#he really will do anything that lets him be scottish

[thatoneautisticshark]

You asked for... Asks (I don't know how to properly word this) a while back, I have one for you. Idk if you still want it but-

You did oral fixation!Ghost with Price but... Maybe Price is tired one day? Needs a nap, not in the mood, ect, so what does he do? I mean, he's got a pair of rowdy Sargents who are more than willing to help Simon out.

Doesn't matter if you write it or not, just wanted to say I really like your work! <3 u buby grill

This is absolutely a fabulous idea, I adore it. And yes I am adoring getting asks. So I give you technically the next part. Aka Baby boy Simon gets the spoiling he deserves

Simon sat curled up on the couch of his captain, in one of Price's oversized shirts, just resting, not asleep but not fully awake.

Everything was a bit much, all the paperwork and missions, he just needed a relax, to drop the reins and be ordered gently. And preferably have something in his mouth.

Unfortunately Price was just not up for it today, not in the headspace to Dom. Which was annoying but it was what it was. Simon wasn't gonna be a dick and push boundaries.

He was just curled on the couch, while Price was out looking for Gaz. Gaz had accidentally walked in on them twice and knew of their arrangement, and considering some things he had said, they reckoned he'd want to be involved.

Although Simon couldn't imagine the awkward convo that was going down. Because he doubted Price would just say “Hey Garrick, do you want your lieutenant sucking your dick? Cause he is wanting to sub, but I'm not in the mood.” As funny as it would be.

Simon blinked as he received a text, picking up his phone, to look at the message from Price.“Do you want Soap too? Gaz knows he has the hots for you”

He had to re-read it several times before answering. He knew he should say no, not turn the team into even more of a fuck group then it was becoming. But the thought of those hands in his hair, that Scottish voice praising him, had him sending a thumbs up.

It took maybe five minutes for the door to open and the three men to enter. Price at the front, the two sergeants at the back, and Soap paused, staring at Simon, and it took a minute for him to realise it was because soap had never seen his face.

“Bloody ‘ell LT, ye right Bonnie” and Simon immediately knew his face was flushing from the giggle from Gaz as the sergeants sat on the couch.

It took a minute of awkward silence before Gaz broke it. “Soo.. uh the cap said you're needing some stress relief?...And uh.. you have an.. oral fixation right?”

Simon nodded, having forgot how awkward first arrangements and sex discussions were, it having been years and years since anything was awkward with him and Price.

“Uhm… yeah.. just like …. Subbing …” He trailed off awkwardly. Rubbing the back off his neck, really wishing he had the mask to cover his flaming face.

Soap looked like he won the lottery, with a big grin. “So you like subbing? Like soft or hard Dom. Also are you a brat or like a soft sub” Well at least Soap knew actual terms that gave Simon some hope.

Price cut in before he could answer “He is very much a soft sub, very sweet. Gentle orders get him going, he likes having things in his mouth and praise.”

Simon flushed again, nodding, but was grateful he didn't have to actually say it himself.

Soap nodded. “Okay, easy done. Gaz, you want his mouth on you?”

The man in question nodded, as Soap moved to sit on the floor, before patting his lap for Simon to sit on.

He could already feel the pleasant buzz of dropping into subspace, the way he wanted to follow the ask without question, dropping and crawling to Soap's lap.

The Scot let his hands wander a minute before settling on the Brits hips. “Jesus I've dreamed o’ this, Ghost.”

Gaz sat on the couch, Simon on soaps' lap between his legs. His dark skin was slightly tinted pink, with his eyes eager.

Meanwhile, Price sat back on his bed, looking over the top of his book, at his boy being spoiled. He could already see the tension leaving Simons body.

Simon let his head be tilted up by Gaz, looking at at him through his lashes. “Oh Jesus. Price wasn't kidding, you are beautiful like this.” He murmured, stroking Simons cheeks. “Yeah, you just need to drop the reins a bit? Be cared for like the sweet boy you are.”

Simon gave a soft hum, almost a moan. He was a sweet boy, and deserved this. All stress, and thoughts of his paperwork slowly drifted away, leaving him settled in soaps' lap, and having Gaz’s thumb gently pushed into his mouth.

He sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks, licking the finger tip, prompting a swear from the man above him. Gaz groaned “Bloody hell, Ghost. Can't wait to get those soft lips around my cock”

The finger in Simon's mouth pulled away, as Gaz fumbled his belt undone. When he whined, Soap slipped on of his own rough fingers in, resting it on the tongue.

“Needy aren't you bon?” he murmered slipping his spare hand under the soft shirt, Ghosting fingers over the nipples peaking in the cold.

Simon moaned around the digit in his mouth, letting his head fall against the thigh of Gaz.

Gaz immediately, gently tugged his head up by the hair. “Your mouth all ready for this cock, baby?” He cooed, stroking himself, spreading the precum around the tip, before placing it on his Lieutenants tongue.

He was clearly being super careful, unsure of Simons ability, and that just wouldn't do. Simon moved forward, his nose burying in the soft curls at the base, as it hit the back of his throat. He heard the punched out breath from below him, and Gaz’s breathy swear as his head flopped against the couch.

But barely noticed, already so deep. His one track mind was simply on the warm weight in his mouth, the girth stretching his lips wonderfully, his gag reflex trying to react to the intrusion as he bobbed his head.

The hand on his hips gripped tighter, and he registered Soaps' hips bucking and grinding against his arse with soft moans. Gaz hands were still tugging his hair wonderfully.

He barely registered his vision getting fuzzy and black at the edges, until Price's voice from his bed rang out “Get him to breathe Gaz. He isn't breathing”

He heard an ever so slightly panicked squeak from the man above before his head was gently pulled back by the hair.

Soaps hands moving from his hips to tap his cheek. “Breathe Bonnie.”He coughed slightly, tears streaming his cheeks from gagging.

When he looked up, he met the worried deep brown eyes of Gaz. “You solid?”

Simon nodded, slightly moaning “Solid. We can keep going.” He dove back down, sucking Gaz's balls, using his hand to jerk the length while letting his throat rest a second.

Soaps hips slowly began moving against his arse again, as Gaz pulled him back down to the cock, nearing completion.

“Such a good fucking boy. You take my dick like you were made for it love.” Simons moan around the dick was the undoing of Gaz. The younger man tried to tug Simon off, because you don't just cum down a man's throat with no warning.

But Simon shook his head as Gaz tensed and came.

He pulled off with a vulgar pop, tilting his head back and kissing Soap, watching the mans face as he drank down Gaz's cum.

The hips against his arse stuttered as Soap rutted to completion, burying his face in Simon's shoulder with a moan.

Simon barely registered being picked up and moved to the bed, cleaned up and tucked in. When he really came too, and he was on Prices chest, Gaz's arm across them, and Soaps head on his thigh, he decided this was the best place to be.

[arosmith-zeppelin]

It's insane to me that David Tennant is Spitelout. In pretty much every piece of httyd media too, he's even in the series

[audisive]

♪ BROOKLYN BABY. (💌) – previous part

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: the 141 believes the scot now.

tags: fluff, romance, soft!simon, you're basically their mom atp lol, bickering, there's a bet between gaz n soap, gaz secretly wants you shh, ooc characters, not proofread, price being the gentleman he is, he's seriously just watching everything unfold

       It's not always that Ghost is willing to let the 141 stay at his house for their traditions – which is just drinking beer and watching sports, really. In fact, he's always said something about his place being empty, so they always settled on someone else's. They stop asking after a year, and in turn, he stops having reasons.

It's not until Soap pops the question again when everyone else's houses are unavailable for a variety of reasons, his being that he left his faucet on and now his shitty apartment is flooded. You can only imagine the suspicion and shock when Ghost agrees (or, rather, simply grunts).

The drive is long, nothing short of 5 hours, and Soap spends the better half of it bickering with either Gaz or Ghost. He falls asleep by the next half, and when he awakes, he gawks at the lovely looking house before their car. There's two stories to it, a balcony, a front porch, and there's no doubt that there's a backyard.

Contrary to popular belief, no, it is not all black or plain at all. It's all equally surprising to them. The Brit isn't the type to care about the appearance and state of a house, usually. They do envision him in a mostly empty apartment with only a bed and a bathroom, though.

There's a delicate touch to where a rough man lives; the smell is almost heavenly when they enter the house. It's homely, the scent of newly washed sheets and lingering smell of food; there's a cat perched on the living room table that Ghost scratches the head of lovingly in a way that's so casual and natural. It's like they're at the gates of–

"Simon!" Heaven's bells ring in their ears, luring them into the doorway of the living room, and the sound of feet padding against the cold floor. There comes a soft-looking thing running into Ghost's arms, completely engulfing you.

You only notice the three familiar faces of your boyfriend's team members – though you know he considers them family if anything – when you pull away. An angel clad in only a cami top, shorts, and Simon's hand around your waist, you turn to look at the group with a surprised look on your pretty – Soap thinks that God, you're so pretty – face. "Oh, hi," you smile sweetly, obviously awkward at the silence and the staring.

"It's been a while," Ever the gentleman, the gruff voice is the first to speak up with your name uttered, the only who's actually met you – John Price. Soap is too enamored with the way you hold yourself and the fact that, holy fuck, even your name's pretty. Gaz raises a brow at the captain's greeting.

You smile once more – a genuine one now. "Nice to see you again, John."

"'S rude to stare, Johnny." Simon speaks out, a smirk under the mask. "Please excuse him, miss," Gaz adds, this beautiful man, and offers a charming smile.

"You must be Gaz," you hold your hand out, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine," Kyle forgets that a hand could be this soft and gentle, "and please, call me Kyle." He barely stops himself from turning your hand in his to kiss the back of it like one should to a lady so fair; his lieutenant has good taste in women, he'll give him that. And when you're out of the area, Soap is sure to rub it in Gaz's face. I told ye so! LT wis hidin' somethin' from us. A pretty something, that is. You don't miss the way he slips a twenty-dollar bill into the Scottish man's hand.

"Glad tae meet ye," Soap finally says, winking. "Understand why he wis hidin' a bonnie lass like ye from us." There's a mischievous glint in his eye, almost naturally so.

"A'm hurt, LT, but whit can I do? After all, we're just a couple o' brutes, arenae we?"

Simon watches in amusement, "you'll live." Soap is quick to move to your side as you lead the small group of hulking men through your shared home after that.

Simon is visibly more relaxed with you around. He's comfortable, that much is a given, with the way he's taking up most of the thankfully large couch with his manspreading. So is the 141. They're pampered like spoiled children (or pets, really) through the whole day.

Instead of just beer and faucet water, they're offered a variety of drinks in the kitchen that's enough to be considered a private bar. Instead of an empty belly unhealthily stuffed with beer and a mix of mediocre takeout, they're met with warm homecooked meals. They lose track of time quickly; the night falls by the time they've tired themselves out, and they've had not one, but two meals thanks to you.

(They're sure to commend your cooking skills and think of how lucky this tall brute of a man is blessed with a woman so soft and pliant and wonderful and– while Price is the one to be the most grateful, Soap compliments you the most. "A can practically taste the love." You laugh in turn.)

Gaz is the first to speak after a meal so lovely, they could simply just sleep on the floor comfortably and wake to the same smell of home. "It's a bit late, love, we should probably go."

"Thank you for having us," Price smiles down at you kindly.

"Ye've been lovely, bonnie." He wants to stay some more.

"Wait," you stop them, looking up at Simon for further approval. He's already looking at you with a reassuring brush of his thumb on the side of your hip and a nod. You turn your eyes back at them. "It's already late, you three should stay the night. We have enough room for everyone."

There comes, "we don't wanna intrude," then, "we can take care of ourselves, it's alright."

"Please, I insist." Your smile brightens, "I'll even cook breakfast before you leave."

The mohawk moves with a sigh, "now tha's just no' fair, lass. How are we gonna say no tae that?" You giggle. Only then do they find themselves tucked away in the guest room, and boy, you were right when you said it could fit them all if not more.

On the way to the bathroom in the late hours of the night, Soap catches a glimpse of light through the crack of your bedroom door to see his oh-so strong lieutenant, vulnerable in your arms. There's something natural about the way you cradle the large man and kiss his hair like it's part of your DNA, like you're programmed to do that 'cause Soap thinks you're simply unreal.

He's proud of his lieutenant, this lucky bastard. He turns another blind eye once more, but he's paid in full with another fulfilling meal by the morning.

[simonbrain]

ghoap being selfish bastards and stringing you along with their affection. it's hard letting someone into their lives; so many risks come with the job, and to add a civvie to that mess? it's not fair to you.

but they also can't seem to leave you alone. even when they push you away after you show the slightest sign of wanting to take things further than being fuck-buddies, they still keep an eye on you. even when you tell them you don't want anything to do with them anymore, they still show up at your front door. even with teary eyes while you're spitting venom at them, rightfully hurt by their confusing actions, they still think you're beautiful.

you just want to know why they rub it in your face. why they flaunt their unbreakable bond, knowing that there's no space for you except for when they want to sink deep into your holes, leaving their marks. why they can't just decide if they want you or not. it's a risk being with them, you know this, but you just want something for yourself for once in your life. it seems like they're not even giving you a damn chance to prove yourself worthy of their love.

(it hurts so badly to push you away, but they must.)

they're causing you so much distress, not to mention the stress from your job piled on top of that. who wouldn't become resentful towards them? you open your home to them, your legs, your heart—god. what fucking assholes. what did you expect from two military men? they really are just heartless machines.

(no one else has made you feel so whole in years, for the best and for the worst.)

you stop responding to their messages and calls; you curse them both out when they show up at your door separately and again when they show up together, and now you just want to heal from something that didn't even fucking happen. it's pathetic, but you really did love like them. it's hard falling asleep without johnny's obnoxious snoring in your ear or simon's big arms wrapped securely around you, but you'll manage. it's quiet on the drive to work without johnny cranking up some random scottish rapper before simon scolds him and hands the aux to you, giving you the best start to your day, but you'll be fine. it's disheartening when you return home to nothing but a dim lamp in the corner, no greasy takeout waiting for you on the table, or two pairs of ears eager to listen to the shit that went down at work today, but you'll get over it.

then months later they see you at a bar. johnny's trying his best to not just slide up to you and purr into your ear about how gorgeous you look, how blue's his favourite colour and this shade looks so good on you, and did ye wear this tight lil thing just for me, hen? simon's not doing any better; there's a you-shaped hole in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to go home with you and johnny under each arm, but they know they lost their chance with you.

they know this because when you finally catch the source of whoever the hell is staring holes into your head, there's no falter. there's nothing in your eyes that says you want them anymore—you look at them, then look away.

(they don't know your heart still aches for them.)

[heartthrobin]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

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[docdudo]

Hybrid 141 As Parents - Foster Human Child!Reader (Part 3)

When you woke up, it wasn't that much later. Maybe an hour later at most, which was normal for you. You weren't a heavy sleeper, but to be fair, hard to find any heavy sleepers in the foster system. You also hadn't moved an inch from your position during your light sleep. The bed almost looked like it was made, except for the small imprint of a person on top of the soft blankets.

The room was the same as it was before, the door was closed and the curtains drawn, none of the foster parents came into the room after they left you to unpack. Well, "unpack". You didn't really do that, you kept your clothes inside your backpack and the backpack safely tucked under the bed.

Just... precation.

The house was quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you immediatly shuffled over to the door and opened to try and pin point where anyone could be. It wasn't hard, you could faintly hear low voices downstairs, where you think it's the kitchen. You don't really remember much from the tour.

You weren't sure what to do now, but you just closed the door behind you quietly as your feet, padded by only your socks since you left your sneakers by the bed, gently made their way back down stairs. The voices only got clearer as you made your way down, getting closer to the kitchen that smelled extremelly good, close enough, in fact, that you flinched for a second as soon as you heard a loud, booming laugh.

"Oi, ya prick!! Stop that!" The scottish guy, the werewolf, yelled, laughing.

"Shhhh, the chick...!" The harpy quickly reprimended, even tho he was also laughing, much quieter.

"Not a chick, are they, Garrick?" A low, low voice sounded it out, and due to process of elimination, it could only be the wraith. Simon, if you remeber correctly. He looked so serious when you first saw him, but his tone now sounded just amused.

"Oh, please, you get what i mean..." The harpy scoffs, sounding amused as well. "What do you call a human chick?"

"Not a chick, that's for sure." Johnny laughs.

"Isn't it just like, 'baby'?" John suggests, apperantly shrugging a bit.

"I'll call 'er pup!" The werewolf immediatly ignores John's words, only for them all to start laughing.

"Such a little fledgling..." Simon sighs after they all quiet down a little. "I'm not sure how to take care of a human..."

"Ey, big guy, we'll learn!" Johnny smiles easily, giving one of his mates a heavy pat on the back. "I mean... wee lass looks frail as hell, but... we had babies before. Be a bit more confident!"

"No, I get Simon. I'm worried we might overlook their needs accidentaly." The dragon sighs. "I think I got it, but it still worries me."

You fidget a little on the wall you were leaning against. You wish you could sooth their worries. You didn't really need anything special, humans were adaptive. Very adaptive. You'll fit in, one way or another.

"You heard the social worker." Simon grunts, the sound alerting you for a second. "Call if we need anything."

You can hear the loud scoff John lets out at that, and for a second, the smell of smoke reached your nose.

"I don't need help to take care of my hoard."

The growl made your body instinctively lock up, quiet breathing catching on your throat as your eyes widen for a second. It's only when Johnny and Kyle laugh that you manage to calm down a little.

"Daddy Price is not one to take advice from others, huh?" Kyle laughs quietly, smooth and gentle voice that only makes the provocation sounds worse.

"Bastard never was." Johnny laughs back, shaking his head in amusement.

"That's it, shut it, the both of you." John growls once again, quieter this time, not really mad, just annoyed at best. "Besides, apperantly, i do know better. That woman brought the hatchling here in this cold wearing only a fucking light jacket."

"Dinner is ready." Simon's heavy voice announces, interrupting the banter. "Who's gonna call the fledgling?"

"Me!"

"I can go."

Both Johnny and Kyle glared at eachother as they spoke at the same time, which only made Simon grunt.

"Kyle can go. Fucking mutt being all loud like this is gonna scare off the fledgling."

Another growl sounded out, this one, different from John's. This one was Johnny's, and made you terrifed all the same as you made your way to the living room on the other side of the stairs, your pace just a little bit desperate thanks to the growl and the fight.

Thanks to your human nature, you couldn't really tell it was more of a playful growl than an annoyed growl. (They were also not figthing, that's just the way they spoke with eachother, but you just got here, don't expect to know that yet).

Your eyes fell into the cozy living room. It looked... mostly like normal living rooms, but you could still see some kind of... nest thing to the side, close to the fireplace, with confortable pillows and blankets. The couches also had a lot of them. You didn't know they liked confort that much, but you suppose it's not... a bad thing.

"They're not-!"

You startle immediatly at the half-shout, turning around to make eye contact with a slightly desperate Kyle, giant wings opened in despair as his feathers perked up. As you both stare at eachother in alarm, his wings started to close behind him again, feathers still looking just a bit frazzled.

"Oh, hatchling, don't scare me like that..." He crooned softly, crooned, eyes going all gentle as he approached.

The croon caught you a bit off guard as you kept your guard up, eyes wide still looking at his direction. You didn't hear these weird noises often, even if you had basically only hybrid classmates at school. The croon sounded weird, but also... soft. Conforting, you could say.

"I though you had left." He murmur quietly, kneeling in front of you to try and get closer to your height. It didn't work very well, as he was still bigger even tho he was kneeling. If anything, it only made you more scared. "You're a quiet little thing, huh? Don't be scared, baby, i'm safe..." He crooned again, all soft and gooey.

Like he wasn't being all snarky and ironic with his mates just seconds ago.

Freaking... wolf in sheep clothing........... and he's not even the werewolf.

You finally managed to calm down a bit, as you breathed in quietly and nodded at him, curling just a little bit into your own body. You could see his wings shuffling at his sides, hands opening for a second before they were forced into fists quickly (before they could reach for you).

"We have dinner ready, sweetie. You'll like Si's food, he's a very good cook. Well, we all are." He smiles a bit, like he was boosting himself as a little joke. "It's cold, so we made stew. It's chicken noddle stew, do you like it, baby?"

The... baby voice, the very subtle baby voice was certainly... embarrassing. Tho, you still nodded quietly at his gentle and quiet tone, making him smile a bit bigger.

"Let's go eat then, uh?"

He murmured gently, giant hand with talons closing around your much smaller hand, so small it was completely enveloped by his warmth. You didn't really want to hold his hand, but he didn't give you much option, as he got up, still slightly bend down, and gently tugged you with him to the kitchen.

You followed.

Part 2 / Part 4

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 1

Summary: You save Soap's life. It might have ruined yours. But now you're stuck with the 141 and the man named Ghost won't stop looking at you. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, my attempt at writing Soap's accent, soft Simon, military inaccuracies, canon divergence right off the bat.

A/N: My first COD fic! I hope you guys like it. It will be a slow burn because Reader needs a hug and therapy and Simon is awkward but also needs a hug. Enjoy!

This had been your first vacation in ten years. Ten. You had wanted to wander around London, see the sites, eat pub food, try to see how much the city had changed since you had last visited, ages ago when you had a summer internship at the British Museum. And now you were bleeding out on this shitty, dirty floor. There was shouting somewhere to your left as you hazily stared up at the dark ceiling.

You had made it three days before some guy pulled you off the sidewalk and shoved you into the back of a van. There had been a sharp pain in your neck before the dark came. When you came to, your hands had been tied and you were in the belly of an abandoned tube station, if you were guessing. Your captors were speaking Russian—rapidfire and stilted, but you did recognize some of it. Most of it. Maybe. If your undergraduate studies were still holding up. But you did know something for sure: you were curled up and hiding near a bomb. To keep your mind from wandering about when you were going to be the next hostage shot or when the bomb would explode, you started repeating whatever you heard to yourself, quiet and low. Cities, people’s names, shipments, shipments, shipments. You hadn’t done this in years, your therapist would have a field day, but this was better than the waiting. This was better than the pleading your fellow hostages were doing, begging for their lives.

You kept repeating what you learned. More shipments. More cities.

An immeasurable amount of time dragged on; how many days and nights passed, you couldn’t tell, but you knew exactly how many other hostages your kidnappers had killed before you were the only one left. And you weren’t entirely sure if it was because they had other plans for you or if they had actually forgotten you were there, huddled near the bomb. Perhaps you had taken the saying, “the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm,” too seriously.

But it mattered little when the fighting started and a too warm hand clapped on your arm. And then the brightest pair of blue eyes were staring at you. The man had the most ridiculous mohawk you’d ever seen but you couldn’t really tell him that, not when he was pressing a finger to his lips. A quick glance down showed his UK flag patch on his vest and you felt the smallest bit of tension slip from your shoulders.

“I’ma get ye outta here, lass,” he said, Scottish brogue winding through your ears.

You only nodded and let him move you into a crouched position. He and another man in a ridiculous hat worked on defusing the bomb, working in tandem on either side as your eyes swept toward the door. You were nearly there. Nearly free.

You were going to get out of here. You were going to live. You were going to see your sister and her baby. You-

-Came to a hard stop when the shooting started.

You curled into a ball behind the bomb as the shouting started but then you heard that ridiculous Scottish accent again. And yes, it was stupid. But you had always been a little stupid. You were on your feet again, hands still tied in front of you, before you could think of anything else to do and ran, shoulder down into the man tussling with the Scot and another man in the dumbest hat you’d ever seen. The man with the gun let out a wet ‘oof’ when your shoulder connected with his side and you both fell to the dirtied floor. You hadn’t even heard the gun go off.

Hadn’t felt anything but a heat blooming across your shoulder.

And then your knees buckled. “Oh.”

A quick glance to the left saw your once white shirt now a dark crimson. Pity. You’d liked this top. Your blood was roaring in your ears but you did remember someone saying the bomb was defused…that was good. Great. Wonderful.

A choked gasp was torn from your throat when large hands clamped over your shoulder and you saw those blue eyes again. “Now, why’d ye go and do that? Made a mess, ye did.”

“Next time,” you ground out between clenched teeth, “I’ll let you get shot.” Dark dots were starting to cloud your vision even as the grip on your shoulder grew tighter. You vaguely heard him shouting for someone to throw him something before he turned back to you. He was bleeding, too, crimson streaked across his face and neck. More of it slithered down his arm.

“We’ll get this cleaned up. Cannae have a bonnie lass bleedin’ out in a place like this.”

And you had to smile. You did, even if you looked absolutely insane, because this was probably the first time in over a decade that someone was nice to you and you had been shot.

And then the Grim Reaper loomed over you, skull bright as he blotted out the light above him.

“Fuck.” The word slurred on your heavy tongue. “Guess I’m dead, then.” The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on you, even as the light faded and you were out cold.

Your eyes opened slowly, weighed down and scratchy. It took a moment for you to realize you were in a hospital room, small, stuffy, and a worn shade of off-white. Uncoordinated fingers plucked at the thin, bleach-stiff sheets across your hips before you tugged at the neckline of the light blue hospital gown and frowned at the large dressing taped over your shoulder. A single wiggle against the flat pillow let you know you had a matching one on your back. Wonderful.

Well, at least you weren’t dead?

The door opened and a bespectacled man popped his head in. His bright eyes connected with yours for just a moment before the door snapped shut again.

What just happened?

You got your answer a handful of minutes later when your tiny room was filled with several more people, doctors and nurses checking you over and a woman—Laswell, you think she said her name was—staring at you from her place in the corner. She was biding her time, you knew that. Her American drawl had thrown you for just a moment, a stark contrast to the English accents coming at you from all directions. You tried to keep up with all the information they tossed at you, about your stitches, the physical therapy you’d need, how to keep movement to a minimum before helping you into a sling to keep your arm immobilized. It went on and on. The pain meds were keeping you from scratching at your shoulder but it did feel a little like your brain was swimming through your skull.

And three of them said the same thing: “You’re lucky you’re alive. It nearly nicked your subclavian artery and you would have bled out.”

Comforting.

And through it all, Laswell was quiet but when she pushed off the wall, the group of medical professionals dispersed.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

You said nothing as she stepped closer and set a manilla envelope on your bedside.

Her eyes darted to the envelope for a moment, obviously expecting you to take it but she continued on, unperturbed for now, when you did not. “From what I understand, you saved a man’s life and gave them an opening to be able to diffuse the bomb. I would actually say that all of London owes you their gratitude.”

“I doubt I’ll get it though, right?”

Laswell smiled. “Good. You’re smart.” But she still tapped at the folder again.

Fine. You picked up the folder and undid the thin rope closure as best you could with one hand and tipped it open across your lap, spilling paper and pictures across the blanket. One was of the man with the mohawk. And then… “Wait. He’s real?” You plucked one of the pictures up and waved it around like a flag. “I thought he was the Grim Reaper.” A man in a skull mask was staring back at you, large and hulking, and draped entirely in black aside from the SAS patch in the middle of his vest.

“You wouldn’t be the first to think that. But probably the only one to see him like that and live to tell anyone about it.”

Again, so comforting.

You flipped the picture over to see Ghost written in neat, small letters across the bottom. What kind of name was Ghost? He wasn’t a ghost. You flipped over a handful of the other pictures and learned the mohawk belonged to “Soap.” “Gaz” and “Price” soon followed—ah, he was the one with the ridiculous hat. But it was the last picture that had your heart stalling.

Vladimir Makarov was written in that same, small script.

“He’s dead, right?” Your voice shook as you stared down at the picture. “Tell me he’s dead.”

Laswell’s measured silence was all you needed before you hurriedly stuffed the photos and paper back into the folder.

“My flight back to Chicago is leaving on the tenth. What day is it?” You asked, tossing the folder to the foot of the bed. The simple motion had your other shoulder protesting, heat rippling across your chest and down your spine.

“It’s the ninth.”

Relief flooded through you. This would be over soon and you were never going to take another vacation, no matter what your sister told you. “Great. I’ll be out of the country in a couple of hours. Do I need to sign something or-”

Laswell frowned and took a few steps toward you and tension once again wound itself through your spine with each of them. “I don’t think you understand. Makarov’s plan didn’t work because of you-”

“Debatable.”

“-and you saved one of the men who Makarov has a personal vendetta against.”

The heart rate monitor was now leaping all over the place, beeping a sharp staccato into the tense air. You didn’t like this. You didn’t like this at all. “So? Makarov doesn’t know who I am. One of his lackeys grabbed me. He barely saw me.” You had been one of many, another faceless victim to his whims.

But Laswell shook her head. “I guarantee it; he will not forget you.”

Funny. You’d been forgotten by almost everyone else and you were apparently unmissable to a psychopath. “I am supposed to be going home. I want to go home.”

She took another step. “I’m afraid that until Makarov is in custody, it is safer for you to stay-”

“Am I being arrested?” You bit out.

“No.”

“Then I’m free to go.”

Laswell’s lips rolled into her mouth for a moment. “No.”

Traitorous tears stung at your ears. Stupid, so stupid. You hadn’t cried in front of someone else in decades. Tears didn’t help with anything and here you were, crying in a hospital bed in front of a stranger. “I need to go home.”

Another step and she looked down at you, eyes just shy of pitying. “You’ll be dead before you get off the plane.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She took the folder and opened it again, pulling out one of the papers you hadn’t read and another picture. She set both on your leg with a sigh. “You were taken out of London when you were stable enough to move.”

The next breath stalled in your lungs. “What?”

“Makarov has a long reach. You were wrapped up in it the moment you saved Soap. The hospital room in London that simply had your name on the door was raided. They killed a nurse.” Every new bit of information was a punch to the stomach, leaving you wheezing for breath and throat aching. “Makarov doesn’t do half measures. And he’s in the wind right now and staying quiet since his plan for London failed.”

Something you hadn’t touched in years started to bubble beneath your skin. A rage you hated. The rage that had kept you alive as a kid. “Then do your fucking job and get him. I’m going home.”

“Any word? Movement?” Gaz asked as Simon looked over the print outs of intel and loops of camera footage from the tunnels where Makarov could have fled.

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

He hated it. He hated not knowing.

There were leads, of course. Strings to be pulled on to see where they could go.

But Makarov was in the wind. And every night, he heard the woman on the other side of the thin wall cry whenever she thought no one would hear.

You did not go home. Instead, you were bustled out of the makeshift hospital room and into yet another infuriatingly beige room, your shoulder smarting with the movement even with the sling. At least the baggy sweats they’d let you wear were comfortable. You recognized Soap as Laswell had you sit in a cold metal chair on one side of the table.

“Good ta see ye up and about, lass,” Soap said. The stitches across his face were mostly covered by butterfly bandages that crinkled when he smiled at you. He then pointed at his own sling, barely holding his bulky arm up. “We match.”

You almost returned the smile. Almost. “Glad you’re not dead, too, I guess.”

“I wanted to get a look at ye,” Soap said. “Properly thank ye fer saving my life.”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “I think it was a mutual saving. You defuse a bomb, I keep you from getting your brains blown out. We can call it even.”

He laughed, hearty and jovial. “Ye’re tough. That’s good. Ye’ll need it.”

He was trying to be nice to you, you knew that. He seemed nice. Really! But you still felt the snark and sarcasm trying to climb its way out of your throat. You bit it back, probably grimacing the entire time. “I’m not the one shipping off to Kastovia.”

The smile slipped from Soap’s face. “What?”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “I assumed that was where you were going? The guys in the tunnels mentioned it a couple of times.”

“You speak Russian?” Laswell cut in.

What was this line of questioning? You turned as best you could to look at her. “Yeah, sorta. I took a few classes in undergrad.”

“And you didn’t think to mention you overheard anything while you were held captive?”

“You’re CIA. He’s SAS,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder to point at Soap. Your stitches protested immediately, knocking the wind from your lungs for a moment. “I kinda figured you guys had all the information you could get from that shitshow.”

Soap rose from his seat and left the room without a look back as Laswell rounded the table to stare down at you. “You had information and didn’t share it. You know how that looks.”

“I was shot. Did you forget that?” You bit back. “Then you tell me I can’t go home. What was I supposed to do? When was I supposed to offer up any of this? When I was unconscious?”

Laswell’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t trust me.”

The scoff tore itself out of your throat before you could even try to stop it. Scoffing at a CIA agent probably wasn’t your smartest move, but, again, you knew you were kinda stupid. “Wow. Look at you. That scary CIA training is paying off, huh? Love to see my tax dollars hard at work.”

The door opened again and Ghost walked in, shoulders nearly brushing each edge of the frame.

Your entire body tensed as he quietly neared the table and took the seat Soap had vacated. Laswell nodded at him and he tipped the point of his cloth-covered chin. And then she was gone with a snap of the door behind her. You pulled your gaze back to the man…the behemoth…in front of you. His mask was no less unnerving than it had been in the tunnel when you thought he was the Grim Reaper coming to usher your soul into the ether.

But this close you could see the dark honey of his eyes and that turned something else in the dark shadows of your chest.

And you knew you couldn’t be afraid. Not now.

“Ask me anything,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. But what if they didn’t believe you? What if he really would be the last face you saw, like you had believed in the tunnel? “I’ve nothing to hide.”

He huffed. If it were anyone else, you might have guessed it was a laugh. His eyes, hooded and dark, dragged over you. “We’ll see, bird.” In one swift movement, he placed a handgun on the table and then reached across to grab your uninjured arm. He pulled it toward him before you could even think of pulling back. He twisted his grip on your wrist to have your palm up and only then did he release you.

You knew better than to retreat. You needed them to believe you—you were the victim in all of this. You. Not them. You. If you had to sit here with the Grim Reaper to prove it, you would. But it was when he tugged the glove from one of his hands that you felt your next breath stutter behind your teeth. And you were sure he felt it when he pressed the tips of his fingers against the delicate skin of your wrist’s underbelly.

He was warm. Solid. And oh god were you really this touch starved? That the man tasked with interrogating you—to make sure you weren’t a terrorist—was making you burn all over like a schoolgirl? It didn’t help that you felt his broad legs on either side of yours beneath the table.

Get it together.

He asks you questions and you answer. Truthfully. You listed all the places you’d heard, names you could decipher, cargo, shipments, everything. Anything.

Ghost listened to it all with that same hooded stare anchored on your face. Someone else probably would have squirmed under his gaze but you didn’t. If anything, his immovable presence was weirdly comforting. What was wrong with you?

And when you were done, when you had exhausted any and every bit of information you thought you had squirreled away from your time in the tunnel, the man in front of you simply drummed his fingers against your pulse and stood, putting his gun back in its holster and pulling his glove back on.

Funny, you hadn’t realized there were more bones stitched on them, too. At least he was consistent.

He strode toward the door and then turned back to stare at you again, unblinking. “Stay put.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly allowed to leave.”

His dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he huffed. Was it a laugh? You didn’t know, but you wanted it to be. But he left the room before you could ask.

It had been a risk, he knew, and had done it anyway. She could have been a spy, a trained one, good at deception and emitting pity. But he had felt her heartbeat skitter beneath his fingers, an impromptu lie detector. Simon knew she was being truthful. An open book.

A rare thing in times like these.

Well, open enough for him to believe her answers and her muttered instance that she wasn’t “some sort of Russian plant” because she wasn’t “dumb enough to be a criminal.” She was…something else. Simon wasn’t quite sure what that something was, but he knew that he thought of the curve of her bottom lip when he left the room and reported what he learned to Laswell and Price.

The pair looked at each other, matching looks of knowing on their faces. Her knowing about Kastovia hadn’t been expected but it didn’t seem like she knew that they (Gaz and Price) had already gone and had been led on an infuriating game of hide-and-seek with the transport of the Sarin gas. If the bird had been awake (or more willing to share what she’d heard before), they would have been back on base days earlier because it had been exactly where she’d said they would be.

“We need to keep this quiet. Makarov already knows she’s alive and at least suspects that she heard something. He wouldn’t’ve sent his men to the hospital if he didn’t.” Laswell scratched at her chin. “If any more of her intel pays off, this could be invaluable.”

The two continued, looking over the points Simon had written down after leaving that tiny room. And there had been shipments and their locations, names of people who probably would receive them, and then targets. Possibly. It was so much more than what they’d had when Makarov had vanished into the belly of the tunnel.

“She’s given us gold.”

“Or an unpinned grenade.” Laswell sighed and flipped through the pages again, handing one to Price and they spoke again in low tones. Simon listened, as he always did. They would still be sent out, following those breadcrumbs, with glowing red letters.

Something twisted in Simon’s chest, behind the crooked and dark ribs, and he thought of that curve of her bottom lip. “What happens to ‘er?”

You didn’t mind paperwork. Not really. Was it your favorite thing? No. But it was a fact of life that paperwork was inevitable. You almost liked that most of it was the same: sign here, date here, birthdate here. Easy. Simple. Unchanging.

But you weren’t entirely in love with how you knew you were basically signing your life away as Soap stood sentinel in the corner, his matching sling still around his bulging arm. They’d already “handled” your job, telling your supervisor that you had been injured and would be taking a leave of absence from work.

They promptly fired you.

Laswell winced at that and then said that “they” would take care of it. Who “they” were, you didn’t know and didn’t have the wherewithal to ask at the moment. But she inferred that your bills would be paid by someone else so you didn’t really care. Whatever. You’d been an archivist at one of the many museums in Chicago, cataloging anything and everything that came in. It had been good work, to be fair. You were actually using your degrees and the fact that they had you working overnight was almost a perk. It was nice to not have to worry about coworkers’ feelings or them microwaving fish in the communal microwave when you were trying to work.

But…whatever. It was fine. This was…fine.

You were given three meals a day and sometimes a snack. Tea in the early afternoon, much to your delight. You had a warm bed. Things could be worse.

Whenever the doctors or nurses would come in and check on your stitches and your range of movement, he—Ghost—would just be there. In the background. Waiting. Silent and unmoving.

And the painkillers you were given must’ve been some good stuff because you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Or maybe his unhurried gaze was weirdly comforting. Knowing he was there, was always going to be there, was nice. A weird constant in the upheaval of your life. (And maybe you should call up your therapist after you finally get home.)

You signed your name on the last paper and then managed to stack everything neatly with one arm before handing it to Soap who took it with a small smile. “Ye’re handling this well.”

“Yeah.” Been through worse, is what you could have said. But worse was debatable. At least in some regard. You could handle being fired. You had savings. You could find another job. Your sister always said you had the uncanny ability to land on your feet. You’d let her keep that assumption. It wouldn’t be the first one she’d made about you. “Can I make a phone call now?”

Soap tapped a finger against the papers and his blue eyes were full of pity. You almost hated it. “I’ll ask Laswell.”

Well, that wasn’t a firm no, at least.

It had been a few days since your interrogation with Ghost. You had deduced that you were on a military base of some sort, with the people walking by in uniform and the staccato of gun shots at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, every morning. Probably a firing range. While you weren’t allowed out of your beige hospital room, they were kind enough to bring you a few very well worn novels to help pass the time. Again…it was fine.

The door opened a few minutes later and Ghost and Laswell walked in, a large black brick looking contraption tucked beneath Laswell’s arm. Your heart stuttered for just a moment. A satellite phone?

“You need to understand that anyone you call could be in danger. Used against you.”

The next breath rattled behind your teeth. You had expected that. You knew that. But your sister deserved at least something. “Did you see her in my file?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

Laswell’s answering quiet was all you needed. Good.

“I’ll keep it quick,” you said, stretching out your good arm toward the phone. “Promise.”

“Any funny business-”

“I’ll expect a bullet between the eyes. Yeah, sure. Can I please have the phone?”

Ghost made that huffing sound again and you felt the corners of your mouth push into a twitching smile for just a heartbeat to two. The phone was weighty in your palm as you plugged in the number and held it up to your ear. It rang twice before… “Hello?”

“Hey, Kirby.”

There was an answering giggle and it shifted a weight on your shoulders. “Hey stranger! I thought you were living it up in London for a few days more? Thought you were gonna call me when you were home.”

“Oh, um. So there’s been a change of plans. I’m gonna stay for a little longer. I’ve been asked to consult at one of the archives here.”

Kirby hummed, crackling the line. “Consult. You’re so important. That mean you left-”

“They fired me, actually.”

She gasped. You imagined her clutching her phone tighter, placing another hand over her heart. She was always so delicate. Outraged on your behalf, too. “No!”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. You said I needed a new job anyway.” You shut your eyes, feeling them burn with tears. Lying to her didn’t feel right. She was the only person in the world you trusted.

“They were awful to you. But, you always land on your feet, don’t you?”

You smiled despite it all, wobbly and crooked. God, you missed her. “I try. But I didn’t want you to worry if you didn’t hear from me for a bit as I get settled here.”

Kirby laughed. “You’re the worrier, not me.”

“That’s true.” You were. And even know, with a bullet wound and a supposed bounty on your head, you worried about your little sister. You might worry about her forever, actually.

“You’ll still be able to make it to the delivery, right?” The smallest bit of trepidation dipped into the syllables. Kirby wasn’t scared often and it twisted at your marrow. “I need you to hold my hand.”

You opened your eyes and looked at Laswell and Ghost, lifting your chin a bit. You were going to be there. Come hell or high water. Or more terrorists. “Wouldn’t miss it, Kirbs. You know that.” You eventually said your goodbyes and “I love you” and “I love you, too” before ending the call with a quiet, “give the little one a hello for me, okay?”

The phone clicked in your hand and you let it slip back into Laswell’s grip when she reached for it. “Any other family you need to call that weren’t in any of your files?” The question was tinged with exhaustion.

You didn’t feel bad. “No. It’s just her.”

Laswell frowned but said nothing else as she strode from the room.

You expected Ghost to follow. He seemed fond of doing that. But he didn’t. His unmoving stare was anchored on you. “Why wouldn’t your file show your sister?”

Well, he certainly cuts to the chase. “It’s a long story.”

His large arms crossed over his broad chest (you ignored how your heart hiccuped. God he was so big.) “We’ve got time.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[aurynsia]

Slim Pickins

James Potter x Reader

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Summary: You pine over your roommate’s friend from school at a party while he’s on a call with his ex…

Warnings: Miscommunication trope, slight hurt -> comfort, James is stuttering like a lovesick FOOL so good luck reading the dialogue, reader is referred to as a girl with she/her pronouns and presents femininely, Marlene being the greatest match maker of all time!

Word Count: 1.1K

Masterlist

A/N: “A boy who’s jacked and kind…”so, James Potter?

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Sitting alone at your roommate’s dinner party, you gazed longingly at the boy who poured a sudden dose of affection into your once-loveless world, a disgruntled frown pressed against your lips.

Only meeting a few weeks ago on a frantic night of music and drinking, Marlene had practically dragged you over to the tall boy with a grand smile spread across his bespectacled face.

You were so enamoured after your first introduction, you completely missed the way the boy - James - leaned tentatively over to Marlene to whisper words of admiration.

“Just like how you described…is it too early to ask for her number? So pretty…” the muttered compliments and queries were drowned out by the blasting music, assisted by your complete lack of self awareness as you pined over the way his hair tickled his neck when he leaned towards your roommate.

You had danced your way through the nerves, guided by the soothing rhythm of pumping bass and new beginnings as you formed a core memory with your roommate and new friends.

Tonight was a different story.

James stumbled around your living room, a few drinks too many compromising his composure as he rambled on the phone to his old girlfriend.

Marlene had told you all about James and Lily, king and queen of their grade, and the sudden end to their relationship after graduation.

While you were relieved to hear the boy was single, you couldn’t help feeling a tinge of jealousy as he rambled on about something excitedly, cheeks blushing and smile only growing wider.

You nursed your drink in your sweaty grasp, feeling the depressing effect of alcohol wash over you like a wave over the Scottish shoreline.

James passed subtle glances towards you, throwing his drink around in his hand as he spoke animatedly down the line to an undoubtedly amused redhead.

Your jealously sparked into unbridled envy, willing yourself to turn back time and dance carefree once again, grinning at the handsome new face as you crossed the dance floor blindly in your memory. You slumped in your seat, allowing your vision to blur as your eyes fell in your intoxicated haze.

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

James was all but yelling down the line to his lover-turned-friend, gushing enthusiastically through a permanent smile. “Seriously, she’s so cute! I wish you were here to meet her, I think you’d really get along,” He rambled, glancing in your direction every second moment.

“Yes, Potter, I’m sure we’d form an unbreakable bond over shared experiences of being relentlessly pursued by you,” Lily quipped, voice laced with a lighthearted tease. “Oh, shush. You won’t have to deal with my antics anymore if this lovely girl has anything to do with it. I think I’m gonna ask her out tonight, Lils!”

Lily was the only person in the school-born friend group who moved too far away to attend any of Marlene’s late-night gatherings, only kept in the loop by drunken phone calls from the bustling London apartment.

She meant the world to James as one of his closest friends, so he assured her repeatedly that it was crucial she knew about his obsessive new crush before he made a move. Physical distance couldn’t stop him from updating her on every new development in the capital city, constantly obstructing the peace and quiet of her comforting cottage.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Lily sighed in partial satisfaction, but mostly in exhaustion at the late hour of the night. “Go get your girl, Potter.”

With that final encouragement, James passed on hurried farewells before hanging up on the past. Now, his gaze was fixed on his future. His cheeks heated at the sight of your soft face, eyebrows furrowed in drunken fatigue.

With a final breath of courage, he pushed through his chorus of friends, Marlene squeezing his shoulder as he passed in knowing encouragement.

Striding along the path of dirtied plates scattered across your dining table, he finally found comfort in leaning against the wooden surface just in front of your current seat.

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

You stirred at the sound of a deep cough - James clearing his throat to gain just a moment of your attention. “Enjoying the party?” he laughed nervously, never one for small talk with a girl he fancied.

Your eyes winced as you forced your best, welcoming smile at the boy. “Yeah, I am, just uh- lost track of my drinking an hour or two ago…” you admitted, forcing your eyes open to meet James’ bashful gaze, feeling almost sinful at the pleasurable warmth that shivers through you at the sight of his golden eyes.

“So, listen- uh…Marls said you were too good for me and I can’t help but agree with her, I mean,” he shifted his weight to balance his drunken nerves, “you’re brilliant. But I promised myself I’d shoot my shot anyway.” He scrambled to sit beside you, abandoning his position against the table as you stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief, blinking in a fluster that successfully woke you from your alcohol-induced slumber.

“So, um…I really, really like you. You’re so bright and- and gorgeous, and I’m really quite obsessed with you,” he rattled with embarrassed laughter, “I thanked Marlene a thousand times over for introducing us, and I just can’t let an opportunity like this - with you - go to waste. So, with this liquid courage…” he shook the drink in his hand, “I was wondering if you’d want to grab dinner some time. With me. Just us.”

You might as well have called for “clean up on aisle your floor” because your jaw wouldn’t be lifted from the wood beneath your feet any time soon.

“I- I mean, yes! Of course! That…that would be great, James, really,” you responded on autopilot after stunned silence, lost in his lovesick gaze as you subconsciously leaned closer to his warmth. James lit up like a lamp at dusk, grinning ear to ear as you inched closer in unexplored yet familiar comfort.

“Brilliant.”

Your roommate and her friends watched on with smiling pride before leaving you to whisper and giggle like school girls sharing meaningless secrets, bathing in the light of blossoming romance over the candlelit remnants of dinner.

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

[mctvsh]

first post here so i'm quite nervous, but!

all i can think of kidnapped!enemy!medic!reader x poly!tf141

cw: military & war inaccuracies + some medical inaccuracies as well, reader uses she/her pronouns, and is mostly girl based, mentions of religion & prayer, first time writing so it will unfortunately be sloppy 💕

let's just say the boys (mostly one you've come to known as, Ghost) haven't been too kind to you. taken from a random battlefield where you were technically there to help YOUR team. they practically throw you over their shoulder and find some fucked up abandoned building with nobody around to help..

great. now what?

you're mostly terrified, and a little pissed. you've heard a few things about them, whispers around your base which, to be frank, aren't the kindest words you've heard about someone! one of them is bleeding out, some guy with a mohawk and a Scottish accent. some gash on his.. thigh? you haven't really been listening since you're scared out of your mind.

your clothes are sticking quite uncomfortably on you, the wet concrete floor has made your ass numb. until they all come in. staring down at you like you're some piece of prey, holding a limping Scot.

"Fix him, yeah?" mutton-chops.

your eyes snap over to the guy who you assumed is the Captain. huh!?

"Uh- I.. need my tools-" you practically squeak out. avoiding eye contact. your medbag was taken from you the second they basically claimed you as 'theirs.'

you hear a grunt (Ghost, you're guessing) and then, thankfully, your medbag being thrown right at you.

you bite at your now chapped lips and create a makeshift bed with your jacket now on the floor and hesitantly nod to the dark skin. he was pretty, ah — getting side tracked. he was the one holding the Scot up, who had stopped his incessant comments (jokes, but weren't very funny) and was now grunting.

unfortunately, you're a medic, a person who helps people, before you're anything else.

the dark skinned male sets the Scot down, and you can see his shudder.. and you almost begin to feel bad before you feel a gun pressed to your back.

great.

"I can't help him if you're doing that." you swallow, thickly. you'll be killed!? isn't that a damn war crime!?

you feel the gun retreat after a few seconds of silence. you breathe out, albeit shakily, but trying not to give them a chance to know how terrified you were.

you locate the source of the bleeding, it isn't too bad at all. you open your medbag, grab some trauma shears, and you cut through his slacks, big enough to work on the stab wound which wasn't too deep but it still needed stitches.

you grab some gauze, disinfectant, numbing cream, and a thread and needle. okay, time to get to work..

it had been a little over 10 minutes. finally finished up with stitching as you place a bandage around his thigh, his pant leg wasn't fully cut off so it was definitely still wearable..

the second you finish up you're being pulled away by the scruff of your neck (Ghost again), your tools splayed out on the floor, thrown off to the side with a Captain staring down right at you.

"Your name?"

you blink up at him. muttering your name as you shuffle a little closer to the corner of the abandoned building. the dark skin and Ghost hover over the Scot instead. which meant that mutton-chops over here, was gonna grill you.. you think. until he stays silent and gives a hum in acknowledgment.

he would be handsome, kind even, if he wasn't staring down at you like that.

your eyes flick over to a Scot who had now been sat up with the help of a narrow eyed dark skin. you bite down, hard at your bottom lip. drawing some blood. you hear a grunt coming from the Scot who had, unfortunately, been feeling okay.

seems the numbing cream did it's job.. because he's back to flirting and making jokes.

"Thanks for patchin' me up, bonnie."

it's not like you had a choice... you nod at him and continue looking down at the floor.

"We'll take 'er back to base." Ghost.

your eyes widen and you suddenly feel a little more religious, praying to whatever God is up there and hoping for the best.

"Aye, a pretty lass, ain't she?" that damn Scot!

they're talking as if you're not right here!

"We still have hours before there's a chopper coming for us." the Captain, and that's all he says as he brings out a cigar. lighting it in your face as if it's some.. joke.

"Aye." the skull-mask says before his brooding body walks over to a corner, staring down at you with his arms crossed over his chest.

and suddenly, you feel a very familiar lump in your throat.. back to THEIR base!? who knows what they'll do to you..

[countcvnt]

Experiment

Chapter One: Scrambled

[Poly!TF141/Fem!Reader]

Summary: Your memory is hazy, almost nonexistent, after being plucked out of a safe house and experimented on for months. When you're finally rescued you don't remember the people closest to you. Warnings: Canon Typical Violence (not much else this chapter), me using an english to scottish translator, not beta read Word Count: 3.3k A/N: Had this silly idea and turned it into a serious/angsty fic. I hope you all will like it as much as I do! Also, Reader has a call sign! It's Ace. If you prefer, you can read it here on AO3

Your eyes are heavy, your body burns, and you can't stop shaking. You aren't even sure of where you are. Your eyes are trained ahead of you, looking at what you assume is a two way mirror. A scientist is standing to the side of you messing with some needles and medicines. Your half lidded eyes cut towards him and you see a thick blue substance in a syringe.

“What's that?” You croak, voice hoarse.

“Hm?” The scientist doesn't even look at you, “curious now, are we?” He asks, pulling the syringe up and turning to you. He doesn't answer your question though, not in a way you would like. “We are about to figure out what this is.”

‘We’. Your stomach flips. He didn't even seem to know what it was. You accept your fate. You have from the very beginning. You don't know how long you've been part of this ‘program’, and to you, it didn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is trying to get out alive. No one seemed to be coming for you. No one has in all of the days you've been hidden away. You didn't expect anyone to save you now. So, you had decided to save yourself. Figuring out how to do that was becoming difficult though.

You know that behind that two way mirror are a bunch of guards. You know they're heavily armed. You know, no matter what they have juiced you up with, you aren't beating a bunch of armed men. So, you sit idly. Letting them poke and prod and decide you are going to wait until the perfect opportunity shows itself. You just have to hold on until it does.

A loud alarm suddenly rings throughout the building and you cover your ears, flinching. The scientist seems more agitated than anything. He doesn't seem as bothered as you are, by any means.

“Guards!” He calls out, looking towards the large mirror. “Guards?” He questions.

He puts a finger up at you, asking for you to wait a minute. As if you have any other choice. A loud bang comes from outside the room and chills run up your spine. The guard walks towards the door and he peeks out. He quickly shuts and locks the door before returning back to you. He scurries over towards the metal stand beside your seat. He grabs the syringe and picks it up.

Something clicks in you. The alarms are still blaring and the guards seem to be gone to check it out. You watch as the syringe comes towards you, headed right for your neck. You move faster than you're used to, and grab the man’s hand and push him back. A lot harder than you had meant to. He slides back and hits the wall. The syringe does not leave his hand.

You rush towards the door. You wiggle the door knob and try to rip the door open. It doesn't budge. You turn your head back and see the scientist steadying himself. Fear kicks in.

“Help!” You scream, slamming your fists into the door. “Please, help me!”

“That was really stupid,” the man behind you says. “No one can hear you, no one is coming to save you. They haven't yet, have they?”

Tears prick your eyes. You turn back around and your back hits the door.

“Y'know, I'm going to be honest.” He stalks towards you. “I know they picked you because you're so… compliant. But really? I think that big guy with the mask would have been a better choice.”

That stings. “Who?”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“You know I can't give out classified information. But if this works, I promise, you'll know everything. As for the other guy? I'm surprised you don't know who I'm talking about. But honestly, after all the brain scrambling you've had done to you, I understand how you don't remember him…”

You lose it. Something in you snaps. You lunge forward and grab the man. The both of you tussle briefly. Until you get him pinned. Your body slams into his and you hold him down. You raise your fist and bring it down, slamming it into his jaw. Screams, pleas fall from his lips. He's begging for you to quit. But you don't. You, at that moment, decide you are going to do that to every single person who has harmed you, who caused this.

The door behind you blows open, but you don't falter. Your fists continue to slam into the scientist’s face. Until you hear someone with a Scottish accent say your name. You freeze. You turn to find a man in the doorway, his eyes wide. You furrow your brows when he whispers your name again. You move to get up, without thinking about the man below you. You don't realize he's moving. His hand comes up and the needle is pressed into your neck. Whatever the liquid was is quickly administered into your bloodstream.

You hear your name again, louder this time, but you fall to the side, eyes too heavy to hold open. Your head slams into the now bloodied white tile and you're out.

So much for escaping. _____________________________________ You wake up to beeping. A sound you had grown accustomed to recently. You feel monitors hooked up to you, and an IV in your arm. You twitch ever so slightly, every muscle in your body contracting. And then it hits.

Anger.

Your eyes snap open. Your legs swing over the side of the bed. You rip every single monitor off of you, the IV flying across the room. The monitor begins to beep loudly and as you rush towards the door, exiting the isolated room, an alarm blares. You flinch momentarily, but do not let the sound stop you. You are looking for someone, anyone to give you a hint of what's going on. Nothing around you looks familiar. But from all the ‘brain scrambling’, that's normal. You're used to not knowing as much as you figure you used to.

A man in a bucket hat turns the corner, rushing towards what can only assume is you. You let out a low growl and begin to sprint. Your body slams into his and the both of you are sent sliding across the floor. You grab his vest and lower yourself to him, all of your weight holding him down. “Where the fuck am I?”

He's looking at you with confused eyes. He doesn't make any sudden movements. He immediately presents himself as a friend, not a threat. You squint and then see someone else coming around the corner.

“Price! Oh my-” the young man freezes. He says your name and your world is instantly rocked.

You haven't heard your name in god knows how long. The Scottish man had called out for you earlier, but before that? You really can't think of a time when someone had called you something other than some experiment number. “Who are you?” You hiss.

You feel the man under you tense up. He swallows hard and he says your name this time, slow and soft. He isn't showing any signs of wanting to throw you across the room or knock the shit out of you. You take it he isn't a threat and shift.

“You don't remember me?” The man in the ball cap asks, brows furrowed. “You don't remember us?”

Your heart jumps into your throat. You push yourself off of the man below you and you stand up. You brush yourself off and watch as he stands up. He radios someone to cut off the alarm and it's promptly stopped. You are thankful for that. You stand in the hall awkwardly and watch him and the other, younger man talk to each other with facial expressions.

“You're probably hungry,” the man in the bucket hat turns towards you, “how about we go get you some food?”

You aren't stupid, you know that also entails speaking with them about everything you just went through. Despite not wanting to talk, you nod. You are hungry and haven't had an actual meal in possibly months. The man reaches out to touch your lower back, to lead you to wherever he wants to go. You flinch away from him, everything in you tensing. You can tell it's a reflex. A habit. He's used to doing that. Your eyes scan him and you're searching your brain for everything, anything about him. But there's nothing.

“Sorry.” Is all he says. He leaves it at that. “Gaz,” he looks away from you and towards the other man. “Please go grab some food and meet us back at room 2B.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tension is palpable. You want to run. Fast. You can. You know you can. But something is keeping you tethered there. You follow a couple feet behind the man who had yet to introduce himself and keep thinking about ‘Gaz’. Your mind is reeling. You keep thinking about his name, his face, everything. You close your eyes tight and inhale sharply.

“Kyle.” It's all you say. It stops you dead in your tracks. Your eyes open and your breathing is heavy. “His name is Kyle.” Your breathing is suddenly ragged. You can't catch your breath and feel like everything is crumbling in on you. You fall to your knees and try to keep yourself from wailing. “I don't even know your name!” You whisper to keep yourself from sobbing. Your voice cracks.

“Price. John Price.” He drops in front of you. He reaches for your bicep. You don't flinch away this time. “Hey,” his voice is low, “look at me.” Your eyes cut up to him. “We're gonna help you through this. I promise.” You nod. You want to trust him. You need to. You feel like you can. You inhale slowly and Price helps you up. “We're going to go to room 2B, you're going to eat some breakfast, and we're going to ask you some questions.”

You nod and start following Price again. You make it to the room in silence and Price opens the door for you. You walk in and find four beige walls, a table, and four chairs. Nothing else. Until you look in the corner of the room and find a little camera. You lock onto it and squint.

“Why?” You point at it.

“Oh,” Price walks in and closes the door behind him, “it’s protocol. Security and all.”

“Fair enough.” You sit down at the table and look at the Price. “You gonna sit?”

Price holds onto his vest and leans against the table. “Not yet.”

You shrug. “Suit yourself.” Your stomach growls. You touch it through the thin white shirt you're wearing. “You think Gaz will be here soon?”

With that, a knock comes from the other side of the door. Two knocks, a pause, and another knock. Price opens the door and Gaz walks in. He has a tray filled with food and you are growing antsy. He sits across from you and slides the tray towards you. You try to not immediately dig in, but you can't help it. You grab a glazed donut first and begin to devour it.

“Oh,” you pause your munching, “thank you, Kyle.”

Gaz freezes. His eyes widen and he turns towards Price. It's your turn to freeze. You look up at him mid bite and blink. Gaz motions towards you and asks, “Did you tell her my name.”

“No.” Price shakes his head.

“You remembered?” Gaz seems ecstatic. “What else do you-”

“Nothing.” You snap. “I don't remember a damn thing.” You huff as you move onto the muffin on the tray. You unwrap it and begin to devour the sweet. “All I know,” You speak through bites, “is that I was locked up for God knows how long and they were experimenting on me-”

“Four months.” Gaz speaks quietly.

“Huh?” You question him. “How do you know?”

“We looked for you when you disappeared. It was four months ago when they got you. You really don’t remember anything?”

“Like I said,” You huff, “I just know they were juicing me up.” Before they can question you further, a light bulb goes off in your head. “Wait.” You squint at them, “The Scottish one. Where is he?”

They tense up. Gaz talks first, “You remember Soap?”

“Huh?” You cock your head. “Is that his name? He’s the one that found me. I assume he’s here. Or did he not…” You trail off.

“No, he’s here…” Price begins, “…We don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Oh.” You shrug. “I guess that makes sense. How am I supposed to, uh, assimilate without being overwhelmed. I mean, why don’t we just rip that band aid off?”

“Trust me,” Price locks eyes with you, “we do not need to rip that band aid off right now.”

“Okay, okay,” You put your hands up. “Do you wanna ask your questions now?” _____________________________________ “This cannae be healthy,” Soap looks at Simon.

Simon shrugs, “Don’t care.” He’s watching the cameras closely.

“Thay aren't even in th' room yit! Ye'r peepin' an empty room!” Soap’s eyes move from the screen and back to Simon.

Simon’s eyes cut from the screen and to Soap, “Shut it. Price wants us to stay away from her for now. He didn’t say we couldn’t do this.”

As he says that, the door of the room opens. Price is visible first. And then, another figure walks in. You. Simon and Soap both tense. You look directly at the camera and point, asking why it’s there. You’re so clear. Soap’s heart jumps. Simon shifts.

“She remembers Gaz’s name.” Simon speaks through gritted teeth.

“A'm sure that's a targeted attack against ye, Ghost.” Soap is trying to find humor in this situation. He’s grasping for straws.

Simon is not enjoying it. “Shut the fuck up, Johnny.” Simon growls.

Soap focuses back on the screen and notices you aren’t even sure how long you’ve been gone. As Gaz gently tells you four months, Simon grumbles the amount of time at the same time.

“If Price doesn’t wanna overwhelm her, why the fuck is Gaz in there.” Simon is seething. “Why can’t we all be in there.”

Simon shuts his mouth as you say they had been juicing you up. He tenses. Soap does the same. They both need to know what it means. Simon feels like he’s going to combust. His eyes narrow once you mention Soap. Soap looks like he’s about to jump with joy, until he realizes you don’t actually remember him. Not past him saving you.

“Fuck this,” Simon pushes past Soap. “I'm going in there.”

“Hey! Price said-” Soap starts. He doesn't finish. “Fine-” he rushes out behind Simon. He guesses they're just going to bust into the room and Simon is going to make you remember. He isn't quite sure what Simon has planned really. But he decides he can't sit in the security room and just watch. He needs to see you.

So does Simon. _____________________________________ You reach for a fork for your eggs and lean back in your seat, plate in hand. You relax (as much as possible) and you look at Gaz and Price. You are studying them. Really digging into their features. You want to remember so badly. You have no reason to trust that they used to know you, a part of you is ready to attack in case they are lying. But most of you trusts them. How else would you remember Kyle’s name?

“Listen,” Price inhales sharply, “we want to help you, without overwhelming you. We need to know what you know.”

“Listen,” You mimic his tone, “I don’t know what you aren’t getting. I remember nothing, nada, zilch.”

“Okay,” Gaz interjects, “What’s your last memory?”

You're sent into deep thought. You place your hand on your chin and look off. “Well-” You begin, “I remember-”

The door of the room busts open. You tense, ready to pounce. Your palms hit the table and you stand up straight. The fork clangs against the ground. Two men walk into the room. The one who saved you and-

Words play in your head over and over again. ‘I think the big guy with the mask would have been a better choice.’ For a moment, your world is completely rocked. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know who I'm talking about.’ Your eyes lock with the large beast of a man. His eyes soften. Briefly. You swallow hard.

The entire room is silent. Until you open your mouth. “He wanted you…”

“What?” Soap is the first to question you.

“The scientist, the one doing the experiments on me-” You are tense again “-he didn’t want me.” Your head hurts. You place your hand on your forehead and groan. You are thinking too hard. Remembering too much.

“Hey,” Price motions for you to sit down, “it’s alright.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ghost,” Price looks over his shoulder, “not right now.”

Ghost stiffens. He doesn’t say anything else. You sit down and inhale slowly. Your eyes move from the floor, past Price, and they hit Ghost. You feel something stir inside you. Like your emotions know more than your brain does. You want to scream. Every single man in that room seems to think so highly of you, and you don’t even remember them.

“I think I need to sleep.” Your voice is a whisper.

You don’t know the last time you got a good rest. You figure sleeping will help you. Price begins to grab for you, before freezing. You lean into him, letting him help you up. Price moves past the men and you tag along beside him.

“I’m going to show you where your room is. If you need anything, please let one of us know. But for now, we’ll leave you alone.” You are led down the hall and towards the barracks. It’s silent between the two of you, until you reach your room. “You have this room to yourself. I had some things rearranged, if it needs to be changed, and you aren’t comfortable alone, let me know.”

You nod at him. “Thank you. For everything. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“0600 sharp.” Price begins to leave.

“Wait,” You stop him. “You don’t happen to have my phone, do you?”

Price turns back to you. “No, that was not recovered. But, we can get you a new one. I’ll work on that while you rest.”

You nod. You head into your room and close the door behind you. You look around. There are two beds. You groan at the fact you can’t remember who used to be your bunk mate. You’re scraping through your brain, really searching for just an inkling of a memory. But… Nothing. Nothing at all comes to your mind.

Nothing about the four men convinced that you know them, anyway.

You lay down in bed and cover up. It’s not the most comfortable bed you’ve ever been in, but it is the most comfortable bed you’ve laid on in the last four months. Your head hits the pillows and you close your eyes. It takes longer than you’d like to go to sleep, but not as long as you expect it to take. You only hope you don’t dream of anything at all. You can’t be that lucky. _________________________________ “Price!” Simon shouts at the captain. His face contorted with anger and pain, and he is more glad than ever that they can’t see him through his balaclava. “What the fuck was that? We need to know-”

“No,” Price stops him immediately. “We do not need to stress her out further. We will figure this out eventually, on her time.” Price reassures his team. “You did not see the look in her eyes, the way she tackled me to the floor-”

“She what…?” Soap tenses.

Simon bristles instantly. He’s seething again. “What do you mean?”

“Ghost,” Gaz starts, “I know you want to know what happened. We all do.” He’s trying to get through to him. “But something is not right. The way she easily took Captain Price down- That wasn’t the Ace we know.”

“Of course!” Simon growls, “She was gone for four months, being poked and prodded-”

“Ghost,” Price interrupts, inhaling sharply, “she pinned me down and I could not get up. They did more than poke and prod at her. They-”

It clicks. “They were making soldiers… Enhanced soldiers.” Simon whispers. His face contorts again, this time with confusion, “Why did they pick her?” He remembers what you said. ‘He wanted you.’ Simon momentarily feels a pit in his stomach. “Ace couldn’t have been the only one… There’s no way they did this experiment on one person.”

“She was the only one at the underground compound.” Soap shifts. “Maybe she was the only success?”

Simon is stuck on why they picked you. It’s not like you weren’t capable. But you were never on the field fighting for your life. You were always on the sidelines, helping them get into the places, helping them get information. How had they spotted you and decided you were the best candidate? He knows that question is going to keep him up at night.

“Come on,” Price brings Simon back to reality. “We got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

[bettysupremacy]

can u do something w james potter? a transfer student from america comes to hogwarts and he’s all love at first sight😭❤️do anything u want w it :)

Short n sweet but a good way to get back into writing<3

Your new friends are splayed in the room in front of you. Sirius is sprawled over Remus on the couch, watching him, very lackluster, doing his homework. Mary and Lily are squished into an armchair across from you and James, tangled limbs and giggles as Marlene lay on the rug in front of the fire with Dorcus, tired after supper feast.

The Scottish highlands were a drastic difference from the America you knew. The shops, the people, the boys. Everything seemed so hard to squeeze into. Your accent pushed you away from the people, and your culture pushed you away from fitting in. But they helped. The silly band of tired teens in front of you never once let you stand outside the circle of friendship they’d had formed years before your arrival.

“I could take you to hogsmeade? You know, to look around.” James looks up at you from where he leans against your arm. You sit higher than him, leg draped across his own. It makes his skin tingle.

He’s been a nonstop stream of words ever since supper, only pausing to stuff dining hall food into his mouth. He swears he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he graduates, the dining haul being a necessary location in his schoolboy life.

He adds factually. “You know they actually have-“

“James,” Sirius snaps, a rubber band stretched too far. “Please.”

“What?”

Sirius only sighs. He doesn’t mean to be cruel to his closest friend.

James’ eyes flit around the room self consciously. All of his friends stare. Very unimpressed.

“What?” He repeats again, a little more desperate, a little more whiny.

“James,” Remus says gently. “Let her breathe.”

James looks to you suddenly, flames coloring his cheeks in the hue of orange light flickering off the grand fire.

It’s apparent James is embarrassed. His silence works its way into the cracks between Mary and Lily, the lulls in conversation between Remus and Sirius, until it becomes too much to handle. Sirius feels bad, he really does, but the way Remus shakes his head disappointedly fills him with something stubborn.

The vibe of the room is ruined subsequently. The boys go up to the dorm, Mary and Lily slip into their own room, shared kisses following, and you find the tangle of girls In front of the fire asleep, Marls arm tugging Dorcas closer.

“It’s okay,” you rush once everyone’s gone. “Hogsmeade sounds fun.”

“Are you sure?” James is insecure, quiet now, away from his friends ears.

You nod adamantly. “We didn’t have anything fun at Ilvermorny.”

He’s out of it now, heated in the face and embarrassed. He doesn’t mean to turn himself away from you, but his friends gnaw at him. They were well-meaning, but that doesn’t stop the green rumble of insecurity coursing through his body. He feels it so intensely he fears he may need to slip upstairs and go to sleep.

“Hey,” You murmur quietly searching for his eyes. When he gives them to you, you look up at the flushed boy through your eyebrows. “Just you and me?”

He stutters for the first time since he met you. “Yeah- uh, yeah, just me and you, sounds cool.”

You nod, leaning over to kiss the side of his mouth sweetly. He reels.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” You whisper, slipping out of the armchair.

“I’m not.” He insists.

You smile, squeezing his arm. “I know.”

He watches you walk up to your dormitory, a hunger in his eyes and a part in his lips.

“We’re not asleep.” Marlene grins. Dorcas snores and Marls opens her eyes. “Well, maybe she is.”

James flinches harshly. “Oh, fuck off.”

[ivymarquis]

Not me vividly hallucinating about a certain scot eating me out until I cry

What you wish for

Pairing| John “Soap The Munch (tm)” MacTavish x F!Reader Rating| E Word Count| ~500 Kinks/Content/Warnings| Cunnilingus, squirting, mentions of safe word, Johnny is A Munch(tm), the author is an American still trying to dial in a Scottish accent

Date a munch, they said.

It would be fun, they said.

And it is, for the most part- you can admit that with no hardship.

It’s just that occasionally (like now), it becomes obvious that Johnny is eating you out for his pleasure and your own is just a happy by-product.

“Shit, ah! Johnny! I’m gonna- hgn- Johnny I’m gonna cum,” you pant in warning as the Scot buried between your thighs goes to town on you like a man starved.

Every time this man drops to his knees in front of you, it is a guarantee you’re going to see stars.

This time he’s got you pinned on your back on the bed. You seem to be wiggling too much for his taste as he’s banded one forearm across your waist and the other hand grips one thigh to keep your legs spread for him.

No matter how much you cry and moan and buck and cant your hips, he just leans his weight on you to keep you still.

He alternates between broad swipes with the flat of his tongue or more pointedly circling your clit or lapping at the inside of you.

While he’s yet to disappoint, he really seems into it (re: you) today. Like teetering on has-something-to-prove into it.

With that sort of dedication and attention, it’s no wonder he’s got you squirting and squealing in record time as he slips two fingers inside and abuses that spot that has you seeing stars.

Johnny works you through your high, lapping up every drop of it like it’s his last meal. Your legs twitch weakly in his hold as he continues on.

You think that maybe he’s working himself down, that he’ll leave you be in a minute.

He doesn’t.

Less attention is paid directly to your clit, but he’s still honed in between your legs even as you squirm. “Johnny,” his voice is a whine in your throat. “Johnny I came- I already came,” like there was any possibility that he is unaware of that- given how you squirted all over his face.

He pulls off momentarily, eying you with a skeptical look. “The fuck’s that got to do with me, bonnie? Cum or don’t, I'm finished when I'm finished.”

Your brain needs a system reboot at that- you stare at the ceiling dumbly as he gets back to business.

He’s trying to kill you- there’s no other explanation for it.

(Distantly you remember how your ex never went down you- still expected head on a routine basis, of course!- and you swore that the next guy you dated would have to be okay with reciprocation. You certainly got your wish in spades, hadn’t you? Almost like the universe was apologizing in the most mind-melting way possible)

It’s all you can do to lay there and breathe. If it actually gets to be too much- well, that’s what safewords are for. But Jesus fucking Christ the man doesn’t do anything in halves.

It’s only after he’s wrenched your second orgasm from you that he lets up, crawling up the bed to collapse to the side of you.

“Soon as my legs quit twitching, I’m returning the favor,” it takes you a couple tries to stammer out the words. Johnny looks every bit like the cat that caught the canary.

“Oh I’m no done with that sweet cunt o’ yours- ye just looked like ye were gonna pass oot. We’ll give ye a break an then back tae it, hm?”

[prettyboypistol]

how do you think would mercs react to reader calling them pet names in his native language that is not english obviously 👀 might be sfw or nsfw, whatever you like more ❤️

TF2 Mercs Reacting To Native Language Pet Names!

Scout

Gets like, REALLY flustered initially. A "Uh, what did you call me?" then "O-oh. Nice! Nice!... Haha okaaaaay! Great!"

Man starts mimicking you and your accent subconsciously (ADHD echoing go brrr) and likes stimming by rolling his rs and doing the special sounds your language does that are different from English.

Soldier

"YOU MAGGOTS HEAR THAT! CUPCAKE HERE THINKS I'M A COWZONE!" "I SAID CORASON!" "MEDIC! HE'S HALLUCINATING! HE THINKS I'M FOOD!"

After you explain it, he gets all giddy and lovey dovey on you, he's got a thing for you talking in your first language.

Pyro

Deadass? I headcanon Pyro to be a polygot. They know what you're saying regardless of what language you speak.

When they hear the petname you shout as good luck, they turn around and make a heart with their fingers and shout something back. It sounded vaguely like your language..?

Demoman

Will hit you with a scottish one right back, it becomes a war of the pet names until you both end up cuddled tightly in each other's arms and on the brink of sleep as you murmur out little sweet nothings.

Has no idea what you're saying but can understand it's affectionate because of the context.

Engie

"What's that, darling? Didn't quite catch that." You say it in English. "Oh! Well ain't you sweet! C'mere hun."

Not as flusterable on the outside, but internally freaking the fuck out because that was SO CUTE!!!

Heavy

Maaaaan. RIP you. This dude's barely got a grasp on English, that could be your only language and this would still work.

If you explain it to him, then he gets all smiley with you and kisses your cheek.

Medic

"Ah, danke liebe." "No problem, cher." "Oh! You speak another language? Amazing! I know that one- wait, do I? Let's see... German, Latin, English..."

Finds it absolutely adorable. If he doesn't know the language he asks you to teach him so you two can gossip together behind people's backs.

Spy

THE RESIDENT POLYGOT. LIKE, HEADCANONED TO BE HIRED ON TO BRIDGE THE LANGUAGE BARRIER LEVELS OF LANGUAGE KNOWLEDGE.

Imma be real it doesn't even register that you spoke in something other than English, but he instinctually switched to your language mid conversation more out of habit than anything.

Sniper

"Awe, using that first-language charm on me, eh? Well that's not gonna let you use me rifle. Sorry chickadee."

Sees it as more of a teasing to try (and failing) to fluster him or get what you want.

[grimm-cod]

Simon is DEFFFF a GIRL DAD.

Simon and you had identical twin girls, and THEY ARE THE LIGHT OF HIS LIFE.

Simon would do anything for his girls.

tea party with stuffed animals? done.

painting his nails? done.

when Soap asks him why his nails are bright pink when he takes his gloves off, Simon just gives him a glare in response, and Soap decides not to press further.

When he gets home after a mission, and his girls are already tucked into bed, Simon goes into their bedroom to press soft kisses against their foreheads.

If one of the twins had a rough day at school, he would always be the first one to comfort them, which is odd because he's a big, broody, war machine, but he has a heart goddamnit.

He would name his twins: Sage and Saffron.

"They keep calling me the 'other Sage', dad." Saffron would tell him one day after a rough day at school.

"You're my Saffy, sweets. dont let 'em mess with ya." Simon would reply.

if one of the twins got sick, you and him would nurse her back to health, but soon enough, the other twin had the same damn thing, so now, you both are stuck dealing with moody, sick, identical twins.

"Dont wanna take my medicine, dad." Sage would argue.

"Dont care, love. gotta take it." Simon would reply after an hour of arguing with her, getting her to try and take her medicine. Saffron on the other hand, she had taken it instantly, no matter how bad it tasted.

AND OHHH GODDD. if Soap were to ever find out that Simon had twin girls at home, and he was really a big softy behind closed doors, THE TEASING WOULD NEVER END.

Soap would tell anyone he came in contact with.

"Y'know, the Lt. has little twin girls? he treats them like princesses. he's a softy under all that mess." Soap would tell everyone.

And dont even get me started when he meets you and the twins for the first time.

Immediately takes on the role of "Uncle Johnny". Price would be "Papa Price", and Gaz would be "Uncle G", cause the twins couldnt stop calling him Gas instead of Gaz.

"They'll get the accent soon enough." Soap tried convincing Simon that the twins would get his scottish accent if he spent enough time with them, but Simon immediately shut that down.

Simon didnt want his precious girls around anything military related.

Simon had to pick the girls up from school one day, and the other parents couldnt stop staring at him because he was in full uniform, having left from base.

Simon's uniform would definently make the younger kids cry. I would cry too if i saw a 6'4", muscular, british guy in a skull mask and military uniform and tactical gear.

Simon did feel bad though.

[nightlyrequiem]

So I was thinking about this for a while but, what if the reader is Valeria's ex wife that had been together for almost a decade (dating included) and as a result the 141 and Los Vaqueros basically come snooping around their house searching for answers and interrogates them, hoping that they would help but realizes that's it's a dead end because Valeria always shielded them from anything that she did.

Oooh interesting concept 😍

So interesting that I kind of didn’t know what to do. I wrote an outline, changed the ending, then changed the ending again. Little bit of a challenge but challenges are a good thing 🫶

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Violence, 141-Vaqueros Appearance, Very Minor Angst

Interrogation

Promising forever doesn't actually guarantee forever. Valeria has come to learn this. A thick bitterness has coated her heart in your absence. Eating away at the organ like an acidic parasite. It's been years since your divorce, but Valeria still misses you deeply. You took something from her when you left and she knows she'll never get it back. The worst part is, she can't even really blame you for leaving. For the majority of your long relationship  she was dishonest about who she was and what she did. You eventually put the pieces together, even if the picture was never whole, and figured out she wasn't good. Valeria tried to spare you as many details as she could. Knowledge is power but ignorance is safety. To your credit, you had tried to make it work. However it proved to be too much for you. The danger, the lies, the late nights. You served her the papers and left soon after.

The divorce wasn't easy on you either. You spent just shy of ten years with Valeria. Building a life with her only to find she wasn't who she said she was. A house built on a weak foundation is doomed to collapse, and leaving her was one of the hardest things you've done but you couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand wondering if she'd walk back through that door each night. The moral implications were eating at you as well. Whatever it was she was doing was bad enough for her to not tell you.

It's another lonely night in your apartment. The silence feels mocking. It's one of the rarer nights where you don't have music or the TV playing. Just you in your chair with a book you've already read. You struggle to focus. Having to reread the same paragraph twice because you're just not absorbing the words at hand. Leaving Valeria was the right thing, you tell yourself. But life is so... quiet without her. A heavy knock on the door interrupts your thoughts and you realise that you yet again didn't actually read anything. Sighing, you put the book down and get up. Your legs and back are sore from sitting in the same position for too long. You silently walk towards the door and peer out through the glazed window. Making out the shapes of men.  

The sight makes your skin prickle, but you unlock the deadbolt - not the chain - and pull open your door, wincing as the hinges cry out in protest.

"Can I help you?" You ask quietly, brows pulled low. You see there are five men in total, all clad in military gear.

"Hello ma'am, mind if we come in for a few moments? We have a few questions for you." The blond one asks. There's something about his voice you don't like. Under that American accent is something smug and violent, like he's used to getting his way.

"Um... no thank you." You respond. Like hell you're letting five strange men into your home.

"It won't take long, it's about a woman." The one with the mohawk speaks. You're caught off guard because this one has a Scottish lilt to his voice. Looking closer, you see a little British flag sewn onto the chest of his vest. His friend beside him has one sewn onto his as well, contrasting with the light blue button up.

"No, sorry."

"Her name is Valeria Garza." He continues, looking you dead in the eyes. You stiffen at the name. Fearing the worst. Has she been caught? Is she dead? You're torn between slamming the door and letting them in.

The latter wins and you unlatch the chain, slowly pulling open the door to face them.

"... What about her?" You ask carefully.

"Why don't we come in to discuss this, huh?" The blond man pushes his way in before you can protest. Putting you off greatly. The others follow suit like sheep to their shepherd. The blond man looks around, eyes raking over your home. He turns that blue gaze back to you. "So, to my knowledge you were... close to Valeria."

"I... suppose so." You reply. Close isn't enough to describe what you had. A roaring forest fire that died out too quickly.

"You used to visit her often, back when she was still in the special forces." One of the other men pipes up. He has the saddest downturned eyes you've ever seen on a human, but his voice is firm.

Everyone is looking at you. You don't like their scrutiny. Like you did something wrong.

"...Yeah? So?" You internally facepalm at the defensiveness in your voice. These men are dogs and they'll pick up on it.

"Well, according to some official government documents, you two used to be married." The blond says. Smug, like he caught you in a lie. You have the strongest urge to punch him in the throat. Or maybe give him a new facial scar.

"We were married for a few years, yeah." You say. Voice strong because you're not ashamed or embarrassed. "We divorced a while ago though."

"Why?" The man leans forward, beady eyes narrowed.

You hesitate. "She never made any time for me." You say. That and you never actually knew her.

The blond looks over to one of the men at the back.

"Alejandro, you're familiar with Valeria and by extension her wife-"

"-Ex wife." You correct.

"-Help me out here."

The man, Alejandro, comes forward. Hands held onto his vest. His gaze is severe and alight with a distaste that makes your skin prickle. "What did Valeria do for a living?" He asks. The way he asks tells you he already knows.

"She ran a business."

"What kind of business?"

"I don't know."

He raises a thick brow. "You don't know?"

"No." You grit out. "I don't know, she never told me."

"And you didn't think to ask?"

You frown at him. Obviously you asked. Many times. 

"Okay. I did ask. She wouldn't tell me." You snap. "Why are you bothering me about my ex-wife? I haven't even spoken to her in years."

The blond man shoulders past Alejandro. "So you didn't know about her connection to the cartel?" He asks.

"No-"

"You didn't know your wife was a narco?" He presses, drawing closer.

"No I didn't know-"

"You didn't think to question where her wealth came from? I bet the ring she got you was nice and pricey."

It was. A shiny, sturdy diamond ring. It makes you feel a little unwell that it might've been paid for with blood.

"I don't know anything." You growl. "Are you even allowed to do this? Barge into my home without a warrant? I think you need to leave."

"We're just trying to get all our facts straight." Alejandro replies. You focus your glare on him.

"Go get your facts from someone else. Leave." To your surprise, they do. They turn and walk right back out your door and you slam it behind them.

A few hours later there's another knock on your door. Setting your nerves on fire. You're still unsettled by the impromptu visit from those men. You get up from your spot at the table and check out the peephole, expecting to see them again. It's Valeria who is darkening your doorstep this time. A stony look set upon her features. You debate not opening the door. You don't really want to see her much either. However, you know Valeria and she knows you. She won't be leaving until she gets what she wants. The door creaks open, deadbolt and chain unlocked.

"What do you want?" You surprise yourself with the hostility. You are rattled by the men and they were only here because of her. Therefore, in your mind, she's to blame for you being unhappy.

"We need to talk." She says. Pushing past you and entering your home uninvited. Seems to be the trend this evening.

You close the door and turn to her, feeling annoyed.

"I think everything that needed to be said was said a long time ago."

"It's not about that." She stands in the hall menacingly, backlit by a lamp. "You had visitors today. What did they want?"

"Oh so you're stalking me now?" You snap.

"What did they want?" She repeats sharply. "What did you tell them?"

"I didn't tell them anything. I don't know anything because you never fucking told me!" You feel angry. More than that. All Valeria did was hide things from you and stress you out. Now she's waltzing into your home like you owe her anything.

Valeria turns away, trying to reel in her temper.

"I was protecting you." She grits out. 

"Some good that did, huh?" You reply sardonically.

She glares at you. "Are you injured or in jail?" She scoffs. "No, I didn't think so."

"No but because of your actions I had five men force their way into my home and interrogate me about you, practically accusing me of working with you."

The room goes quiet.

"... I'm in the cartel." She says. You roll your eyes.

"Yeah, I guessed."

"No, I'm really in it. High ranking, powerful." Valeria says firmly. "While you were waiting up for me at home, I was killing people trafficking drugs."

A response dies on your tongue. In a way, you always knew. To hear her admit to it is both cathartic and devastating. "... Why are you telling me now?"

Valeria's frown softens into a more familiar look. "Because you deserve to know." She says. "Did they hurt you at all?"

"No." You reply. But you didn't exactly feel safe. "They were a little... intense. It upset me."

Valeria looks at you for a few moments then nods stiffly.

"Okay." Is all she says before she's gone again. Leaving a messy pile of conflicting feelings in her wake. You catch a whiff of her perfume as she passes by you, and it reminds you of late morning cuddled in bed. She's stuck to the same scent since you two met. Nine and a half years spent together and now you're strangers. Yet you know what her go to scent is, that she doesn't like lettuce, the exact shade of the pink she paints her nails, when she got her first tattoo. The story behind each and every scar. You shut the door, cutting her off from your view.

Alejandro steps outside for a quick smoke break. leaving behind the lights and the noise. As he lights his smoke he spots a figure, barely illuminated by the yellow lights spilling from the canteen. It starts walking towards him. The lack of a greeting unnerves him and he shifts his hand to rest on his holster.

"Nice night, eh?" He calls out. No response. The figure steps out of the dark and he stiffens at the sight of short dark hair and narrow features. He unholsters his pistol. What is she doing here?

She stops abruptly and looks at him. Distaste evident on her face.

"I'm all for playing your little cat and mouse game but leave my loved ones out of it."

He frowns at her. Sizing her up for any visible weapons. "This is about the visit we paid to your ex wife."

"You did more than visit." She replies dangerously. "Don't speak to her again. Don't bother her again. Don't even visualize her again. I will kill every single one of your men and women, and then I will go after their families."

"What are you-" 

Alejandro doesn't get to finish his sentence as the canteen behind him explodes. The sound bursting his eardrums and sending him flying forward.

Beneath the ringing he's able to recognize confused shouting and pained screaming. A hand grabs ahold of his hair and yanks. Pulling loose a few strands. Valeria stares at him with absolute hatred.

"Our word is our worth, cowboy," She whispers. "so take my word for it."

[moody-alcoholic]

These Violent Delights

Chapter 17 - Maybe Tomorrow Is a Better Day

Summary: Poly 141 x fem!reader, a/b/o alternate universe 8.6k words. If you had to spend sometime recovering anywhere the Scottish highlands are not a bad place.

CW: MDNI +18 explicit content. a/b/o alternative universe, a/b/o dynamics, typical a/b/o universe tropes (nesting), hurt/comfort, nightmares, PTSD, mental health, sex, anal sex, oral (m receiving), handjob, fingering. 

AN: With Christmas coming up updates might be a bit slower.. sorry :/

Previous - masterlist - next

AO3

Enjoy <3

1 week later 

You like Scotland. Johnny’s house is nice: there’s a pond out front, and it’s about a kilometre or so from a loch. It’s cold, but you don’t mind. You like spending time outside. You like that there are no walls around you—well other than the back garden, but Johnny says it’s to keep the wildlife off his plants.  There’s nothing planted now though, since it’s not the right time of year. Too cold. 

No base walls though, no guards or strangers. You could leave anytime you want. The house is isolated and surrounded by open fields and sparse forests. It’s different from Washington; the trees are different, the smells, the noises, even the grass. You wake early most days when the morning fog is heavy in the air and dew coats the grass. 

You like having alone time. You wake just as the sun is coming up. You make yourself tea and sit out in the back garden watching the sun rise until someone else gets up. Usually it’s John first. He always wakes up early. He smiles at you from the kitchen and then goes for a run. 

Then Simon and Johnny are usually next. They come out to sit with you but not for too long. As soon as John is back Simon goes for a run. You feel bad. You remember Kyle telling you that John insisted on there always being an alpha in the house.

You don’t understand why. There is no chemical anymore, no more people who will ever be exposed. With Dr. Piper gone, there’s never going to be a cure either. That makes you feel bad. You know how badly they wanted a cure. 

This morning feels particularly cold. There’s frost on the ground and you can see your breath in the air. You don’t really care, letting the tea warm your body. This time it’s Johnny who’s up first. He spies you from the kitchen, smiling, then comes out with a mug in his hands.

“It’s going to start getting really cold soon. You might have to take your tea inside so you don’t get sick.” He smiles, sitting down across the table from you. You don’t care how cold it gets, you like the freedom of being outside.

“I like the cold,” you say while taking a sip of your tea.

“You haven't made a nest yet,” Johnny says as a matter of fact. You don’t know what to say. You haven’t felt ready yet. You’re worried if you make a nest it might get destroyed. You had left behind the last nest you made. 

“I guess I haven’t really thought about it,” you say. That’s a lie, though: you have. There’s a space in the living room by the fireplace under a window. You want to be near the massive floor to ceiling bookcase. There’s an ottoman there now but you would move it. Maybe you do need to build a nest. Maybe it will help. 

“Well, me and Simon were thinking about going to town later. If you want to come we could look for some things?” 

“Sure,” you say. Johnny raises his eyebrows. You haven’t left the confines of the house or the back yard. Maybe he expected you to say no and he was going to have to convince you. You wanted to say no. You already feel like you’re regretting it. You like the solitude of Johnny’s house; it's secluded, quiet and away from anything or anyone.

You try to remember how far away the nearest town is, but you really have no idea. You look into the kitchen and see John moving around. He looks up and smiles, like he always does. You look back down, gripping your cup tighter. 

“Have you spoken to John yet?” Johnny asks. Your eyes flick up to him and you bring the mug to your lips. You don’t want to talk to him. You’re not ready yet. The hairs stand up on the back of your neck. You miss him. Just thinking about him makes a knot form in your stomach. 

It’s your job to keep the threads tight, it’s your job to keep the bonds strong. You miss John, but you’re just not ready. 

“I will, it’s just hard.” You take another big gulp of tea, letting it warm your throat. He looks at you pressing his lips together like he wants to say something but he doesn’t. 

“He misses you,” he says after a few seconds. It makes you feel guilty. You’re being a bad omega. You should just push your feelings to the side and be there for him. It’s not like you had a choice with Professor Hale. 

You stand up, ignoring Johnny’s attempts at apologies as you head back into the kitchen. John is still standing there, leaning against the sink. You place your mug on the kitchen island. You look up at him. His eyes never leave you as he brings his mug to his lips. 

You open your mouth stepping forward like you want to say something. You don’t know what to say. You’re not ready to forgive him yet. Images of Dr. Piper's blooded face flood into your head. 

He did that. He could have stopped her. 

He could have stopped her. 

You storm out of the room down the hall up the stairs. You don’t know why it makes you so angry. You just want to run. 

“You alright?” Simon asks as you almost bump into him in the hallway. 

“I’m fine,” you snap. Your head is pounding as you look around, and you’re confused for a second looking for your room. Simon steps closer to you, his hand landing on your shoulder. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. You snap back to reality looking at him. He’s frowning at you. You nod and turn to your room. You close the door behind you rushing over to the window to breathe in the cold morning air. 

There’s a knock at the door snapping you out of your daze.

“I’m fine,” you call back. There's a shakiness to your voice. You’re not ready yet.

The door opens anyway. You know it’s Simon, he only opens it a crack.

“You wanna leave the door open a bit. These doors are old, could get stuck and then we’ll have to break you out,” Simon says. You smile. You know that's not the real reason. None of them will admit the real reason though. 

“Thank you,” you say, then hear him moving away. His scent wafts into the room, filling your nose with gunpowder and the ground after rain. He did that on purpose, for you. He does such a good job at protecting his scent. 

You step away from the window sitting down on your bed. You look at Piper’s scarf tied to the bed head. It barely smells of her anymore. You run your fingers over it and it makes you upset. You look away. 

Now you wish you had a nest.

You don’t even realise how long it has been or how late it is until Johnny knocks at your room door. You finish the last page of the book you're reading and get up, your limbs stiff from being curled up in the rocking chair. 

“Hey, ready to leave?” he asks as you open the door. You nod, picking your jacket up from the back of the door.

“How did you like the book?” he asks, as you walk down the stairs. 

“It was okay.” You look down at it, some kind of romance book you picked for the pretty house on the cover. It just made you miss John. Maybe you need to stay away from those kinds of books for a while. You hang your jacket over the bannister and go into the living room to put the book away. 

When you walk in you see John and Kyle on the sofa, John’s arm is thrown round the back with Kyle angled slightly towards him. They both smile at you as you walk past the TV in silence to put the book back on the shelf. 

“Going down town?” Kyle asks. You nod trying your best to keep your eyes away from John. Kyle stands up reaching into his pocket and handing you something. You walk over to accept it. It’s a piece of folded up paper. 

“Shopping list.” He smiles. You nod back at him and head for the door to leave. 

“Have fun,” John says. You freeze, turning back to look at him. He’s smiling. You press your lips together and nod back at him before walking through the door. 

The room is empty again. John waits till he hears the front door close before getting up. Kyle follows him as John looks out the window watching everyone get into the car. Kyle opens the front door watching as the lights come on and they start to drive away.

John comes behind Kyle as they watch the car leave. He slips his hands around his waist pulling him up against him. 

“I could have gone instead of Simon,” Kyle says. John just hums, pressing his face into Kyle's neck, breathing him in. 

“I wanted to spend some time with you,” John says as Kyle turns in his arms. He keeps his hands on Kyle’s waist pressing his fingers into his soft skin. 

“You’ve done such a good job taking care of the omega, you deserve someone taking care of you,” John says leaning in and planting his lips on Kyle’s. It doesn’t take long for him to sink into the kiss letting his hands run up John’s shirt. 

John pulls him inside without breaking away from the kiss, closing the door behind them. Kyle is already getting needy, rubbing his thumbs over John’s nipples, who moans into his mouth. Kyle drags his tongue across Johns as his heels hit the bottom step. 

“C’mon,” John says, breaking away so he can lead Kyle up the stairs. They make their way into the master bedroom. John hoped he would be sharing this bed with you. Instead it feels empty at night. 

Kyle presses past him making his way over to sit on the edge of the bed. John smiles walking over, his hand comes up to brush Kyle’s cheek. 

“It’s been too long. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” John says, running his hands over Kyle's head. Kyle's arms come up to John’s waist, he presses his fingers into his skin. 

“It’s okay, I know things haven’t been easy,” Kyle says, running his hands back up Price’s shirt.

“I should have made time,” he says, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling it over his head. 

“You’re making time now, that's what matters.” Kyle kisses his stomach, dipping his thumbs past John's waistband. He moves his hand to the front of John’s pants as he cups Kyle's face.

Kyle unbuckles John’s pants, undoing the button and letting them fall down. Kyle hums running his hand over John’s hardened cock, mapping it out over the fabric. 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he says, pulling Kyle’s face up to look at him. 

“Yeah, you’ll get a turn,” Kyle smiles. Without moving his eyes he pulls John’s boxers down letting his cock spring free. John lets out a sigh looking down at Kyle who moves his hands to grip around his member. He rolls his thumb over the head, making John twitch in his hands.

Kyle doesn’t wait for long, his eyes going shiny and his mouth filling with saliva. He wets his lips, taking John in his mouth. Kyle hums as he takes him all the way to the hilt. It makes John’s head tip back letting out his own moan as he throbs in Kyle’s mouth.

“I’ve missed your lips, your mouth. Christ, we should have done this sooner,” John breathes, his cock hardening, forcing Kyle to slow down. Kyle just hums. John looks down at him. His arms have wrapped around his waist. His nails dragging up and down his back make goosebumps rise on his body.

John lets himself relax, spreading his legs slightly while Kyle’s tongue presses hard, running up and down the underside of his cock. John moans, his hand moving to the top of Kyle’s head. He can’t help gently pushing on his head making sure he takes him all the way. His hand moves down his head to his neck, his fingers pressing into the sensitive skin. Kyle moans causing John to groan as the smell of vanilla fills the room.

Kyle pulls off him, saliva dripping down his chin. John sighs smiling as his hand comes around to cup his chin letting his thumb smear the saliva across Kyle's lips. 

“On the bed,” he orders, his voice rumbling. Kyle nods, pulling his shirt over his head before turning and crawling up on the bed. John runs his hands over Kyle's body as he turns lying flat on his back.

John bends down, unclipping Kyle's belt and buttons, grabbing his waistband, pulling the rest of his clothes off and throwing them over the chaise longue in the room. Kyle’s cock springs up. He’s wet, swollen, tip shiny with precum. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous ain’t you,” John says, running his hand up Kyle's body leaning over him. He takes his time pinching his nipples, letting his hands map out each muscle and scar. The further down he gets the more kisses he leaves on Kyle’s skin, sucking on his sensitive spots leaving his mark. 

John reaches Kyle’s cock rubbing his thumb over the tip spreading the precum down his shaft. 

“So perfect, so pretty,” John says, pumping Kyle's cock causing him to tip his head back moaning out John’s name. “That’s it, keep making those pretty little noises and I'll make you feel good. You’ve worked so hard, you deserve to feel good.” 

“Anything for you, sir,” Kyle breathes, already sounding blissed out as John moves to kneel between his legs. He presses his thumb under the head of his cock, pulling his foreskin back and pressing his lips against his swollen tip.

John takes Kyle all the way making sure to wet the whole length, his chin resting on Kyle’s balls. It feels good having Kyle in his mouth. It’s a familiar feeling, something John can relax into, letting his guard down completely. 

The smell of vanilla fills the air, Kyle’s moans getting louder. Each one makes John’s cock twitch. He’s getting impatient. He needs to be inside Kyle, feel him tightening sround his dick, fucking him deep and long. That’s what he needs right now, a good hard fuck to clear his head.

He pulls his mouth off of Kyle looking over at his head still thrown back on the bed, his hands bunching the bedding. 

“Turn over,” John says, gripping Kyle’s waist to flip him. Kyle shuffles up the bed reaching over to the bedside table drawer. John was already gathering up saliva in his mouth as Kyle hands him a bottle of lube.  

“Ready for everything, huh?” John asks, throwing it down on the bed next to him, he wants to work him open some first, pushing his fingers in his mouth wetting them. Kyle hums, pressing his ass in the air, almost like you do when you’re presenting for him. It makes the hairs stand on the back of his neck. He pushes the thought of you away. He’s spending time with Kyle now.

“Open up for me,” John says, pressing his fingers against Kyle's hole. John works his fingers in, a moan rising from Kyle as he grips the bedding. John curls his fingers hitting the soft spot that makes Kyle press his face deeper into the bed. 

The beautiful moans make John’s cock throb as he works Kyle open letting his palm slam against Kyle’s skin. 

“You can take one more,” John says, pressing his lips on Kyle’s back teasing him with a third finger.

“Sir—” 

“Come on Kyle, you can take it,” John says, his voice grumbling from the back of his throat. It’s almost an order. An order Kyle follows, relaxing so John can press another finger into him. Kyle moans, almost screaming into the bedding as John speeds up. 

John reaches over and picks up the bottle of lube popping open the cap with one hand. He can’t wait any longer; he needs to feel Kyle clenching around his cock milking him until there’s nothing left. John takes his hand out using it to squirt lube over his cock smearing it around before lining himself up. 

“Such a good boy,” John breathes as he eases into him, letting out a satisfied moan to match Kyle. “ Oh fuck—” John breathes shifting on his knees so he’s in a better position. Kyle’s hands are still gripping the sheets, his head turned to the side, eyes squeezed shut. 

The smell of vanilla is thick in the air. They’ll have to open a window when they’re done. For now John doesn’t care, he slowly starts to buck his hips letting Kyle get used to him for a few thrusts. Then he reaches around Kyle's waist finding his cock and running his hand down the length. 

With the way Kyle is reacting to his body John’s not quite sure how long he’s going to last. He lets himself relax though only focusing on Kyle and his sweet moans, his incoherent babbling as John pumps his length. 

He wants to see Kyle, wants to look into his eyes when he cums. 

“Turn over for me,” John says, pulling out as he hears Kyle groan in protest. He turns over laying on his back spreading his legs. John steps off the bed hooking his arms under Kyle’s knees and pulling him to the edge.

John presses back up against Kyle's hole letting his tip tease him while he gets comfortable. 

“Look so pretty down there for me,” John says, his scent thick in the air. So is Kyle's, and it's making John's head spin. Kyle barely responds, humming something incoherent as he looks up at John. His eyes are glossy, his lips wet and puffy. John leans over and kisses him sucking on his bottom lip before standing back up again. 

He presses into Kyle watching as he arches his back. John’s hand presses on his abdomen pushing him down before wrapping his hand around Kyle’s cock. This time he quickly speeds up trying to match his thrusts with pumping Kyle’s dick. John’s hand is smeared in precum, adding the wet sounds mixed with their moaning.

Kyle's hand lazily comes on his chest brushing his nipples making him clench around John. It feels like fireworks. John groans, tipping his head back trying to focus on not cumming so quickly. He wants to stretch this out for as long as he can. 

Kyle is pulling on his nipples, squeezing them before running his thumb over them. 

“Close,” Kyle stutters, back arching. John squeezes the base of his cock, running his thumb over his balls. 

“Already?” John teases, slowing down his thrusts. He watches as more precum drips down his hand. “C’mon you can take it, a little longer.” John’s voice is low, the air filling with the smell of leather as he slowly builds up speed. 

Kyle looks up at him, and John can see the glint in his eyes. He leans over and his free hand comes up to rub Kyle’s cheek. Kyle turns his head kissing it, trying to suck on his fingers in a desperate attempt to get John to let him cum.

“Wait,” he says suddenly as he sits up in the bed wrapping his arms around John. 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” John smiles as Kyle pulls off of him and scoots further into the bed patting for John to join him. John lays down letting his head sink into the pillows, his hand gently stroking himself as he watches Kyle who swings his legs over John straddling his waist. 

“Easy there, soldier,” John coos, running his hands over Kyle's thighs, squeezing them. Kyle reaches around grabbing John’s cock angling himself then guiding John into him. John’s head tips back into the pillows as they both shuffle their bodies getting comfortable. 

“Such a big strong alpha taking care of the pack,” Kyle says with a cheeky grin on his face, running his fingers up John’s chest as he bounces up and down on his cock. John looks up at him. There’s a twinkle in his eye. Shivers run up and down his body. His cock twitches, and Kyle clenches around him.

“Christ,” John breathes closing his eyes as the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The scent of leather fills the air as John and Kyle chase the peak. John’s fingers dig into Kyle’s thighs gripping him tightly. Kyle pumps his cock with each bounce, and suddenly his movements become uneven, more desperate.

“Fuck sir—” Kyle calls John’s name as he cums, thick ropes shooting across John’s chest. John cums a few seconds later forcing Kyle down onto him as he fills him up, each throb causing him to grunt as he tries to normalise his breathing.

Kyle's eyes open and he looks down at John smiling. 

“Like being called a strong alpha?” Kyle asks, raising an eyebrow. John chuckles, shaking his head. Kyle leans down to kiss him, then he sits back up bracing his hands on John’s chest like he’s about to get off him. 

“No, you’re not done yet,” John says, running his hands up Kyle’s thighs. 

“Want to go again old man?” Kyle teases, getting up anyway to move next to John. Kyle hums, tracing his fingers across John’s abdomen, feeling John shiver under his touch until his hand makes its way to John’s cock. 

“Yeah, I could go again.” 

Kyle smiles. 

You’re driven to a small town about an hour from the house. The whole place looks picturesque: cobblestone roads and massive stone brick buildings. It’s almost like something out of a fairy tale. The whole town is surrounded by long fields and evergreen woods. 

As you drive down the main road you can see shops on both sides. There’s a carpark at the end of the road and a massive building with colourful windows and a huge bell on the top. Simon parks and you all get out. Your eyes are drawn to everything. There’s a cafe right next to the carpark with massive curved wooden windows that look hundreds of years old.

You end up grabbing Johnny's arm as he leads you round to the main street where the shops are. There’s a post office and various other shops, anything from clothes stores to what look like furniture stores. At the end of the street there is another fountain and a modern looking building with two entrances: one says NHS the other Tesco. The seemingly never ending gloom that hangs over the Scottish sky seems warm and cosy now with the shop lights spilling out onto the road. There are no cars, just people, dogs. You can hear music coming out from the cafe, gentle tunes that add to the atmosphere. It’s beautiful. 

“Where do you want to go first?” Johnny asks as you stop on the corner of the main street. You look up at him still trying to take it all in. He smiles at you, tipping his head. You squeeze his arm looking back down the road. There are a few people around: a group waiting at the bus stop, a woman with a stroller and a group of older ladies at the cafe.

“I don’t know,” you say. Everywhere, you want to go everywhere.

“There’s a book shop or we could go to the charity shop to see if we can find anything for your nest.” You look back down the street. 

“The book store,” you say. Johnny’s arm comes around your waist as he guides you down the road. 

“I’ll go to Tesco,” Simon says as Johnny stops outside what you assume is the book store. You’re looking in the windows while they chat, not paying attention, your eyes drawn over the books displayed on stands. 

“C’mon lass, there’s more inside,” Johnny says, his hand gently pushing you in. You’re not sure what to even look for. You take a deep breath in. The place smells of books. The smell of ink and paper fills your nose. It’s a comforting smell. That's what you loved about the books in the bunker. It was one of the only places that didn’t smell sterile or full of chemicals. 

The place is dimly lit with orange lighting and dark wood bookshelves. It makes the whole place feel cosy. You walk over to one of the shelves running your fingers over the spines reading the names. There’s a sign at the top that reads ‘mystery’. You look for colours and names that stick out to you. You would buy the whole store if you could.

“What kind of things do you like?” Johnny asks. 

“I like fantasy, with worlds I can lose myself in. I like nature and exploration,” you say, pulling out a book and thumbing through its perfect, untouched pages. You don’t even realise Johnny has left your side until he comes back with a pile of books in his hands. 

“Got you some classics.” He shows you enthusiastically. You put the book in your hands back and take a look. The Lion and the Witch in the Wardrobe and Lord of The Rings. 

“There’s a lion in the wardrobe?” you ask, frowning at the book cover with some kids hugging a lion on it. 

“There’s a whole world in the wardrobe,” he winks. You smile nodding at him. You look back over to the shelf picking out a few more that seem interesting before going to pay. Johnny makes small talk with the man behind the counter. 

They talk so fast you almost can’t keep up with what they’re saying, their accents so thick it almost sounds like they’re speaking another language. You listen on in awe offering to carry the bag as you leave. Johnny won’t have it though, acting like the bag is suddenly the heaviest thing on the planet. 

You let him carry it and cross the road over to the charity shop. He walks you through to the back where there is furniture, pillows and blankets. You spot a fluffy looking blanket with animals printed on it. You pick it up along with a white fluffy pillow.

“I have some blankets at home, ones my mum and gran made. I could find them when we get back if you want?” he asks. You turn to look at him. You still have the blankets from the journey over. 

“You don’t have to, they’re your blankets,” you say squeezing the pillow. 

“It’s fine, they’re begging to be used for something.” He smiles, and you nod at him smiling back. 

This time when you pay it's a woman, an older woman but you’re convinced Johnny will flirt with anyone. When you step back outside it’s darker and there are lights strung up in the street. The place looks even more picturesque than when you were driving out here. You can see that the tops of the lamp posts are covered in massive green leaves with red berries.

“It’s really pretty,” you say, smiling, looking up at the lights. 

“Yeah, almost Christmas,” John says as he walks you back towards the car. 

“I’ve heard about that. The professor would always bring me a gift.” 

“A good gift?” Johnny asks. You nod.

“It was usually a book, it was the only time he would ever be nice to me or give me gifts.” 

“Not even on your birthday?” Johnny asks, sounding shocked. 

“No, that was always an important busy day.” You sigh, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. 

“Why?” Johnny asks as you cross the road over to the carpark. You suddenly feel a chill. You don’t really want to talk about it. 

“Oh you know, lots of tests, lots of surgeries. It’s always the same, a long painful day.” You let out a sigh bringing your arms around your chest as you walk over to the car. Simon is already there putting bags into the boot. 

“Do you ever want to talk about it?” Johnny asks, stopping suddenly. You stop and turn to look at him. 

“What do you mean?” you ask frowning. He tips his head coming over to grab your hand.

“You know, about what you went through in the bunker,” he says. You shake your head.  Dr. Piper tried to get you to talk about it sometimes but you never really wanted to. She said now you were out of the bunker it would be good for you but you had no idea where to start. 

What would you even say? Would they even care?

“I don't know if I want to,” you say. He smiles at you squeezing your hand. 

“That's okay, but if you ever want to talk you know where we are,” he says walking back towards the car. You squeeze his hand back. This has been a good trip. 

“Got everything?” Simon asks as Johnny places the bags in the back next to the food Simon has. You can’t help sneaking a look. You love watching Kyle cook. Sometimes he lets you help, but you think he just likes the company more. You nod, smiling at Simon as he closes the door. 

“John!?” You hear someone shout. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck and you turn around with Johnny and Simon. 

“John MacTavish is that you?” the man asks as he walks towards you. Johnny steps forward. He’s big, old, with scruffy clothes and a bright green beanie and scarf.  

“Henry, what are you doing out this time of day?” Johnny says, opening his arms for the man. The smell of alcohol hits your nose, you can tell the man is unsteady on his feet. 

“Who are your friends?” he slurs, trying to force himself past Johnny who moves his body blocking him. You’re suddenly nervous and you reach out gripping Simon’s jacket. He turns to look down at you as Johnny tries his best to move the stranger away. 

“C’mon,” Simon encourages you, guiding you into the car. He’s projecting his scent; it makes your head spin as he opens the back door and you climb in. As soon as you’re sat down you turn to look out the back at Johnny who has his hand on the guy's shoulder smiling at him. 

“What books did you get?” Simon asks, pulling your attention to him and you turn watching him turn the engine on. Your mind goes blank. He turns to look at you.

“Books, yeah. The lion in the wardrobe,” you say but the name doesn’t sound right.

“ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ?” Simon asks. You nod. Johnny comes around the front of the car getting into the passenger seat. It makes you jump and you grip your seat-belt pulling it on. 

“Who’s your friend?” Simon asks Johnny. 

“Henry, local. You know the sort, kicked him out the pub for the landlady a few times.” Johnny shrugs. Simon hums as he drives the car out the car park. Johnny turns to look at you.

“Had a good trip?” He asks, smiling. 

“Yeah. I think I'm ready to make a nest,” you say smiling at him.

John’s laid up in the bed, the window open behind him. The cold breeze makes him shiver. The smell of vanilla and leather is almost completely gone now. All that fills the room now is the smell of the forest and the scent of Kyle’s beta.

Kyle pulls the duvet further over them, running his fingers across John’s chest under the bedding as they’re curled up next to each other. 

“She wants to forgive you,” Kyle says after a while. John turns to look at him. “She’s struggling without you. She thinks she can hide it but she can't.” 

“What do you mean?” John asks. Kyle sighs, moving his hand down to John’s stomach.

“She calls out for you in her sleep. I heard her talking to Johnny, she misses you. You claimed her, she’s your omega, that will never go away,” Kyle says, John sighs.

“I’m giving her space.” 

“She’s grieving but maybe some forced proximity would do you both some good.” 

“I don’t want to push her.” 

“It’s been almost a month. She needs you, and I know you need her.” John smiles at his words. 

“Don’t think you’re so subtle either, Cap. I see the way you act when she’s around or not around,” Kyle teases.

“Oh yeah,” John scoffs.

“Yeah, how you always sit so she’s in your peripheral. How your body language changes when she’s upset or happy. I bet you don’t even realise it,” Kyle explains chuckling.

“Maybe I’m getting soppy.” 

“You’ve always been soppy, sir,” Kyle says, propping himself up on his arm, running his hand down his abdomen. John smiles at him hearing the car pull back up outside the house. Kyle tenses propping himself up in bed. John puts his hand on Kyle's chest pushing him down. 

“Easy, take a nap. I’ll wake you up later,” John says, kissing his forehead. 

“She needs us,” Kyle says, sighing.

“She has Johnny and Simon. She'll be fine for a few hours. You need the rest,” John says, moving out of the bed to dress himself. He goes over to the window at the far end of the room. He can see Simon opening to boot to the car as you get out. 

You’re smiling as Johnny tells you something, his arm already finding its way round your waist. It warms John’s heart seeing you smile. It’s the first time he’s seen you smile in weeks.   

You walk in just as John is making his way down the stairs, your nostrils flare as the smell of leather fills your nose. Your eyes lock onto him, and a warmth builds deep in you. You’re just staring at him. He smiles at you.

“Price, a word?” Simon says as you blink swallowing the unbelievable amount of saliva that formed in your mouth. John nods, walking past you and following Simon into the kitchen. You can feel your cheeks burning as you take a step to the stairs. 

“Here, your books and blankets. I’ll put the ones we have in the living room,” Johnny says. You nod heading up the stairs. John's door is locked; you can’t help walking up to it and taking a deep breath in. You can smell the lingering scent of vanilla and leather. You close your eyes breathing it. 

It makes your head feel fuzzy, the burn in your core is almost an ache. You miss him. You want to be mad at him a little longer. Or maybe you don’t, maybe it’s time to move on. You turn walking into your room. You put the bags down going over to Piper’s scarf you have tied to the bed head. 

You run your fingers over it. You can barely smell her scent on it anymore. Maybe it really is time to move on. The burn in your core is replaced by a heavy feeling in your chest. 

You’re not quite ready yet.

Later after dinner when everyone has gone to their rooms you decide you want to build your nest. You sneak out of your room as soon as you hear the last door close. The only person who keeps their room door open is John. Maybe it’s a soldier thing, or maybe it’s an open invitation for you, whenever you’re ready. 

Either way there is no light coming out of the room. You try really hard to listen around. You can’t remember which floorboards creak and this house is old. You’re gripping blankets and pillows in your hands. You squeeze them against your chest as you slowly tip-toe down to the ground floor. All the lights are off and the building is dark.

When you make your way into the living room you see the pile of older looking blankets, on the ottoman exactly where you want to build your nest. You empty your arms onto the floor. You have to move the thing first. Luckily it’s on wheels and it’s not heavy. You pull it out of its place looking at the bare corner of the room.

You pick up the blankets off the ottoman. They’re thick and beautifully embroidered with flowers and animals. They had a musty smell to them but they smell homely. You put them down then sink to your knees reaching behind you to bring the rest of the blankets and pillows you bought around. 

You start to arrange things, the thick blankets first. The wooden floor is cold; you'll need a good bottom layer. You put the pillows down in the corner. It doesn’t feel right. It needs more. You’re already rearranging, spreading out the blankets more, fluffing the pillows even taking the extra ones from the sofa.

You feel like you’ve been working on it for ages, but each time you arrange it it still doesn’t feel right. It feels like an empty nest. Suddenly you’re distracted by a door opening. The door to the kitchen is open and you can see the rest of the lights come on.

You hold your breath craning your head to see into the kitchen. It's John he reaches up taking a glass out and you hear the sink. You look back at your nest, picking up another blanket and running your hand over it. You like the purple flowers on it. You hold it in your hand as you go over to the window above your nest.

You pull the curtain back and open the window. It’s cold, almost too cold. You can smell nature though letting the breeze make you shiver. You look out into the dark, closing your eyes and breathing it in. You can smell the woods, the damp ground, you can hear the lapping of the pond and the sound of creatures in the woods. 

“You okay?” The sudden noise makes you jump. You turn, seeing John standing in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand. You’re just staring at him squeezing the blanket in your hands like you’re clinging on to it for dear life. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, holding his hand up. He looks down at the pile of blankets and pillows. He stands outside the door. He knows better than to come in while you’re making your nest. You can’t keep avoiding him. It's been weeks, longer, since you’ve really been around him. 

“You didn’t scare me,” you say, kneeling back down. His eyes follow you as you put the blanket down and pick up another pillow.

“It means you feel safe right?” he asks like he doesn’t know. You nod, pressing the pillows before turning to look up at him. 

“I thought if the weather was nice tomorrow we could all go see the loch?” he asks. You do want to see the loch. You haven’t really been in the mood to do much. 

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” you say, running your hand over the fluffy blue blanket. It’s almost perfect. 

“You know if there is anything you need you just have to ask,” John says. You smile. You don’t know why you’re sick of people telling you that.

“I know, thank you,” you say looking up at him. There’s a burn there, a throb in your heart. You miss him. You miss him just holding you. You want him to hold you and tell you everything is going to be okay. 

It’s going to be okay. You have to believe that. 

John stands there in the doorway watching you as you mess with your nest. It’s not going to be perfect, not until you have something from each of your pack, just like the nest you left in the US. It makes you feel sick knowing that nest will have been destroyed.

John lets out a sigh and you look over at him. He smiles at you, keeping his distance. 

“It’s late, you should sleep soon,” he says. You nod looking out the window at the night sky. The sky is so clear and dark you can see constellations spread above you. You feel like you could fall asleep forever under those skies. 

“I will,” you say nodding at him. You watch him leave. He turns walking back through the kitchen. Your nest is as good as it’s going to get for now. You pick up one of the handmaid blankets pulling it over your shoulders before climbing into the nest. 

You feel safe here and as soon as you can make it smell of your pack it will be perfect. 

You close your eyes. You’ll make it perfect. 

..

You wake to Kyle standing over you, his hand pressing on your shoulder. He’s smiling with a cup of tea in his hands. You sit up wiping the drool off the side of your face. Your body is stiff, and your muscles feel heavy. You slept well, and you feel good. He hands you the cup of tea. 

“You made a nest,” he says, going to sit over on the sofa, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. You stand up wrapping the blanket around you and going to sit next to him. You take a sip of tea then put it down on the coffee table.   

“Yeah, it felt right.” You smile. He lays his arm round the back of the sofa. You look at him. His head turns to you as he takes a sip of the tea. You lean up against him, and his arm rests over your shoulder. 

“John thought we could take a trip to the loch today,” Kyle says. 

“Yeah, that would be nice. I would like to see it.” 

“We’ll take the car.” 

“I don’t mind walking,” you say looking up at him. He looks down at you and nods. You really don’t mind spending time in nature. Johnny walks into the room next with coffee in his hands. He looks over and sees the nest and smiles at you sitting down next to you. 

You sit there for a few minutes between them while you watch the news play on the TV. You look over at your nest. You do feel safe here, with all of them. Even John. 

“Would you two ever want to have sex with me?” you ask out of the blue before you can stop yourself. They both turn to you, looking between each other as they take in what you said. You regret it almost immediately, wishing you could take it back. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” You lean up reaching over for your mug of tea. 

“Would you want to have sex with one of us?” Johnny asks. You turn to look at him. He’s giving you a choice. You never really thought you had one. They would all get a go eventually at least that is what you thought would happen. 

Would John share you around just like the Professor did?

“I wouldn’t mind,” you say feeling embarrassed, sipping your tea to try and hide the redness in your face. “I mean I’ve never had a choice.”

“What do you mean?” Kyle asks. 

“Professor Hale, he would invite his friends to be with me during my heats. Sometimes. It’s normal for an alpha to share their omega in a pack. At least that's what I was told.” You sigh, taking another sip of tea. Kyle's hand comes to rub the top of your back. 

“I’m so sorry,” Kyle says. 

“Why?” You frown at him. He looks over at Johnny, his mouth hanging open.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Johnny says, his hand landing on your thigh and squeezing it. 

“What made you ask?” Kyle says his hand rubbing your back. 

“I don’t know.” That's a lie; you do. You let out a sigh. “I know you’re all together. I thought it was just normal pack behaviour, but then I remembered you’ve only been exposed to the chemical recently.” 

“It’s normal for packs to all be, together with each other?” Johnny asks.

“Dr. Piper would be better at explaining it but yeah, if the alpha was okay with it of course.” You hang your head still feeling embarrassed. You can’t even remember what the original question was. You finish your tea reaching over and putting it on the coffee table. 

“Do you want to talk to John about it?” 

“No. Just forget it,” you say. Johnny starts to talk but the door opens. Simon steps in.

“Price said it’s going to rain later. If we want to go to the loch it has to be soon.”  Simon's eyes crease as he looks around you all. You get up, he steps aside for you and you head up the stairs. When you get to your room you change into the fluffiest, comfiest clothes you can find. 

What if you’ve ruined it all now? You should have not said anything. Why did you even bring it up? Because you miss John? Now you’re being silly. You should just talk to him. You catch Piper's scarf out the corner of your eye. 

No, not yet. It just doesn’t feel right.

When you make it back down to the hall, Johnny and Kyle are already standing with their coats on. 

“You sure you want to walk lass?” Johnny asks. You frown at him.  

“I thought you said it was close.”

“It is but it’s cold today,” he says. 

“I like the cold.” You smile, zipping your coat up. Johnny grumbles. Simon and John come out of the kitchen. 

“Soap, you can drive there in case we get caught in the rain.” He throws keys at Johnny who catches it and his expression changes. He seems happy about that. You follow him out with Kyle whose hand finds yours leading you past the pond to a dirt path. 

The walk is shorter than you expected. You cut through some woodland then follow an unmarked road for the rest of the way. It’s gloomy, the sun hidden by the darkening clouds. There’s fields with sheep which have colourful spots on them. Kyle talks the whole way, about how nice it is to be back in the calm countryside, how you would love a bunch of cities he lists off. 

You hear John and Simon behind you the whole way. They talk too but you don’t listen, your focus only on Kyle and taking in the countryside. You squeeze his hand now and again so he knows you're listening. 

It is cold. You can see your breath again but you don’t care. The walk is nice and you’re excited to see the loch. It’s been on your mind ever since you got here. You would see it in your dreams or what you imagined it would look like. It always looked like the little lake John would take you to on the base. 

This is way bigger. You’re almost skipping as you can see it through the tree line. You spot Johnny leaning against the car as you walk around letting go of Kyle's hand and speeding your pace to get to the edge of the water. 

The loch is massive. It goes as far as you can see. It’s almost like an ocean. There are waves too lapping up on the stony shore. Johnny comes behind you as you bend down picking up an almost perfectly round stone.

“What do you think?” he asks, his arm wrapping around your shoulder. 

“It’s beautiful,” you smile. You throw the stone letting it splash in the water. 

“Watch this,” Kyle says, throwing a stone but instead of splashing it bounces across the water. You gasp. 

“How did you do that!?” you ask enthusiastically. He bends down picking up another stone and does the same thing. This time it travels further before plopping into the water.  

“Pff, he’s showing off, watch this,” Johnny says, his arm leaving you as he does the same but with 2 stones at the same time. 

“No fair you had all your life to practice,” Kyle huffs. You can’t help but laugh. You haven’t laughed in what feels like forever. It's not even that funny, it just feels right. The noise almost sounds wrong, but it feels good, you let yourself laugh.

“Teach me,” you say, bending down and picking up a stone. As you stand back up to look across the lake you see white blobs slowly falling down, they’re picked up by the breeze and swirl around in the air. Confused, you look up at the sky, the clouds are sheets of white gloomy and swollen. You look down at the stone in your hand, the fluffy white blobs falling on your hand and disappearing. 

It’s snow. You’ve never seen snow before. 

You look up at Kyle smiling, the tufts laying on his hair. Then you look up at Johnny. He has the biggest grin on his face you think you’ve ever seen. You turn back to look at Simon and John standing a few metres behind you. John is smiling, a cigar between his fingers. Simon’s standing with his hands in his pockets. 

You let out a breath clenching your fist around the stone in your palm. You walk over to them. Your heart is thumping in your chest as you listen to the satisfying crunch of stones under your feet. The snow is coming down faster now and thicker. Are you really ready to do this?

“Do you know how to do that?” you ask them, sticking your hand out with the stone still in your palm. They look between each other. 

“Skipping stones? Yeah,” Simon says. 

“Bet you couldn’t beat me!” Johnny calls from behind. Simon tips his head letting out a sigh, taking the stone out of your hand walking past you. You look up at John who takes the cigar out his mouth. You smile at him. You’re still standing there as you hear more stones splashing on the water. 

“Thank you,” you say, watching the snow fall on his hat. 

“You don’t have to thank me.” He smiles. 

“Yes I do.” You hang your head for a second feeling heat rush to your cheeks. You look back up at him and he’s still smiling. His expression is soft. You breathe in his scent letting out a long sigh. 

“Want to judge who wins?” he asks, nodding behind you looking over your shoulder. You nod, turning back to see the three of them with their backs to you both, hands filled with stones flicking them over the water one by one. 

John’s hand rests on the top of your back. Maybe it is time to move on.

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Dividers by Plum98 & gild-ui

Beta reader and editor - rememberwren