#and that - as far as I know - the garricks were happy to have him

[you-see-something-strange-here]

whether it was intentional or not, I will always think about bart allen being coded as a neurodivergent foster kid. he’s “different” and “weird” and can’t focus on school, he doesn’t get people or their rules, very clearly ADHD, is constantly shuttled from home to home because nobody in his family really wants him or knows how to deal with him, he’s too much -

[soapybutt17]

The Ex and Why's

Summary: No one knows much about Simon’s life aside from what was listed on his files. The family that had died a tragic death, the trauma that came with his actions, and the rank that made him what he was today. No one had realized that behind the balaclava wearing man from Manchester was a man that once had a heart and signed divorced papers he had constantly regretted signing all those years ago.. Character: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Ex Wife!Reader. John Price. Kate Laswell. Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Word Count: 9,787 Chapter Warnings: Angst with Happy Ending. Miscommunication. Mention of Minor Character Deaths. Mention of Divorce. Life threatening Injuries. Mention of Simon's tragic past and trauma. Not edited (sorry!) AN: I can now sleep in peace. If you enjoyed it why not visit my mini celebration and post your own requests I can write just like this.

Masterlist || Request are Open || 500 Followers Celebration

When you had learned about this new job, one thing you had so gotten used to doing was letting Simon know about it. But not this time, something about letting him back into your life wasn’t something you should do anymore. You were no longer married to him by your own choice and no one else’s. So you know it was time to wear your big girl pants now and stopped letting him know about it.

You no longer had any reason to give your ex-husband any updates about your life. A more selfish reason was how you just wanted to start a new life, away from him and away from anything that was related to him.

“Ms. Riley?”

You turned smiling at the man that would now be your new boss. You learned his name to be John Price, a Captain.

Being married to a man like Simon Riley once upon a time, you know some thing or two about what goes on inside of a military base. Even when he hasn’t talked much about it with you during your relationship or if he even gone as far as mention your existence to the people he had once worked with. You chalked it up to overprotectiveness and fear that they would get to you, and some night thing that he was simply embarrassed about you. Maybe it’s another reason why you had opted out of telling him about this new job of yours.

“Captain Price, it’s good to finally meet you.” You firmly shook the man’s hand. A good first impression was the best thing for you to do if it meant making sure you work for the man for the foreseeable future.

“Likewise, Laswell as spoke great things about you and I’m hoping to be able to experience it firsthand.”

You nodded with a smile. Working for Kate’s wife for nearly a few years beforehand, you had appreciated the suggestion for this new role as a secretary for the Captain ever since your divorce. She had understood you needed this change in pace in your life and this was much of a welcome change.

“I do hope it’s all good things.” You quipped right back earning a deep resonating chuckle from the older man.

“Well I think now that introductions as over and done with, let me show you to my office. I do hope you’re up for dealing with a handful of documents for me on your first day.”

“More than happy to.” You beamed following the man, his larger hand holding onto the small of your back as you began your journey into the heart of the base.

All throughout the walk, he was giving your directions to where most things were. You were warned how some men could be rowdy at time and he was more than happy to help in the off chance that any of his men would give you problems.

All you could do was smile, not wanting him to know that you were more than well equipped to punch or kick anyone that would get too handsy with you. One of the perks of having an ex-husband working for the military.

He continued on with how things go around in the base. Schedules for meal time and the curfew in the event that you would be staying in the base overnight. He had also showed you to where your new room would be located in.

“You would be a few rooms away from my own as well as the Lieutenant and Sergeants that I trust most. In the event that I’m unavailable, they will be more than willing to lend you a hand if you need it.”

You nodded before you finally arrived in his office. Opening the door for you, you were greeted with a spacious office. Even in the chaos of the military base, the man’s office was pristine, a few knick knacks and photos that littered his walls, as well as a bookshelf that housed an array of military strategies books. But the most alarming thing about his office was the other table that housed stack upon stacks of folders, papers practically spilling out from each and every single one of them.

“I may or may not have underestimated the help I truly need in this situation.” The Captain said sheepishly as you began opening the folders and gasped that most of them weren’t even ordered correctly even with the page numbers printed on them.

“I think I can manage this.” You blinked hoping you didn’t bite more than you could chew in this moment.

For the next few hours, your time was spent removing staplers upon staplers from the papers for each and every single one of the folders while you were inquiring to John the calls you would be fielding for him from now on and how he would want you to deal with it.

You had learned so much about the man in the few hours being in the same room as him. He was a man that wanted to ensure the safety of the world, even if it meant bloodying his hands up a little just to make sure of it. It showed with some of the missions reports that you may or may not have accidentally read too much into. You’ve also learned how much he hated talking to upper ranking officials if not needed, he was a man that hated authority yet he was working in the field that he was in right now from the way his comments about letting calls from upper ranks go to voice mail if possible.

“Will there be anything or anyone that I should be worried about for now?” You inquired making sure that you did not stir anyone in the wrong way if possible.

“I’m sure Laswell has told you enough to understand our work. Some men are more scarred than sane and if possible, I want you to make sure that you do not give anyone the wrong impression if possible.”

You know what he was implying and with your own experience you know far too well that getting yourself involved with another man in uniform would lead into.

“I’ve done my fair share, Captain. I don’t think that would be much of a problem with me.” You reassured him.

“Laswell told me you were divorced.” He began, huh, who would have thought the man would be the gossiping type.

“It’s been a few years,” You shrugged attention solely on rearranging the files at hand. “It took months before my ex-husband signed the papers, I wanted to think it was because he was deployed but I knew otherwise.” You muttered.

When you had made the decision to finally break things off with Simon, it was like pulling teeth with the man and his near avoidance about the discussion or where you would be sending the divorce papers. You had enough of it, leaving the home you once shared instead with everything you owned and left nothing more of you than the divorce papers alongside the wedding ring and engagement ring he had given you all those years ago.

“He was military too?”

“Something like that.” You nodded not wanting to think too much about the man. Even after everything, you still worried about you giving the man too much information in the event that he works for the opposing side if the chance may have it.

“Well his lost is my gain.” He snorts turning his attention back to the freshly arranged folders courtesy of you that were now ready for his signature. “No offense.”

“None taken, Captain.”

Eventually the man had excused himself for a meeting and had instructed you that no one would be allowed inside aside from him. He had also reminded you about lunch which you could head on out first or you could join him once his meeting was done. You’ve decided it would be best to join him for lunch for now, just to get a feeling of anyone that you would get into contact with on your first day.

With a quick goodbye, you were left on your own and you all but groaned at the folders still stacked up and yet to be touched. It truly made you wonder how the man could be so good in his job yet be so horrible with his paperwork. You will never understand.

Your eyes fixated for a moment on one of the pictures on the wall. It was your boss with three individuals. A blue eyed man with a horrible cut Mohawk but the biggest beaming smile on his face, his arm wrapped around a much younger man with darker skin but a bright eyes that twinkled with happiness for whatever was going on when the photo was taken. But amongst the camaraderie and enjoyment was a man in a skull balaclava mask that had such an empty but somehow familiar eyes, the man stuck out like a sore thumb even with the Captain’s hand resting on the taller man’s shoulder and beaming smile and a cigar between his lips. It was an odd mix of people but it was like family—it made you miss Simon for a moment before your attention got right back to the paperworks.

You can’t think of him now. Not anymore.

After the events of Las Almas, Simon Riley had truly fought the urge to call you, to tell you how much you mean the world to him and how he was now more than willing to give you the compromise you had always longed from him. But a part of him, the bigger and much darker part of him had refused, slamming his own phone onto the wall in the sheer anger of everything that had occurred in the moment. You had made your choice because of his own action and he would be cruel to take that away from you.

“Heard Cap had a new Secretary, old man’s gonna finally keep his paperworks in check now.” Soap had ruining Simon’s sulking in the cafeteria.

It’s been a grueling few days. With new recruits he was forced to deal with in the morning and nightmares that you no longer could vanish for him at night. His life was nothing more than misery personified and he has no one else to blame but himself.

“Can’t say I’m surprise. Laswell probably set it up for him.” Simon muttered being more than within earshot when he heard both Laswell and Price arguing about the man’s need for necessary help with files. It was Laswell’s decision above anything else, it’s just a matter of time if the secretary would actually last with how everything goes around here in the base.

“Still, hope we’ll have a new bonnie around. Getting sick and tired of seeing Bampots all around.”

Simon didn’t even had the energy to question the man’s slangs, his attention solely back on his cup of tea and lunch—how horrible it was compared to your cup and cooking, but he never truly appreciated it until it was gone. His tea was too bitter even with the sugar and cream he added and the food that didn’t have the special kick compared to your own cooking. Even years after the divorce he was still so miserable without you in his life.

“Steamin Jesus.”

Simon could practically hear Soap melt from where he sat in front of him, his eyes directed at whoever was behind Simon. His curiosity got the better of him and his head turned and he was welcomed with the last person he would have ever believed to be walking besides one John Price.

“Yer lookin’ a bit peely wally.” Soap pointed out breaking Simon from his trance.

“English, MacTavish.”

“You look a lil’ pale, Lt. Like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”

Simon could have at this point. As you walked besides Price towards the table he sat in. He noticed how unaware you were even at the sight of him only for him to realize that you had never seen him with his mask on, or in anything that has to do with his line of work—until now.

“Right, I think it’s time to introduce this lovely lass.” Price cleared his throat but he should have known by now that both Simon and Soap’s attention were already on them both. “This is Y/N Riley, my new secretary.”

Simon’s brows rose at that little tidbit. You still had his last name. He understood to a degree why you did so—your family that you had long cut off from your life after what they had done to you, but after everything that had happened between the two of you he wouldn’t have expect you to choose the lesser of two evils—being his last name.

“Riley? She a sister or wife to you, Lt?” Soap’s quick remark earned him a glare from Simon before his attention was back to you, how your brows furrowed before your eyes finally widen in realization.

“Purely coincidence.” Simon muttered.

“This is Sgt. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish and Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley.” Price introduced almost realizing at this point the similarity of the last name you both shared in this moment.

“Nice to meet you two.” You smiled, quickly to compose yourself and shaking both men’s hand.

Even with the glove Simon wore, he could still feel the all too familiar electric shock of your touch against his own. He looked at you how easy your eyes dilated at his touch. It scared him still how you had so much of an effect on him even after the years apart from each other.

As you and Price excused yourselves to get lunch, it left Simon wondering if this was the world finally punishing him for everything he has done in his cruel life. Give him the very thing he had wanted the most only to pull it away at every instance.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

It’s been two weeks since you’ve began your new job as Captain John Price’s secretary. Two weeks since you had tried and succeeded in making sure you had avoided the man known in the base as Ghost—or to you, simply known as Simon Riley, your ex-husband. Every single instance that you were both placed in the same room (mostly in Price’s office), you both acted like you didn’t know each other, it was hard knowing just how close the man was after so long of a separation from each other.

But as much of an avoidance you’ve made for the Lieutenant, the same could not be said for the two Sergeants that had been dead set in making themselves both your companion while in the base but as well as your guard dogs from the ballsy few that would dare ask you out on a date. You appreciated the effort as much as it was not needed knowing it earned a dangerous glare from your ex in the process.

“Looks like you’re right at home.”

You jerked your head up from the files you were arranging at the voice of an all too familiar woman. A smile rested on your face at the sight of one Kate Laswell, your former boss’ wife.

“Kate.” You smiled an exhausted sigh escaping your lips at the sight of the woman. Both her and her wife had been the pair that knew what you had been through since your divorce and she was one of the two people that saw behind the façade you had decided to show the world.

“How are you holding up?” She inquired.

“Doing better.” You assured her. “Just a slight problem but nothing I can’t deal with now.”

“Oh no. Is your ex-husband bothering you again? I told you to just say the name and I’ll find some dirt on him in a heartbeat.”

You chuckled, knowing how that would be close to impossible with the man’s stand and rank in the Taskforce.

“Simon Riley.” You said instead and watched the way her eyes widen upon realization.

“Why did I not put two and two together?” She snorted realizing the small misjudgment on her part. “Does John know?”

You shook your head. You didn’t know how, but in the weeks of working at the base, you had been successful enough not to let the small detail spill. It was for both of your sakes and you feared that if you told the man, you would be fired and not him, not that you would want him to choose between the two of you.

“It would be a shame if John couldn’t keep you working for him because of your past with Ghost. I’m actually able to see his files being sent to me on time for once and he’s less stress in this past week for once.”

You blushed, knowing that that was a compliment, something that was rarely spoken by one Kate Laswell in the years of working for her wife.

“I genuinely don’t want to go either.” You spoke honestly. “Even with the situation.”

“Will you keep the information to yourself for now?” She inquired. “What does Ghost think of this?”

“I haven’t talk to him since I’ve gotten here.” You spoke honestly. “And I think it would be better if don’t talk to him about it either.”

“Talk to who about?”

Both of you had jerked your head towards the owner of the voice and it was Price with your husband, Soap, and Gaz in tow. You looked panicked at Kate hoping she could help you out this predicament with the man in the very room with them.

“My wife’s been asking how she’s been holding up since the divorce and if she’s gotten around to talking to her ex.” Kate brushed off and you wanted to face palm yourself, not the answer you were hoping for her to give.

“Wait you were married?” Gaz piped in with surprise.

“Was.” You corrected, eyes glancing towards Simon for a moment before turning your attention right back to the younger man. “But it’s nothing to worry about, you know how Kate’s wife is.” You tried your best to reassure everyone.

“Well that bloke lost something good that’s for sure.” Soap quipped right back with a flirty wink. You’ve learned this was the default with the man. “Right Lt?”

Both you and Kate found yourself looking at the man and it somehow clicked to him that you both were now more than aware of the currently predicament that fell before you and without another word left the office, slamming the door behind him.

To this very day, Simon still can’t understand why he had signed those papers. Why didn’t he just talk with you and made a compromise. Instead he became an asshole that avoided any forms of communications with you until he was left with no other choice but divorce papers waiting for him at home and every single trace of you no longer in the home you two once shared.

In the deepest depths of his bedside drawer was the divorce papers that officially separated him from you, the two ring boxes that housed his wedding ring and the engagement ring he had bought for you. Around his neck, alongside his Dog tag was your wedding ring—the same wedding ring you had left on top of the coffee table of your home, with the divorce papers right under it.

It was his fears that finally came to life and he truly didn’t know why his body automatically signed without even reaching out to you first. To this day, in the years that has passed he still wonder what his life and relationship could be if he fought for your marriage.

Would he still be married to you right now? Would the two of you finally have the family you had always wanted? Maybe by now your first kid would have been three, he had always dreamed of having a daughter. A darling little girl that was a spitting image of you, a daughter he would protect with his life over and over again.

That could have been his life, but he was far too stupid for his own good. He was too much of a bastard that ruins everything good that comes into his life. He pays the price every single night he comes home to his apartment—empty and lacked the warmth that only you could ever give to someone like him.

He made his bed and he was sleeping in tears because of it.

“There he is, good you’ve got your arse here, LT.”

Another one of the mistakes he seems to be making in his life was joining the rest of the team in the pub and realizing that you have come to join them this time around.

Bloody fucking hell you were as beautiful as the first day he had ever laid eyes on you. There was the twinkle in your eyes he had once thought he had diminished as you continued on with whatever conversation you were having with Gaz with Price listening on. You had on your favorite red crepe dress that slightly showed some cleavage but not enough to be indecent, with your favorite locket that he had brought for you while you were still dating, and the first ever expensive Cartier watch you had brought for yourself (which Simon would have more than willingly bought for you if you allowed it) while saving up your checks.

Fate was nothing but a cruel sick man for giving this sight of you in front of him and never allowing him the taste he always craved. A gift that wasn’t his to accept—anymore.

“You know how traffic is, Johnny.” He muttered finding himself sitting beside the man and in the process finding himself sitting right in front of you in the process.

“Bullshit,” Soap snorted. “Stopped by a bonnie we didn’t know about?”

Simon glanced towards you, the momentary hurt that passed through your eyes before you continued on with your conversation with Gaz, now hearing you were both talking about your Uni days and how you found yourself involved with working for Laswell’s wife all those years ago.

“Don’t have the time nor the energy for another headache in my life.” He spoke realizing that it was the wrong thing to say with you in front of him. He could have said it if you were not here, but not in your presence, it diminishes every single thing he had ever had with you.

It wasn’t what he meant but he couldn’t truly take it back.

“I can second that.” You spoke finally meeting his eyes this time. An unrecognizable look in your eyes as you stared right at him. “And this is coming from someone that’s already made a mistake of ever getting married to a man in the military.”

This has opened the floodgate for everyone in the table to question you about your apparent divorce. He had no one else to blame for this than himself. He listened in now as you continued on answering questions about your relationship with him and the eventual divorce, but made sure it was vague enough not to have fingers pointed at him.

“So, you loved the man more than life itself and all that, why divorce?” Soap had asked the million dollar question.

“It’s gets tiresome to love someone that doesn’t want to help himself.” You spoke honestly. “Year of trying to understand him, only to push shoved away over and over again, it hurts and it gets tiresome. I just had to go before the love turns to hate.”

In the years since the divorce, there was never closure between the two of you. The forms of communications that you both had were mostly about him being deployed again or of you and your plans of moving around or changing careers. Never did either of you had the much needed closure that you both deserved—until now, not directed at him.

“If any of you ever attempt getting involved with a guy or girl make sure you’re serious about the relationship a hundred percent, not fifty, not seventy-five, not even fucking ninety. Because that small fraction you’re not giving them might be the very reason why everything falls apart.”

Simon finds himself blinking at the words that now escaped your lips. The downright resentment that still lingered in your tongue even after everything that had occurred between the two of you. He shouldn’t have signed those fucking divorce papers.

Marriage Counseling, they should have had marriage counselling like you had begged from him all those years ago.

He stood, excusing himself to order the next round of drinks. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to listen to your words cutting him to the very core.

One of the biggest mistake about accepting Price’s offer of going out with the rest of the team for a quick drink was forgetting your non-existing alcohol tolerance. As the drink was now swimming through your blood stream, your lips become looser and there were few moments were you had almost spilled the fact that your ex-husband just happens to be sitting in front of you in the table you shared with the rest of 141.

“You sure you’ll be alright to head home on your own?” Your boss has inquired the moment it was announced the pub was closing up for the early morning.

You nodded with a smile, but the warmth that you were certain painted your skin and the dazed eyes, you were all too sure that it would be a big mistake for you to do. Go knows how dangerous it would be for a drunk like you to head home all on your own.

“I’ll take her home.” Simon announced and before you could protest, John had nodded agreeing that it would be the best thing to do and you couldn’t protest or show even a smidge of irritation as you were given a death glare by your ex-husband.

“Thank you for letting me join you guys.” You spoke towards your boss, the giggly duo of Soap and Gaz. “I’ll text once I get home.” You promised them following Simon out of the pub.

You took a deep breath as the cool morning air sobered you up for a moment as you waited for the man with his car. Frowning when you realized the man didn’t have his car with him but rather his death machine known as his motorcycle.

“Here.” He muttered practically shoving an all too familiar helmet towards you.

Like quick work, you had put on the helmet, ensuring to adjust the strap before the man does. You were still unprepared to be in close proximity with the man but here you were.

Watching him pull down the foot peg, he turned to you waiting for you to ride him—ride his motorcycle. With a deep breath you rode behind him, the skirt riding up your legs and he was quick to pull it down for your own decency before revving the engine on.

“Hold on tight.” He ordered and your body was on autopilot as you wrapped your arms around his waist as he sped off.

You know it was the alcohol but you find yourself smelling him, the all too familiar smell of his musk and cologne—the same cologne you had given him when he told you were promoted to Lieutenant. Your head rested on his back, cheek squished against the expansion of his back, feeling the way his back tense at your touch as it had the same effect for you feeling his warmth all over again.

“Where?” He questioned you as the bike halted at the stoplight.

You slurred your words, but you did your best to tell him directions to where your apartment was. Your sober self would have slapped you at the back of the head for letting Simon know about your whereabouts, knowing it wasn’t something he needed to know anymore.

For a moment as the winds blew against your cheeks, you were brought back to the memories of your time together. How you feared his driving and his bike more than anything else in the world but every single time he made sure you were at your safest with him, always did even in this moment.

You remembered the dates you would both have at night when he was at his most sleepless. By the park, your arms wrapped around him as his head rested on your shoulders. How you had carried so much of his nightmare even when you truly knew nothing but what he would let you know which wasn’t much and would only be in the instance that you would have accidentally heard during his nightmares.

You remembered how tired you were as much as you loved him, how much he had meant the world to you in that very moment but slowly but surely it wasn’t the same anymore. You felt the resentment before the anger for everything he wasn’t willing to give you. You gave him everything thing but he could barely give you anything in return.

“We’re here.” Simon announced, pulling away from him you turned and he was right. You were back in your apartment and you didn’t realize how fast time has flown since as you were deep in your thoughts.

Hopping down the bike with the man helping you, you turned to him and your mouth moved before you could stop yourself.

“Want to head inside—for coffee at least as a thank you?”

“I think coffee and a conversation would be the best thing for the both of us to do at this point in time, Love.”

You felt your pulse quicken as everything single thing you had talked about in the pub was coming back to bite you in the ass. Simon has his ulterior motive after all for wanting to escort you back home.

All you did was nod, heading to the door with the man following closely behind. You felt your hands shaking but you had succeeded in keying the door open. Opening the door for him, you walked further inside, opening the lights and toeing off the flats you had on.

You placed your wallet and keys on the coffee table and found yourself sitting on the couch waiting for the man to follow you.

You heard Simon close the door, the sound of the lock being turned and the sound of his leather jacket had you worried for what was to come.

“I fucking take you seriously with the bloody helmet still on your head.” He pointed out as he stood right in front of you, unclasping the helmet from your head and for the first time in a long time, you saw him up close and the way the darkness of his eye bags was the most prominent about him—it had gotten so much worse than when you were still married. Was it because of you?

“Sorry.” You mumbled as you watched him place the helmet on top of the coffee table alongside most of your things.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

You pointed towards you left and the man had made himself at him. The sound of cupboard being opened and the all too familiar muttering of horrible instant coffee you always wanted was heard. You wanted to let out a giggle but the sudden fear of the reality of your decision brought back something you never thought you would ever relive.

You sigh elbows digging onto your thighs, as your slumped your face into your hands. Why did you offer to have him here? Why did you accept the offer of him taking you back home? Why did you accept Kate’s offer of working for John? Why did you decide to divorce Simon?

In your own mini-panic attack, the smell of vanilla latte had you pulling away from your hands and you saw the cup of coffee already in the table and Simon was already sitting in front of you, without the surgical mask and without the figurative mask he was wearing at the base.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He questioned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of all the places you could work why the base?”

“It’s not like I knew you were working for Price.” You snort. “It was Kate that suggested I work there—a new environment for me after everything that happened.”

Kate had called it her own version of exposure therapy. You truly appreciated her help even after knowing your ex-husband was working there in the same vicinity as you.

“You could have left?”

You snort. Aside from everything that came with the military, the money was too good to leave—but that was not something you would want to discuss with Simon knowing his intent to still provide for you even with the ink on the divorce papers were still drying.

“Why would I? You and I have nothing between us.” You spoke, knife sharp as his own words of calling you a headache to him.

“What you said to the team is that the real reason why you filed for divorce?”

All you could do was nod.

“You could have talk to me that you weren’t happy anymore we could have made it work.”

“No you won’t, Si.” You shook your head, arms crossed against your chest, you feared the words that would be thrown between the two of you now especially at your state. “I would have made it work.”

“What do you want me to do then? What could I have done then? You say one thing but mean something else?”

“Because every single time I wanted you to open up to me, you closed yourself up even more!” You spat right at him now. “Do you know how hard it was for me to bare myself to you about the shit in my life and in my family only to be reciprocated with how your family was fucked up but not an explanation for it?”

“That’s none of your business.” His voice grows dark, it was a sensitive topic.

“Then why were we even married if it wasn’t my business?” Your voice growing louder now, exasperated by this conversation. “What was the use of our vows if you would keep the smallest things a secret from me?”

“It’s not fucking small!” He screamed right back at you and you instinctively flinched at his voice then. Why was he being so cruel to you now?

“When I married you, I accepted you for who you are, I accepted that you can’t truly tell me what your missions were about or about whatever details about your deployment were. But even just something, anything that would make me believe that I was something more than a whore you could fuck and a maid that would take care of the house and cook you fucking food would have been appreciated.”

“You were my wife, wasn’t that enough?”

“No it was not, Simon.” You spat. “You never made me feel like I was truly your wife when you shut yourself down after coming home to me. You weren’t the same man that I had accidentally spilled coffee on when we first met.”

“If you knew me for the things I’ve been through you wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

“And how would you know that?” You questioned him. “How could you think for me when you don’t even know what I would think of you after everything we’ve been through?”

“You want to know the truth?”

“Yes. Maybe that way I can finally move on from anything that has to do with you.”

You know that was the wrong thing to say as the man cracked his neck and began to talk. About his life, about the abuse he had to endure at the hands of his father. He began to talk about the new beginning of his life when his father died and everyone tried their best to recover. He told you of his mother that he loved more than anything else at that point, of his brother, of his sister-in-law, and of his young nephew Joseph.

He told you about how he was finally at peace with the trauma of his life back then before things gotten to hell and back. He told you of the man named Roba, he told you of the abuse he had to once again go through at the hands of Roba’s men, physically, mentally, and sexually. He told you why he hated confined spaced after being buried alive in a coffin with a man named Vernon, a rotten corpse that he had to use the jaw of to escape death.

He told you of the death of his family, of Marcus Washington killing his family. Killing his mother, his brother, his sister-in-law, and his nephew that didn’t deserve being involved in anything the mission was about. He told you how he had to burn the bodies of what was left of his family and his identity in the process. You learned then why he was called Ghost and what it had meant for him and his past that continued to haunt him.

You were left stunned, unable to form words about everything that has happened to your husband. But it was the fact that now everything about him made sense. All the little things about his personality of why he was the man that sat in front of you today. It all made sense and it scared you that he was right. How you truly didn’t know what to say or what to feel now that you’ve learned of his past that he tried so hard to hide from you.

“Happy?”

“Don’t be cruel, Simon.” You whispered now, the tears were slowly forming from your eyes now, you wanted to cry for him, to mourn the family that he had lost and for adding yourself into the pain he was now enduring.

“Cruel?” He laughed, no humor in his words, malice was more evident. “What’s cruel is you still using my last name and airing out our dirty laundry to the men I work with instead of talking to me first.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” You shook your head, stung by his words. He was right but you weren’t going to admit it right now. A small ounce of pride still clawing its way out of you. “And you know why I still used your last name.”

It was your family. You wanted to erase was little traces of your family remained. Even in the divorce, you always had it in mind to remain a Riley. It was better than having to be the ghost of your former self all over again.

He stood now, knowing it was all he needed to know. He walked away but somehow a lingering thought had you opening your lips all over again.

“Why didn’t you fight for me, Si? Why did you sign the papers back then if you truly didn’t want to break up?”

“Because no matter how much I loved and needed you in my life, I will always choose your happiness before my own.” He answered, opening the door and leaving.

The sound of his bike echoing as you were left to mourn the closure of your relationship with the man that had meant the world to you. With all the regret finally coming full force you were left knowing that you had broken the man more than he already was and there was no turning back from it anymore.

It’s been well over a year now since you have been hired as Captain John Price’s secretary. Things were slowly but surely getting better for you and your career. Since the day you had talked with Simon, you wouldn’t say things between the two of you were getting better but you were civil with each other. You’ve interacted with him a few times, especially when it came to paper works but nothing more was said between the two of you.

Even with Price’s rule of not getting yourself involved with anyone in the team, it was becoming a mission for both Gaz and Soap to set you up with people on the base. Doctors or medics were somehow their number one target for you, but every single time, you find yourself relenting to just one date but never pushing for something more.

After knowing the truth about your ex, you didn’t have the heart to be so cruel to him more than you already were working in the base as him. Your free time away from base were spent with hobbies you had while still being married to Simon, baking and journaling, it was relief to be able to do it now with a new light was shed to the events of your marriage failing. You’ve also come to accept the offer of Kate’s wife’s therapist. It was a big help to be able to talk to someone else about everything you’ve been through.

You’ve learned to accept that you had your own mistake in the failure of your marriage just as much as Simon did. But your therapist has also come to mention that you needed to begin your own journey of healing from the what ifs of it, and live in the aftermath as painful as it was for you now.

“That dangerous?” You found yourself fearing for the worse at the conversation you were having with your boss as he explained to you the vague details of the upcoming mission him and the rest of the Task Force had for today.

With the chaos of prepping and planning, your boss was constantly on his feet and you were following him every step away for most of it to field calls and handle most of the paperworks to be sent out to sign and shipped to the higher ups. But to know a glimpse of what was happening and how your ex-husband would be involved in all of this worried you more than you would like to admit.

“It is what it is, if it meant a safer and better world, we would do it over and over again.” He explained.

“Just be careful, I still want to keep my job and I can’t if you’re dead, Boss.” You teased.

“Laswell can still be able to deal with you if I’m gone.” He retorted right back earning a quick laugh from you.

One thing that you had gotten so used to was his humor and how you had showcased your own as time went by working for the man. You appreciated him for being one of the two best bosses you had ever had in your career.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the mission?” You quipped right back.

“I should.” He chuckled standing right up in his full height. “Can you go check on the boys for me while I do?”

You could have refused, but a small part of you wanted to check up on Simon. Standing up, you had made your round, first stopping by Soap’s room to check up on him and notify him about the mission. Soap being the man that he was already suggesting you another man in the base beforehand.

“How about Micah? Pretty bloke that just joined the Medic team.” He began shoving the rest of his things into his duffle bag.

“Johnny, for the last time, I’m not into those pretty type you think I’m into.” You tried to indulge him in the conversation for now knowing it would ease him from the mission.

“What is your type so me and Gaz could actually find someone for you?” He pouted.

“Tall, blonde, dark and broody and with a heavy Manchester-accent.” You indulged him with description of the only man you actually loved.

“Why the fuck are you describing Ghost?” He snorts. “You got a thing for him? I thought you swore off anyone from the military?”

“Never said it was Ghost, Johnny.” You quipped right back. You hugged him and have him wrap his arms around you right back. “Be careful for me will you, I can’t live my life here in the base knowing you or Gaz aren’t here trying to set me up with anyone and everyone in the base including the married ones.”

“Hey we didn’t know Wilson was married.” He protested as he pulled away to look at you in offense.

“At this point I’ve already had dinner with half of the base, let’s keep it to a minimum when you get back. I might show you my ex so you can have an idea of what my type is.”

“Deal.” He grinned kissing you on top of the head before leaving to head to the meeting room.

You next stop was Gaz which wasn’t much of a journey with how close his room was to Soap’s. Knocking inside, you were immediately welcomed into the arms of Gaz. Unlike Soap that had been fixated with setting you up with someone in the base, Gaz was more focused on the next get together you could go to after the mission.

“I think me and Soap could convince Price to have a weekend in his vacation house in Cornwall.”

You nodded knowing it wouldn’t take much to convince Price if it meant helping the rest of the team with de-stressing and ensuring everyone has recovered mentally from the mission. But it also meant that you would be in charge of cooking knowing you and Price were the only ones that knew how to cook and you wanted your boss to actually have time to recover himself in the process.

“As long as you help me with grocery and prepping then you got a deal.” You winked pulling away from him with a smile already excited to bake them your famous apple pie they constantly beg you to make for them since the first time making it for them.

“Deal.” He grinned kissing you on the cheeks and just like Soap, finding himself heading out with his bag already at hand.

It now meant you had one last person you needed to stop by before the mission prep. You took your time somehow rehearsing what you could probably say to the man for his upcoming mission. You had your worry and you knew this was a dangerous mission.

Knocking on his door, you heard the gruff response from the other side of the door.

“Simon?” You called and immediately heard the door being unlocked.

You were faced with him wearing his skull balaclava mask. This was the side of him that you never gotten used to see but it was a part of him that you could never truly erase from him.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you allowing you to walk inside.

“Price told me to notify you about heading out for the mission.” You explained. “And I just—I just wanted to ask you to be careful on the mission.”

“Always.” He nodded.

A moment of silence has passed between the two of you before you were reminded of your therapist’s words. There was nothing wrong if you extended an olive branch to the man after everything was out in the open.

“After the mission, I would love to have you join us in Price’s cabin in Cornwall for a quick vacation too.” You added. “I know you’re busy with whatever you need to do to distress after a mission, but I would think it would be good to you if you joined. I can opts this one out if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“I’d go.” He nodded. “But I want you to join along and I want you to make me that lovely cheesecake you always make for me after I come home from deployment.”

You smiled knowing that it was always the same, a way to a man’s heart is always through his stomach.

“Anything else you want?” You asked wanting to give in to his all too simple request.

“And I want us to at least be friends, you’re part of the team now and they care for you and it wouldn’t do anyone good for us to act like we can’t stand each other.”

You nodded, heart aching a little at what he wanted. Friends. That was all he wanted and you would gladly compromise this time for him if that was what makes him truly happy.

“Friends.” You smiled, taking a hesitant step towards him for a hug but stopped mid movement as he pulled you right into his arms. The all too familiar warmth that consumed him.

“I wished things would have been different between the two of us.” He whispered kissing the top of your head. “I’d give you the world when I couldn’t give you myself fully.”

You closed your eyes wrapping your arms around his broad back.

“I wished I was strong enough for the two of us.” You whispered the tears slowly forming your eyes. “I wished I stayed a little longer for the two of us.”

“I never stopped loving you, Love. We might not be married anymore but you will be the only woman I will ever love truly with all my life and with all my soul.”

“You too, Si.” You whispered looking up at him allowing the tears to flow freely from your eyes now. “After everything that had happened between us, I will always love you.”

It was the middle of the night when you heard the familiar ringtone of your old phone. The same phone that only Simon knew the number to. You blinked away the sleep as you pulled the phone right out of the bedside table.

An unfamiliar number took you by surprise and for a moment you wanted to not answer it thinking it might be a telemarketer—but something had pushed you to press the answer button and hear whoever was on the other line.

“Hello?” You whispered clearing your throat.

“Mrs. Riley?” The familiar voice of John had you tensing. You found yourself sitting up from the bed as he began to introduce himself and why he had called.

“What happened to Simon?” You questioned checking your bedside clock to see what time it was.

It was just past midnight, three weeks since they had left for their mission and this was the first time you had gotten any contact to any one of them.

“As of right now, we are not sure if he would make it through the night. If you want we could have you someone fetch you to see him.”

You felt your world still at the news. Just when things were finally moving into the right direction between you and Simon.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.” You assured hanging up and changing into some sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The travel to the now familiar base was a daze to you as you drove. You weren’t much of a religious person, but your lips did not stop moving as you prayed. You prayed that your husband would be alright, you bargained that you would make things right with him if it meant he would stay.

“Don’t leave me, Simon.” You whispered over and over again until you arrived to the base.

You had ignored most of the surprise that the soldier on duty had shown at your sudden appearance—the fact that you were in just your ratty clothes was also something you chose to ignore as you made a beeline to where the infirmary was.

Huddled in front of the door was your boss, John, Soap, and Gaz. Each and every single one of them injured in their own way—mostly superficial from the bandages that plastered all over their beaten faces.

“John.” You called having three heads turning to you in question. “How is he?” You questioned as the tears begin to fall from your eyes at the reality of the situation coming to crush you. “How is my husband?”

The realization washed over all of them, of the secret you and Simon had hidden from everyone. The weight was too much as you were wrapped in the arms of the family you had found yourself becoming a part of.

“Will he be alright?” You pleaded, holding onto John’s vest. “Please tell me he will be alright.” You begged falling to your knees in front of him.

“The doctors are doing their best, Love.” John reassured kneeling in front of you, wrapping you into his arms as you continued to sob. “But Simon took most of the impact from the explosion.”

The reality scared you so much. You tried you best to remember the last interaction you had with Simon, the hug, the promise of a new beginning, and everything else in between. It all came crashing down to this very point.

There was a very big chance that you will finally lose Simon and it scared you so much more than anything in this world. You couldn’t lose him, not like this, not when there was so much left between the two of you to make up for.

“He can’t leave me, John.” You whimpered. “He promised me he wouldn’t leave me like this.” You screamed at the top of your lungs.

You were made aware of the vows you had made to each other when you got married at the court house. Of how he had promised to the best of his abilities that he wouldn’t die in the line of duty before he could have the chance to retire. He promised you a family, he promised you the world, and he promised you your happiness. He was your family, he was your world, and he was your happiness that you realize only when it was too late.

For the next few weeks, the world around you had become blur. You were now much of a permanent fixture of the Taskforce’s base. Morning and the afternoon was spent still working for Price, especially with the piling number of paperworks the mission had caused and your nights were spent in the infirmary, watching over Simon that has yet to awake from his slumber.

When the doctors had given you the green light that you can see him—it took you hours before you did. Even after John, Soap, and Gaz had finished with their own visit, it took so much of what little strength you had to finally see him in his state.

Broken bones, laceration, head trauma, blood loss and amongst the other injuries that the doctors has informed you should have killed him but he was still alive even in his current state. He still had fight in him, he was still fighting to keep alive.

“I’ve come to realize that post-mission Price was a whole different breed of a grump, more than he usually is.” You began talking to your still unconscious ex.

The doctor had told you about him being able to hear your voice and you took the opportunity to talk his ear off with him unable to give his usual sarcastic comments or grunts as response. There were days you told him about your day at work, days where you told him about what you had been doing since you left your home and tried and failed to move on from him, and there were days where you apologized to him, regretting the divorce and everything else that been the reason for the demise of your marriage.

“I think since the divorce I’ve realized a lot of shit about us.” You sighed leaning against the uncomfortable plastic chair. “If you wake up, I’ll try to do my best to convince you to take me back.” You mused arms crossed against your chest. “I know you don’t have as much of a happy memory after what happened to your family, but when you wake up, I want to make sure we make as much happy memories as we could together, I want you to tell me about what your Ma was like, what kind of brother Tommy was like, and how adorable Joseph was, I want all of that and more with you.”

You wiped away the tears that have yet to fall, you didn’t want to cry. You thought that you didn’t have any more tears to shed. The gravity of almost losing Simon was the wakeup call you needed and now it was nothing more than a waiting game until he wakes up.

“I fucking can’t be your friend, Si.” You admit. “I can’t be happy with just being your friend. I want you to be my husband again, Si. After almost losing you I know I can’t live knowing we haven’t fixed our relationship. I’ll do anything and everything to make it up to you, all the pain and hurt I’ve caused you.”

“Anything?”

You almost jumped from where you sat at the sight of the man whose eyes were now focused on you.

“Simon?”

“Am I just high or did you say what you did?”

“What?”

“That you would make up for everything?” He muttered groggily.

“I did.” You nodded blinking in disbelief that he was here, awake. Alive.

“Then marry me. Let me make it right this time, Love. I promise I’ll make it work, I’ll do my best to make you happy the way that you deserve.”

“Yes.” You answered almost immediately, finding yourself giggling about how ridiculous his second proposal was with his current state—but you didn’t want it any other way.

He requested for you to take his dog tag around his neck off and only then did you notice that your wedding ring enclosed around his necklace. Even with the years that passed, he still had it with him. The very same ring you two had brought together before you had headed to the courthouse for your marriage.

“Can I add another stipulation?” He held onto your free hand.

“Anything.” You smiled rubbing your hand against the callousness of his hand. “Anything to make it work, Si.”

“No more blind dates from the Sergeants.”

“They could never hold a candle to you, Simon.” You giggled leaning in for a kiss, the weight that rested on your shoulders slowly easing away.

You were home, you were back in the arms of Simon after all was said and done.

[frudoo]

I’m so soft for Simon today y’all.

Warnings: Slight angst—lots of crying. Hurt/comfort. Brief mentions of abuse but nothing specific. Overuse of italics lmaooo. Fem!Reader. Simon is sad :(

“Love?”

Simon’s been quiet ever since the two of you left the Garricks’ house. Kyle’s wife had cooked a lovely dinner, and afterwards everybody moved to chat in the living room. Your friends’ kiddos had been climbing over you and loving on you all night, jumping in your lap or begging you to play games with them. That’s when you noticed your husband’s frown—you had just assumed his social battery had run out, but looking back now, none of the signs were there. No short temper, no irritability, no desperate glances over to you trying to convey that he was ready to leave. Now, as you both lay in bed, he speaks for the first time in what feels like hours.

“Yeah, Si? Everything okay?”

He sucks in a deep breath, and you frown. Your husband has never been one to hold his tongue. It makes your heart pound with worry as you reach over to turn your bedside lamp on. Before you get the chance to turn and face him, he wraps his burly arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. You gently raise your hand to scratch the back of his head, fingernails grazing his scalp.

“D’you ever regret marryin’ me?” His voice is so small, carrying the weight of uncertainty and the fear that you’ll tell him exactly what he’s expecting to hear, to break him further.

Your fingers stall their movements and you forget how to breathe all of a sudden. Simon’s breath is labored against your neck, too hot to be normal, too wet to be anything other than the telltale sign of him about to break down. It’s a rarity that he cries, but when he does, it’s the most excruciating thing you can imagine. You can feel his pain like it’s your own. The second his first teardrop falls onto your skin, you finally turn to look at him.

His deep brown eyes are far too glossy for your liking, long blond lashes clumped together by morsels of liquid lies his brain forces him to believe.

“Never,” you frown, rubbing the tip of your thumb over the cleft separating his top lip. “Oh, sugar, what’s brought this on?”

“Y’deserve better than me,” his voice breaks mid-sentence, raspy and raw. “Someone who can- who can make y’happy. Give y’things tha’ I can’t.”

You lean forward to nuzzle your nose against his, gently locking lips with him in a short, tender kiss. You sigh into his mouth, uncaring of the snot and spittle that runs down his face. You’re just about there with him.

“You do make me happy, Simon Riley,” the whispered promise gently whisks across his face like an autumn breeze, refreshing yet not enough to calm his racing brain. “You’ve given me everything I could ask for and more.”

“No. You’ve… you’ve had t’make too many sacrifices f’me, and I don’t deserve tha’. I fucked y’over, and- and stomped on your dreams.”

“Simon, you haven’t-”

“You’d make such a good mum.”

Your mouth snaps shut, teeth grinding together from the sudden motion. Motherhood is a soft spot for you, and he knows it. When Simon first brought up the idea of marriage, he had made it clear that he didn’t want kids—too much risk of him ending up like his father, he explained. It broke your heart, but the thought of living a life where he wasn’t yours hurt far worse. In favor of being his wife, you pushed away the desire to have children, counting on being an auntie or something equivalent to your friends’ little ones.

You bite your lip, trying to blink back tears. He’s just saying this out of hurt.

“Seein’ y’with Gaz’s kids jus’...” Simon trails off, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “You’re so sweet with ‘em. Fuckin’- you- you’re perfection, lovie, and you’re settlin’ for a monster like me.”

The tears don’t cease this time. A weak sob rips from your throat, and you dig your nails into his bicep to make him listen.

“You are not a monster. Y-you’re the love of my life,” your lip quivers, hurt evident in your tone. “I married you because I love you, Simon. Because I see what’s beneath the surface. You’re gentle, you’re caring—Si, you’re beautiful. You’re a good person, even if you can’t see it. I see it.”

“I wanna see it,” he murmurs, swallowing hard. “Wanna be better f’you.”

You shake your head softly, a sad smile stretching your lips as you wipe your tears. Pressing your forehead against his, you intertwine fingers with him.

“You’d make an amazing dad.”

It’s Simon’s turn to tense up, squeezing your hand a little tighter but not near enough to hurt—it just proves to you further what a sweet person he can be, that he is underneath his Ghost persona. You’ve never met Ghost, Simon absolutely refuses to let you see the side of him that the rest of the world does, but you know in your bones that even he wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head.

“Love, no, I-I can’t- no. I couldn’t live w’myself if… if I-”

“The fact that you’re so afraid of doing anything wrong is what makes me certain you’d be incredible,” you interrupt, pulling back to look at him sternly, although the fondness that hides in your eyes softens the blow.

“Wha’ if I end up hurtin’ ‘em? Get mad at ‘em and- and I hurt m’own child,” he gasps softly, nervously rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

“Bullshit. You would never. Si, you couldn’t even bring yourself to kill the moles in our yard, and you expect me to believe that you could lay a hand on a—your child?” You scoff, cupping his scarred face in your hands and moving to straddle him.

“Lovie, m’not a good man,” he frowns, leaning into the soft warmth of your palms. “Got m’father’s DNA-”

“Stop that. You are nothing like that man. I don’t give a fuck what it is you do out on the field, but you have never once brought it into our home,” you huff, hands shaking slightly. “You know the difference between your enemies and your family even on your worst days. That’s more than you could say for your father.”

Your skin is tacky with his tears that continue to fall even when he’s rendered silent. Gently, you redirect his arms so that they wrap around your waist, warm and sturdy.

“I know you’re scared,” you whisper, tenderly rubbing his temples with your thumbs. “But have I ever lied to you?”

“Never,” Simon admits quietly, sniffling.

“Then believe me when I tell you I’m not lying now. You’re a good man, Simon Riley—to me, to your friends, and you will be to our kids. I swear it.”

He’s stubbornly avoiding your gaze, and you can tell he’s genuinely thinking about it. Gently, you press a kiss to the tip of his crooked nose.

“Let’s go to bed, hm? Sleep on it, baby,” you suggest, nuzzling your face into his neck.

You feel him nod and pull you down so that you’re laying on top of him—a comforting blanket of love that he needs you to remind him he deserves. He reaches over to turn your bedside lamp back off again, reveling in the cool darkness that engulfs the two of you.

“I love you,” he mutters, tracing random patterns along your back with his calloused fingertips.

“I love you more, big guy.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

You start sending them spicy texts a few minutes after they've left for work. Now they're home.

Bonus if you can have them say "You started it..."

Oh, anon. I am more than happy to fulfill this request. Spicy texts just before leaving work. Them walking in the door with the most feral energy. please. I am here for it. I am salivating. I am barking at the damn moon. I am running around on all fours. I am hanging from the ceiling. I love this prompt. Love love love. Thank you for sending it in!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: dirty talk, sexting, oral sex (female & male receiving), sex toys, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, vaginal fingering, knife play, spanking

Word Count: 2k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

You sent the texts to be funny—to tease John. He’s leaving work, and you want him thinking about you the whole way home.

Instead, you have an animal on your hands. A man starving for you. It’s far more than you anticipated.

I always want you.

I wish you were here with me. Naked.

Will you fill me up when you come home?

“You started it, love. I’m just finishing it.”

John grasps the back of your neck, pulling you close. Your fingers cling to the front of his shirt, the fabric twisting in your fist. John doesn’t even glance down. He’s entirely focused on your lips.

John smells of work. Of sweat. Of manly musk. You want to breathe him in.

He holds on the back of your neck tightens slightly. “I want you on your knees. Mouth open. Understand?”

You give a little nod, and John eases his grip. His hand transitions to the front of your throat, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. When his hand drops away, John takes a step back. You obediently descend before him, softly landing on your knees.

John won’t move. He won’t take the lead. You’re to do everything.

That’s how he likes it, and that is always how you do it.

With gentle hands, you caress the front of his thighs. Beneath his pants, you feel the strength and power there. John is all corded muscle. Bulky. Thick. Already you’re salivating. Your fingers find his belt buckle. It’s easy, and it’s soon gone. Zipper comes next, and then you’re opening up the front of his pants.

The moment John is in your hand, he groans. You don’t want to tease him now. You only want to make him come. You place a kiss on the head, and then give it a little lick. A tiny bead of precum appears. You take that for yourself too.

Slowly, you run your tongue along the underside of his cock along the vein. John isn’t touching you but his fists clench and unclench. He’s restraining himself. You swallow him down, and John immediately grasps the back of your head. The grip is strong, and you’re unable to pull back.

John wants you to throat him. And you will.

Clinging to the front of his thighs, you go all in, hollowing your cheeks and taking him deep. You are messy. Eager. Showing John exactly how much you missed him today. This is your little gift to him, because after, you know he’s going to fill your pussy until you’re dripping.

You did start this.

And you’ll happily do it again.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Leaving work in ten.

Ten minutes. And then twenty to drive home. That gives you thirty minutes to fuck with your boyfriend.

Grinning, you start devising a series of texts. Kyle is good about not texting and driving. He hates people that do it, so you know he won’t answer, which makes it that much better. You’ll send him these texts, and he won’t be able to respond at all.

It’s perfect. Brilliant.

You send the first one off.

Miss you. Been thinking about you all day.

It’s sweet. Something to make Kyle smile, but that’s the whole point. Draw him in, and then make him hungry for you.

Kyle responds immediately. Miss you too, love.

Not in the car yet then. You wait a few more minutes and then send a response to him.

I’ve been horny all day. Can’t wait for you to get here.

You give it some time but Kyle does not answer. Means he’s in the car.

Kept touching myself. Couldn’t stop.

Still, nothing.

You have no idea if Kyle is reading the texts or not but you hope that he is. His phone connects to his car when he turns it on, so the texts have to be coming through. If anything, he’s listening to them, the system reading your texts aloud to him.

I’m using that new toy you bought me right now.

Lie. You haven’t tried it out yet, but you’ve been wanting to.

Thinking about you while I use it.

So wet.

There isn’t any response, but that’s no surprise. You’re on edge though, every limb tingling, heart racing with the anticipation of Kyle’s arrival.

Twenty minutes feels like an hour, but you hear the front door open from your place in the bedroom. By the time you bring your feet to the floor, Kyle is already in the doorway. His chest heaves, posture poised as if he wouldn’t find you home.

“Kyle—”

“Get out of your clothes and get your ass back on the bed,” he nearly growls, yanking off his shirt before the sentence is even out of his mouth.

“You got my texts?” you ask with a sultry purr, moving slowly to remove your clothing.

“Oh, I did, love. Sure fucking did.”

When you’re down to just your underwear, Kyle is already naked, reaching for you. You shriek playfully, and then you’re flipped onto your stomach.

“I want to see just how wet you are,” he murmurs, bringing your hips up, and spreading your legs wide, revealing your pussy to him.

He groans. “I can do better.”

Kyle’s tongue is on you, and then he’s licking, swirling his tongue up and down your pussy. You cry out, hands fisting the sheets beneath you, toes curling. Kyle kisses your clit, and then sucks it into his mouth before tonguing you to orgasm.

He draws back, and you hear the drawer in the bedside table opening. Kyle rummages around, then you hear the gentle vibration of the new toy he just bought. You swallow, and push up to look over your shoulder.

Your gazes meet and Kyle grins.

“You started it.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

You’ve been stuck in the house all day.

Simon is supposed to be off work shortly. And you want to stir up a bit of trouble.

Coming home soon?

Simon’s answer returns swiftly.

Leaving in five.

It won’t take long for Simon to get home. The man has a streak for breaking every traffic law imaginable. He just doesn’t care. At times it’s down right sexy, but other times it scares the piss out of you.

Biting your lip, you wiggle deeper into the couch, texting out a reply to Simon.

Hurry home, Simon. I need you.

I want you to use me. Your own personal plaything.

Can’t wait to feel you inside me.

You send the texts one after another. Pressing your phone to your chest, you giggle, knowing what you’ve done. Simon is going to storm through that door and make you squirm. And it’s the best fucking feeling in the world.

A few minutes later, his response comes in.

Be ready for me.

You know what that means. Simon wants you naked and on the bed, presented to him like an offering. But you won’t do that. He needs to work for it. If he wants you naked and wanton, Simon will have to do it himself.

But all that confidence disappears when Simon barrels through the door. He is a phantom. A wraith of desire. Simon has you off the couch and over his shoulder in seconds. In the bedroom, Simon drops you on the bed.

By the time you go to sit up, Simon removes his hunting knife from his boot. The tip of the blade catches under your shirt and then it’s gone, your bare breasts on full display.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, twirling the knife end over end before closing it and dropping it onto the bedside table.

You’re just in your underwear, and Simon’s gaze is heated.

“Off,” he demands, and you comply, sliding off your underwear and tossing them aside.

Simon reaches for the front of his belt. It’s off in moments, and then he’s undoing the front of his pants. His cock springs free of its confinement, and your pussy automatically clenches at the sight. Simon grabs your ankle and pulls you to the edge of the bed, pushing your legs wide.

“Fuck. Look at that.” Simon parts the folds of your pussy with his fingers. The sound of your wetness is loud in the room. He brushes against your clit and you moan, head falling back.

And then you’re moaning for a completely different reason. Simon’s cock notches at your entrance, and he slams home to the hilt. Using his natural weight, you’re pinned, taking each brutal thrust.

You said you wanted him to use you. To be his plaything.

And he is. He’s fucking you for his own pleasure. It’s a punishment as much as it’s a reward. You fall back and take it, your breath leaving you in gasps with each thrust. Simon’s hand wraps around your throat, and then you’re being lifted off the bed, his lips nearly touching yours.

“Don’t forget, love. You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I love it when you grab my hair. When you push me up against the wall. When you take total and complete control.

You send the texts with a mischievous grin on your face. Johnny is at work—about to leave if he’s on schedule. And these texts will only stoke his blood—make him hunger for you.

It’s just a tease. A way to get what you want.

You want him to fuck you, but not slowly. And not with any sweetness. Johnny needs to come home and bend you over the nearest piece of furniture.

Every time I fantasize about us having sex, I imagine you tying me up and having your way with me.

You don’t expect Johnny to respond. He doesn’t usually text and drive. But he does, and you giggle at his reply.

Naughty girl.

Every minute twists in your stomach, making you anxious with longing. You have to stand up and pace around the coffee table to try and expel some of the excess energy. You are so focused on trying to clear your mind that when Johnny enters, you momentarily freeze, surprised at his sudden appearance.

His mouth turns upward into a knowing smile, and then you bolt. Johnny is right on your heels and there is no escape from him. Johnny has you in the air and over his shoulder is less than a minute.

You shriek, and Johnny��s large palm comes down in a hard slap against your bare ass.

“Johnny!”

He laughs, and then smacks your ass again, this time with a softer hand.

“You started it,” he says, carrying you into the bedroom.

Johnny tosses you down onto the bed, and then he’s on you, pinning you beneath him. You giggle under him as Johnny nips and kisses your throat and lips. Playfully hitting him does nothing. Johnny only grasps your wrists and pins them above your head. He transfers both wrists to one large palm, holding you in that position.

“Spread those legs for me,” he croons against your lips.

You instantly widen and Johnny shifts back. With one hand, Johnny pushes your underwear to the side. You’re already wet—already in need of him. Johnny tests with one finger and then a second. They disappear inside your pussy, and reappear glossy and slick.

“Fucking look at you, love,” he murmurs, repeating the motion until your hips buck and move with him.

Your breath hitches and Johnny removes his fingers. He brings those slick digits to your lips.

“Open.”

You comply and taste yourself.

When his fingers are clean, Johnny reaches between your bodies and undoes the front of his pants. He slides home, and then he’s fucking you relentlessly, pounding you into the bed. You take it all, restrained and moaning underneath him.

Johnny groans, his body tensing, and then he’s flooding your pussy with his cum. You’re so full, and it’s only the start.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@arrozyfrijoles23 @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @vrb8im

[obsessivelullabies]

yandere call of duty men — would they kill for you?

— characters included : kyle 'gaz' garrick, john price, simon 'ghost' riley, johnny 'soap' mactavish, phillip graves.

— warnings : murder, yandere behavior, manipulation, toxic relationships, mention of sex (soap's). gender neutral reader, isolating reader.

kyle 'gaz' garrick.

short answer; no. kyle is a rational man. he wouldn't want to terrify you. he wouldn't want to make you hate him by taking someone away from you. he doesn't want you to see him as a monster. he wants to keep his angel happy.

manipulation is his tactic. he'll drop subtle hints saying stuff such as 'i don't like how ___ does this' or 'i hate how they treat you'. he'd slowly distance you from people he didn't trust. he'll let you have a few people, your family and friends are fine, but he makes sure he's the most important person in your life.

kyle just wants to take care of you! can you blame him? he knows that he's the best person for you. just trust him.

john price.

john would only kill someone for you if they were harming you in some way. he knows the mess and the chaos that comes with such an act, yet if he believes his love would be better with said person gone, he'll do it. just for you.

he would make sure you never found out. he knows that's for the better. similar to kyle, he doesn't want you to think less of him. for john, it's more about the hassle of how you'd react.

honestly, he just wants a calm life where he can take care of you. you're his sweet pet. john won't let anyone ruin you.

simon 'ghost' riley.

simon is overly protective. insanely overprotective. he constantly worries about you. to protect you, he vows he'd do anything. if that vow involves such a drastic action, he'll do it. no regrets, no second thoughts.

simon isn't exactly trying to hide it from you. if it comes up in conversation, he'd probably have the most monotone reaction, "oh. i killed him." to the point you think he's joking.

he's terrified to lose you. terrified someone would hurt you. he'd rather set the world on fire than know something terrible happened to you. you were his life.

johhny 'soap' mactavish.

johhny devoted his entire life to you. his motive is jealousy. if he feels like someone is becoming your new favorite person, he'd have to rightfully take that spot back.

johnny would proudly show off what he did. he would fuck you over their dead body if you let him, just to show his ownership over you. how he was all you needed. he was the only man who could please you.

he's not insecure about someone else taking you, johnny is arrogant. he knows he's the best thing to ever happen to you. he's scared someone will manipulate you into leaving him.

phillip graves.

graves wouldn't go that far. in his perspective, you're like a dumb little bunny. he isolates you. he treats you as his sweetheart, making sure you know he's the perfect one to care for you.

all he has to do in his mind is to be firm. firmly tell you that he needs you by his side. he'll lower your self-esteem. make you lonely. make you dependent him.

graves in possessive and slightly insecure. he wants to own you. he wants your mind on him 100% of the time. you're his precious bunny.

masterlist. | requests are open! |

[yandere-kokeshi]

How would TF141+Konig,Nikolai react if their reader drunk and told them about how reader family used to sold reader at brotherel.

Warnings: yandere behavior, talks about prostitution, mention of trauma, and foreshadowing on murdering. 

A/N: Definitely took my time writing this, so I hope you enjoy it!

Captain “Price” John:

Whiplashes at you, nearly breaking his neck as he places his cold-glass down on the table. 

“Sorry, what?” 

He’s pissed. He cannot fathom why anyone could possibly do something so awful to his sweet darling, but he’s heartbroken, too. His heart shatters when you explain it, going into detail of what happened. And soon, John’s hands find themselves on yours within a heartbeat, thumbs grazing over your knuckles, and squeezes them occasionally. 

If you blow it off, saying it’s no biggie, John gets angrier. It’s not fine, and his tone is firm, and large hands that’s on top of yours aren’t letting go. And soon, he softens — bringing you into his lap, kissing the crown of your head. Hands running up and down your back, whispering to you of how special you are. 

And soon enough, later that night when you’re sleeping, his mind is wide-awake and angered. Wondering if your family is worthwhile to get a visit, teach ‘em a lesson or two.

From now on, John is so gentle with you; checking in with you first and won’t push you for anything. He even suggests therapy, or perhaps couple-therapy, to help you in some way. He wants you to know he’s here for you, as that’s all you have. 

Your parents are nowhere to be seen. The news has reported them missing, and it’s weird that John had come home after an hour when their bodies had been found, right? 

—

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

Whiplashes so hard, his neck popped as he looked at you. The cheap beer that you and him were drinking is set down, the loud clanking making the silence even louder, and his brown-doe eyes are staring at you. 

“You bein’ serious?”

Simon is fuming, absolutely seething with rage at how they used and hurt you. And he’s extremely tempted to find all of them and break every single bone in their miserable body. How on the earth could they hurt and betray you, you, the literal light in his life like that? 

“Love, you can’t jus’ drop a bomb like that and expect me to be all natural with it,” His tone seethed. He tries to soften it, he really does, but his rage with what you’ve just told him is starting to seep through the built-in cracks. And it’s clearly showing his not-so pretty side. 

But as soon as he sees your face, his heart re-breaks all over again. And within seconds, he pulls you into his arms, whispering sweet words of love and promises of safety; kissing every part he can reach until you tell him to stop.

If you haven’t already cut ties with your family, Simon immediately does it for you — anger shown and his tone sharp. He removes them from any way possible of how they could connect to you, even going as far to put a restraining order against them. But, if they decide to be snide, and try to take you back? Simon is more than happy to use his physical strength to scare them away. 

—

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

He laughs uncomfortably, before he really thinks and chews on the words a little more. His eyebrows crease against each other, fingers tightening around the beer bottle, as he looks at you very concerned. 

“Wait– what was that?” 

Kyle watches you go on, rambling about it as if it’s not a big deal, and he’s in pure shock. He’s not sure if you’re putting a brave face on, or if it’s the alcohol, but either way, it’s making him mad. His hands are shaking, his heart thundering in his chest, mind going a mile a minute, trying to understand the concept, but he can’t seem to get past the anger part. 

“Baby… when did this happen?” he generally questions, uncomfortably shifting in his seat as he looks for something in you. He’s worrying. Wonder what it’s done to you, someone he loves so deeply, and he can’t fathom the idea that something so horrific happened to you. 

Within seconds, he apologizes. Brown eyes looking at yours, barely forming tears. He’s pulling you into a tight hug, holding you deeply, and finding a way to blame himself. If he’d known you sooner, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. He could’ve protected you. 

But, that doesn’t help the situation — so he focuses on you, helping you through things and ensuring you’ll be safe. Because you’ll always be with him. 

Kyle tries to help you in every shape and form, making sure your boundaries are set and that he follows them knee-deep. And that, of course, your family doesn’t come near you. If they try to push through the cracks, he’s immediately acting viciously. And it’s not pretty.

 —

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

He chokes on his drink, coughing up a storm. Hitting him like a ton of bricks, and somehow, you look at him like he’s the one who said some type of sex joke at the wrong time. 

“I– beg your pardon?” 

He’s right in the same area with Ghost, furious in many aspects. His face shows it. His body language, and thick voice. When you’re describing the multiple incidents, it just makes him want to track down your family and rip them in two. 

Comfort is immediately given, Johnny’s arms find yours within seconds, and you’re brought into a cuddle session — one where he kisses every part, and promises that you’ll never have to face them again. He looks at you, blue eyes just admiring you before kissing your cheek, “Nobody will hurt ya’ again, swear on my and ma’s life, sweets.”

And he goes with it. Days pass, and he’s still thinking about it. He sees you so strongly, and how you’re able to go about your day and act as if it’s normal; his heart beats faster at your sewn thoughts of even crying. 

Without saying, Johnny despises your family. A bitter emotion that can be easily shown if you bring them up into a conversation. His hands crunch in remembrance of their scared face, and you won’t be seeing them anymore. You can’t. 

—

König:

He just looks at you, seemingly going deeper into your soul. Which, of course, creeps you out. König watches you explain, with a flushed look, and he’s tasting iron in his mouth from how hard he’s biting his cheek. 

“Hase, what’d you say?” 

He just keeps staring at you. And he doesn’t want you to think he’s angry at you, because he’s not — never in a million years, but it’s devastating to him. How could someone, a family that you’re supposed to trust, do that to you? 

“König?” your voice brings him out of his deep thoughts, bloody thoughts, and he just looks at you before bringing you into his chest; a man, so large and beefy, has a voice so little and fragile, that you could barely hear it. He sighs, “Why did you hide it? I’d much rather you talk to me, okay?” 

He’s obviously affected, but not as much as you are. He’s in a state of disbelief, and the fact you just blurted it out, whilst in a vulnerable state, makes him sick.

He’s unbelievably more clingy the next few days, ensuring you know your own worth and how strong you are. Everywhere you go, he’s touching you — smoothing the wrinkles in your clothes as his hands crawl underneath the fabric. Kissing you and nearly suffocating you with his weight. 

As for your family, he ignores and diverts the questions of them into a different conversation. He doesn’t want to scare you, but with the things he’s done, König is certain you’d be smart to connect the dots. 

—

Nikolai: 

Not a single laugh, or fun look comes from Nikolai. He’s immediately concerned, the shot glass being put down as he really looks at you, biting his lip. 

“Think that’s enough alcohol, Lyubimyy. Why don’t we head to bed, hm?”

He doesn’t necessarily react — but more so tries to make you sidetrack so you two can focus on something else. Until, the next morning, is where he re-brings it up and asks. He’s concerned, dark eyes showing sadness that’s covered by anger. But your feelings matter. They will always come first. And when he sees your reaction, Nikolai quickly understands, “We can talk whenever you’re ready, mkay lovey?” 

Nikolai comforts you with the best of his abilities, ensuring that you’re not a burden. You’re the complete opposite, and you’re so strong. His hugs become deeper, kisses become longer and more intimate. 

And the gifts he brings home, even to the grocery store, are enormous. His sly smile as he carries them in definitely takes your head off some things, no? 

Your parents are immediately cut out of your life. Nikolai has secrets of his own, and once in a while, he has to take out the dirty trash, right? Before he leaves for the day, a mission needed for Laswell, he promises to be back before 5 PM; and he does, arriving all giddy and flirty. But his hands seem a bit too warm, a bit odd. 

[kyletogaz]

kyle seducing the cold detached woman who's levels above his station 😔

yeah so i wrote way too much

pairing: kyle garrick x fem!reader | cw: third person pov, hints to childhood trauma, therapy is mentioned, smut

it doesn’t help that he has a big fat crush on her. and she knows this, but couldn’t give two fucks.

kyle has never had to work this hard to get someone into his bed. he’d barely turn on the charm and would still have them dropping their panties. but this woman in particular, she made him realize it wasn’t going to be easy and he’d have to work for it.

kyle starts giving her flowers with cute little notes attached and she just chucks them into the trash because, “i don’t like roses, garrick. stop sending me flowers.”

kyle does not listen to her at all though. every bouquet he buys gets thrown away, much to his dismay. she’ll never tell him this, but one day she ended up giving a vase of flowers to one of her girlfriends because they were far too pretty to be in someone’s trash bin. eventually, kyle stops sending flowers and steps his game up.

he starts leaving chocolate on her desk, her favorite brands at that. it’s the fancy and expensive kind too.

at first, the chocolate just sits on her desk untouched. she would rather eat a jean jacket than to admit she finds it kind of cute that kyle refuses to give up. her icy exterior begins to dissolve a little when he starts popping up with snacks, jumbo crossword puzzles, and books for her to read.

“i’m still not entertaining whatever you think is going to happen between us, garrick. keep your delusions to yourself,” she says flatly, but thanks him and accepts his gifts anyway.

kyle just laughs and says, “we’ll see.”

his response bothers her for the rest of the day and she can’t figure out why.

her heart softens even more when her birthday arrives and she’s stuck in her office doing paperwork. she’s absolutely miserable about it, until kyle knocks on her door, her words getting stuck in her throat when she sees the cake and balloons he has for her.

“why would you do all of this!?” she asks hotly, once she’s regained her composure. she doesn’t even know why she’s so upset with him in the first place. he’s just being nice.

“because you deserve it, and you shouldn’t have to spend your birthday alone.”

she wants to rage at him some more. she wants to throw him out and tell him to never come back because somehow he’s managed to worm his way into her heart. she wants to kick him in his shin for making her fall for him. but because she can’t bring herself to do any of that, she lets him stay to sing happy birthday to her.

and if kyle’s visits become more frequent after that, she can’t find it in herself to complain. his presence makes her happy.

kyle can be a very persistent man when he needs to be, but he chooses to believe she’ll change her mind about him eventually. she’s been opening up to him more, and he considers that progress.

he remembers the first time he met her. she was a pretty thing with a no nonsense attitude. he knew he was down bad for this woman when he’d come to her defense whenever he heard people calling her a bitch around base.

and today was no different. she was well aware of the names people called her, but she really didn’t give a shit. “it doesn’t hurt me,” she says to kyle, who’s currently holding a recruit by the collar of his shirt.

he’d been within earshot of the little bastard addressing his soon to be sweetheart by several unpleasant names that made his blood boil.

kyle is more than pissed off, especially after she orders him to let the young recruit go. “you hear the names they call you, the things they say. and yet you do fuck all about it,” he snaps before sighing. he’s not mad at her though. he’s just a little frustrated because she won’t so anything about it. he refuses to believe that nothing bothers her.

she stares at kyle in shock. he’s never spoken to her like this before, and she doesn’t like it one bit. so she tells him to get out.

but unfortunately for her, kyle doesn’t budge. “nah,” he says, before taking a seat on the chair in front of her desk. “i think i’ll sit here a little longer. you can finish your work, i won’t bother you.”

she just huffs at him, then picks her pen up and resumes her work.

when she’s done, kyle is still there. he has his earbuds in and he’s laughing quietly at something on his phone. she just knows he’s on tiktok. probably watching some video about a cat. when she finds herself staring too hard and enjoying his laughter just a bit too much, she nudges him under the desk with her foot.

kyle pulls his earbuds out and sits up straight. “you finished, love?”

love?

it’s the first time he’s called her that, and it wrecks her a little bit. i don’t deserve him, she thinks to herself.

she just nods silently in response to his question, not trusting herself to speak and only doing so when kyle offers to walk her to her quarters. if he’s surprised when she says yes, he doesn’t show it. he just ushers her out of the office and down the hallway.

when they arrive at her door, she thanks him. kyle just waves her off and says, “anything for you, sweetheart.”

“stop calling me that,” she huffs. “and stop doing whatever this is.”

she watches as kyle’s brows furrow in confusion. “what is it that you think i’m doing?”

“if you wanted to get into my pants, you could have just asked.” she actually laughs when kyle stares at her in surprise. “and don’t act so shocked, garrick. i’ve known what you wanted since day one.”

“do you?” kyle asks as he steps into her space, watching in amusement as she fumbles to come up with an answer. he knew she would have told him to fuck off when they first met. “if you think sex is all i want, then you’re wrong. i want you.”

she’ll lie about it for the rest of her life if anyone ever asks her how she responded to kyle’s statement. instead of tearing him apart with her words, she gets a little teary eyed, much to her embarrassment.

“you shouldn’t want me,” she whimpers. “i haven’t been very nice to you.”

kyle just shrugs and lets her know that he likes a challenge every now and then. he doesn’t let her respond. he bids her goodnight with a kiss on her forehead, then gently shoves her into her room.

kyle walks her to her room again the next evening, and this time, he bullies her into inviting him in. she almost had a fit when he climbed into her bed and demanded she cuddle with him. at first, the word no was at the tip of her tongue, but then the intrusive thoughts won that round.

she’d struggled with how intimate it was to have kyle’s arms around her, not wanting him to touch her because she knew it would shatter the walls she’d carefully built over the years. he took one look at her and told her to stop fighting her feelings. she’d almost snapped at him, until she saw the look in his eyes. she’d hurt him and herself if she told him no. so she surrendered herself to him completely.

“it’s just for tonight, you can go back to hating me tomorrow.”

her heart breaks when kyle says it so casually, as if he’s trying not to make it a big thing, when it absolutely is.

she’s never hated kyle a day in her life. she just doesn’t understand why he wants to be with someone as cold as her? why would he want to be with a woman who was so damn traumatized, she thought everyone who approached her had some ulterior motive. having an unpleasant childhood and learning not to trust anyone would do that to a person.

during a session, she spoke to her therapist about kyle. she even told the other woman about the gifts he gave her. he won’t leave me alone, she had complained.

have you asked him to leave you be?

well, no. but—

think about why that is.

she’d almost quit therapy that day. she didn’t want to think about kyle and the way he made her feel.

after the life she’d lived, she promised to never let anyone get close enough to see how vulnerable she could be. she was convinced they would just take advantage. so she hardened her heart and became more frigid as the years went by. sometimes when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see an ounce of her past self.

“you’re tense.”

her body gives a little surprised jolt at the sound of kyle’s voice. “i’m sorry,” she mumbles, while trying to relax in his arms.

“what’s on your mind?” kyle asks, before pressing a kiss to her forehead and stroking a hand down her back.

she shrugs and tells him not to worry about it, even though she knows it’s already too late for that.

“don’t do that. there’s something bothering you, sweetheart.”

she sighs softly, before lifting her head off his chest. “you’re right, but i don’t want to talk about it right now. just hold me please.”

and it’s truly a blur after that, not knowing how she ended up on her back with kyle’s fingers intertwined with hers and his cock buried deep in her pussy. he’s already syphoned one orgasm out of her with his tongue, and now he wants to have her creaming around his cock this time.

she’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into. because when kyle gives her the filthiest grind against her pussy, his leaking cock pressing up against her g-spot, her eyes roll so far back into her head, she’s surprised they don’t get stuck. a pleasure filled sob spills from her lips when kyle does it again and again until she’s clawing at his back and wailing so loud, he has to quickly smother her cries with his mouth.

he knows she’ll probably never life it down if someone walks by the room and hears how loud she can be when she’s getting fucked within an inch of her life.

kyle actually has the audacity to pause mid thrust to say, “damn, i didn’t know you could sing like that.”

he laughs when she gives him a whiny shut up and fuck me please. he watches the way her scowl disappears when he pulls out, then bullies his cock back into her drooling pussy.

“fuck, pussy’s so tight and wet around my dick, just gushing,” kyle hisses out with a roll of his hips, eyes almost crossing when she tightens around his cock. “you’re gonna strangle me to death. christ.”

“i’m sorry,” she manages to choke out through the overwhelming sensation of his cock hitting her sweet spot repeatedly. she was in fucking heaven.

“don’t be. you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart,” kyle croons in her ear. “you’re takin’ me so well. gonna have you fallin’ apart on this dick every night.”

“please.” his words are entirely too much for her handle.

“please what?” kyle coos, as his cock drags against her spongy walls. “gonna see how good you’ll be when i stretch that ass out with my fingers first, and then on my cock.”

the cry she emits when her senses white out completely and all she can feel is the sheer pleasure of her orgasm, is loud enough to be heard out in the hallway.

kyle doesn’t slow down when he tells her to give him one more. she wants to call him greedy, but she’s too busy moaning and writhing underneath him while he rubs her clit in sync with his thrusts. when she cums again, kyle is filling her pussy up to the brim with his seed and moaning her name.

kyle has to force her out of bed after he suggests they shower and change the sheets. she whines about being tired, but lets him guide her to the bathroom anyway.

she spirals a little when she’s sure she kyle is sleeping. she doesn’t want him to hear her weeping. and the second a pitiful whimper escapes her mouth, she’s out of the bed and locking herself in the bathroom, where she can cry freely.

she tries to avoids kyle after that, but he’s not having it.

he won’t let her run from this. when she tries to deny it, he calls her out on it and lets her know that they’ll be having a lengthy discussion when he gets back. “my teammates and i are leaving base. gotta put an end to some shit none of us want to deal with, and i’m not sure when i’ll be back, sweetheart.”

during the three months that kyle is gone, she’s missing him more than she thought she would. phone calls and video calls aren’t enough anymore. he tries to soothe her by telling her he’ll be seeing her soon, but she cries anyway.

it’s only then that she comes to a startling realization.

she finally tells her therapist what she’s been wanting to tell kyle for weeks.

i think i love him. no, i know i love him.

when she sees kyle again, she launches herself at him immediately, much to everyone’s surprise, because since when was kyle dating anyone.

soap, price, and ghost can’t help but to stare at her and kyle in wonder. she’s clutching at kyle, while crying her eyes out and telling him how much she loves him and how much she misses him. eyebrows raise when she drags him into a kiss that’s damn near pornographic.

kyle beams at her when he pulls away from the kiss, before he pulls her in for a soft peck and a hug that leaves her a little breathless.

and leave it up to him to ruin the moment when he says, “so, about that talk.”

she just groans and let him drag her across the tarmac.

-

a/n: thank you for sending this message and i hope you enjoy.

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[flowermiist]

A warm heart - I

Click here to read the prologue if you haven’t ♡

Pairing: John Price x Fem!Reader

Sypnosis: Some time ago, you started a cooking channel on YouTube as a way to relax, have a proper hobby and teach others your favorite recipes as you improved your own culinary skills too. Fame wasn't something you wanted, you were more than happy with your 50k subscribers... Yet you never thought you'd stumble upon one of them.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: I would like to start off by saying thank you for all the kind comments, likes and reblogs the prologue has gotten. I was going to make this chaper longer but wanted to leave some intrigue. I’m currently working on the second chapter as I post this. Again, thank you so so much. Don’t forget to like, reblog and comment please. ♡

“Didn’t know you were that much into cooking, cap.” Garrick says, hiding a smirk and almost teasing as he sits across the captain who simply gives him a small cranky huff and his tired eyes stick back to the screen of his phone with the video playing.

Only one of the wired earbuds is connected to his ear as he watches every single detail almost carefully –

“Improving my cooking skills, somethin’ the lot of you should start doing.”

It was by far clear that John wasn’t in the best of moods after a stressing mission, his voice much hoarser and raspier than usual – the scent of the cheap cigar he had gotten from a gas station fills the tent as Mactavish sleeps with arms crossed, his head hanging low and Simon keeps guard – his eyes moving towards the conversation from time to time.

“Been trying to get the hang of it…” He speaks again with a sigh and an attempt not to be too grumpy, trying to remain as composed as he can while wiping off the sweat from his forehead, the lines on his rough skin becoming accentuated as he slightly frowns.

“And how’s it going?” Gaz asks with more curiosity now, looking at his captain and placing his elbows on the wooden table.

“Good, ’s far as I can tell.” Is all John responds, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he tries to sink deeper into the folding wooden chair tapping his cigar against the makeshift ashtray (which was simply an empty can of tuna) as the already weak string of smoke dies away.

You quickly scramble out of the bathroom, uniform already displayed on your bed. Stopping in right front of your vanity and placing a hand against the wall as you lean closer to the mirror to get a better look, trying to be as careful as possible not to mess up your lipstick – the moment you can’t find your shoes, you just get more irritated and the irritation mixing with yesterday’s hangover is not a pretty feeling, especially at this time of day.

You know you no longer have time to find your comfortable shoes the moment you look at the watch on your left wrist so you move towards your closet and take out a pair of nude stiletto heels, not the most convenient or comfortable ones but better than going barefoot to work or using one of your “I’m only here at the club to dance and get laid tonight.” pumps.

The moment you step into your car and try to start the engine, it makes that funny noise you hate but know too well to ignore.

“C’mon… let’s not embarrass ourselves, will you stop acting up before a neighbor notices and calls me broke?” You mumble to your own car like a crazy woman as the engine struggles to start.

Three days, three whole damned days since the engine of your car has been struggling to start and has started getting on your nerves – you tried to contact Harrison, your mechanic and the asshole has been completely ignoring your calls, he not only overpriced every little thing he did to your car but also thought you were some sort of stupid woman who didn’t know anything about your own car.

Sure, you could just drive to his garage and tell him the problem right away, but you were loaded with work these days and this man’s policy was to book in through a phone call to get your call fixed – otherwise, he refused to fix anything. And knowing him, there was no way he’d pick up any of your calls anytime soon.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips the moment your car decides to cooperate and the engine starts. “Good girl...” You whisper through your teeth with a smile, moving your finger towards the screen of the radio to start it.

“Well damn! Doesn’t someone look sexy as hell this morning?” Zaila says as she looks at you up and down from her desk – obviously noticing the shoes you chose this morning, you smile at her as you walk towards the reception.

“Well, to your information, I was actually thinking about bringing the leopard print ones you love so much…” You speak with a playful tone while you put your purse on top of her counter.

You give her a sly smirk, checking in with the fingerprint scan she places in front of you.

“I know I’m late… I’m hungover and my car is acting up again and that asshole won’t-” before you can even finish, Zaila moves her hand up to stop you, her various bracelets jingle on her wrist when she does this, stopping you from opening your mouth to explain any further.

You sigh as you already know what she’s about to say.

“Don’t think about it, alright? I was late too – stayed up fighting with that annoying witch living next door. Barely got any rest.”

Zaila says and you smile.

“Somethin’ to laugh about?” She asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you her best warning look.

“No ma’am.” You say with a thankful smile, getting a hold of your purse again before lightly squeezing Zaila’s soft hand and walking away towards your consulting room.

You check your phone while the computer on the desk turns on, you check your channel and smile to yourself while reading some of the comments from your lasagna recipe.

You definitely worked hard for that video and your subscribers seemed to really like it – you were aware that the ages of your views were something quite varied. From teenagers learning how to cook for themselves to middle aged adults improving in the kitchen.

Looking back at the computer in front of you, you put your phone down and begin organizing and checking some files from your patients.

Coming here with Zaila for lunch break was a good idea as always. Both of you laugh, gossip and enjoy lunch break while you sit at the small fancy restaurant that’s right across the street from the clinic.

Zaila went to the bathroom as the two of you waited for the food you ordered to arrive, leaving you alone at the table. You looked through your purse to grab your small mirror when your phone started buzzing from the call you were now receiving.

You grab it and look at the screen, reading the name of the contact, “Harrison - Mechanic.” – you huff and roll your eyes as you answer the call from the asshole that had been ignoring you for the past three days.

“Am I speaking to my favorite client?” The mechanic says, his tone sounding almost cheerful, you’ve known this man for some time now and you know him well enough to know he’s probably drunk.

“So you ignore your favorite client’s calls for three days straight now?” You reply to him. It sounds too rude, you know that but this man is an asshole too and him ignoring you was three times worse than your words.

“Oh c’mon… I’ve just been… uh…” – you wait in silence and look at your nails, already wondering what excuse he’s going to give you.

“–that doesn’t matter now since I’m talking to you, aye? What seems to be the problem with your lady?”

“What makes you think I’ll go back to your garage?” You speak, almost irritated, then catch a glimpse of Zaila from the corner of your eye while she talks to one of the waiters on her way back to the table.

“I’ll give you a discount, how ’bout that, doc? No need to make this call any longer, just, eh, come over and I’ll check on her.” Harrison speaks and you swear you can almost see that annoying smile of his as he speaks.

“You sure you won’t “forget” about your promise when I get there?” You speak, your tone almost sarcastic.

“Would I ever lie to my favorite client?” – Yeah he definitely would, but your car needs a mechanic now and as big of an asshole Harrison can be, you have to admit he’s good at his work when he wants to be.

“Alright, I’ll try to be there after work.” You finally say, ending the call to look at Zaila who is now sitting back on her chair.

John walks through the cereal aisle, gripping the steel handle as the wheels roll. He wasn’t in such a bad mood now that he left base, with the leave he got, he actually felt more relaxed.

The man would not deny he was more used to walking through the halls of a military base than walking through the long aisles of a supermarket – maybe he’d go for a few drinks after this, not wanting to spend his time isolated at home for too long. John clears his throat and rubs forehead and eyes with his fingertips, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He has the essentials in his cart, some milk, vegetables, juice, meat, rice and the three-in-one shampoo he has grown used to.

As John moves his cart towards the register, he glances at two adults and a child – the boy no older than five years and throwing quite the show as he cries and squirms on the floor while he grips a box with children’s toys. He looks at the adults that seem to be his parents, a man and a woman with worried and irritated look on their faces as they try to calm him down.

Was this the reason he never looked forward to starting a family, ugly temper tantrums? No, that would only be another excuse – Maybe the demands of his job? It would be too selfish to leave a woman whom he’d call his wife by herself taking care of a kid while he was in the middle of god-knows-where.

Had he given up the idea of starting a family of his own? Because it surely seemed late for him to try.

Did he want that life? Was he getting tired of going home to an empty house? He didn’t really know if he could call his house a home, it didn’t exactly feel like the concept of a warm family waiting for him, some kids, a wife and a dog – but at least, no children or a wife would be missing him and suffering while waiting for him to get home. To get back home from a job that has his life on the line between life and death, between doing terrible things to accomplish a greater purpose and getting his hands dirtier than ever.

His bubble of thoughts are popped with a sharp pin as the cashier looks at him and speaks, clearing her throat and almost giving him a dirty look for staying so still while glancing at the family – “Sir, you’re next.” The woman speaks as he looks at her.

“Right, sorry.” The rugged man says as he starts moving the things of his cart to the register.

You didn’t drive to Harrison’s right away after work, you stopped at home and took a shower, changing your clothes and then stopping at the grocery store – It was supposed to be a quick trip but you almost throw your bags on the floor of the store’s parking lot as you notice your rear left tire almost entirely flat.

“Fuck…” you mumble as you approach it, your breath hitches and you try to remain as calm as possible, lowering the grocerie bags on the floor, not caring about them getting dirty anymore.

You approach the tire and give it two small kicks to check how soft it was, it would be impossible to drive to your mechanic with a tire like this.

You knew how to change a tire, sure – your father had shown you a long time ago after a nail punctured one of the rear wheels of his truck. But that was too long ago for you to remember step by step and you knew the mechanic would not pick up if you called him to come here and help you. Even if he did, the man would overcharge you as always and you were not about to tolerate that, not after he promised you a discount to fix what was wrong with the engine.

Opening the trunk of your car, you search for a way to lift the liner carpet knowing the tire tools might be underneath it – You grunt as you lift the heavy box and see the spare tire underneath it. Right as you struggle to lift it a voice interrupts you.

“Need any help with that?” You turn around towards the husky unknown voice you just heard just to see a man standing there with his own grocery bags.

The silence is almost palpable as you look at him.

“Changing a tyre by yourself can be hard.” He says again, you huff after hearing his words –

“Are you suggesting I can’t do it by myself?”

you blurt out, immediately biting your tongue as you realize how rude and bitchy that must have sounded, but before you can even correct yourself the man speaks.

“Wasn’t making any suggestions, miss, just trying to lend a helping hand.” The man doesn’t seem phased in the slightest by the tone you used. He speaks with such eloquence and calmness that you are surprised he didn’t get offended and leave right after you spoke.

“Sorry, I- That was really rude of me.” You say, almost blushing from the embarrassment you just put yourself through with your own words, you didn’t mean to take your frustration out on a man offering his help.

“All is forgiven, miss.” He takes one step closer and looks at the trunk of the car where the spare tire is. What you didn’t know is that he recognized you the moment he heard your voice and saw your face, it had to be you – the girl from the cooking videos he has been watching for the last whole month; yet he was not about to comment on it because if for some reason it actually wasn’t you then it would make things too awkward, he thought.

“May I?” You immediately nod and stop staring.

“Yes- But… I wouldn’t want to bother you though.” He shakes his head and lowers his grocerie bags onto the floor.

“Not a bother at all, miss. I was just heading home. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to change it.” You clear your throat and nod as the man speaks, the embarrassment going away.

“You sure?”

“Quite sure.”

You step aside as he lifts the spare tire with such ease only using one of his arms and using his other hand as he grabs he handle of your car’s toolbox with the other hand.

The man moves to kneel down right in front of the tire and you take a moment to inspect him. By the accent, he is clearly from here. Icy blue eyes and a masculine rugged look, not to the point he’s too intimidating but nearly there. The navy blue t-shirt he wears looks a bit tight on him, he seems older than you by a few years not too many though – you can clearly tell that by the few lines on his forehead and the few grey hairs on his dark brown beard. Last time you saw someone wearing such interesting mutton chops beard with that moustache was during a disney movie.

You try not to stare when the muscles on his arms flex the moment he grips the wheel brace as he loosens the wheel bolts by twisting them.

“You’ve got experience, I reckon.” You say as he carefully aligns the scissor jack under the jacking point of your car, he looks at you and nods with a very small smile.

“Not to brag, miss. Done this many times.” His voice rumbling on his chest, the two of you make some eye contact for a single second and he breaks it by moving the wheel brace to the jack. – “Had any trouble with your car ’fore?” He asks as the tool begins to lift up the car slowly when he twists it.

“I was about to drive to my mechanic’s after he spent three days ignoring my calls, some engine problems.” The man listens to you carefully.

“I believe three day’s enough to know your mechanic might be too irresponsable – Not to intrude with my comments though.” He moves to take out the old tire.

You sigh and nod “He’s an asshole, I know.” Your chuckle makes him sigh and give you a small chuckle of his own as he places the wheel down, shaking his head slowly.

He still can’t believe he’s seeing you in person – Well, that might sound weird but the man has seen too many of your cooking videos to deny it’s you.

“Mind giving me a small class?” You ask, taking a step closer – how ironic, he’s been the one watching your cooking recipes and learning from them and now he’s the one teaching you?

He nods.

“Wanna try?” He suggests and you oblige by grabbing the tool. “This is the lug wrench, right?” You ask and he nods again.

“We call them wheel braces ’ere but yes – It is.” He moves to grab the replacement tire and aligns the holes of the bolt with the lugs and begins to tighten them.

“These are the wheel bolts, you twist ’em with your hands as much as you can ’fore you lower the car with your jack and tighten them again usin’ the brace.” The way he explains it to you almost makes you blush as you are leaning forward and looking at the tire like a child at the aquarium.

You glance at his arms as he lowers the car using the jack again, making that twisting movement that makes the muscles on his arms even bigger, and the veins on his rough hands more noticeable.

The english man tightens the bolts before fully removing the jack from under your car, he lets out a quiet, deep grunt when he gets up again. You help him by grabbing some of the tools as he grabs the old wheel that was apparently pricked by a rusty nail.

“Good as new now, eh?” He says and you realize your mistake after be places the old tire in the trunk of your car. –“I’m so sorry- uh, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Y/N.” That clicks in John’s head, it really was you and he was almost amused to say the least.

“No need to be sorry. ’m John, John Price.”

You shake his hand, not caring in the slightest about the dust on his hand from manipulating all those tools and both tires – his hand feels rough, calloused as if he’s too used to doing these type of things often, the heavy work.

“Forgive me if this sounds strange but ’m pretty sure I’ve watched your videos a few times. Cooking, right?” John says after your hands separate.

You are immediately surprised, almost in awe and he can tell by the look on your face. You try to keep your jaw as tight as you humanly can – almost as if it would comically fall to the floor is you dared to open it.

“Yeah, that’s… me, yes.” You smile at him widely. “You’ve really watched my videos?” You ask, amused, all your worries go away as his words make your whole week, it’s the first time something like this has happened to you.

“Could say ’m a bit of a fan, actually.” He gives you a smile of his own before he continues talking and looking into your eyes, deeply.

“Wanted to start improving my skills and happened to watch one of your videos, the food I prepared turned out surprisingly well – subscribed ’bout a month ago and… been watching ’em ever since.” That raspy and collected tone of his almost soothes your nerves.

“I’m shocked- I’ve never met any of my subscribers…” You admit with a smile full of excitement.

“Well, ’sppose there’s always a first time, innit?” – there is a comfortable silence after you nod but is broken by John looking back at your car.

“You mentioned there was a problem with the engine, that right?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Mhm, it stops sometimes and it can be tricky to start it.” You speak with a sheepish smile and the man crosses his arms as he stands in front of you.

“Want me to take a look?” Honestly? You’d like to talk to him more but you have to get to Harrison’s befoee he closes and you don’t want to keep John here forever, as happy as you are right now. His grocerie bags are on the floor with yours, completely forgotten and you wouldn’t want him to waste his time.

“Don’t worry, I was on my way to the mechanic anyway. Wouldn’t want to keel you here forever.”

“You sure?” John looks at your car then back at you – you give him a nod and he sighs.

“Well… If the engine’s been playin’ games with ya and stops on your way there. Let me know, I mean-” He scrounches up his face in annoyance when the excuse of giving you his number gets too obvious but the sound of the giggle that escapes your lips makes it go away.

“Could use your number for that.” You say quicker than you expected and he immediately smiles, clicking his tongue and taking out his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

“Right.” John says with that deep husky tone rumbling on his chest and a small smile on his face, almost a shy one.

After getting his number, you glance at his brown boots as he lifts up his bags and gives you a small goodbye nod, you wave your hand at him and smile almost stupidly.

“It was nice meetin’ you, Y/N.” John says and you nod too.

“It was nice meeting you too, John.”

As he makes his way to his own truck, you lift up your long forgotten bags and put them in the backseat of your car before you start the engine and sigh in relief since it didn’t give you any trouble this time.

“Well that was hot…” You mumble with a smile as you reverse the car.

Taglist: @bumblebeesfromvenus @thesevi0lentdelights @zekes-beard (Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added! ♡)

[soapsbaby]

Bookworm

Summary: Your CoD Partner finds you reading a smutty novel. Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" Mactavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price, Kate Laswell, König, Alejandro Vargas, Rudy Vargas, Valeria Garza, all x gn!reader Rating: NSFW (mdni) Word Count: 600ish

Simon

He doesn’t fully get it but if you love them, he does too. He's never once criticized any of your hobbies, if they make you happy, he supports it.

He has definitely found his way to have fun with it though, his favorite way is to make you read them out loud while he eats you out, making you repeat every line you didn’t manage to get out clearly enough for him to understand.

“Oh, Baby, what was that?”

Johnny

He loves your voice, he could listen to you for hours, so he loves when you read them out to him. Usually he’s just sprawled out on top of you, head on your chest while you run your fingers through his hair and read to him.

He keeps commenting everything to make sure you know he’s still awake, with little sentences like “Hm. Would you like that?” or “We should try that” or “That sounds horrible, I’m sorry.” if it’s a particularly wild scene.

Definitely falls asleep at times, though.

Gaz

It started with you telling him all of the plots of the books you were reading but since he seemed so intrigued you just started leaving the books on his bedside table once you were done with them so he could pick them up too.

It has become a tradition for you to leave little sticky notes on parts you especially enjoy so he can take inspiration (and he does).

Price

He enjoys them, especially since it makes it easier for you to express your needs and desires to him when you can otherwise be a little shy about them. He likes having you cuddled up to him and reading them out to you, reenacting them while he does, if possible.

Laswell

She picked up a few of the ones you finished and wasn’t convinced, telling you they were silly and unrealistic, but the next time you picked up your e-reader, she downloaded your favorite authors’ entire bibliography for you.

König

If you love something, he loves it too, but it took him a while to get used to those books, he was scandalized by the types of things you decided to read. 

“Listen, I thought I was mostly fluent in English… But the words in here…” 

Alejandro

Now this man will indulge you. Be it reenacting scenes, taking inspo, hell, he’ll even dress like your favorite characters if you ask him nicely enough.

He’s into roleplay anyways so it’s not that much of a far cry for him to get into the characters you find yourself fantasizing about. 

Rudy

He’d be lying if he said he fully gets it, but it’s your interest and so he appreciates it as much as he appreciates you and always shows interest when you wanna share any of the stories with him. 

He’s a huge bookworm as well, so a lot of the time you will cuddle up together somewhere, both reading your books.

He sporadically looks over your shoulder and if he spots you reading a particularly explicit scene his fingers will find their way between your legs, getting you off while you read .

Valeria

When she first saw you reading one of your smutty little novels she grabbed it from you, reading it out loud to you to fluster you (which worked, of course).

“Cariño, what the hell are you reading, hm?” You straddled her, desperately trying to grab the book out of her hands, miserable failing to do so. "Wow, you little slut."

[danikamariewrites]

Could you do one with Xaden where reader gets hurt during training and he almost loses his shit? I can totally see him and Sygael, along with readers dragon of course, wanting to find the person who hurt them and burn them to a ✨crisp✨ lol.

Gotta have your daily protective and caring shadow boy lol

Injured

Xaden x reader

A/n: not me expanding the No One Left Behind universe (like that’s a thing lol) Cadmus is a beast in this one, he is taking no one’s shit. That sweet puppy dog dragon is gone for now.

Warnings: canon typical violence, mentions of injuries

Sgaeyl had told Xaden what happened seconds before Liam came and got him, panting and out of breath only wheezing out your name. He was now out pacing Liam on the way to the infirmary.

Amon had once again pulled a dangerous stunt during flight training. Flight training. The one time of day no sparring was supposed to happen. Xaden wanted to kill the little prick. He went too far this time and Xaden was at his limit with giving Amon chances.

Pushing the doors open Xaden scans the beds looking for you. His eyes find you on a bed on the far right of the room. You looked pissed as you messed with the bandage around your hand and arm.

You didn’t notice him until he was sitting next to you on the bed, gently taking your hand in his so you’d stop picking at the wraps. You looked up at him and you were fuming.

Xaden scanned your face taking in your injuries. There were cuts all over your face and dried blood coming from your nostrils and smattered on your nose. A nasty bruise went from your temple to your jaw. Xaden picked up the wet cloth on the bedside table, gently wiping the blood from your face.

“You ok sweetheart?” You flopped back on the bed letting out an agitated sound. “I swear I’m going to kill Amon next time I see him.” Xaden wanted to laugh but this wasn’t a joke. “Can I leave yet? I hate the smell in here.”

Xaden nodded, helping you up as you winced from the shooting pain in your ribs. As you walked to Xaden’s room you told him about what happened at flight training. Amon and his poorly behaved dragon attacked you and Cadmus in an impromptu fighting exercise.

Cadmus was thankfully unharmed and went on the offensive quicker than you could tell him to. You had never seen or heard him so pissed off, or using so many swear words. He was so well mannered. Of course Cadmus got Sgaeyl involved, who told Xaden immediately.

“Would it make you feel better to know they’re currently plotting their revenge on Amon?” You let out a laugh, relaxing on Xaden’s soft black covers. “Yes actually. I’d love to see Cadmus lose his mind. Is that why he cut me off?”

You spent that night in Xaden’s arms as he whispered loving words and promises of protecting you, never letting anything like this happen again.

The next afternoon you heard about the beating Xaden gave Amon during morning training. It was so bad Dain had to step in and pull Amon away from Xaden while Garrick, Liam, and Imogen had to restrain him.

Once Amon recovered you were both back at flight training. Xaden was overseeing your squad for the time being, just to make sure Amon understood his death threats were serious.

You had never seen Cadmus look so terrifying, it also didn’t help that he and Sgaeyl were next to each other glowering at anyone who looked at them. Even you were scared to approach him until you heard his voice in your head. “We’re just making sure we get our point across. It’s ok, I’d never hurt you y/n.”

You smile up at him and mount in the saddle, preparing for take off. Xaden mounted after you shooting you a grin once in his saddle.

Looking out at the field you saw Amon. Gods he looked awful. Xaden really did a number on him. “Sgaeyl showed me. It was wonderful, I’d never been so happy to see a fight.” He let out a huff which you took as his laugh.

Once up in the air Cadmus insisted you stay at the back. Just in case anyone tries to attack so he could be ready this time. You weren’t fully convinced by his tone but went with it anyway. Who were you to question the wisdom of a century old dragon?

About an hour in you had a feeling Cadmus was up to something. The squad was flying over a mountain pass you usually avoided because it was a third year course. And Sgaeyl was slowly making her way next to Cadmus.

They gave each other a look that made you and Xaden panic. Then they started to climb at an alarming rate. Their wings beating loudly as wind rushed past you, making you flatten yourself to the saddle. “Cadmus!” You yelled at him. “What are you doing?” “Doing what I should’ve done in the first place.”

Oh shit. That wasn’t good. You thought Xaden was joking when he said they were plotting. Looking down you noticed the other dragons had peeled off, leaving Amon alone to hover over the pass.

Passing each other, Sgaeyl and Cadmus dove for them. Amon’s dragon took the offensive too late and Cadmus got a chunk of his side, biting down hard enough causing the dragon let out an ear piercing shriek.

Letting go he flapped away best he could but Sgaeyl was ahead corralling him. Cadmus let out a roar that you’d never heard from him before. It shook the world around you causing your grip to tighten on him.

Unhinging his jaw as wide as he could, Cadmus let out a gust of flame in Amons direction. His dragon flailed and Sgaeyl went for its eyes. They started dropping fast, his dragon going lifeless. Unfortunately, one of Amon’s friends brought him on his dragon before the loud thud of the dragons body echoed around the mountains.

You couldn’t look away. In awe of what just happened. At least Amon would be a little less dangerous from Now on.

Later that night you were sitting in front of the hearth in the common room staring into the crackling flames as you went over the days events again. You couldn’t stop hearing the echoing thud or the silence from Amon as his dragon died. The way he felt nothing for the thing he was connected too didn’t sit right with you.

Xaden silently approached letting his shadows softly caress you to alert you to his presence. “Hey sweetheart.” You hum acknowledging him. Sitting down, he kisses you on your head. He places a hand on your back to comfort you. “Thinking about today?”

“Yeah.” You said absentmindedly. “I’m not upset they did that. I mean, I am a little. A warning would’ve been nice.” You both let out a chuckle. “Did you know?” “No.” You believe him from the seriousness of his tone.

“What’s still bothering you?” “How Amon didn’t care. At least that’s what it looked like to me. I’d be distraught if that was Cadmus.” Xaden wrapped his arm around your shoulders, resting his head on yours. “I know. He’s a psychopath. But we’ll see what happens.”

You let out another hum, relaxing into his warmth. At least you were safe in the skies now.

tags: @nyotamalfoy @auggiesolovey @bubybubsters @baybay123455 @msiecrane @aroseinvelaris @twsssmlmaa

[lizziesfirstwife]

Xaden Riorson Dating Headcanons

This man isn’t playing around when he likes someone

Alright, maybe he will tease you about the most embarrassing things to see you blush, but that’s only when you’re not together yet

Once you are together…

Let’s just say, together you’re far more of a menace than independently

But not for the obvious reasons

You tended to be utterly clumsy sometimes, to the point where Xaden had to escort you to most places so that you wouldn’t accidentally hit someone with your bag

It happened more times than you could count

One month, Garrick even had more bruises from you than from training

No one could grasp how someone like him could be with someone like you

You were…actually nice to people

How did your kindness and optimism not vanish over the time spent at Basgiath?

When he still had a crush on you, Sgaeyl bullied him for how distracted you would make her rider in the span of an eye glance

Wearing a different hair style? He was smitten

And it didn’t change after he asked you out

Asking you out was a phenomenon itself with the whole mindset of ‘we could die any second, why have relationships’

Whereas Sgaeyl didn’t stop teasing her rider about his soft spot for you, Xaden couldn’t care less about that

As long as he could hear the delighted giggles that escaped your mouth before you could help it

To say your sunny personality often contrasted against his grumpy one, wasn’t an understatement

With anyone else, he did not take off his tense, on-guard expression

But once he was in your presence again, his shoulders dropped with relief of finally letting down the mask he wore for everyone else

The mask of a man that couldn’t afford to have any weaknesses, or be seen as having a soft side

But believe me, once you two are alone, he doesn’t stop spoiling you

And I don’t mean the other spoiling cough cough, that’s a whole other story

All the random items, like the new flight jacket, or the leather boots that suddenly appeared in your room, of course had nothing to do with him

You always teased him about the redness that would paint his face when you confronted him about it

How shy he would get all of a sudden

He would make you regret laughing at him, later when you two were alone

Overall, he's that Barbie meme when dating

On the outside, a brooding and overly serious male

But on the inside?

He was just a mistreated person that cared deeply for the ones close to him

He would do anything to make you happy and content

Your dragons had had enough of your lovesick behavior by now

But how could they condemn you, with the times that were yet to come…

~~~

(Edit: As of my knowledge, this was the first ever work of fiction on tumblr, ao3, etc, about Xaden. So please, reblog this, like this, comment, share it with your friends or on social media, as it gives me utter motivation to continue my work! 🫶)

Thank you for reading! There are literally no Xaden Riorson works out there, so I thought, let's make something! Normally I don't write for book characters, but we somehow have to survive until November 🌸 If you liked it, let me know in the comments or by liking and reblogging this post!

[soapybutt17]

Night Showers

Summary: A shower, a missing condom, and Soap doing his best to get on his Captain's nerves (the 20 laps around the entire base was worth it). Character: John Price x F!Wife!Reader. Simon "Ghost" Riley. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. John "Soap" MacTavish. Word Count: 2,168 Chapter Warnings: Smut. Unprotected Penetration. Creampies. P in V. Oral Sex (F receiving). Alternate Universe. Soap just being a little shit for the giggles and all. Unedited as usual. A/N: To the anon that sent me the request, this is for you. I just can't get this idea out of my head and it shows.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Request are Open

One of the few perks of being part of the upper ranks were the privilege of having your own time to bathe. But unlike other assholes that prefer being in first, you preferred to be the last one to step foot in the communal showers. You prefer taking your time, lathering yourself up to the perfect suds and savoring every single minute of the cold water against your skin.

You preferred your privacy as much as the next person and practically living in the base, you don’t get that privilege as often as you want unless you were here. It was ironic seeing it was a communal space and there was an off chance another female member of the base would slip back in but it was rare especially at this time of the night where you were certain almost everyone aside from the people on watch duty were fast asleep.

The frigid cold water would have woken you up but the longer you stood in the water, the more did you feel the weight of the day get to you and you were close to falling asleep from where you stood. You were close to ready to finally get to bed and sleep before the following day of drills.

You felt a hand before you realize it and instincts had equipped you to act fast and hit whoever was ballsy enough to touch you. But it seems your husband was faster than you as he held onto your fisted hand. A smirk playing on his lips for catching you off guard.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whispered screamed at him at this point. The panic of someone possibly entering immediately crossed your mind and the possibility of either of you (mostly him) getting in trouble for being in the same shower together.

“Locked the door on my way in if that’s what you’re worried about, Love.” He smirked and only now did you come to realize that he was butt naked just as much as you.

You felt the heat on your cheeks at the realization. It’s been far too long since you’ve had even a semblance of intimacy with your husband. With mission and reports constantly pulling the both of you apart, having him so close to you now only brought the much deprived need in you to come back full force for him to see.

“Fucking hell, cold as ice.” He muttered as the water has finally hit his skin.

Your eyes gazed at the bear of a man you had the privilege of calling your husband. The way the water slither against his hairy chest and down to his happy trail all the pent up desire has come and you did not know if you had the mental fortitude to resist him at this point.

“Seein’ something you like, Love?” He teased, his watercolor eyes gazing down at you as he caught you staring.

“Very.” You quipped turning back to the waters to wash away the last of the suds that was still covering your skin. “But I think you already know that by now.” You muttered looking over your shoulder to look down at his manhood alive and awake you to see.

“Most definitely.” He chuckled, his arms found their way around your waist, pulling you further into his torso, his manhood pressing against your back in the process. “And you could feel it right now.”

“John…” You warned. You’ve had far too many close calls with the man in the past, had it not been for everyone’s lack of idea about what was going on between the both of you, you both would have been caught in one too many compromising situation.

“I’m doing nothing, Love.” He chuckled, his hand slowly creeping from your stomach up towards the swells of your breast giving a gentle squeeze before one hand rested against the columns of your neck and the other holding onto your jaws to keep you in place. “Nothing at all.” He purred, lips finding their place against where your neck and shoulders met.

“John not here.” You warned him again, the fact that the doors to the showers were locked did not reassure you at all. You still fear the possibility that someone had seen you then seen your husband walk inside in the middle of the night.

“Where then? Name a time and place.” He propositioned.

“Your room, after you shower.” You finally relent knowing that when your husband was in the mood just as much as you were, nothing would stop him from having you.

“Deal.” He turned your head until your lips met his own in a searing kiss that drowned you more than the water that showered above you both.

Your hand found their way against his wet beard, trying and failing to control his kiss, savoring the first of many kisses he was more than willing to give you for the rest of the night.

Fuck Protocol. Fuck Reputation. You will be fucked and you will make the most out of it.

“I’ll meet you naked on your bed.” He practically commanded you now as he pulled away. Any other time you would have made the protest of him giving him orders the way that he did but you truly didn’t care at this point.

Nodding, you pulled away from his hold. The coldness of his absent touch did more damage than the water ever could. Without even looking back, you had toweled dried yourself and put on your clothes—ignoring the fact that it was your dirtied ones. You’re going to be naked once you’re back in bed anyways and made your way out of the showers and making sure to lock the door behind you in the process.

~

“God fucking damnit.”

With shaking legs, you peered down at your husband post-orgasm from between your legs as he began searching through his discarded pants. A few choice words escaped his lips as he continued on with his search. It was so unlike the Captain to be this antsy but it was given in the situation at hand.

“What?” You asked, dazed still from your release with just his mouth. You felt the ache on your lips from biting too hard and trying and somewhat failing to keep your moans and whimpers to a minimum.

“Condom.” He practically growled as he began to look around his room.

You blinked as his frustration was now in full force as he began to look around his room for another spare but no luck whatsoever.

“Just fuck me, John.” You whimpered, hand somehow finding their way towards your still too sensitive bud. Keeping yourself sated while you waited.

“But…”

“I’m on my pills, just fuck me already.” You were now practically demanding him at this point. “Please.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice as he dove right on top of you. Slotting himself in between your legs. He pulled you in for another searing kiss. Your arms and legs had immediately wrapped around him, urging him to finally fuck you but he was taking his sweet time—a time neither of you truly had with the night slowly fading into daylight.

“A fucking little menace you are, aren’t you?” He teased, grinding his pelvic bone against your nub. “Just so desperate for me are you?” He questioned, voice growling louder and instincts kicked in as you slapped your hand towards his mouth to quiet him down.

He did not like it one bit as he held both of your hands above your head.

“Did I fucking tell you to touch me, Pet?” He growled against your ears.

“John—you need to be quiet.” You whispered struggling to free from his hold.

“You don’t get to make orders here, Lieutenant.” He whispered against your ears, nipping at your lobe before his lips lingered against your cheeks and finding their way towards your lips but not truly kissing you. “Is that clear?”

“Yes.” You whimpered as his hips dug further into your core.

“Yes what, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Captain.” You squealed as he finally slipped right into you.

The aching sting even with him preparing you lingered through your entire body. It was always a task in on itself as he held onto you. One hand held onto your own up above your head and the other held onto your leg and pulling it up as high as you physically could.

“Bloody fucking hell.” He groaned. “Fucking tight.” He muttered.

Without another word, his moved his hips, a gruelingly slow but deep pace that had you gasping at each piston. Your legs held onto his waist for dear life and your teeth bit against your lips stopping from any noise from escaping.

You watched all the control leave from your husband’s body as his thrust had gotten sloppy.

“Please…” You pleaded, even when you truly didn’t know what you were even begging for right now. “Please. Please. Please.”

You felt it before you realize what was going on, the spurts painted your insides and the mind numbing shiver that wrecked from your toes up to your head. You moaned, louder than you would have wanted it to be but your husband was quick to silence you with his lips. Pulling you into him, swallowing every moans and every whimper as he continued on with thrusting inside of you.

Finally, your husband had let go of your hands, you winced as blood began flowing right back and the familiar tingling sensation seeped through. He pulled away, looking down at you in the all too familiar adoration that you felt the same for him. You were sated, blissed and thoroughly satisfied from the longing you felt for your husband.

“Are you broken?” John inquired.

A playful smile rested on your face, the context that it was a question he often asked after any of his team were put in a bad spot. It was his own little way of asking anyone and everyone if they were alright.

“Split open, but I’ll survive.” You respond,

He smiled, chuckling at your antics. Before a flip has switch and his hand held onto you pulling you up and turning you until you were on your hands and knees. Without even missing a beat or even allowing you to say anything, he plunged himself right back into you.

“Good.” He chuckled leaning close to your ears. “There’s still more where that came from.”

~

Breakfast in the mess hall was boring and you preferred it that way. Enjoying your tea and toast and jam in the peace of the table you shared with John, Gaz, and Simon was all you could ask for after the grueling night you had with your husband.

Even from the frequent sips of his coffee, you know he was just trying his best to hide the smirk playing on his face. Last night had been a blur after the third round for you. When your husband was on a mission, nothing could truly stop him from taking what he wants and what he needed from you, you were all the more willing to give it to him if he needed it.

But with that being said, you also knew the consequences of your actions. The ache between your legs and the sore throat you were nursing with your ginger tea. There was also the array of hickeys and bruises that painted your entire body and you did your best to hide as much as possible even in the sweltering heat.

The next time you would even think about sleeping with your husband is when you’re both done with your deployment. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Aye Price!”

You winced, the peace of your own filthy thoughts of last night was ruined by Soap’s booming voice taking most of everyone’s attention (some already used to his morning antics, decided to just ignore him). You looked up towards the Scot and paled at the all too familiar foil packet in his grasp.

“Saw this in front of your room last night. Hope the lucky lady you had in your room was fine being raw dogged for the night.”

You could feel the fury boil from where you sat. You had noticed both Simon and Gaz strategically move a little farther away from where the Captain sat but they had an all good view of the man as he stood and ordered Soap to run the entire base twenty times.

It pissed John even more was the fact that Soap wasn’t all that afraid with his punishment, cackling as he skipped out of the mess hall, the condom still in his hand for everyone to see. Soap would truly not let him live this down.

His eyes slowly turned to you and this time it was you who was trying your best to hide the smile as you took another generous sip of your tea.

The consequence of his own actions it seems.

[bitbugbites-cod]

𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

headcanons on how they'd react to you removing your face-covering

tumblr exclusive!

characters: Alejandro Vargas, John "Soap" MacTavish, König, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Simon "Ghost" Riley

gender: gn! reader

cw: FLUFF // unmasking :3

a/n: my first cod post teehee

𝔄𝔩𝔢𝔧𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔬 𝔙𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔞𝔰

Do they ask to see, or does it just happen?

Honestly, I don't think Alejandro would be one to just ask unless you were very close and it was in a flirty way. I feel like he's pretty respectful, and considering that you're choosing to cover your face, he'd see it as a boundary.

What's their initial response?

In a romantic way: He'd probably be able to play it cool -- raise his brows and smile, make some kind of flirtatious comment. "You've been hiding all that under your mask, ojitos?"

In a friendly way: He'd probably smile and nod, then give some kind of compliment. I think he'd be very kind about it.

Do they tell others about it?

No. Not unless you tell others first, and then he'll comment on it. He wouldn't say anything rude either, maybe he'd crack a joke if he figured you wouldn't mind, but other than that, he'd be really laid back about it.

Are you pleased with their reaction?

It'd be hard not to be pleased with his reaction, unless you wanted more from him. But overall, he'd be pretty smooth and give you what you wanted -- even if you were fishing for compliments. This man is a WHOLE 10/10.

𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫 "𝔖𝔬𝔞𝔭" 𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔗𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥

Do they ask to see, or does it just happen?

Either. Although I see Soap being a little annoying about it, he'd be likely to make it a whole bit to constantly ask you to take the mask off, in a jokey way. Like if you complained about not being able to see, or if it got dirty on a mission, he'd probably say something cheeky like "It's a good day to take off the mask, (rank/callsign/name)."

If it really annoyed you though, he'd get the hint -- I can't see him pushing-pushing for it unless he had a crush on you and really wanted to know what you looked like.

What's their initial response?

In a romantic way: Would not be able to play it cool. In his head, he's giggling and kicking his feet like a schoolgirl. Realistically, he's trying to be chill, but failing. I mean like grinning from ear-to-ear but turning his head to hide it, making not-so-secretive glances that linger, his posture becoming a little fidgety, in an excited kind of way. The whole shebang.

In a friendly way: A little similar to the previous response. He'd still be really excited and kind of proud that you trusted him enough to show him, but he wouldn't be trying to hide it. He'd probably make jokes, brag a little, something along those lines.

Do they tell others about it?

If the two of you have something romantic going on: Only a few people -- like Ghost, maybe Price. Dare I say Laswell. I feel like he'd kind of keep it a secret, because it feels like a special thing. He would only tell people he trusts to not gossip if they noticed him acting differently around you and brought it up -- again, he'd try to play it cool in front of them, but they'd know he's full of shit, lol.

If you're only friends: Yep. It's one of the first things he does after seeing you without your mask for the first time. Dude's all up in Ghost and Gaz's face like "Has (callsign/name) let you see their face? Did you know (callsign/name) has (facial feature)?"

Are you pleased with their reaction?

Definitely. You would KNOW he's excited about being able to see your face, so it would be a flattering experience for you. Maybe if his jokes went too far you wouldn't be happy with him, but that probably wouldn't happen; he knows when to stop, and they wouldn't be mean ones either. Overall...he's getting a 10/10 from me.

𝔨ö𝔫𝔦𝔤

Do they ask to see, or does it just happen?

Since he wears a mask of his own, I think he'd respect that you want the mask on, so I don't think he'd ask. HOWEVER...if the two of you were really close, I can see him proposing the both of you take your face-coverings off at the same time, LOL. Reveal for a reveal, type of deal. (BARS?!)

What's their initial response?

In a romantic way: Yeaaaaaaaah the dude's got an anxiety disorder, so it's probably gonna be a little awkward (no, I don't think he's gonna cower in fear--but he's def not gonna have the unadulterated swagger of a booktok mafia boss). I picture him going silent for a couple of seconds, trying to figure out what the right thing to say would be, before throwing up a thumbs up and letting out a nervous chuckle, saying some shit like "It's good!" in reference to your face. He'd probably get really shy after that, and not really know what to say--either you'd have to carry the conversation, or he'd start to ramble about nonsense. Might offer to show you his face, as well.

In a friendly way: Pretty similar to the romantic way, although he wouldn't get too shy about it. In fact, he'd probably get kind of excited and offer to take his mask off and show you his face, too. Like a bonding thing...or something?

Do they tell others about it?

No. He knows what it's like to wear a mask and want privacy in some regards, so he wouldn't go around telling people. Maybe he'd gush about it to family, close friends, or to like a pet, LOL ("Ja little birdy, they showed me their face and they have (facial feature!"). But you wouldn't have to worry about it getting spread around -- he knows how to remain professional, and how to respect boundaries.

Are you pleased with their reaction?

Romantically: Guys. Guys, hear me out. This is like...a solid 5/10. I'm SO sorry. He gets points because I think it'd be a little cute, but other than that it would be SO awkward. I HAVE to dock points on this one.

Friendly: You know what. 7/10. It'd be a little awkward, sure -- but I think he'd be really nice about it and you'd end up feeling flattered and not regretting your decision to show him. Much better than romantically, where you aren't really sure what he's thinking.

𝔎𝔶𝔩𝔢 "𝔊𝔞𝔷" 𝔊𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔨

Do they ask to see, or does it just happen?

Either or. He might ask to see your face as a joke, but other than that I think he'd be very respectful and not like...FEIGNING to see your face, yknow?

What's their initial response?

In a romantic way: I think he'd be able to somewhat play it cool. He'd smile, but he'd be able to control it. I think he'd probably say "Wow" a couple of times too during your conversation, just littered here and there, going from comments to murmurs. He'd also probably try to throw in a compliment -- it has a 50/50 chance of either landing or bombing completely.

In a friendly way: He'd be a little more chill about it. I don't think he would care too much, it'd be more of like an "Oh, that's what they look like. Cool." kind of response. He'd probably crack a couple of jokes, as well.

Do they tell others about it?

Probably not, unless someone teased him or egged him on in some kind of situation. Like if they were joking about him having no game or something, he might reply like "'I have no game' -- ok bro, have YOU seen (callsign/name)'s face?" which probably wouldn't go over well if you heard about him saying that.

Are you pleased with their reaction?

Romantically: I'd say yeah, it would be a decent interaction. Like a 7/10 -- not bad, not spectacular.

Friendly: 3/10. Mega flop of a response. The jokes may redeem it and bring it up to a 5/10, but for the overall disinterest...I give this fictional man a catastrophic 3/10!

If you find out he was telling people: Immediate drop to 0/10. I think that would ruin the perspective of him being genuine, and you wouldn't be able to forget it easily.

𝔖𝔦𝔪𝔬𝔫 "𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱" ℜ𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔶

Do they ask to see, or does it just happen?

It just happens. I don't think he would ever ask to see your face -- not because he's disinterested, but because he's pretty stoic and proud.

The ONLY scenario I see him asking for you to unmask, is if things are getting hot and heavy between the two of you -- maybe you're in close proximity, he's in a more dominant position -- then, possibly, he'd ask. But this would be like...an EXTREME slow-burn kind of thing, he wouldn't just do it out of the blue, or to just anyone.

Guys, I lied. I thought of a second way he might ask -- if you needed medical attention. Like if you got an injury on your face, he'd probably be adamant on you removing the covering so that he could see/help. But other than that, he would NOT ask (teehee).

What's their initial response?

In a romantic way: Maybe he lets out a slight grunt, in an unexpected kind of way -- Like he's surprised and needs to readjust himself. Other than that, he'd probably give you a compliment and that'd be that. If you're super close, he might make a couple of jokes, and it'd go over more smoothly.

In a friendly way: Either no response, or a very generic one. He wouldn't make a big deal out of it, at all -- unless if you're close, he might make a joke. But other than that, he's very chill about it.

Do they tell others about it?

No. Not a single soul. It's not that he isn't happy that he got to see your face, but he just isn't a very vocal guy. He keeps to himself -- and also, I think he would think you'd want it kept private. He wears a mask himself, so he's also understanding that it may be something you want kept secret or low-key. It's not always obvious, but he can be a pretty empathetic guy.

Are you pleased with their reaction?

If he asked and it's close proximity: Hell yeah brother, that's a whole 10/10. I feel like that'd be pretty much a confession from him.

In a romantic, standard way: erm...yeah a 3/10. I'm SO sorry -- you wouldn't really know what he was thinking unless you pried. Overthinking and angst is almost ensured!

In a friendly way: I guess a 5/10? I feel like it would be expected from Ghost to be kinda stoic about it. There wouldn't really be anything to be disappointed about, nor anything to be excited about.

[gloomwitchwrites]

hi!!! i literally started reading your blog and FR YOU HAVE TALENT. Got me giggling and kicking my feet cus of that girl dad!tf141 fics.

I was reading one of the links you put in for prompt ideas and I read that one six words sentence from link five: "I can't risk losing you again." hello?? potential angst to fluff?? I couldn't get it off my head and i was wondering if you could write something from it :>

Thank you so much! That's so sweet of you! I'm so glad you enjoyed reading the Just Like Dad stories. I had a lot of fun writing them.

"I can't risk losing you again" is such an open-ended prompt. There is a lot you can do with that. I hope my humble offering is enough. I certainly went more angst than fluff on this one, but I really do love sad things with twinges of hope thrown in.

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, mild blood, non-graphic mentions of violence, angst, fluff, pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy complications

Simon "Ghost" Riley: An enemy of Simon's harms you, forcing Simon to make a tough decision. (wc: 315) Kyle "Gaz" Garrick: Kyle decides there is only one way to keep you close. (wc: 323) John Price: Price worries after you tell him you're pregnant when the first pregnancy had complications. (wc: 329) John "Soap" MacTavish: Johnny learns that falling in love with a teammate can only lead to sorrow. (wc: 542)

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Busted door. Shattered glass. Overturned table.

The lights aren’t working and rain enters through the open patio door. You are safe and whole and far from this. But is it enough? Will Simon be able to keep you safe?

What was once doubt is now cold truth.

It’s not your trashed home but the state Simon found you in. It was your heavy-lidded eyes and bruised face. It was the pools of red that Simon didn’t know belonged to you, the dead man facedown in the carpet, or both. It was your smile of relief when you realized it was Simon drawing you into his arms.

Simon knows the man who did this—no. He knows who fucking ordered it.

And when he finds Makarov, he’ll show that fucker just how trigger-hungry he can be. The lead will burst and fuse to his lungs, and Simon will bathe in the aftermath.

All that’s left is your safety. If Simon knew that his career would lead to this, he would have taken steps to protect you years ago. You are always his one bright spot, that candle in the dark that is his life.

With you, he became more than his trauma. More than his guilt. More than his past. With you, he found peace. He found happiness. You are the sugary candy that sticks in the teeth but is too addictive to give up.

Departing is agony. The return is his reward and his longing.

You are everything.

And that is why he let you go.

Why he said, “I can’t risk losing you again.”

He put his head in your lap, his fingers digging into the sides of your thighs and failed to push down the tears.

Laswell will take you far away. She will keep you somewhere safe.

Makarov won’t find you.

And maybe—perhaps in the future—Simon can return to you.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle is a nervous wreck.

The tiny box sits heavy in his pocket, burning an invisible hole. His plan is not the most romantic, but the two of you aren’t the type to go big. It’s all subtle, and Kyle only wants this moment to include the two of you.

This is his last chance.

Kyle’s final opportunity.

In this relationship, Kyle has kept you second. Not on purpose but out of habit. Work is his lifeblood. It drives him, and every successful mission is a point of pride. But in keeping up with that, Kyle left you behind.

His absences lengthened, and over time, he noticed you were pulling away, closing off. But that isn’t your fault. Kyle created the perfect brew for you to drink. These are the consequences of his actions, and he needs to make it right.

There was a time when Kyle nearly did lose you. When he came home and thought you had packed up and left without saying a word. That broke him. Made him realize just how distant he’d become.

Change is difficult.

But Kyle did it. Slowly.

Your smile returned, and when he comes home, your greetings are full of passion.

I can’t risk losing you again.

Kyle takes a deep breath as the deadbolt on the front door disengages. There is a slight tremble in his hands. Kyle is never nervous. Never. But fuck—taking this next step is driving him up the goddamn wall.

He pushes off from the couch, turning just as the front door swings open.

You step inside, face turned away as you go to shut the door. When you finally glance into the room, all the nervousness inside Kyle’s chest evaporates.

Your smile is so sweet, and you don’t hesitate. Dropping your bag, you rush toward him, and Kyle cannot help but meet you halfway.

He’s making the right choice in asking you to stay with him forever.

John Price

“You’re not happy.”

John is happy. He is. But old worries bubble up, seeping into the joy. It’s tainting everything, and that is clear by how your smile starts to fade.

“I am happy,” he says, but his mouth is a hard line. John knows he’s frowning.

You shake your head, one hand resting over your stomach. “Don’t lie, John.”

This is supposed to be a happy moment. He should sweep you up in his arms. He should kiss you until you’re begging for air. But all John can think about are all the doctor appointments he attended with you, and the grimness of what might not happen.

From that came a daughter. John loves her. Adores her. But bringing her into the world nearly killed you. He grappled with that stress while being as present as possible with you. Growing your family has always been a dream, and John doesn’t fault you for a second. There is no family without you.

John grasps the sides of your face and moves into your space. Your own hands close over his, keeping him from retreat.

“I am happy,” he reiterates. “But we both know what it took to bring our daughter into the world.” John shakes his head absently and breathes deep. “Don’t do this for me.”

“John—”

“I can’t risk losing you again.”

This time, your smile returns. There is a hint of sadness lingering behind it, as if you too are reflecting on all that happened.

“Everything will be fine.” You release his hand and gently cup his cheek.

John kisses your forehead, his thumb absently tracing your jaw. “Are you sure?”

The decision is ultimately yours, and John will respect whatever you decide.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he nods.

John pulls you in, lips finding yours. When you melt into him, accepting all that he’s giving, a wave of peace settles over him.

This is right.

And whatever happens, the two of you will face it together.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny drips water all over the floor. He is soaked through. Shivering. But he could give a fuck.

“Where is she?”

“Soap—”

“Where the fuck is she, Price?”

Captain Price sighs heavily and crosses his arms. “She needs rest.”

Johnny swallows down his retort. He’s not upset with Price, and shit like this happens all the time, but he needs to know if you’re okay.

You took a fucking bad fall, and Johnny couldn’t stop to run after you. The mission comes first, and it wasn’t his job. Other people stepped in and whisked you away. But from the height you plummeted from, Johnny feared the worst.

Still does to an extent.

If you were dead, Price wouldn’t hide that from him. But he might hide how bad you’re injured as a way to protect him. Price has always been fatherly in that regard. Right now, it’s driving Johnny fucking nuts.

“Captain. Please,” Johnny clenches his fists and then releases them. “Let me see her.”

Price’s frown smooths a bit and the middle of his brow wrinkles with concern. “For a few minutes. All I can spare.”

Johnny has to keep from rushing to the hospital room doorway when the words leave Price’s mouth. He has Johnny walk with him to your door. Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain steadily hits the large window at the far end of the hospital room.

Just as Johnny takes a step inside, Price’s hand is on his shoulder.

“She’ll make it,” is all he says before he shuts the door.

Johnny lingers right inside. All the lights are off except a small lamp in the corner. Your eyes are closed, and your face is peaceful. There is bruising. A few bandages. The machines next to the bed beep softly.

He was so eager—so determined to get to you. Now, Johnny deflates.

On quiet feet, he grabs a chair and brings it over to your bedside. You don’t stir. Simply sleep. Johnny eases down into the chair and leans forward, his forearms crossed as he rests them on the side of the hospital bed.

Still, you don’t move. And Johnny doesn’t dare wake you.

Rest is important, and all he wants is for you to recover.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “That I didn’t come sooner.” The rain picks up and Johnny smooths back his wet hair. “But I can’t keep doing this. Every time you’re hurt I—” He sighs heavily and rests his forehead on his crossed arms.

“I can’t risk losing you again,” he murmurs into the bedding.

It’s become too much. You’re not supposed to fuck your coworkers and you shouldn’t fall in love with them either. But Johnny did both. With you. And he cannot take that back.

He’d give anything if you’d set this all aside.

Your fingers brushing against his scalp startle him. Johnny lifts his head, only to find you watching him. There is a soft smile on your lips, and his instinct is to grasp your hand and bring it to his lips, kissing each knuckle and then your palm.

The moment your mouth opens to speak, there is knock at the door. Johnny frowns and looks up, finding Price in the doorway.

“Time’s up.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @miaraei

@coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @pearljamislife

@miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff

@berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf

@lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien

@sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d

@heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria

@lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic

@suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FINCH'S FRENZY (IV)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER V ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.7k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, guns & shootings, canon typical, death, vulgar language, gore, arguments, self-destructive behavior, PTSD, fluff at the end? Maybe?

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

Vividly, you remember the first time your father brought you into the Museum. You’d only been little, then, no more than ten but old enough to form lasting memories that would stick with you. Key moments in the spanning woven tapestry that grew and spread like roots with colors named ‘Happy’ and ‘Sad.’ A memory bank of images that never leave the screen behind your eyes. 

The statue had only been there because of the fire. 

Made by men’s hands, it really wasn't the responsibility of a Museum of Natural History, but this was a special case. The other, sister, building to this one was far off into the city and had been completely ablaze not a week prior by unknown circumstances. Your father’s friend had burned, along with many priceless artifacts that were housed there. But not this. 

The stone statue of the woman. Only here because it needed a place to rest before being sent out of state to a more… appropriate facility. They had flocked to her—marble scorched and covered in ash. Yet beautiful. Heavenly. Long arms reach up, a tiny bird held in the clutch of her stiff hands, presenting it to a far-off sky.

Cameras flash and eyes water.

“They’re calling her dīvīnā, Little One.” You had looked up at him, clutching onto your father’s shirt sleeve in wide innocence. He smiles softly.

“Di–” Your lips sputter and face heats, “Di-ven-a?” A small chuckle makes you huff, your expression souring. The man kneeled down, gripping under your pudgy chin and teasing.

“Not quite. Dee-veen-uh.” 

“What does that mean?” You stubbornly shake your head, confused, “why are they calling her that?” A kiss is planted on the top of your head, your father standing back up and laughing, as you once more look at the statue with wonder. Your eyes glitter.

“It is Latin, my Little Love,” that stone bird in her lifeless hands has a broken wing, yet still she prompts it to fly; as if she knows it can even though it’s impossible. “Divine.”

To be loved like a woman in stone was a rare thing. 

You’re not quite sure why you remember that when you turn a swift corner, slamming a shoulder into it as bitter tears track your cheeks. The bloody hand that steadies you leaves a trail of crimson behind as evidence. You don’t slow, not even when Gaz’s hat threatens to fly off your head at the break-neck pace you set yourself on.

“The park,” you breathe raggedly, frantic slams of your shoes bouncing off the corralling buildings at your side as you dart out of the tree line and into the city streets. If you had been focusing, you’d realize you have no idea where you are; utterly alone while the violent sounds of firing guns and screams continue to bounce off airwaves. Too close. Too loud. “Oh, God, the people.” 

Cold couldn’t begin to describe your temperature. Frigid perhaps; shaking with frozen terror that makes you lose feeling in your limbs. Buggy eyes snap to shadows and trash in the alleyway like they were grabbing at you with phantom intentions. 

You don’t know when you lost Kyle—when you’d taken a turn too fast and completely disappeared or something else along those lines. But in your chest, your stiff ribs almost welcomed the solitude. You had looked into his eyes. Stifling a loud sob, you increase the pace as the screams behind you loom over your head like a cloud. 

Amber. Meadows. Deathly serious.

“No, no, no…” How had the attackers known you’d be out in the city? On campus? That white Sudan…How? 

You miss the rapid calls of your name in the background, equally as desperate as your instincts. Loud and distinctly British. Separated by stone and mirky puddles. You increase your velocity; moving farther and farther away. Run, you just need to run. From everything. From everyone. 

But when you rush one last corner, the large form that stands there isn’t a made-up phantom of the past. It isn’t a statue.

Skirting to an immediate stop, your legs quiver from the force and the dragging of your heels; your fingertips wrenching into your aggravated injury in retaliation. Gasping, your leaking eyes widen even farther at the covered face. The few feet of precious separation from the man that also surprised at the sudden arrival. 

A dead second of slow-motion thoughts and nothingness that seems like a year ensues. Not a single atom bounces. Had he been waiting for you?

You slowly look down with white eyes to notice the assault rifle in his shifting hands; the nervousness of hips as they rotate weight into a form that would remind you of a football player if you bothered to engage with that thought. The air is stuck in your nose. Blood pressurizes itself forward. You swallow tersely, one shoe shifting to take a step back carefully. No words, no exchange of sentiments. 

Only a target and a man holding a gun. 

“I…” You trail, lips not responding as the rabid pulse in your ears threatens to drown you with blackness. At the click of a safety, you’re running like a rabbit again, darting back down the same way you came as bullets explode through the corner you rampage past. 

“Gaz!” The call bounces to the sky, ringing off buildings. Was it possible to die from adrenaline? Everything burns a bright shade of red in the corner of your vision. Shouts ring from behind, a race of scarlet and duty now taking place with feral implications. 

This was what being prey felt like, and you had thought you'd only have to experience that feeling once. 

“Gaz!” You scream again, ripping vocal cords, and ducking as a round goes directly above your head, slapping your hands to the cap with gasping fear. How many were out there? Had they set a perimeter if you decided to run? 

This was a level of professionalism you never expected from terrorists. 

Sprinting past an open turn, a hand snags out, jerking you by the jacket collar as a second covers your mouth. Screaming, you bite down as your heart stops, mercilessly slashing out an elbow into hardened ribs. A sharp hiss meets your ear before the shadows of the inside of a doorway overhang swallow you. 

Your back is slammed into the barrier, breath on your forehead as your hand snaps to the pen knife in your pocket like a whip. The shock of electricity down your spine is inconsequential to the hand that flies over your mouth. It tightens before your eyes can adjust properly through the tears; fingers flinching fast past layers of cotton canvas. 

Lips dance over the shell of your ear. “Stop moving.” 

The struggling of your limbs halts, eyebrows slightly losing the agonized furrow. Heat wafts from the body pressed into your own—great bouts of natural warmth that you hadn’t felt in years from another human being. Your heart skips for it; muscles lessen. 

Goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

You blink rapidly, staring into the nose of Sergeant Garrick with a shuttering inhale behind his grip. Sensing your slowing pulse, his hand lowers, moving back immediately. Long fingers find his lips, signifying silence with nothing more than a tap and a frown. There’s still blood over his visage, splattering up his stubble and along his cheeks like paint as his jaw clenches with meaning. 

Wheezing, you shake with both fear and a sliver of ease even as your back aches from the force that the Brit had exerted to drag you back. You swallow down saliva and nod a number of times; completely out of it. 

You’re moved behind him with a firm push—a part of you flinches at the sudden chill that overtakes you once more—as the yelling gets closer from beyond your hidey-hole, a bulky thumping over the concrete ground like hail. You stare at Gaz’s neck as he grabs the pistol from his belt, leaning on the part of the wall that juts out with a single shoulder and barely peeking out. 

He blinks slowly, not even looking at you as his lips thin. He looks merciless and loose at the same time.

The man sprints past, barely making it a few feet from where you watch with stilled breath before Kyle separates from the wall. One shot is all it takes, and the stranger doesn’t even scream before he hits the ground; a last round being driven between his skull plates to silence any sound. 

It all falls silent after the reverberations cease—gunpowder in your nose and burning your throat. But it doesn’t even matter, because you’re already being forced along with a heavy hand on your shoulder before the blood can pool over the ground.

“C’mon.” He speaks blankly, whatever sly teasing and amusement from earlier today completely gone. “Exfil point is a block away—we need to move.”

You can’t do much more than follow, your head screaming at you. 

“B-but what about…” Wanting to ask about the people who are back in the park, not quite understanding the horror yet. 

Sensing this, Kyle knows it’s better to respond briefly. 

“They’re dead.” You flinch at the truth, hearing the bitter reality settle in coupled with the man’s bluntness. Gaz sends a side-eye your way, looking down at you from his lashes. 

While not willing to offer any comfort at the moment, he twitches his nose and simply states, “You need to stay focused,” while noticing the far-off look in your eyes; the rapid pulse under his grip. 

Humming under his breath, he leads you on ever faster, knowledgeable of the quickly dwindling bullets in his mag. As you both speed walk, he speaks through his earpiece, telling Kit the streets before the far-away man replies with the correct route to the Exfil point. 

“How’s the VIP?” Kit asks, and Kyle grunts, not giving anything more than a quick response.

“Alive. We’re nearly there.” He inhales slowly. “Multiple civilians down in the park.” 

“Copy, 2-6. Keep en route.” Gaz scoffs under his breath, surveying his surroundings as the wails of sirens fly over buildings. This never should have happened.

This brought him back to Piccadilly Circus; the start of his entire counter with 141 and subsequent approval into their ranks. He’d seen many things over the course of his deployments to the Middle East—when he’d put a target on his back when disrupting Opium supply lines. He shouldn’t be here. He should be with his comrades. 

Not with a girl that seems to want to put herself in every dangerous situation known to man.

Even with all the mental strain and uncomfortable scenarios he’d been in…watching innocent people die never got any easier. 

He moves you along; muscles wound and gun in a tight grip. Gaz tries to tell himself that you couldn’t have possibly imagined this happening and with how you were acting that would be the truth with no doubt. He’d told you, though, hadn’t he? That’s what really gets his jaw stiff.

I told her. And she didn’t listen. Didn’t even try to think it over.

You shake under his grip, and a part of him feels pity, honestly, but right now the severity of the situation is more important. 

“Take a left,” he utters, forcing you on with hardened brown eyes. You nod again, throat closed so tight you’re unsure if speaking is the right decision. 

Everything is a mixture of hot and cold—fingers burning yet arms shaking from a lack of heat; teeth chattering. 

The both of you were close now, only a few more winding turns left and the van should be waiting with the driver; authorities taking care of the shooters left in the park still searching for you. But these alleyways were like a rat’s maze. 

“Keep close,” Kyle offers, “We don’t know who else is—”

“Right!” Your yell makes him turn sharply, knife barely grazing the flesh of his neck as he weaves. Brown eyes flair with anger, gun in his grip just as easily coming up to the armed assailant. 

The covered face held no weapon besides a combat knife; another person intent on taking your life. How many were out here?

“What in the…?” Gaz grunts, but before he can bring the pistol up to pull the trigger, the man’s other hand is grabbing his wrist, twisting it to the side mercilessly and away. 

The Brit hisses, throwing out his other arm to block the knife from once more coming down to settle in his neck. These people were many in number, but how was it that they were so rusty? Anyone with combat sense knew it was best to go low before going high when attacking with a knife. Before he can swipe the Bastard’s legs out from under him, locked in that familiar battle of wills, Gaz hopes in his head you don’t run off again. 

Starting to gain the upper hand with gritted teeth and sparking eyes, there’s a swift thunking of metal meeting flesh moments later. Blinking wildly, Kyle’s face goes confused, slightly losing grip in that mere second of oddity. 

Then he sees it.

“Bloody Christ.” Gaz gasps, gazing at his own reflection in the hilt of a small pen knife stuck in the eye of his attacker who subsequently begins screaming wildly, trying to back up until the Sergeant shakes out of his shock. 

The gun levels with a chest, and it was done before the killer could rip the blade from his eye.

Only one bullet was fired until the small click of an empty barrel signaled that Kyle had used up his last round. The man falls into a heap and lays on the floor, a puddle of crimson leaking from his guts as he gasps and coughs. 

Breathing heavily, there’s a pause in the air. Gaz looks back at you slowly, eyes wide with astonishment. 

You stare back, right hand quivering and twice as bloody then it had been before. You had made a mirror slice on your palm by holding the blade and releasing it to hurdle forward loyally. Not that you knew that. 

No words are exchanged as the gurgling from the body falls silent, only the air speaks in brushing breezes that ruffle your jacket. 

“2-6,” Gaz’s earpiece speaks, but for a moment he’s stuck gazing into your eyes as you stare at the body, lips parted and jaw slackened. You’d just… “2-6, do you copy? Extraction is waiting for you.” 

Brown eyes snap away, feet quickly shuffling to rip your penknife out from the socket and place it in his pants pocket. Later.

“On it, Actual. Keep ‘em ready—we’re coming in hot.”

“Rog. Laswell’s been informed, expect request for a full security unit comin’ the lady’s way.” Frowning, Kyle doesn’t respond, having to physically turn your body away from the scene and move you forward. 

His X12 is slipped back into his belt, useless entirely. 

“Love,” Gaz speaks to you, trying to see if you’d respond, but your eyes stay blankly ahead; tears frozen in time on your cheeks yet the hysteria is shown in the stumbling of your legs. The racing pulse under your skin makes the Brit concerned. A stiff sigh is released before a decision is made with creased eyes.

You’re being lifted with little warning, carried into a bridal hold as if you weighed no more than a piece of paper. You gasp briefly, sense coming back in a flash of a thrown knife and a wide brown gaze. 

“H-hey!” The exclamation is met with a click of a tongue and increased footfalls, Kyle keeping you close to his chest with wind whipping past your ears. But you can’t think beyond the defining moments. The bodies in the park. The man you helped kill. Had killed. 

You force down the bile in your throat as Gaz’s warm body encompasses you. 

I didn’t…I didn’t do that, did I? You hadn’t thrown that blade. Couldn’t have. That would make you…

Your face tightens, brows creasing like tin foil. 

The van was torn open with a loud bark of ‘get us the fuck out of here,’ and a dumping of you onto the back seat only three minutes later; you didn’t have the thought capacity along that short run to tell Gaz to keep his hands off of you, or to stop sending you those glances with his hidden thoughts. All you could do was try and keep back the flooding hysteria. 

Kyle shoves himself into the car, slamming the door.

“Go!” He hits his fist on the back of the front seat and the driver peels out of the open alleyway with a screech of tires. 

Breathing heavily, you blankly look outside to watch the rushing police cars and ambulances dart past in the opposite direction. The streets were so condensed with fleeing people that they were having a hard time getting through, the flickering flashes of red and blue lights trapped behind your eyelids even as you blink and shake your vision away. 

Jesus, how many people are dead right now? How many were dying?

“Take us back to Base,” Gaz’s harsh accent drives a spike into your ribs. Focus on that. Focus on hating him. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the knife.

You force out through a shaking diaphragm. 

“Fuck no,” the air flips; driver sending a wide-eyed glance through the mirror as Kyle’s wound body stills like a flag on a stagnant day. You persuade a sneer to your lips.

Just make him angry. Make him yell at me—distract me. A vile form of self-destruction, sure, but you can’t start thinking about anything that just went down. 

You know how it would go if you had time to process. How the first year went after your father met his fate. You’d…You’d…

The Sergeant’s tone comes out in a snarl, “What’s that?” 

You’d never thought his file was true about that part. The hardheadedness and the opinionated side. When he was with you he always seemed level-headed; calm. Now though, it was like you didn’t have a grasp on his character like you thought you did. 

In the driver’s seat, Private Clancy clears his throat and grips the wheel tighter, not sure where to go.

“You heard me,” he had, Gaz’s ears had twitched at the curse—vulgar language not common from your tongue. “Fuck. No.” Eyes hard on his knee, you glare through very obvious fear. Kyle stares with venom lacing his silver tongue, lungs inflating. “I’m going home.”

“Home?” The Sergeant asks immediately, the car taking a left turn quickly. “Oh, my apologies, then,” he shakes his head, “Do you mean the exact place you’d be ambushed? Perhaps giving yourself up would be more your speed, Ma’am. Private,” Gaz glares into the rearview mirror, “Base, now.” 

“You do not get to dictate where I go, Garrick!” You scream, ripping his hat off your hair and pointing a finger with the same hand. A flash of amber replays in the back of your mind. Stop. Please, stop. “I am not going to the damn—!”

“People are dead!” Flinching, your shoulders hunch in faster than someone can blink, and brown eyes burn at you, jaw tight and teeth bared even as self-restraint tries to hold back a more poison-coated octave. The thin line between the two of you breaks. “Civilians!” You see Kyle take down a deep breath, his hands clenching. The next sentence is slow, but deep, “I don’t care what you bloody want because I’m not asking. I’m taking you in and getting a full Unit assigned.” Your heart freezes, lids going back in shock as sweat trails down your back. Gaz scoffs, turning away from you to run a hand over his hair. “Never should have agreed with Laswell and taken you on. I need to be with my team. You don’t listen!” 

Opening and closing your mouth, you stutter for an answer. 

“Take me home, Kyle,” your voice is breaking, but Gaz doesn’t even look in your direction; his lips firmly sealed as he glares at the headrest with his resting fist tapping periodically on his chin from the window-ledge. “Kyle.” 

He shakes his head to himself, and in a fit of infectious rage, you chuck his cap directly at his skull with a strong arm.

“You fucking pathetic twat! I just goddamn killed someone trying to save your useless life!” You bare your teeth and feel your throat constrict, eyes red and holding back a weeping deluge. Kyle growls under his breath as the hard brim slaps his temple, snatching it back mid-air. But his snapping reply stills on his lips when he meets your gaze head-on. His breath halts for a brief moment, recognizing the dwindling sense of control. Your words give him pause, and he doesn’t think you realize you’re looking into his eyes again as you rage. “I should have let the bastard tear your throat open—at least he’d be getting to do what I’ve always wanted since the moment you put a fucking gun to my head! For leaving my family a mess of blood and pain! Do…do you expect me to be thankful? For what?! All of this is your fault! Don’t you dare try and put the blame on me.” 

You’re sobbing, and the Sergeant watches silently, lips slightly parted as the driver gets more and more anxious. The car sputters along at a slow pace; everything relies on who wins this volatile battle. Brown eyes are stuck on the blatant brokenness of your gaze, for the first time able to study them without side-eyeing you or sneaking glances when you regard him by looking at his lips or nose. 

He’d never seen eyes like yours.

Blame? He didn’t blame you. Not…not entirely. But he was angry at you.

“For the love of God, I will chuck myself out of this car and sprint home—I don’t give a shit if I get shot at, Garrick. You and your little Task Force can go and fuck yourselves. You left my father with a hole in his head; made my mother leave me in a decaying house all alone and expected me to be okay with seeing my dad slump dead and feeling his blood drip off my chin. That fucking house.” Hands weaving through your locks, you wrench your eyes shut and the connection is severed in an instant, Gaz blinking back to the car with an unsteady inhalation of breath. His body is as still as a stone statue, fingers twitching when you finish with, “Fuck!” 

Foot stomping to the floor, you hunch forward, wailing in earnest as the blood on your hands makes you want to barf. Your head burns. Your throat aches. Everything felt like you were being rocked back and forth on a violent wave of self-loathing and hatred.  

“Stop it,” you rest your head between your knees, mouth open with desperate pants of air, “Fuck, p-please just stop it.”

No one knows what you’re referring to.

The car had parked a while ago—sitting in the parking lot far away from the park. Once a moment has passed, the Private only taps the wheel in the strangled moment of relative silence, and asks above your wet sobs, “Sir, I…Where are we going?” 

Kyle stares at you, opening his mouth to speak before it freezes and falls back shut. He swallows down the saliva in his throat before licking his lips, not looking at his cap before numbly putting it over his head with two hands.

“...Mansion.” The tires peel out slowly.

You don’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears; see above the red curtain settling. All you breathe down is death, and all you can think about is what went wrong. 

“It is Latin, my Little Love,” that stone bird in her lifeless hands has a broken wing, yet still she prompts it to fly; as if she knows it can even though it’s impossible. “Divine.”

Your nails dig into your scalp harder, lips trying to strangle back sounds of a breaking mind. But you can feel his eyes on you as your face burns, digging deep when ruffling fabric makes you tense. 

Everything is so loud—too bright. You can’t focus on calming down…you…you need to—

A bomber jacket settles over your head, the sides draping down to your ankles as you blink back with panic. You’re about to scream before you realize where you are. 

Park. Car. Gaz.

The penknife.

Darkness surrounds you, and body heat suggests someone sits close. On the ground, you see a combat boot peak in from the makeshift shroud, shifting from time to time with unease and an inability to stay still. A blessing and a curse. Your bursting lungs begin to slow as you take count of the laces, studying the color and the shine. Letting the calming low-light seep right into your brain as your fingertips loosen. 

A throat lightly clears, and they tense again. 

 “We…we’re nearly back, Ma’am.” You don’t answer. Gaz sighs quietly under his breath, pressing to the earpiece sitting in his canal. “Actual, change of plans. I need a full Unit to sweep the entire VIP’s property—we’re heading back now.”

“I don’t think Laswell will go for that, 2-6.” Kyle peeks at your hidden form—the way you shake so violently he was afraid you’d shatter like glass. He thinks about what you said, not able to peel his eyes away. Even as he tries to force it down, his heart hurts.

“Do it. I’m not takin’ her to Base.” The Sergeant tits his head down, hand clenched. “It’ll make this worse than it already is.”

“...Rog. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Copy, Mate. Keep me updated, yeah?” 

Gaz thinks back to the alleyway and the penknife in his pocket feels heavier than stone. He hadn’t needed help. That wasn’t pride, that was just a fact. The Brit wasn’t as large as Soap—certainly not Ghost—though he was still well above average for what a regular workout would give you. Even if he did value integrity far better than brute strength he wasn’t like a dull blade. 

He’d had it under control. 

So why had you done that? Even you had expressed confusion over the action. For all intensive purposes, you should have wanted the terrorist to win. It seemed like you did.

“Hell,” Kyle whispers, bushing off the dried blood on his cheeks with the back of his hand as the city falls away to a slower-paced town. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the internal guilt was beginning to form. 

He hadn’t meant to yell. 

It had been a while since he’d worked Protection, had forgotten how much he should regulate his emotions. Gaz was used to strong bands of brothers—tight-knit groups that went in like a shadow and left with nothing but a whisper. That was One-Four-One; his brothers. 

But…brown eyes slowly rove to stare. Listening to the struggling breath like an animal being choked by a collar. 

You’d already gone through so much, and although he could grab you by the arm and shake with all his might, it wouldn’t change the fact that you didn’t know how this worked. 

He needed to keep his gentle approach, not force you back into the hole you were intent on keeping in. Gaz needed to fix this. Tell you. Show you. 

He’d do it tonight and if his honesty didn’t work even a smidge then he’d send in his offer for re-assignment. He’d made a mistake, and he was never one to let that stand.

By the time the van was pulling into the iron gate, held open by a black-clothed soldier, the property was already swept and cleared. Gaz opens his door and steps out, leaving it open on the off chance you would follow him. You didn’t, of course. 

“Sergeant,” the man’s face was covered with a balaclava, large of shoulders and chest. A hand is presented, and Kyle takes it with a soft greeting.

“How’s it looking?” 

“Everything’s in order, Sir. Laswell took the time to set us up back in town,” there’s a glance sent your way, and Kyle restrains himself from sidestepping and blocking the man’s view. His instincts were still rampant and he shifted his legs restlessly. “Figured the Lady wouldn’t be too keen on letting us stay here—can’t do anything without the inheritor's permission.”

Gaz blinks at that but only adds it to his databank. He knew you had control over who you allowed on the property, but hadn’t known you were the inheritor. 

Why hadn’t the estate gone to the wife? 

“Good to hear,” Kyle smiles slightly, tapping the side of his fist with the soldiers. “I can take it from here, yeah? See to it your men are comfortable and keep the radio up—we don’t know what else might be going on.”

“Copy, Sir.” When Gaz switches weight, looking into the interior of the car he’s already addressing you with a calm demeanor; ready to coax you out with a good chunk of his gut filled with apprehension. 

“Love…can you—” The car was empty, and before Kyle could begin to snap to attention, the black of his bomber jacket slashes his wide vision. A deep sigh falls after a second of exasperation, sarcasm about to be called over the air. Hands rub over eyes before itching at his cheek with a muttered, “Keep it light, Garrick. Sky’s not falling just yet.”  

He follows, concern growing steadily. 

You had killed a man. Lived through your first shootout. How was he supposed to make this work? You already hated him…what could he say? 

Gaz knew for a fact that it hadn’t fully hit you yet, and when it did, he was afraid you would break apart even more. But why was he so conflicted about staying or leaving?

Your feet carry you to the house quickly, head down and extra jacket over your shoulders that you don’t bother to flick off. Shoving past leaving soldiers that give you stiff looks as you pass makes your lungs hitch. You didn’t want them on your property—you didn’t know them. 

“Love!” Kyle calls your name from behind, and you hear his jogging feet catching up as your fast-snapping eyes find the black void in the bushes. 

The cat. 

Green eyes brush against your, slitted pupils corralled by overgrown foliage. It blinks slowly, and you force your head forward once more; un-cut hand snapping to your mouth to keep down the frantic way your lungs jump. 

Doors were of no obstacle to you, you shove through them with a hunched shoulder, letting it swing open and hit the wall with a defining bang of oak. 

“Hey! Slow down, would you?” Ripping your shoes off, you speed across the foyer, heart distressed. Before long your body points you down the hallway. 

Gaz rushes after, heart beating fast as your form disappears down a sharp corner that he grabs to swing himself past.

The black of his bomber jacket is a temporary sight before the barrier of a door slams shut, swallowing you whole. 

“I need to…!” Kyle halts to a quick stop, arms at his sides as his button-up stays rolled up at his elbows. Brown eyes close tightly.

“...Apologize.” He places a hand on his head, tilting back his neck, “Shit.”

—

By the time you realized you weren't in your room, it had already been too late to turn back around. 

You gradually come back into reality after a fitful anxiety-induced fatigue on your father’s office couch. Hours had passed, judging by the pitch darkness of the room; the temperature was already colder than you usually were used to. 

Eyes stare at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity, and it’s sad to think the only time that everything in your head calms down is when you can listen to the pipes in the walls. Creaking wood. Forcing yourself up, you hiss sharply, lids wrenching shut at the zinging pain up your right arm. 

Ripping your hand up, you blink rapidly through the achiness of your red eyes to stare down at the dried wounds. The twin gashes across your palm crack as you flex your fingers, crimson lines opening. Even as your sigh builds, you only watch them begin to bleed at the movement; not relaxing your muscles for the single purpose of not caring enough to. 

The skin was agitated. Itchy as well. 

I sent a knife into a man’s eye. You still, lips parted and numb. I watched people die one after the other because I went outside. This is…this is my fault. 

Kyle had been right. You don’t listen. You’re stubborn, vengeful. 

“But I can’t be anything else.” Whispers bounce off the walls; the coffee table ahead of you and the gargantuan desk behind where you’d play hide and seek in the gaps. 

You’d run to your father's office to try and find comfort you know you’d find nowhere else. Pull it from memories considering it was all you had left. 

But you can’t pull comfort for this. Part of you wants to put on the news—know the count of the dead. The other part says that would be worse. 

“Because of me.” You mumble, standing on unsteady legs that threaten to buckle. Your body is sore from all the running; fleeing from bullets. 

No, not because of you. 

Sucking in a slow breath and listening to the creaking of the house, the ghosts, you clear your throat to dispel the mucus. 

Because of your father. Mind racing, this event puts a hammer into the stained glass that was your family legacy. Before you could deny it—you could say it was Samson Row that was judge, jury, and executioner; while that was still true, what kind of people would fire on innocent bystanders to try and nail a single target? 

Turning, you think back to Laswell as your tongue licks at the dryness of your lips and your eyes move to attempt and paint a picture. You stop to look at the desk.

“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.”

Taking down a slow breath, the walls were suddenly suffocating you. Your father didn’t…he…he couldn’t have.

Your right hand pulses mockingly. 

Without knowing, your feet pad over the floor to his desk quietly, standing behind the chair and over the dust-hidden mahogany. The old lamp on the corner; the strewn papers that have faded ink and old script haunt you as you slide your vision over them. 

Museum exhibits that never got installed, bank statements, and more important documents pertaining to his job. You skim over them, bloody fingers leaving streaks in their delirious acts. 

Feeling the fiber under your flesh, you push them aside one by one. 

Nothing of interest. 

Your throat closes for no reason, skin goes slick with perspiration dribbling down your brow. Nothing, see. 

Blood drops down to the table as you hold your hand over it, loose and limp at the wrist but violently quivering. You watch. And then you start to open the drawers with a heated fervor, wiping at your forehead and leaving streaks of crimson. 

“There’s nothing.” You gasp. “Nothing. They’re dead because of nothing. I killed a man for nothing.” 

Guns fire in your mind; people scream like you had when sitting in that chair in a basement. Gaz’s eyes boring into you. You’d looked into his eyes not once but twice—the second of your own volition.  

“Nothing?!” Folders are grabbed and slammed to the desktop, exploding with a poof of dust that leaves you turning and sneezing violently before you stifle yourself. 

You’re ripping them open one after the other, burning in the back of your nose. A knife keeps releasing from your hand. A shove on your shoulder as a bullet hits a trash can that was used for cover. 

The black bomber jacket that had fallen off in your slumber and was now sitting in a heap on the floor. 

Innocent people. 

Fuck, they were screaming at you.

“There can’t be nothing.” You seethe, trepidation both your drug and your double-edged sword…what if you did find something? “There needs to—”

“Love…?” Air silences. “Are you alright in there?” 

There’s a shadow under the door, barely discernible over the darkness as you shiver. How long had he been there? How…how long had you been in here? 

Your fingers stop their aggressive tossing and you blink through the dizziness of your brain. Stumbling back a step or two, your hip bumps into the chair. Instantly, the large thing skids over the floor with its wooden legs as an ear-ringing screech as you grab onto the arm to stop from falling. Your skull pounded. 

Quick, loud, knocking starts. 

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Breathing quickly, your body shakes at the noise, the sound so similar to the sounds in the park. 

“S—,” your voice breaks, “Stop fucking knocking!” 

It stops instantly, and you pause there for more than a few moments glaring at the floor; brows tight and teeth biting into your lip. The quiet sound of a hesitant voice echoes after a minute.

“Could you open the door for me?” Gaz clears his throat as you stare at the wooden barrier with glinting eyes. An attempt at a kind chuckle. “...Been getting cramps in my neck from leanin’ back against the wall all night. And I, uh,” you close your eyes, “I think we need to have a conversation, Love. A real one, if you follow me.” 

You were tired, incomparably so, but even you knew he was right. What he had yelled at you in the car was true. All of this had gotten put into place with as much consideration as a mallet gives a nail. 

And Kyle had known all along what would come of it. A sliver of guilt stabs you. 

You didn’t have to like him—didn’t have to forgive him, because you probably never would—but you had to begin to listen. That didn’t mean stop pushing back, it just meant that his expertise was needed for the safety of the city as a whole. 

The city with the museum that your father had loved dearly.

Feet shuffling, you move around the desk, side-eyeing the now bloody contents atop with a numb expression as you move to the door. You had locked it, apparently. 

Not that you remember. 

Hand stuttering above the handle, you stop and listen with straining ears. A shifting body calls to the Sergeant’s anxiousness at your non-visibility. The erratic behavior. Resting your forehead over the wood, you truly wonder if there would ever be a time you were used to someone else living in this house. 

This house. Your house. 

It didn’t feel right for anyone to live here. 

“Are you there, Ma’am?” You open the door stiffly. 

Kyle’s face is tense, you can tell just by looking at his chin; how he holds his shoulder back like that. There’s a split-second where you both study each other—you, noticing how he’s still just as dirty as you, and him, seeing the focal point of the streak of red blood on your forehead. 

“What, Garrick,” you speak as he sees the ruffled nature of your clothes. Defeated muscles. “Here to tell me you were right?”

His legs cease their movements, mouth half-open with apologizing sentiments now snapping shut with a click of teeth. But not from anger. Concern. Why were you bleeding? Had he missed you being injured? Kyle had sworn you were alright—no shots had ever met their mark.

He’s touching you before he remembers to ask first.

You’re being swept back into the room and plopped down on the couch with no warning, and you don’t fight it. Warm hands grip your shoulders and squeeze quickly.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz rushes to the desk to flick on the lamp, “Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?!” Your eyes snap shut, blinking rapidly at the light.

Rays cascade over the room, the dust in the air being sent into dance classes with how they flew. Lids narrowed at the floor, your socked feet shift over the old rug, but you offered no answer over a soft shrug of your shoulders. 

Kyle gawks at the back of your head, rushing back over to check you over as he bends on one knee. Hesitating for only a moment, he first looks at your head, tilting it back and forth with a hand under your chin and the other by your ear. You’re cold under his grip and that makes him even more nervous.

How much blood had you lost?

“I need you to tell me where it—”

“Hand.” He blinks, staring at you for a second with surprise. Gazing down he sees the spasming limb with a small inhalation of air. 

You let him slowly move back, all digits moving to encompass the afflicted area. But he pauses. 

Frowning, you rub the side of your face into your shoulder as you hear the man suck down a sigh. Confusion lingers in your heart, but you care little at the moment. 

“May I?” In between the brief palpitations of your most important muscle, you forget for a second who’s in front of you. You forget the Sergeant. The Brit. 

Your face softens.

When had someone last asked you that? 

Your lids slide open and closed in surprise as Kyle waits, outwardly patient with an internal raging heart. 

“You’re already here, aren’t you?” The room is bathed in warm light and quiet creaking. Two people who don’t know how to act around one another suddenly suffocated with too many words. So they say nothing. 

Kyle grips your hand so softly that you have to hold your breath in order to keep sane. You want to rip it back from how warm he is.

“Christ, Love, you’re freezing.” It’s a low comment, passing more for a whisper as brown eyes snap up to you. But slowly he shifts your flesh with the dig of his firm fingers, running over the bone to check for internal damage until he flips it over entirely to see the real problem area. 

He holds in a sharp gasp. Tries to keep his cool as you stare at his bobbing neck.

“That…this’ll need stitches.” You hum. Gaze sliding to his face you say what first comes to mind as you draw a comparison to his twin scratches. You end up wondering if you’re drunk again.

“We match.” you point casually to Kyle’s left cheek. His were smaller than yours, of course. 

Gaz focuses on your eyes even as you choose not to look at him directly. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” He attempts a weak chuckle, still holding your hands with the hope that you might take some of his heat for your own. Why were you so cold? “I suppose we do. Why don’t you come with me and I can get you all cared for, yeah?” 

You weren’t acting right, and for an instant, the Sergeant misses your snarky attitude. Anything was better than that bitter nothingness living in your expression. He was shocked. The woman who he’d had this iron impression of was using a chisel on it every instant she could. 

It only made him feel more and more like a prick. 

Fucking hell, Garrick. This is a whole different game. 

“How’d you get them, then?” You were in shock, speaking whatever came to mind with a far-off stare dunked in alarm. Kyle had seen it all before and it didn’t matter who it was plastered on. It was his duty to help. 

“Tell you what, Ma’am,” he stands, helping you up by the arm and sending a soft smile your way. “We’ll get you all proper again, and I’ll tell you all about my days in the police force. I wager you’d like that. History and all.”

“I like old history,” leading you out the door with a hand over your back that rubs small circles, he traverses the darkness and leads you to the shining light of his room one step at a time. 

He sends an amused glance, “That’s my old history. Pretty good, too, in my opinion.” 

You shiver again, and Kyle draws you a little closer, frowning tight. Your eye bore into the ground with cold sweat on your temple. He moves for a second to wipe it away but stops himself with a tight closing of his lids.

“Why would I care about that?”

“You just asked me, Love.” He reminds softly, turning the corner slowly as the two of your feet make the floorboards scream. This house was never quiet was it?

“Humph,” your sound bounces off the walls when Gaz makes it to his chosen room, the door already open and the light on.

He moves you to the cleanly made bed and lets you sit down while he walks to one of his bags by the wardrobe. A medical kit is pulled out, yet he keeps sending looks behind him to stare at you. 

Legs hanging off the bed, you can’t really tell if you’re here or if this is some strange point between delirium. For certain, though, you don’t feel good. 

Bleeding like a stuck pig and trying to keep your vomit down. It was all a state of far off sea-water. A roaring of waves in the back of your head. But there was a realization as Gaz shifts in front of you once more, face creased.

It is the realization that no matter what you do or what you try and change, you will always just be this. Stuck; stationary. Left to waste like the mansion itself—breaking down year after year until all that’s left is rotting wood and shattered stone. Blades of grass in the cracks and termites with fat bellies. But what was even worse was that you didn’t know how to function without this decay in your skin. The quiet rage pulled down beams of sanity. The agony a network of scuffed floors and dented walls. Shut curtains. Abandoned rooms and memories that shutter with every gust of wind. Ghosts in the hallways. 

Was it all real, or was it just a pigheaded attempt to find something to relate to? There was truth to it—there had to be.

This was home. 

This was you. 

This would always be you.

“You asked how I got my scars,” Kyle speaks and you notice his hand back in yours, skin tingling not from the medicated wipe he runs over your palm like a feather, but rather from the sensation of touch. 

Warm. It was a blanket of pure silk. A stuffed animal set into the dryer. How had you ever forgotten what that felt like? 

You hum an acknowledgment, flinching when the chemicals start to turn your hand numb. Gaz lightly shushes you, squeezing your wrist. 

For some reason, your nose starts burning at the action. 

“It’ll be okay, Sweetheart.” He stands, grabbing a chair from the corner table and bringing it over to place in front of your knees. The medical bag is placed beside you, various contents being taken out as elastic gloves are pulled over long fingers. “Where should I start then,” Kyle stares at your sad-tilted eyebrows. “The moment it happened or how I put myself into that bloody stupid situation?”

“Situation?” You utter, scoffing without venom, “Sounds pretty serious there, Sergeant.”

“Oh, trust me it was,” the way he places your hand in his lap is deeply intimate, disgustingly so, but even as you want to rage and shove him off, it hurts to think too deeply. “Terribly serious—I was undercover, y’know.” 

His soft expression holds you as the first stitch pierces your flesh. Pressure, no more. You frown, rubbing your eyes with your free limb. He pauses and glances your way, finding no pain, he continues on with the second, deft hold creating perfect knots.

“Ever done that, then? All your snooping around, I wouldn’t be surprised.” A smirk comes and goes on your lips. “Certainly seem the type, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Can’t say I have.” 

“Hm, well,” he chuckles. “Anyways, you see, it was a drug bust during my third year with the Blue. Opium. Sizable Mates running that whole operation. They found me out two bloody weeks in.” You blink to slight surprise, shoulders losing their hunch as you now have something else to draw your attention to. “Hoped to at least last a month, to be honest with you.”

“You’re insane.”

“Ah, probably, Ma’am.” Taking notice of the blood staining Gaz’s cap from earlier today when it was on your head, you bite your lip as the story continues. “I was held up in a shipping crate for a whole damn week, and this one fellow,” Kyle moves one hand up and your vision snaps to it, seeing him motion to his chin with a ‘U’ shaped hold, “proper beard on him, tells me I need to give up who I was.” 

“...Did you?” Lip quirking, the Sergeant finishes off the first row of sutures, grabbing another wipe and cleaning the area. He was happy you were focusing, at least, but you were still too shaky for his liking.

“Hell no—Bastard sucker-punched me. Happened to have a nice ring on his finger. Can only pray for whoever was married to the bloke. Ripped my cheek open something nasty, enough to make it scar over.” Both of you are surprised by the huff of laughter that jerks your chest. 

A pause as Kyle feels his chest go loose. That wasn’t a bad sound at all.

“Well, that’s it,” Gaz admits softly, halfway done with the second, smaller cut, “can’t say it’s all too amazing.”

“Because getting tortured by drug lords isn’t what you consider amazing, apparently.” You cough through your embarrassment, feeling slightly back to normal. Taking down a deep breath, you stare down at your palm as it gets sewn back together again. Hearing how the skin squelches.

“Well,” the Brit holds you delicately, a swelling of pride in his chest, “I’ve done a few bigger things than busting the likes of them. Stuff that meant a great deal more in the moment.”

The rest of the sutures and cleaning is done in total silence, and your lungs are suddenly able to work properly again. Kyle places a thick gauze pad atop the marks, holding it down while taking a roll of bandages; beginning to unravel them. 

His thumb is holding the end down when he whispers.

“Why didn’t you want my help?” You ran from him in the park—hid away when you were injured. None of his teammates would do that.

She’s not them. 

With a skip to your pulse, you hold your lips shut with an iron rod. That was the question, wasn’t it? You had run from the only person in the world that seemed to care whether you lived or died.

Peering at your palm, you speak the only truth you know, “Because then I’d have to admit something was wrong.”

There are more things you want to say to him—horrible things; pleas and nonsense—but in the end you just turn to stare at his neck with blood on your hand and stitches stuck in your flesh. 

Kyle’s eyebrows peel up, holding your hand in his own and suddenly more in tune with you than he ever had been before. 

“I…” He starts but doesn’t finish. Not for a long while. “I’m sorry, Love. For all of it. But you need to start listening to the things that I tell you—I’m here to keep you alive. It’s my first and my only priority. You need to be able to live with that.” 

He wasn’t sure there was more he could say. Your lips pull in, pressure living in your chest like an infection. 

“I hate you,” you say, eyes watering. Blood on your forehead.

“I know,” he responds, slowly, softly; wishing for a moment you’d look into his eyes again so you’d realize he’s finally starting to understand. 

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo