding behind his scowl.

You’re still laughing, clearly enjoying yourself far too much, and that’s when Geo decides to do something about it.

With a swift motion, he reaches out and grabs your wrist before you can step back, his fingers tightening around it just enough to stop you from making any more cheeky moves. You stare at him, caught off guard for a moment—he’s not known for being touchy, but here he is, holding you in place.

"Alright, enough of this," he says, his voice suddenly less gruff and more playful, though his eyes still carry that glint of challenge. "If you think you can distract me with kisses, you’re mistaken."

You grin up at him, unfazed by his grip on your wrist. "Oh? Then you should’ve seen what happened when you missed your shot," you tease. “I think the whole campus heard your arrow crash into the grass.”

Geo rolls his eyes, but the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Don’t think this is over,” he warns, his grip on your wrist tightening a little more, though it’s more playful than threatening. "You’re gonna regret this, trust me."

“You sure about that?” you quip back, your voice filled with playful defiance.

Geo raises an eyebrow at your defiant tone, clearly weighing his options. For a second, you swear there’s a flicker of something almost... fond? It vanishes just as quickly, replaced by his usual broody persona. “I could have you running laps around this field by the end of the day,” he threatens, though his eyes are twinkling with the unmistakable sign of a challenge.

“Make me,” you shoot back, tugging your wrist free from his grasp just enough to push your luck a little further. 

Geo chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. "You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

“Yeah, all for you~” you tease, throwing him a wink.

Geo doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but the corner of his mouth lifts just a little higher this time. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Despite the gruff exterior, you’ve managed to ruffle his feathers just enough to see a side of him that’s not all business. 

And honestly? 

You kind of like it.

As you step away, pretending to give him space, you can feel his eyes on you. You’re not sure if he’s still trying to figure out what the hell just happened or if he’s plotting his revenge. 

Either way, you’re all in for whatever comes next.

Geo steadies himself, the bow string pulled taut as he lines up another shot. But the second you lean in, it’s like the world goes into slow motion. You can see his shoulders tense, his jaw clenching slightly as you get closer. He knows exactly what you're doing. His grip tightens on the bow, and for a split second, you think he might just let the arrow fly—into the target this time.

But before he can fully focus, you press a soft, teasing kiss to his bottom jaw again, the lipstick leaving a fresh red print. 

Geo’s eyes snap wide open in surprise, his finger twitching against the bowstring. “You—” He cuts himself off, trying to maintain his composure, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him, his pale skin turning a shade darker. The arrow in his hand nearly slips from his grasp as he blinks in confusion. 

You pull back just enough to see his expression, a mix of shock and that brooding intensity you’re so used to. His lips twitch, a barely-there smirk playing at the corners, more like disbelief?

However there’s something else in his eyes now—something... tempting.

"Alright," he growls lowly, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice now, "You want to play that game, huh?"

Before you can even react, he’s closing the space between you, his hands gripping your wrists with surprising tenderness, pulling you in with a quick, deliberate motion. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s more intense than anything you expected. The rush of warmth from his lips against yours sends a little shock of electricity through you, and your breath catches.

Geo’s kiss isn’t soft or tentative. No, it’s like he’s trying to make a statement—daring you to say something, to break the moment. You feel the pressure of his lips, firm and demanding, and you can tell he’s not just kissing you for fun anymore. There’s something deeper in it now. The playfulness has shifted into something a little more heated.

You’re breathless when he pulls away just enough to speak, his voice husky, dark with amusement. “Now you’ve really done it.”

You blink up at him—his lips now stained from the lipstick, looking down at you with irritating expression—dazed from the sudden shift in his demeanor. “I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me back, especially on the lips” you tease, a smile tugging at your lips despite the heat crawling up your neck.

Geo doesn’t smile—he just stares at you, eyes dark with the challenge of it all. His hands still rest lightly on your wrists, but now they feel heavier, almost like he’s holding you in place. “You should’ve known better.”

Before you can reply, he gently lets go of your wrists, his gaze lingering just a little longer than you’d like. The air between you two is thick now—charged with the energy of the moment, and there’s a sense that things are about to get even more complicated. You’ve managed to crack his icy exterior, but you’re not entirely sure what that means for either of you.

Geo turns back to the target without another word, grabbing another arrow. His focus is entirely back on the bullseye, but there’s an undeniable smirk on his lips now. And the way his fingers curl around the bow, steady and sure, tells you that this game is far from over. 

“You missed plenty of shots earlier,” you say playfully, “Think you’ll actually hit the target this time?”

Geo shoots you a look over his shoulder, a glint in his aquamarine eyes. "Watch me," he mutters, before losing the arrow. 

It’s a perfect shot—dead center. He doesn’t even flinch as the arrow hits the target. Quick and easy.

“Well, damn,” you say, impressed. “I guess I’ll just have to distract you more often.”

Geo doesn't respond at first, but a tiny smirk that pulls at his lips says it all. "Keep trying me, and you’ll see," he murmurs a warning, almost to himself before brushing the lipstick stain across his lips. 

And just like that, you realize—he enjoys this more than he lets on.

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── · 

[steveseddie]

jacket ‘round my shoulders is yours

for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompt: jacket | rating: t | wc: 999 | tags: post-canon, steve wears eddie’s leather jacket, they kiss about it

read on ao3

Eddie can’t find his leather jacket.

Steve is picking him up soon and he can’t find it. He turned his bedroom upside down looking for it (pun absolutely intended) and even riffled through Wayne’s clothes in case the old man grabbed it by mistake (he didn’t).

He concludes he forgot it somewhere and racks his brain for the last time he remembers wearing it. He thinks it was last week when he yelled at Wheeler for almost spilling soda on him at Steve’s house. Did Eddie take it off and leave it there by accident? Or did he have it on when he drove home?

He’s still trying to figure that out when there’s a knock on his door.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters, jumping to his feet. “Coming!”

He doesn’t want to keep Steve waiting and risk missing their movie so with a sigh, Eddie grabs a denim jacket instead.

“That’ll do,” he says, checking himself in the mirror before opening the door to reveal–

Steve in his leather jacket.

“Hi, Eds,” he says, wiggling his fingers.

Eddie tries not to swallow his tongue but Steve is wearing his jacket and he looks hot. He’s pretty sure he’s had a few fantasies that start like this.

“Uh, hey,” he says once he finally gets his brain working again. “I was looking for that.”

Steve looks down at himself like he just remembered what he’s wearing. Like he forgot he put on Eddie’s leather jacket. He shrugs. “You left it at my house the other day.” And- well, mystery solved but that doesn’t explain why he showed up wearing it.

“So, it’s yours now?” Eddie asks, narrowing his eyes even if he doesn’t care. Steve can keep it if he wants, he looks better in it anyway. “First you steal my vest and now my jacket, Harrington?”

A smirk stretches over Steve’s lips. “Maybe I just like wearing your clothes, Munson,” he says in a teasing tone. A flirting tone- Eddie has heard him use it with girls at Family Video.

“Besides,” Steve continues because Eddie is too flustered to think of a comeback, “I didn’t steal your vest. You gave it to me. Threw it, actually.”

“And you never gave it back!” Eddie protests. “After I let you borrow it to protect your modesty!”

“Please, man,” Steve snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. His shoulders and arms are significantly bigger than Eddie’s so the movement pulls on the leather. Eddie would care more about Steve stretching his jacket if he wasn’t so busy ogling him. “You did it so you could stop staring at my chest.”

Eddie gasps, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. He knew he wasn’t subtle that night, but he thought Steve would be too busy surviving to pay attention to Eddie’s eyes drifting to his bare chest. And after that, when they became friends and Eddie started tragically crushing on Steve, he tried to be more careful.

And apparently failed.

“I– uh. It was like, right there, dude,” Eddie stammers out. “And you– you got a jungle there and I–”

“And you like it,” Steve finishes for him.

Eddie winces. It’s not what he was gonna say but it’s the truth. He could deny it, but he can already feel a blush creeping up his face, coloring his cheeks.

“Is– is that a problem?”

“Eds, my only problem is that you haven’t done anything about it,” Steve says with a low chuckle, reaching out to play with one of the pins on his denim jacket. “I actually considered showing up in just your jacket, but Robin convinced me it was too much.”

Eddie squeaks. That would’ve been too much for his heart to handle, that’s for sure.

“I don’t know if I should hate Buckley or thank her,” he says, shaking his head to wipe that visual from his brain. “I probably would’ve shut the door on your face.”

Steve laughs, shoulders scrunching up and eyes crinkling at the corners. Eddie is struck by how beautiful he is, and how much he wants to kiss him.

“You can, you know?” Steve says, snapping Eddie out of his thoughts and making him realize he said that out loud.

Then he realizes what Steve just said. “I– I can?”

Steve’s grin is amused but sweet. “Yeah, Eddie. I want you to.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie swallows thickly.

Then he grabs hold of the jacket and pulls Steve inside, the door swinging shut behind them. As soon as they’re out of view, Eddie pulls Steve in by the back of the neck, kissing him squarely on the lips.

With a content noise, Steve cards his fingers through Eddie’s hair, deepening the kiss, crowding him against the wall.

They kiss until they need air and even then it takes a lot to pull back from Steve’s mouth.

When he does, Steve smiles at him– his lips pink, his hair mused, his cheeks flushed.

“What?”

“You should keep it,” Eddie says, smoothing the jacket over. “It looks better on you.”

Steve purses his lips. “I happen to think you look really hot wearing it.”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, tugging a lock of hair across his face, feeling his blush coming back at the compliment.

“But do you know where it would look better?”

“Where?”

Steve smirks at Eddie, his eyelashes fluttering coyly. “Your bedroom floor.”

Eddie’s breath hitches, something warm shooting through him. “What– what about the movie?” He asks. It’s a stupid question, but his brain might be melting out of his ears. Steve raises an eyebrow– Really? “Right, never fucking mind. Who cares? Come here, sweetheart,” he says, taking Steve’s hand and dragging him towards his room.

The leather jacket comes off first and it ends up on the floor. Eddie couldn’t care less about where. It could get sucked into the Upside Down along with all of his clothes and it wouldn’t matter to him.

Not as long as he gets to keep kissing Steve.

[yawnderu]

Showtime — Keegan P. Russ x Reader

Kinktober day 4: Uniform kink

They don't hate each other I promise

CW: hate sex, hardcore, scratching, dirty talk, manhandling, creampie, just. Pure filth

"Fucking stay still." Keegan mutters between clenched teeth, trying to get you to stop fucking yourself on his dick. It was ruining the rhythm he set on his thrusts, and while any other time he would have enjoyed it, it ruined his orgasm three times already.

"Fuck you." You retort back, making him take a deep breath and wonder for a second if he should just pull out and jerk off instead of dealing with you. He shakes his head, grabbing your hips again and slamming himself all the way back inside in one thrust, basking in your loud moan before he pulled out again. Big, gloved hands pull you by the ankles as he swiftly puts you on your back, his hands folding your legs up with ease as he slams himself back in, quickly setting a punishing rhythm.

"Wanna act like a bitch? I'll fucking treat you like one." His voice is deeper and more raw, eyes shut as he holds your legs even closer to your body, the way your tight cunt is swallowing him up like nothing is making him go nuts. One of his gloved hands goes to hold the top of your head, angling it up so you can see his stupidly large dick fuck into you.

"Takin' me like nothing... how many dicks have been in this sweet cunt, hm? How many from the Ghosts?" He's simply trying to get in your head and he knows it's working by the way your half-lidded eyes open simply to glare up at him, a small frown forming on your lips as you refuse to answer.

"None of... your fucking business." Damn him and his massive cock, stretching your wet cunt out with ease as he pounds you into the mattress, using your own body to drive himself impossibly deeper inside you. The tip of his dick keeps slamming into the entrance of your abused womb, making a mix of pain and pleasure to shoot up in your body with every single deep thrust.

"The whole squad, huh?" He asked with a small, deep laugh, and you know him well enough to be able to tell he has a shit-eating grin under his skull balaclava. He lowers his body into you, arms wrapping around your waist as he hammers his thick shaft inside you, the lewd sounds of your squelching cunt and your combined moans are bouncing off the walls of the safehouse. You're mentally glad none of the other Ghosts are here yet, listening to your slutty, needy moans as Keegan uses your tiny cunt to jerk himself off.

"Maybe." You confess jokingly, though you're trying to make it seem like it's true. You've seen the way Keegan becomes possessive over you before, and you can see it now, as his light blue eyes narrow before he slams into you deeper and harder than before, his breath hot and labored right in your ear.

"Fucking slut." He says with a breathy chuckle, the way your squelching cunt is leaking all over the crotch of his uniform while you swallow him up is giving him the chance to ignore the way his heart strings get pulled at the thought of you with anyone else. His gloved hands hold the back of your knees, pulling them to your chest until you whine out. He thrashes inside you a few times before his arms wrap under the back of your knees, pulling you up with him.

"Hold on tight." Your arms immediately wrap around his neck when he lifts you up, wincing softly at the way his tactical vest is rubbing against your sensitive nipples. He moves your body up and down his dick slowly, hissing once your patience runs out and your nails scratch the only place uncovered by his uniform— the back of his neck.

"Bitch." He barks out, arms now wrapped around your waist as he begins to slam back into you, masked face hidden on the nape of your neck as he moans lowly, trying his best to fuck you as hard as he can despite his vest getting in the way. One of your hands holds onto his vest for support from his animalistic thrusts and he throws his head back, feeling the way your cunt clenches around him is already driving him over the edge.

"I'm not pulling out." He warns, as if he didn't have you begging for him to cum inside you every single time you've fucked. You simply nod your head, eyes closed as you feel the knot on your stomach coming undone, your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave at the same time Keegan is milked, letting out a deep groan right into your ear while your greedy womb gladly takes his cum, filling you to the brim with his seed just as he had done so many times in the past. He holds you close to him and you don't register his balaclava is pulled over half of his face until you feel his lips gently kissing your neck.

"Attagirl."

[heavenbarnes]

Making out on the car hood with olderbf! Simon after we’re teasing him while he’s working on his favourite car :(

hnnngh need to distract him so bad 🫶🏼

it wasn’t like your older bf!simon couldn’t catch a break- he totally could, he just chose not to.

fresh off deployment, the blood under his fingernails had barely dried and he’s already running up a list of all the things he wants to do around your house.

starting with the car.

his car, only thing he learnt to love more than you (hardly)

1960 jaguar daimler, british racing green. goes like a cut cat, purrs like one too.

when she’s running.

you can hear the radio in the garage, there’s a bad moon rising under the sounds of banging metal. you think a wrench might’ve hit the floor.

that’s your cue.

“baby, you having fun still?”

simon grunts, he doesn’t reckon you’d ever understand the fact he could be having the time of his life and still be effing and blinding.

he calls it duality of man.

you call horseshit.

“course i am, nearly ‘ad it”

“sure you did”

he takes the bait, eyes raising off the motor long enough to watch you out the corner of his eye. he knows you’re teasing.

he likes it.

“alright, get round ‘ere and do better then”

and you take the challenge, slotting in between simon and the bonnet of his car. your eyes are scanning across the exposed mechanics, thumbnail between your front teeth as you hum.

“yeah, definitely a car”

you hear him snort a laugh before you feel his chest pressed right up to your back. poor excuse for a white singlet stretched across him, already covered in grease- you can feel the heat radiating off him.

one hand grips your hip, the other points out in front of you. you follow a long, thick finger to something you couldn’t name with a gun to your head.

“see ‘at? iss’a carburettor and it ain’t meant to look like ‘at”

you nodded, like you understood- like you could even listen when there was something firm and warm and entirely yours pressed right up against you.

“when i get ‘at sorted, she’ll be purring”

his voice dropped low in your ear as he spoke, you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. if you really thought about it, his lips might’ve been brushing your skin.

“purrs almost as nice as you do, sweet’art”

that was for another day, one where he hadn’t shut the bonnet and sat you right on top of it so he could slot between your knees.

hands slipping under his vest, sweat slicked skin beneath your palms as his tongue ran along the roof of your mouth- your hips were rolling up into his before you’d even realised it.

when he was finished with you, your panties would be hanging around the rearview mirror and you’d be lucky if you ever saw them again.

your muffled cries fell onto simon’s tongue as his lifted your hips, pulling you straight into the hard length that was barely kept by sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“that’s it- nice and easy f’me”

[luveline]

Bombshell reader is my queen. What would happen if she like got hold hostage or something? She’s usually so confident, I’m sure going thru that would rough her up. Would Spencer take up the more ‘active’ role and take care of her

tysm for requesting ♡ fem, 1k

Spencer doesn't know if you're aiming for him when you come out but he grabs you as soon as he can get his hands on you. You were running hard enough to wind him, breathless yourself as you gasp into his shoulder. He can't feel you right wearing the FBI vest, desperate to take it off. 

You won't let him go. 

It must've been bad inside to panic you like this. "Are you okay?" he asks, forcing you away to check you over. "Do you need medical?" He's mildly hysterical.

"No," you say, eyes closed, shaking your head until he lets you back into his arms. "I'm fine." 

"You don't sound fine–" 

"Spencer, I'm fine." 

Spencer can't remember the last time you called him Spencer. He's used to Spence, babe, baby, handsome. He's even used to your hand on his elbow to say hello without speaking. So no matter what you say, he knows you're not fine. 

Spencer leads you over to the back of an ambulance, where you glare at him. You've definitely never done that before. 

"I don't need medical–" 

"You have to get checked out." He's definitely never spoken to you like that. Terse, his hands on your arms to stop you from getting up. "Non-negotiable." 

Your eyes shine with betrayal while the EMTs check your vitals. You have a bruise like whiplash against your neck that's tender to the touch, wincing as they prod it with their white gloved fingers. You're acting peculiarly but not outside of the realm of reasonable. 

A car backfires somewhere in the street and you flinch. "Spence," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "can we go?" 

He waits for a nod. "Yeah, we can go." 

The issue is that you can't stand. You push up, you blink, and you sit down hard again, making a small pained sound from the back of your throat that Spencer cant abide by. "What's wrong with her?" he asks.

"Adrenaline." The EMT squeezes your shoulder affectionately. "You're alright, hun. You can sit here until you feel ready." 

She and her partner take a break in the front of the ambulance and tell you to shout if you need help. Spencer hesitates for a few seconds, looking down at you with a quick assessment of behaviour. He finds the things that are wrong with you —shaking hands, painful contusion against your throat, obvious emotional distress, weak legs— and he runs through options on how he's going to help you. 

Spencer takes your hands into his, just a little smaller, less skinny, and way softer. He doesn't know whether he can truly smell your hand cream or if he knows the scent from the hundreds of times watching your routine. You take it from the pocket in your purse, squeeze the smallest bit from the tub, and rub it in slow circles around your palms. It calms you in your rare wounded moments, and Spencer imitates that now. He draws gentle circles into your skin, the tremble ever so slightly quelled. 

"Is it bad?" he asks you, transferring both of your hands into one. Freed, he trails the knuckles of his left hand parallel to your wicked bruise. 

"It hurts." Your eyes are glassy, your lips in a downturn that turns his heart. "Hurt my ego." 

"He got a cheap shot," Spencer says sympathetically, dipping forward to kiss your jaw just above the bruise. You go still. He worries it was the wrong thing to do, but you crane your head forward into his chest.

Your tired sigh is like a rake.

"It's okay. It's okay." He takes your hand again. "We'll ice it at the hotel. With arnica, it'll be gone in a week."

"I was really scared," you murmur. 

Sitting as you are in the back of the ambulance, he doesn't have to bend much to press your joined hands to his chest. Eyes shut, that close to one another, Spencer swears he can hear your rapid heart. 

"But you made it out. You're always going to make it out, because we have a great team and you're good at what you do. You're strong. Smart. And you're brave, because you got scared and you kept going anyway. You saved someone just now." 

You push him away without malice, your perfect eyebrows pinched up at the starts. "I thought maybe this time I wouldn't make it out. Not like me, huh?" 

Spencer sits next to you in the ambulance, sliding his fingers into yours with more confidence than he feels. "That's easily explainable. Do you know what working memory is?" 

Your stress melds fond. "No." 

"Working memory is one of the brain's systems necessary for thought and function. It's important for everything. And when you're under immense pressure, the strength of your working memory depletes– being in a high stakes situation like that, it's natural to choke. It doesn't mean you underperformed. It doesn't mean you let anyone down." 

"I never said I let someone down." 

"I worried you were thinking about it." 

"I was." Your glassy eyes have clarified. Spencer lets out a breath of relief as you raise your hand to his cheek, stroking it briefly with the back of your fingers. "I'm glad you think that, but I doubt Hotch will say the same thing." 

"Hotch will tell you well done and make you take mandatory leave for a week. We should regroup with the others." Spencer nudges you in the arm. "I'll write your paperwork if you tell me what to say." 

You drop your face into his shoulder. "I'm recovering from a traumatic event. Can't you do the muscle work?" 

"Y/N!" Hotch calls, a phone glued to his ear. "Well done. Nothing else tonight." You smile. "You can do the paperwork when you get back next week." 

"Ugh." 

"Told you. Well done, mandatory leave," Spencer says. 

"Excessive," you mutter into his arm. It takes you a few seconds to warm up, and when you do it's like groundhog day, sunshine filtering through the chill, "Thanks, handsome. For everything." 

[melliemell]

Pairing: Chuuya x f!reader

Contents: NSFW, penetration (reader receiving), Chuuya-levels of cursing, don't say he's cute, he'd get grumpy about it and fuck you stupid to prove a point, incessant flirting, Approx 1.1k words

It really started off as a joke.

An off-hand comment you made. You didn’t intend on paying more attention to it… were it not Chuuya’s reaction; an eyebrow raised as he leaned into his seat, that god-awful grin of his spreading wide as he regarded you.

Your date was going well, all things considered. A nice restaurant, your own secluded corner to settle in at and relax, a gift of overly extravagant flowers–always the charmer that one, Chuuya even pulled the chair for you–it was perfect. A sense of being with the right person doing the right thing.

Finally having the time for each other.

And doing normal, romantic things was part of this evening’s plans.

Except it was Chuuya you were speaking of. Nothing that simple ever happened around him.

“So you think I’m boring?” he asked, playing the amused card to the tenth. There was none of his usual bark, only the teasing tone you had grown accustomed to.

“Misleading–” you began, leaning into his personal space to poke at his chest. “–is what I was referring to. This grand, scary mafioso… that also happens to spend half an hour choosing which shoes go best with which vest. You portray the part of barking dog really well but you’re actually a cutie.” And you winked, just to nail it down.

Chuuya clicked his tongue. He didn’t like it when you babied him, you knew that. But his reactions were too good to miss out on. 

“Hah? That the type of man ya take me for?” he grumbled, not quite masking the slight annoyance this time around. 

You hummed, trailing a finger down his chest. “Devastated, are you?”

Chuuya grabbed your hand, raising it to plant a kiss to your wrist. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he said, “Damn right I am. Calling me ‘cute’ out here like ya don’t know any better.”

You cocked your head, eyebrow raised in feigned confusion. “What? You gonna do something about it?” You knew perfectly well where this was going.

A whispered “fuck” left Chuuya’s lips, audible only for you to hear. And it was then it got settled– you weren’t suited for the romance part. Not the innocent, charming one at least. You needed a bit… more.

It became even clearer when less than an hour later your hands fumbled for your keys, Chuuya glued to your back as he trailed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. 

“I really hoped we’d be doing the ‘sweet date and movie night combo’, you know? Have you snuggled up against me and all,” you said, wasting no time as you both stumbled through the entrance, your hands finding their way around Chuuya’s neck. He kicked the door shut before trapping you against the nearby wall, lips seeking yours. 

“I’ll snuggle you up all night long, doll.” You could taste the wine on his tongue, the hurried way he kissed you leaving no space for distraction. Demanding your full attention was a staple mark of Chuuya’s, you couldn’t deny it.

“You seem preoccupied with other things, though,” you said, unbuttoning his vest.

Chuuya’s hands were already on your bra, unclasping the hooks before you felt a hand cup your breast, the barely-there caress of a thumb over your stiffened bud sending tingles of pleasure down your body in seconds. “How about you just ask me nicely, hm?” 

“Ah, you want me to beg now?” you asked, a finger trailing the outline of his lower lip, and you savored the way his breath trembled. Teasing like this would be wise only for now, you doubted he’d let you off the hook as easily soon enough. Not when you could feel his cock through the fabric of his trousers, hard against your thigh and probably leaking. 

Chuuya kissed your finger before biting it lightly, and you chuckled. “Don’t wanna leave me guessing what you want, do you? I might end up biting somewhere ya don’t want me to, sweets.”

You arched your hips forward, drawing a low groan from Chuuya. “We’ll have to wait and see then. I’m very open-minded, you know.”

“And stubborn,” Chuuya grinned, rocking against you. “Fu-uck, this feels good. I forgot what my point was, damnit.”

“Ha, loser.”

“Fuck off, bigger loser.” 

You were about to make fun of him again, seeing as he lost brain cells faster the hornier he got, but… you felt him pinch your nipple this time, rolling your bud between his skilled fingers as he dived for your neck again. The throbbing between your legs distracted you, intensifying even more as Chuuya’s tongue trailed along your pulse, leaving damp skin to prickle against the cold air. 

Rough wall against your back turned into soft sheets in a flurry of fragmented moments. Only Chuuya’s presence remained firm beside you. He settled between your legs, hands hurriedly discarding any remaining garments as fast as you both could, all the while without letting go of each other. Not once.

You barely had your underwear down before Chuuya was rocking forward, cock settling between your pussy lips as he rubbed against you. Your wetness spread over his tip only to draw a low moan from his parted lips. 

“Impatient,” you said, hooking your ankles around his hips. 

“You wanted the real deal tonight,” he grinned at you. “Going around calling me boring and cute all evening. Like hell I’ll leave it at that.”

“You gonna change my mind, fancy hat boy?”

“Ooh, you betcha,” Chuuya said, and slowly sank into the heat of your throbbing cunt.

You knew Chuuya was a talker; never shutting up even when you really would rather just hold him, hand clasped over his mouth as he fucked you in peace.

But not this time. It was quick and rough, him bottoming out in you with every slick thrust. He barely gave you time to take your bearings, his hand finding your clit only to start rubbing mercilessly in sync with his movements. Trying to stifle your moans was proving near impossible. Only Chuuya’s lips served as help, swallowing your every sound as he kissed you stupid. 

“Oh, fuck…” you panted, pulling away. 

“Nuh-huh, where ya going, sweets?” Chuuya ground his hips against yours, drawing another pained moan from your throat. “I’m doing you good, yeah? Come on, keep up with me.”

Your nails dug into his back even as your body trembled all over. “A bit too good there.”

“Yeah?” Chuuya trailed kisses down your jawline, his pace slowed. For now, at least. “Wanna ask me nicely about it?” he whispered.

Fuck. “I’m in for it, aren’t I?” you asked, knowing full well the answer. 

Chuuya only grinned.

Yeah, it was about to be a long night.

[oatmilk-vampire]

Steve Harrington needed hearing aids.

He wasn't born needing them. In fact, he was just about as healthy as a young man in his social class could be. But numerous head injuries eventually led to gradually worsening hearing loss, leading him to needing mostly useless hearing aids.

His damage was so severe he actually needed cochlear implants but his parents kicked him out of their house and off of their insurance plan when he got caught kissing his teammate back in high school. With his minimum wage job and splitting rent with his roommate Robin, he currently did not make enough money for such a luxury.

So he did the next best thing: he learned ASL.

It was free, other than his time invested, and Robin was the one to suggest it. After all, she was already fluent in five languages and had been in band for twelve years. If anyone could teach herself and a hard of hearing person to sign, it was Robin Buckley.

The only bad part was, they were the only two who seemed to know the damn language, leaving Steve to strain to hear or read lips lest he get (mostly) silently yelled at by some deranged customer.

So when he spotted a guy around his age with long, dark curly hair and perfectly round black glasses with side shields, he knew he had to act.

He knew what it was like to have people gloss over the fact that you exist, or even berate you for it; so he took a page out of Robin's book.

He learned braille.

Sure, technically Steve could still speak to the boy, but wouldn't it be more special if he could read what Steve wanted to say?

So he practiced and practiced until he was happy, bringing the card to work where his crush appeared to be a regular.

As Steve sees him walk in, he knows today's the day.

⠓⠊ ⠊ ⠁⠍ ⠎⠞⠑⠧⠑ ⠎⠕⠗⠗⠽ ⠊⠋ ⠞⠓⠊⠎ ⠊⠎ ⠺⠑⠊⠗⠙ ⠃⠥⠞ ⠊ ⠚⠥⠎⠞ ⠺⠁⠝⠞⠑⠙ ⠞⠕ ⠎⠁⠽ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠁⠗⠑ ⠗⠑⠁⠇⠇⠽ ⠉⠥⠞⠑ ⠁⠝⠙ ⠊ ⠺⠕⠥⠇⠙ ⠇⠊⠅⠑ ⠞⠕ ⠁⠎⠅ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠕⠥⠞ ⠕⠝ ⠁ ⠙⠁⠞⠑

Hi I am Steve sorry if this is weird but I just wanted to say you are really cute and I would like to ask you out on a date

Steve is giddy when he wanders over to the boy in dark clothes. He had on black jeans that are ripped at the knees, a Metallica band tee, a leather jacket, and a denim battle vest. He's perfect. He's hot.

Steve's footsteps must be louder than he expects because the object of his affection immediately turns in his direction.

"Hi," Steve greets as he presses the thick stock paper into his hands.

The boy angles his head down with a frown as he traces an index finger over the raised dots, before looking right at Steve behind those dark frames.

He takes them off, and Steve learns after so long that his eyes are brown.

"I'm sorry," his crush says, Steve recognizing those syllables easy enough, "But I can't read this. What is it you're trying to say?"

But now that response is too much, Steve can't keep up. All he knows is the card he worked so carefully punching little holes in with a special tool he had to buy was now being pushed back into his hands.

Steve doesn't try to answer, he just wants to get the hell away before his tears spill over, but a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

He tenses, squeezes his eyes shut and braces for impact, but when a familiar hit doesn't land on his face, he cautiously opens his teary eyes to find him staring right at Steve.

"Are you okay?" He asks, but Steve can't be quite sure if he's checking on him or asking if he's gay.

Steve's own frown appears on his face as he points to his ears.

"Can't hear too good."

His mouth drops open, rushing to spiel something Steve doesn't catch. He must realize this because he's taking Steve's card back from him now as he mimics writing something with raised eyebrows.

Steve nods his head, more confused that the guy he thought was blind seemed to be understanding him perfectly.

He fishes out the little pad of paper and pen he keeps with him for moments not quite like this, passing the two items over.

He scribbles for a moment before letting Steve read what he's written in big loopy letters.

Hi, I'm Eddie. Sorry, I can't read braille. What did you say?

Steve furrows his brows.

I thought you might know it. Aren't you blind?

Eddie shakes his head with a little smile.

The glasses? I have killer migraines. Never go anywhere without them.

Steve smacks himself in the face. He's been such a fool!

Eddie taps him to gain his attention once more before handing him the notepad and pen.

What did you say? I'd like to know :)

Steve worries his bottom lip.

Hi I'm Steve. Sorry if this is weird but I just wanted to say you're really cute and I would like to ask you out on a date

He's nervous as he hands it back, but Eddie's wide grin and eager nod does wonders to knock back those worries.

I thought you'd never ask, Steve.

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 12

Kinktober Masterlist vi coactus - "under duress" Simon "Ghost" Riley/TF141 x f!reader Kinks > SHAME, forced orgasms, bimbo/dumbification Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

“Under duress” — A quick exfil means limited seats in the TAC-V. Simon lets you sit on his lap, but it’s a really bumpy road. When you realize that his thigh is the perfect shape, and that it’s pressing against your most sensitive spot, there’s not much you can do to stop yourself. Might as well enjoy the ride.

Warnings: SHAME! EMBARRASSMENT! SHAME!!!!, mean teasing, slut shaming, it's not non-con but no one asks for permission; this truck is not a safe-space.

No one said a word. Once the noise of the petrol explosion and the machine guns faded from your ears, all that you could hear was the rattle and rumble of the engine of the TAC-V. The mission had been successful, but barely. You’d secured the package, but it had cost you the chopper exfil that you’d been desperately counting on. What was a quick twenty minute flight was now an eight hour drive through the bumpiest mountain road known to man, and you were sitting on Ghost’s lap for the entire trip.

The TAC-V sat two in front and three in back, so with Price and Gaz up in the driver and passenger seats, you should have been able to fit in the rear with Ghost and Soap. But, the care package was taking up your spot. As the smallest member of the squad, you were relegated to lap-status, much to your audible dismay. 

“Shut your mouth and get in the truck, Corporal!” Price had shouted, spraying cover fire over the hood of the vehicle. 

So, that’s where you found yourself. Mouth shut. Seat secured. 

There was only one problem. Ghost’s thighs were enormous. He never skipped leg day, and when you tried to sit against his hips to distribute your weight, his gear vest was in the way. So, he’d shifted you over onto his right thigh, forcing you to straddle him, and now you could feel… everything. 

Every time Price hit another bump – which was once or twice every few seconds at this point – Ghost’s rock-solid quad muscle would jerk up into your pussy, shaking your most sensitive bits. It was savage, but it was making your body respond in ways that you did not appreciate. And now, you were in the middle of fighting off the most embarrassing orgasm of your life. 

You could feel how wet you were through the canvas pants you were wearing. Your panties were soaked in the first hundred kilometers, so they were useless against your slick pleasure. Soon, Ghost would be able to feel the warm stain of your cunt imprinting itself on his own trousers, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had tried to shift away in the beginning of this trip, rotating your hips back and forth, trying to search for a less-shameful angle, but he had grumbled, 

“Sit still, love. Tha’s enough squirmin’ around.”

His hand had reached out to secure your hip, pulling you down into a deep seated position, crushing your soft lips against his thigh and spreading them apart unknowingly.

You’d managed to suffer in pure silence so far, but that was becoming more and more challenging as the ride got rougher. The desire to roll your hips against him to take the edge off of the blinding friction you were experiencing was mind-numbing. You were sweaty from battle and now you were sweaty from nerve-racking lust, and there was no escape. You still had hundreds of kilometers to go, and you didn’t know what you were going to do.

Your body knew exactly what it was going to do, though. It was going to come whether you wanted to or not. 

“You alright, lass? Car sick?” Johnny asked, peering over at you as your head rested against the driver’s headrest in front of you. 

“Need a break, babes?” Gaz turned in his seat to check on you. 

“No can do,” Price shook his head and peered at you in the rearview mirror, “Still in the red zone. We can’t stop here and expect to make it out without drawing unwanted attention.” 

“Here,” Gaz reached back and unclipped your vest, “At least take this off so you can catch a breath.”

You let him slip the vest off your shoulders and stuff it in the footwell on the floor in front of him. He passed you his canteen, and you tried to open it with trembling hands. 

“She’s not fuckin’ sick,” Ghost hissed, grabbing the canteen and opening it for you before lifting it to your lips so you could drink.

The rest of the truck-full of men waited to hear the rest of Ghost’s explanation. You felt heat rush to your cheeks in painful humiliation as you waited for him to reveal your predicament. You knew, now, that he could feel you. You had thought you’d gotten away with it so far, but it was too obvious. He could feel the wet, sticky patch on his quad growing with every tremulous shake of the truck, and he knew what was happening to you. You could almost hear the jeering smile on his lips when he told them, 

“She needs a quick wank, innit that right, Corporal?”

You tried to keep your eyes trained on the floor, but you had to see what their faces looked like. You lifted your gaze to meet Price’s bright blue eyes in the mirror, the evidence of Ghost’s truth written all over your expression. 

The silence was broken up only by the road noise. No one spoke and no one breathed. You looked to Gaz and saw his mouth open in shock, curling at the edge of his lip with a boyish glee. Soap’s brow was furrowed in disbelief,

“S’that true, bonnie?”

Ghost didn’t even give you a chance to answer him. He shoved his gloved hand under your crotch as if to feel the evidence on his hand that he was sensing on his thigh, chuckling at your sorry predicament,

“Bumpy road, been wet and warm for almost an hour. Gonna have myself a pretty little pussy stain by the time we get to base. And if I give her somethin’ to work against…”

Your lieutenant curled his fingers that he had shoved underneath you, finding your swollen clit with a surprising ease. As if he’d pushed a button, you let out an obvious moan. You cut it short, unable to hold it back from crawling out of your throat, but the damage was done. 

Silence again, and then Gaz’s low voice,

“Holy fuck.”

Ghost removed his hand and settled back in his seat, keeping his grip on your hips with a steadfast strength. He was looking at you in the mirror along with Price who kept glancing up from the road. The message in Ghost’s eyes was a clear challenge; he wasn’t going to give you any more relief, and if you wanted to come on him, you’d need to figure it out yourself. 

The urge to hump his solid thigh was overwhelming, and now that the cat was out of the bag, you thought it wouldn’t be possible for you to be any more ashamed, so you started to hump your pussy against him, ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly… but, Ghost couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“See? Needy thing’s grindin’ on me. Can’t help yourself, huh, love?”

You shook your head, looking to Price for some sort of rescue, but what could he do? Your captain was driving as fast as he could out of enemy territory, and you were stuck in place, tumbling into an orgasm and suffering the pain of embarrassment in front of your whole squad. 

You moaned, trying to hold your breath, but your whole body shook as you came. Your hole was so wet and burning hot, and you could feel yourself gush as you clenched your muscles around nothing, wishing you had something… someone… inside of you. 

“There she is… good girl,” Ghost teased you, rubbing your back as you shuddered above him, rolling in your high. 

“Did she just…” Soap gaped.

You looked up at him, and even though your eyes begged for pity, you received none from him. He met you with a filthy grin,

“Come over here with me, lass. I’ll give you somethin’ to fuckin’ sit on.”

He reached for your arm, attempting to drag you over the care package, but Ghost jerked his hand away and wrapped his arm around your belly, forcing you to lean back against him, the tools in his vest digging into your flesh,

“She’s fine where she is, Sergeant. Aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

You felt hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, whispering,

“I’m s-sorry…”

“Shh, love. Nothin’ to be sorry for. Can’t be fuckin’ helped. C’mon,” he snarled in your ear, his mask smelling like his menthols and sweat, “Beg me to help you. Beg for my fingers, princess.”

“Simon,” Price warned, watching your degradation unfold behind him. 

“Eyes on the bloody road, Cap,” Ghost chuckled, “Bumpy enough back here as it is.”

Gaz hadn’t stopped staring, and you watched in horror as he palmed his hard length over the rough denim of his jeans. 

You felt yourself building to another crescendo, the waves of your first orgasm swelling to threaten a second, easier now that you’d let down so much silky come, allowing your pussy to slip that much faster over Simon’s huge thigh. 

“Beg me, baby,” Ghost growled in your ear, “Beg me to fuckin’ touch you right here where they can all watch me make you come.”

“No…” You gasped, “I can’t… I’m not…”

“Not what? Not a dumb little slut? Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are. You’re so fuckin’ wet it looks like you pissed yourself. I bet those pretty knickers are fuckin’ ruined, aren’t they?”

He grabbed you by the chin roughly, startling you, making your core clench tight, turned on by his cruel aggression as he almost shouted in your ear, 

“Aren’t they? Tell the fuckin’ truth. Tell it to him,” Ghost’s eyes turned toward the rear view mirror and you looked up at Price, pleading with him for forgiveness in your tone. You mumbled, 

“My panties… are…”

“He can’t hear you, baby.” Ghost held your face, forcing you to look at his captain in the eyes through the reflective glass.

“My panties are ruined, sir.”

“Is that so, Corporal?” Price asked in a low droll, and you saw him readjust himself in his pants before putting both fists back on the steering wheel, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned as white as bone. 

“Better see for myself, yeah?” Ghost chuckled, unbuttoning your trousers and yanking down the fly. 

He reached inside and grabbed the fabric roughly in his hand and, with a strength that shocked you, he tore them right off of your body with a loud rip, breaking the elastic at the seam and slipping the scrap from under your lips and ass. He held it up for the entire truck to see, showing them how the gray cotton was stained dark from your wetness, how they gleamed in the light of the setting desert sun. 

Soap reached out and snatched them from his hand, and Ghost laughed out loud, watching Johnny shove them to his nose and moan out a breath of satisfaction. 

“Go on, then,” Ghost turned his attention back on you, “Beg me for it. I wanna hear you say please, sir. You got that, Corporal?”

He snaked his hand back down the front of your belly, barely touching your furry mons, resting his gloved finger just above the hood of your clit, touching you with a light, teasing pressure. 

You could feel the rough canvas against your soft pussy now, and the seam was giving you something to grind against, but it was nothing like the feel of a strong finger. You chased another orgasm, but it was just out of reach. You were humping him lewdly, at this point, rocking your hips back and forth with abandon, unable to stop yourself from chasing your second, hard burst of pleasure. 

You bit your lip, struggling with all your might, but you were failing to surge over that exaltant peak. You needed his help, but you didn’t want to beg for it. You couldn’t. You were too dismayed at your fallen state.

You looked at Gaz, hoping he could talk some sense into your lieutenant, but he was jerking himself off with a hand down his pants, watching you through hooded eyes. You turned your gaze to Soap who had your ripped panties in his hand and was using them to wet his own heavy cock, smearing your juices all over his ruddy head. 

Ghost’s grip tightened on your jaw, and he turned your head toward his passenger window, stopping you from looking at the other men, 

“They can’t help you, love. Just me. Now, use your fuckin’ words.”

“Please… touch me,” your voice was barely a whisper.

“Please, what?” He bit back.

“Please touch me, sir,” you whined, sick to your stomach at your own weakness.

“Tha’s a good girl,” he smiled.

He moved his fingers lower, shoving two of them between your lips, applying firm pressure to your clit. He didn’t even need to rub you. Your pussy started to come the moment it had his relief, and you cried out like a paid whore, keening into the hollow cab, rolling your hips against him, chasing your crashing orgasm. 

Then, he started to move his hand frantically, rubbing you back and forth, dragging out your bursting come even further than you thought was possible, turning one orgasm into two, back to back, a painful overstimulation, enough to make your body convulse from his effort.

“No, no… oh, fuck!” You screamed, trying to close your legs but his thigh was in the way, and all you could do was ride him. 

“Yeah, tha’s it, love. Give it to me. Come on me, you filthy fuckin’ slag. Let ‘em hear what I’m doin’ to this needy cunt.”

“Mmngh! Please… Ghost, please, oh, fuck…” 

“Listen to that sound, lads,” he grunted, commenting on the wet, milking noises your cunt was making under his hand, “Runnin’ like a hot tap.”

“Hurry up, LT,” Soap barked, pulling on his cock with your panties wrapped around the hard shaft like he was furious with it, “I’ll only be so patient.”

Ghost shook his head,

“Tsch, tsch, alright, Johnny. If you insist. C’mon, baby. Keep those legs spread f’me like a good girl, yeah?”

You felt him ruck down the back of your pants and shove them onto your legs, exposing your ass to the whole truck. Then, you felt the tell-tale drag of his cockhead over your folds, and before you could even think to protest, he was shoving himself inside of you, slipping through your slick without much resistance, your wet come helping guide his length all the way up to your womb. 

Once he had whet his prick down to its root in you, he used both hands to lift your hips and slam them back down, using you like a cocksleeve. He was so thick, but your body was primed and ready to take him, and you found yourself without words, only able to moan and whine as he filled you up. 

Gaz reached over, leaning out of his seat to grab your face, turning you towards him so that he could kiss you. You couldn’t even kiss him back, you were so mindless, and he spent most of his time licking your lips and sucking on your tongue as you whimpered for Ghost’s heavy dick, your body jerking up and down as he slammed you onto his steel-hard length repeatedly. 

“Does he feel good, babes?” Gaz asked you, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth and down your throat, making you choke on him until you started to instinctively suck and swallow against him, “Tha’s it. Pretty thing just needed somethin’ in her mouth, didn’t she?”

Every time you choked from Gaz’s hand in your throat, you clenched around Ghost’s cock, and he begged his sergeant for more,

“Choke her again, Garrick. Makes her so fuckin’ tight.”

Gaz laughed, full of mischief, and reached up with his other hand to pinch your nose. Then, inside of your mouth, he pressed his fingers in a downward motion over and over and over, making it feel like he was fucking your face with a throbbing dick, too big for you to breathe. You gagged, and then, when you tried to take a breath, you gagged again, your whole body spasming, fighting for air. You could only suck in short breaths when you opened your mouth wider, and Gaz held the relief of those moments from you for as long as he could. 

Finally, Ghost wrapped both of his hands around your torso and ripped you away from Gaz’s cruel hand, laying you against his chest and fucking his cock up into you from below, creating loud, pornographic slapping sounds that filled the truck. 

“Fuck!” Ghost groaned, “Gonna make me come, love. Say please, baby. C’mon. You can do it. Say it.”

“Dinnae think she’s still with us, LT. Fucked her brains right out of her head,” Soap chuckled. 

“She can do it,” Ghost insisted, “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re not gettin’ my come until I hear you beg for it.”

 You looked at his eyes in the mirror again, not recognizing yourself in such a mindless state of indulgence, drowning in pleasure and losing yourself to it. He was looking at you with such an intensity, you wanted to please him. You wanted to follow his orders. You wanted to show him that you could be such a good girl. 

“P-please…. Please! Ungh, please, sir… Give me your come. Please, sir… I need it. I need it. I need… mmnff-fuck!”

You felt his cock swelling, throbbing, and bursting with hot, sticky ropes of his cream, buried deep inside of your walls, coating the head of your womb as your pussy squeezed out another orgasm, milking him like a hungry mouth. He pulled out a bit only to ram himself back in, deeper this time, stretching to touch the end of your sheath, aching to plant his seed. 

“Fuck, finally,” Soap grunted, reaching over the crate with both hands this time to drag you from Ghost’s lap, “Couldnae wait much longer, LT.”

You felt Ghost’s cock slip from you, spilling his come down your leg, your pants sliding down to your boots as Soap dragged you into his lap.

“There she is,” Gaz smiled, returning to his efforts and shoving his fingers back down your throat, this time shifting them back and forth, massaging your tongue as he fucked you on his hand, “Suck them for me, baby. It’ll be my turn, soon.”

“Better enjoy the easy ride while you can, Corporal,” Price sneered, “You’ve got PT in my quarters as soon as we get back to base. Might take all night.”

As Johnny’s fat dick squeezed into your come-soaked pussy, you wanted to protest. You wanted to make some snide comment back, but your usual biting retorts were unavailable at the moment. You really were blissed out of your mind, and the only thing you could do was fuck and suck like the dumb little slut that you were.

If anyone comments on this OBVIOUSLY TAGGED shame kink fic that it was "too embarrassing to read!! huehueuhe"/"i tried but i couldnt do it. too cringe!", I'm gonna come to your house and shit in your shoes, you coward. Get the fuck off my page.

[lundenloves]

fatherhood

This happened. *Holding a fist to my mouth, biting on them knuckles.* This happened as a combination result of an awful sleeping schedule and unemployment. Banged this out in an hour. Don’t tell me it’s obvious, i’ll fold. Happy reading, kids.

↳ no warnings | 1.1k | f!reader

part two | dad!simon masterlist

the way his eyes make me want to howl in tears while digging my own grave isn’t actually canon. sigh.

Ghost stood still for thirty-two seconds, standing in near open fire on enemy view. One that was only guarded by a particularly large tree, saving his life when Soap had dragged him down to cover by his tac vest. “What the fuck, Lt.” He’d shout over the fire, his brows tightened in a frown toward his lieutenant. “Eh?”

Ignoring the sergeant, Ghost would continue the rest of the assault half-heartedly. Which was disconcerting to say the least, and so, so unlike him. Only mumbling over the comms when required, saving the already minimal chit-chat and failing to hear the multiple requests for backup from Gaz.

Johnny had been bold that night. Hitting his lieutenant on the shoulder and fucking grabbing his mask, turning Ghost’s head toward him. Well, for the mere two seconds Simon had allowed for it before pushing him off. “What’s wrong with you, Lt? For fuck sake. You’re scaring me ae.”

“Focus, Sergeant.”

“Naw. You focus, sir.” He placed a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, before standing up and checking round the corner. “Let’s move, yeah?”

Simon’s jaw tightened under his mask, begrudgingly following Soap. Comms fucking yapping on in his ear, and he barked back at them while gesturing Johnny keep walking. It wasn’t ideal, yet so poignant to see him so different.

You.

You had gone into labour with Simon’s baby. The issue was, he had found out before going out on the current assault. His military mind raced with every possible travesty to do with childbirth. He feared you weren’t going to make it without him for unknown reasons, he felt it.

Soap didn’t know. No one knew.

He was good at that, keeping things to himself. Especially the things that ate at him — never did they ever come out aside from when Johnny forced them. Even then it was a battle.

So when they arrived back to base in safety, all trudging back to a meeting room. Gathering thoughts and sharing collected information, it was odd that Simon hadn’t shown. Not just odd, but almost scandalous as Johnny would say.

No messages. Nothing.

He hadn’t heard from you and in his head that meant fucking death at this rate. The balaclava came off for a split second, looking at himself in the lens of some sunglasses sat on a shelf adjacent to him. The stubble he had left was itchy against the fabric, smoothing his hand across his jaw he put his head into his hands.

Although, the balaclava was back on in under a minute for the subconscious feeling of vulnerability creeping in. And he was right to feel so when the door to his office had been knocked on, so light that he knew it was Soap before even opening the door.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, standing in front of his desk with arms crossed. Johnny entered and shut the door behind him, his hands flat on the surface.

“Lt. Are you alright, sir?” The way his eyes narrowed was enough to make Simon’s roll.

“Just grand.”

Although the tough facade was almost dropped when his phone had pinged from the desk. Jaw tensing at the sound, he was sure his fingers had twitched at the need to reach behind himself for it. Soap stared pointedly at the way the heel of his boot tapped against the floor, his fingers now looped in the pockets of his tac vest.

“Check it then.” The Scot nodded toward the desk.

“Do you need anything?” Simon asked. The dead stare he gave was piercing, shifting his feet to lean forward from the desk a little.

Johnny pointed to the desk, “It’s ringing, sir.”

For a moment, Simon did consider kicking Johnny out but figured. Fuck it. Reaching for the phone behind him to find it were a FaceTime from you, his own masked face staring back at him. This was probably it. The worst or best news of his life only a swipe away. With fucking Johnny MacTavish only feet away from whatever reaction Simon would undoubtedly suppress.

And well, it wasn’t so bad, Soap knew you. He knew you well. Well enough to the point where throughout your pregnancy he had been labelled ‘uncle Johnny’ by yourself much to Simon's demise

So when he swiped to answer, and was virtually face-to-face with a newborn it was a… chaotic feeling in his stomach to say the least. One that dropped to the floor when the baby had cried loud, a strangled babble that turned into a scream.

“Shh, shh,” Your voice mumbled over the line, zero energy throughout but just enough for Simon. “Daddy is there. Look baby, he’s here.” You had framed both yourself and the tiny baby on your chest, voice wavering with the last few words.

Johnny couldn’t save himself from the steps he took forward, planting a hard grip on Simon’s shoulder and shaking him slightly in glee. “Congratulations, mate.”

Simon took the balaclava off, his hair strewn across his forehead and spiking in every which way. He had no idea what to say, holding the fabric close to his chest and staring in awe.

“She’s beautiful, Si.” Was all you had said, obviously exhausted but confirming the gender for the first time.

Simon felt his knees buckle at the thought of having a little girl in the world, the familiar feeling of worry was completely wiped. The image of the little person enough to change his whole mindset, no longer was he scared but ready.

Ready to give his little girl whatever she wanted.

He was still lost for words when the call had ended. A promise of another at the same time tomorrow was the only thing that kept him upright, pulling the balaclava back on and looking to Johnny who cracked a grin.

“You’re a fuckin’ dad, Lt.”

He nodded, rubbing his eyes before holding the door open for the two of them. “Can I tell ‘em?” Soap continued, gesturing toward the group they were walking to.

“If you must.” Simon let a small smile take his face, content in the fact it was well hidden.

“Oi!” He’d called out, jogging ahead of his lieutenant and slamming his hands on the information table, sending many papers flying off edges. “Lt has stepped into fatherhood.”

The men erupted into deep voiced cheers just to wind their lieutenant up, all shaking his shoulders and drawing the attention of the whole fucking camp toward them.

It was the first time he had felt himself smile properly in months. His ears tinted a deep red although not visible, neck likewise.

Fatherhood it was.

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated! i’ll sit in a hole if no one pats me on the head every now and then.

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