#muzzled tac

[erineas]

Y'know, I started this as a quick traditional doodle after reading he canonically owns a muzzle now. Dunno when I started painting on my computer, that might explain the odd shading--

Here's another version:

I may have fell in love with this guy when searching for references, he has some low-key big softie energy, ok? (That chest kiss!) 👉👈

Tac belongs to @didderd !

[didderd]

hehehe. y'all spoiling him. :3

[didderd]

saw th one with siren you n Tac after u left, n i love it!! <33333

magma doodles with frens! with @didderd 's tac sans!

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

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

18+

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

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

“Need to rest?”

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

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

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

Fucking bat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

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

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

He snorts. You smile.

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

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

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like sleeping with you.”

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

“You don’t?” You venture.

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

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

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

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

“Negative.” He drawls.

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

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

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…a cigarette.

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

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

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

You smile. “Please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does none of that.

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips twitch in a smile.

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

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

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

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Missed you,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow it down. Inhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod softly. “No lies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[isthenapoleoncute]

So...I'm back at it again with Nippy, Soldat, and my one Lannes. I was taking them out for a war when I happened upon an unfortunate sight in the form of not one, but two Napoleons tied to a tree and wearing muzzles. So I took them home since they were obviously surrendered and their previous owner clearly didn't care about them. Thus, I now have Tic-Tac and the other is unnamed. The former I named because he saw a thing of Tic-Tacs on my kitchen table and took one. I had to pull the rest away from him so he wouldn't eat them all and get sick. I'm taking them to the vet tomorrow to see if anything else is wrong. I can't believe someone would leave these guys tied up like that.

GRR! That makes me so mad! I wish someone would take those mean Napoleon owners and tie them to a tree, see how they like it!

Good for you for rescuing them! I hope Tic-Tac and Nippy get along splendidly! Keep me updated on the other one, too!

[tictac-murder-spaghetti]

Introduction whoo!

Hello everyone!! I've been lurking for a little while but I finally mustered up the courage to make an introduction, so here we go! My name is Gadget or Tic Tac and I use any pronouns (he/they/she)! I'm currently 18 and I am aroace! I'm mostly going to post OC whump content, with my favorite duo of OCs currently being a detective named Ambrose (this blog is currently themed around him design wise!) and his mad scientist/necromancer best friend Strychnine. Both get plenty whumped in different ways >:) Now! Onto tropes I like :) - Kidnapping - Gags/muzzles - Lab whump - Nonhuman whumpees (of all sorts! Including anthro/furry) - Creepy/intimate whumpers - Defiant/snarky whumpees - Hurt comfort (ESPESCIALLY platonic relationships. I love caretaker and whumpee being best friends) - Restraints Then the things I will not write/probably not read either - Sickfics/emeto - Broken/fully conditioned whumpees - Major character death (permanent, do love a good necromancy afterall) - Unhappy ending/no comfort at all Beyond that, I'm kinda willing to give anything a shot! I want to say thank you to both @whumperofworlds and @a-crumb-of-whump for encouraging me to actually make a whump blog!! Both have amazing blogs and lots of cool OCs so if you haven't checked them out already please do (especially fond of WoWs Ash and Evie's Ollie!) Anyway, this got longer then I meant, but thank you for checking this out! Very happy to have a blog now and put my OCs through hell :)

[lady-loth-drabbles]

Zieh Leine

Kӧnig x AFAB Insert she/her. Part 1 / ? . Words - 1K. Enemies/Rivals to Lovers.

Warnings: None so far.

SWEDEN - Fulufjället National Park: 0400

The reconnaissance, who was supposedly already on ground, had been silent. Horangi was usually his Overwatch for missions like these - deployments with minimal engagement. He enjoyed how always talkative he was, over informative sometimes sure, but he’d slowly become used to it. So the silence was a little disconcerting. He was kicking himself for not paying more attention during the briefing, re-read the notes or maybe asked more questions.

 He had just been so eager to get out into the field, even if it was for something so mundane as this. The past few weeks had left him so restless he was practically vibrating out of his skin, he had visited the base gym so often they virtually begged him to stop - for his health. Now he was out and, as boring as it was, he was tempered, satiated. Though he did wish it was maybe a little more…precarious. 

The first few hours he’d just assumed it was Allard who was lost in these woods with him, given the environment she’d seemed the most comfortable in this terrain but as the night dragged into morning he was beginning to second guess whether he really had any support at all. So distracted with his rambling thoughts as he trudged through the snow he nearly missed the clink of metal in his not so distant vicinity. A sound, to a practised ear, of someone cocking a bolt action. They hadn’t seen him, he’d of been shot already, but they had definitely heard him.

He’d be kicking himself for being so unaware if the sound hadn’t intoxicated him. He moved deftly to cover as adrenaline flooded his mind with routinized finesse. His thoughts quieted and eyes blew wide with excitement. His shoulders pulled back, long brawny legs braced against the packed snow, tense and ready. All he needed to do had been done and no one said he couldn't engage - have some fun. What else could he do, before he was supposed to meet his illusive overwatch, play sitting duck with an active threat in the area? Of course not.

He was focused wholly on the hunt. The blood pumping in his ears steeling him, a practised predator. He scoured the covered ground around him, if they had vantage on him, they’d have seen him. So they were further down. It was the glare of the light, in the snow, reflected off their muzzle that told him exactly where they were. The risk was decently low compared to what he was used to and if they’re set up like he suspects getting one-up on them will be easy, allowing him to settle confidently further into The Game, The Hunt.

He had skirted the edges of the more rugged parts of the hill side, using the more visible rocks to excel his trek up and across the steep slope. The snow grips clipped to the bottom of his shoes clicked quietly against the stone, still less audible then trudging through the dense snow. As familiar as he was with these northern winters, his weight made traversing the snow undetected tedious.

He came to what he had suspected, a small hiking respite - a semi-open lean, snow covered and wind shielded. An undersized set of dark carbon fibre skis laid alongside the weathered wood of the shelter, half covered in snow, with a portable white tac pack leaning against a large gun case next to them. Definitely a sniper. If he wasn't so laser focused on the offensive he’d have probably considered this might just be his overwatch.

Desperately trying to muffle the scrunching of his heavy steps in the snow as he approached, glad the low light covered any shadow he might cast, he stalked closer. He pushed up to the opening archway, leaning down and dipping his head to enter, gun raised but held close to himself to avoid disclosing his entrance any more than he already had. A white painted rifle lay fully assembled and half covered in snow braced onto a firepit-side bench, the set up in front of him was basic, bare bones for easy transport. Basic and empty.

As he turned to sweep the corners of the ‘room’ his breath hitched in his throat as something long and hard pressed itself flat against the inside of his thigh, angled high - high enough to make resisting a whimper hard-fought. On instinct he already had his rifle raised, muzzle near knocking against the plastic of their foggy black ski visor. His eyes flicked briefly, tepidly, to his groin and the long 13” stiletto knife flicked out and held with a steady, practised, white gloved hand. Small.

They stood steady and upright, their posture - indignant, even so they barely came up to his armpits and had to tilt their head far back to make eye contact. Their eyes, though partly obscured by the tinted eyewear, glaze past the gun readied at them, to him - through him. He took a moment to look over them, the short tuffs of dark brown hair curling out from under the low pulled hood of their jacket, their neck gaiter, mottled grey with black venting over the mouth, the lip of it tucked neatly under the foam sealant of their visor.

“Call your berghund to heel O’Conor. He is about to be a hazard.” 

The other steady, practised hand moved to click their chest radio, his hand dropping from bracing his gun, reflexively snapping to grab their wrist. They glowered, undeterred. Titling their clothed chin to speak, stare unbroken. Even with the bulk of their winter gear, they were delicately small. Swamped by their white and tawny coat and matching padded ski pants .

The rhythmless cut to her light voice betraying her origins. High German. He remained steely, watching the quirk of her eyebrow through the opaque screen on her visor. It was a contest, a question. ‘Are you quite done?’ it said, bored and smug - without a smile. The radio on his chest hissed to life - Conor’s tight rasp coming through - quiet but assertive.

“Kӧnig, stand down. She's our new blow-in.”

[theaverageshooter]

Vaznev-9K 2/5 mods. This Vaznev is equipped with the True Tac Grip for fast ADS, and the Omega-9K muzzle attachment for recoil stabilization and sound suppression. . @kalashnikovusaofficial @kalashnikovusa @callofduty (at Fort Bragg, North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp8Qxqiph7k/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gcldfanged]

Things you said I wouldn't understand.

It must've been the first time Tseng had seen him just... go empty. Completely numb, almost like a fugue state taking over, narrowing all of his sensory input to whatever was happening in front of him, in that second. Eyes little more than two matte pools of nara ink, not truly focused on one specific thing, but sliding around- floor to ceiling, his blood misted forearm still gripping his service pistol. The mangled, caved in pile of meat, teeth, and tongue that the agent had essentially bludgeoned with the butt of his handgun.

Their witness was still alive... maybe. Spasms making the body jerk like a marionette on twisted strings. Perhaps the last few signals of neurons firing off as the body began to shut down after going into shock.

Jae-hyo heard Tseng's voice but it felt so distant, the rapid and sharp snaps of his thumb and forefinger in front of his nose, a hard jostle to his right shoulder.

"Whip, look at me!"

Yoon nearly jumps out of his skin, turning with strangely open and dismayed expression like a small child about to be scolded by their guardian.

"What?"

The question tumbles out like he'd only just misheard his superior in the moment- What was that, Boss? Like they were discussing what Tseng was going to order for takeout that night.

"What the hell happened?"

What could he even say? He almost laughed at the options.

Sorry, Boss, I guess I hit him a little too hard-

Hey, he's the one who headbutted my gun. Twenty-five times.

Jae's expression darkens as he pushes Tseng against the wall, the blood-speckled muzzle of his gun disturbingly close to his superior's chin due to the position of his hands.

"You said you trusted me, right-" he states more than asks, searching his superior's expression for confirmation of this fact. There's a dark intensity making his eyes look crazed, yet there's a kind of vulnerability to them.

"So, trust me now."

Don't ask questions. Please.

"What about the girl?"

Jae's pauses, having forgotten entirely about the more corpse than person lying on the sofa. Her eyes were closed, but even through the makeup caked on her face, they both knew she was young. Too young.

"We're leaving."

The incredulous shock on his superior's face is like a needle twisted inside of his heart.

"She's an addict, Tseng! Or did you think someone can manage to nap through what we did?" Jae-hyo demands, gesturing at the bodies they'd left all over the penthouse suite.

"You can't do anything for her. So drop it."

He can feel the elder man's presence dogging his footsteps as they leave, both of them walking at a slower pace to better blend in with the other suits milling around in the foyer.

Not now, not now-

The double doors swing open and the heels of Yoon's shoes echo into the brisk night air, the rapid 'tac-tac-tac' of Tseng's not far behind.

"So, that's it?"

Rolling his eyes, Jae pivots on his heel and faces his partner in crime.

"Yeah. That's it. Drag her to a hospital if you really wanna, but she's gonna be back out on the street once she leaves. This is reality, okay? Why do you think they never try to run away or report shit to Public Security? I told you, just... drop it. You wouldn't be able to understand even if I told you."

"Understand what? Then talk to me, help me understand-"

He's expecting a firm hand to yank him back, but what he gets is too gentle, the weight of a hand against his shoulder trying to keep him from walking away. Somehow that's even worse, a sudden spike of white-hot anger makes his eyes fly open and slap Tseng's arm away as though scalded by a flat iron.

"The next time you touch me, you're losing that hand," he warns, backing away slowly, but with his head raised and his chest out- As though challenging the other man to approach him. He doesn't take his eyes off of Tseng until he's certain he can lose him in the back alleys, exhaling a rough breath.

How could he understand what he hasn't lived through- It was impossible, like trying to teach a dog how to use silverware. There was no point. The concerned expression softening the other Turk's features made him want to throw up, rip his skin off and roll around in a vat of salt, douse himself in gasoline and light a match.

The resentment, the anger, the disdain- That he could take, just not pity. He's rather eat his own hand than let some asshole get all watery-eyed and weepy over something that happened every damn day and yet the world continued to spin, money continued to change hands, and the privileged few sated their greasy hungers on those who never had the illusion of choice.

[nocodmentary]

PULEMYOT 762 - Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III - Domination - No Commentary Game: CALL OF DUTY MODERN WARFARE III Mode: DOMINATION Map: ESTATE Platform: XBOX SERIES X Keyboard: RAZER HUNTSMAN MINI Mouse: RAZER BASILISK V3 Mouse Sensitivity: 3 Primary Weapon Type: LIGHT MACHINE GUN Primary Weapon: PULEMYOT 762 Blueprint: MARIGOLD Muzzle: SHADOWSTRIKE SUPPRESSOR Underbarrel: SL SKELETAL VERTICAL GRIP Barrel: N/A Ammunition: 7.62X54MMR HIGH VELOCITY Laser: N/A Magazine: N/A Optic: SZ SRO-7 Rear Grip: N/A Stock: IVANOV BLUFF HEAVY STOCK Camo Category: N/A Camo: N/A Gun Screen: N/A Charm: SURVIVAL 101 Large Decal: N/A Sticker 1: N/A Sticker 2: N/A Sticker 3: N/A Secondary Weapon Type: HANDGUN Secondary Weapon: COR-45 Blueprint: N/A Muzzle: N/A Underbarrel: N/A Barrel: N/A Ammunition: N/A Laser: 1MW PISTOL LASER Magazine: 18 ROUND MAG Trigger Action: N/A Optic: SZ MINI Rear Grip: N/A Stock: N/A Camo Category: BLUR Camo: SUNSET BLUR Charm: THE TEAM Large Decal: GUT WRENCHING Sticker 1: INQUISITORIAL SEAL Sticker 2: N/A Vest: ENGINEER VEST Tactical: SMOKE GRENADE Field Upgrade: MUNITIONS BOX Gloves: SCAVENGER GLOVES Boots: CLIMBING BOOTS Gear 1: EOD PADDING Gear 2: TAC MASK Streak Type: SCORESTREAK Scorestreak 1: UAV (500) Scorestreak 2: SAE (875) Scorestreak 3: OVERWATCH HELO (1000) Operator Type: SPECGRU Operator: SPECGRU Operator Skin: RANGERS III Finishing Move: NINJANUITY Calling Card: BRAZIL Emblem: FLAG OF ENGLAND

[fmpsteelmarrow]

Update Video (Pistol & Grapple)

Below is a quick video about me talking about the changes to the grappling gun and pistol. Content:

Rotating Component (For tic tac)

Tic Tac enemies

Sound Effects (Pistol & Grapple Gun)

How to stop playing sound effects

Adding a hook to grapple point locations

Adding VFX to Pistol (muzzle flash)

Side notes what wasn't mentioned in the video:

I changed the projectile component speed and gravity so it shoots for faster and travels for a long distance as I didn't like how short the distance was.

I also lowered the grappling gun distance based off of inputs from my playtesting to make it less powerful.

An Issue I had when Importing the grappling gun into unreal was that it was facing the wrong way so I had to go back into blender and rotate it 90 degrees towards the correct direction.

Sound Effects Used:

Video Used to setup VFX:

[techarena]

Best Ashika Island Weapon Loadouts in Warzone 2

Are you ready to dominate the new Ashika Island map in Warzone 2? Choosing the right loadout is crucial for success, and we've got you covered with the top five guns to use on this map. These weapons were chosen based on their high mobility and damage, making them perfect for the smaller Ashika Island map. Before we dive into the top guns, it's important to familiarize yourself with the map. The Warzone 2 Ashika Island map is a brand new location, and learning your way around it is key to winning. Take some time to explore the full map and all the Points of Interest (POIs) before dropping in.

One of the POIs to keep an eye out for is the Tsuki Castle, which features a lot of close-quarters combat. Now, let's take a closer look at the top five guns for the Ashika Island map. Best Ashika Island Weapon Loadouts in Warzone 2 TAQ-56 The TAQ-56 is a versatile assault rifle that is perfect for long-range engagements, while still offering a fast time-to-kill up close. For the TAQ-56, we suggest using the Echoless-80 for the muzzle, Schlager 3.4x for the optic, Lockgrip Precision-40 for the underbarrel, 5.56 High Velocity for ammunition, and a 60 Round Mag for the magazine. To take your TAQ-56 build to the next level, be sure to check out our Warzone 2 TAQ-56 loadout guide for the best attachment tuning and more. Vaznev-9K Despite a recent nerf to its long-range damage, the Vaznev-9K still remains a formidable weapon up close, thanks to its high damage and controllable recoil. For the Vaznev-9K, we recommend using the FTAC Castle Comp for the muzzle, FSS OLE-V Laser for the laser, Cronen Mini Pro for the optic, 45 Round Mag for the magazine, and Demo-X2 Grip for the rear grip. For even better results, check out our guide on the best weapon tuning for the Vaznev-9K in Warzone 2. ISO Hemlock The newest assault rifle in Warzone 2, the ISO Hemlock, boasts low recoil and fast mobility, making it a great choice for the fast-paced Ashika Island map. To optimize your ISO Hemlock loadout, we suggest using the XTEN Havoc 90 for the muzzle, Fielder-T50 for the barrel, Schlager 3.4x for the optic, 5.56 High Velocity for ammunition, and a 45 Round Mag for the magazine. For more details on the best attachment tunings for the ISO Hemlock, check out our Warzone 2 ISO Hemlock loadout guide. M13B With a recent buff, the M13B is now an excellent option for the Ashika Island map, thanks to its fast mobility and high fire rate. For the M13B, we recommend using the XTEN Ported 290 for the muzzle, 14" Bruen Echelon for the barrel, Schlager 3.4x for the optic, 5.56 High Velocity for ammunition, and a 60 Round Mag for the magazine. To make the M13B even more accurate, check out our guide on the best weapon tuning for the M13B in Warzone 2. Lachmann Sub Our top pick for the best gun to use on the Ashika Island map is the Lachmann Sub, which boasts incredibly fast mobility and an even faster time-to-kill. For the Lachmann Sub, we recommend using the Lacerta Compensator for the muzzle, Forge TAC Ultralight for the barrel, Tac Laser for the laser, Sleight of Hand for the perk, and a 40 Round Mag for the magazine. Additionally, we suggest using the Rubberized Grip Tape for the rear grip to further reduce recoil and improve accuracy. Also read: Best Alternatives For Apple Watch Ultra In 2023 In Conclusion With the right loadout and knowledge of the Ashika Island map, you'll be ready to dominate your enemies and come out on top in Warzone 2. Don't forget to adjust your loadout based on your playstyle and the situation at hand, and always be ready to adapt to changing circumstances on the battlefield. Good luck out there! Read the full article

[ninjathrowingstork]

Never Quite Free

Chapter One: Pushed (words: 2309)

Sierra Six|Court Gentry/F! OC. No warnings yet, just canon-typical violence

Like everything in his life for the past- too many years, really - it had started out as just another mission. They told him where to go, what to wear, and who to kill, and he obeyed orders. Every time, without fail.

Sometimes, though, things didn't exactly go to plan, and ended up a little more exciting than he'd have liked. (Still beats going back inside) the man known as Sierra Six noted, ducking around a corner in time for the wall where his head had been to explode into a spray of stone fragments. There were at least a half-dozen of them, he'd counted, and he'd already cut his way through maybe that many to reach his target. His intel hadn't been accurate, and while he'd eliminated his target, (the leader's brother, kingpin in his own ring running. . . something, the details had been vague) the goons were still coming after him. And now, civilians were in the way.

He ran.

There were shots ringing out from multiple points around the open park, and he ran, skidding, through the panicking crowds to the cover of a low concrete wall. The cover wasn't perfect, they'd circle around to find him, but he'd at least have a minute to catch a breath and reassess. And a minute was more than he'd need (there was still that annoying graze across his left tricep where one guy had gotten too lucky.)

Seven. It was almost definitely seven shooters after him now, and some were up on the rooftops around the park, and-

A blur of motion of a body sliding and tumbling behind the wall had him spinning in a crouch as he brought the automatic in his hand up to bear on-

It was a woman. A civilian, maybe early thirties, at the oldest, and unarmed, he assessed with barely a thought.

"Ow, fuck", her skirt had ridden up to show one knee and where the tights had ripped along with the skinned knee beneath. She noticed him and the gun in the next heartbeat. "OH. FUCK." 

Eyes widening, she recoiled in shock just as he lowered the muzzle off of her, glancing back out over the possible lines of fire. 

"Oh, sorry." (Just gotta keep her calm and alive until I can get her out of here) "You ok?" He gestured to his own chin with his free hand. "

"I-what?" Reaching up to her own chin, her fingertips came away red with  the blood dripping from her mouth. "Shit,  must have bit my lip. Ow." The woman glared up and through the low wall, in the direction of the shots. "Yeah, just broken skin, I'll manage."

(Good, staying calm and not trying to bolt from cover, I can still get her out of here.)  "Ok, just stay down, I've counted seven of them and-" a shot ricocheted off  the wall, sending dust flying and his companion in hiding pressing back into the corner further with a muffled yelp. Again, he scanned the angles of fire, watching  the flash of light off a scope for an instant that gave away the shooter's hideout. Too fast, couldn't get a clean shot on him now.

"Hey, uh, just catching up here," it was the woman again, She was staring up at him sideways with a slight smirk, the tremor in her voice and the blood she absently wiped from her fingers onto her skirt the only reflections of their situation. "Since they're the ones shooting here, I'm guessing you're the good guy in all this, right"

(The good guy?) He hadn't thought of himself necessarily as the good guy in a long time, just the one who killed the bad guys. "I- I think so?" Better not to start thinking too much about the moral side of the work he'd been given just now.

Her smirk turned into something more serious and considering, searching his face for. . . something. "Ok, guess I'll-" she broke off, focus moving to something over his shoulder. "On your seven." It came out as a rush of breath, only a jerk of her chin pointing in the direction, and he spun to see one of the men in tac gear sighting on them. He fired a second before the other man could get off a shot. (Good girl), she'd spotted the man and kept her head enough not to show she'd seen him, in time for him to get the shot off. (Probability I can get her out of here just went up.) The shot and his realization had happened within the space of two breaths, and he twisted back, crouching on the balls of his feet to see her staring back where the man had been. "You still ok?"

"I- um. Can't say I've gotten someone killed before."

Working with a civilian, he reminded himself. Her calm might just be shock. He raised his gun again to try to peer over the wall, ducking back again when another shot sent dust into the air. "Hey, no, you did good." Working with someone to watch his back was new. She shouldn't be here with him, but it'd kept them both alive.

She grinned a little at that, it was shaky but it was there. Then the grin melted and the focus was back, her chin jerking out again behind him "on your six!"

He spun back, firing at another man slowly creeping towards their position and why did the way she said his number sound so nice? Almost as soon as he'd dropped the second man, her cry, barely above a whisper, came again.

"Three o'clock!"

She was using the wall as their 12, he realized. Smart. He twisted again, pivoting to his left and firing past her to the flash of light on a balcony.

"On nine!"

Again he twisted, and again fired. Another figure dropped.

"Four o'clock, high!"

That one was on the roof, and slid down to fall to the street when he was dropped. Two more down, that left three including the one pinning them down, who'd ducked back into cover when he tried to get a sight on him over the wall. He glanced back at the woman, her eyes were somehow even wider and face as pale as the ash-blonde hair escaping from its tie.

"St- still ok," she gasped out.

"We've got three more left, you sure on that?"

One eyebrow quirked up slightly. "Do I have a choice, really?"

An interesting answer, and he told her so. "Normally," they both ducked again as another shot embedded itself in the wall. "Normally, someone like you would be trying to run away from the guy everyone's trying to kill"

"Nu-uh, I've got cover and I'm by the guy who's said he'll get me out of- " she broke off with another jerk of the chin, "seven again."

This time, he just twisted to the side and fired. "Two left, I had seven on me when I got here."

"Only seven?" Her grin was back.

Somehow, he felt a grin pulling at his lips also. "Only seven, yeah. You wanted more?"

She snorted a small laugh. Amazing that she could laugh in the middle of this. Then again, that she could laugh and stay calm in the middle of a shootout was literally the only thing he knew about her (and that the way she said his number sounded nice and she'd asked if he was the good guy and that little half-smile of hers was cute for someone being shot at.) "I get the sense you could handle more, somehow, but because I'm here you're hold- on four again."

Her chin pointed, and he swung the gun to follow her chin and fired. "One more."

"-Holding back for my sake. Is that the one pinning us down here?" Rolling her head up, she tried to peer over the wall, before he reached out and shoved her shoulder back down just as yet another bullet skimmed along the top of the concrete surface. He tried not to notice how warm her shoulder was under his palm.

"Stay down. Here's what you're going to do, on my count you- what are you doing?"

A heartbeat after he'd moved his hand from her shoulder back to cradle the gun, she'd started shimmying out of her jacket, staying low. "I've got an idea." Reaching out with one boot heel, she hooked a fallen tree branch and began to drag it closer, jerking to one side as a shot cracked into the edge of the pavement a foot from her leg, but a second later she had it and was hooking the top of the jacket on the end. "I'm gonna draw him out, ok?"

Only long years of training and work kept him from staring at her. (This damn woman.) For anyone in his world of covert ops; of spies and assassins, he'd have felt professional admiration for her creativity, but for this civilian. . .

Before that thought could go any farther, she'd swung the coat on the stick up, hoisting it like a flag with a hissed "now!"

The fabric jerked with an impact of the bullet tearing through the material and he caught the motion from the corner of his eye as he sighted on the gunman who'd broken cover long enough to take the shot that was his last. One squeeze of the trigger, and Six saw the body of his last pursuer collapse to the balcony below him. That was it. Somewhere in the distance there were sirens approaching.

A small, choked laugh drew his attention back to the woman crouching beside him. Her hair was plastered to her sweaty face in smoke-dark streaks, and she was holding up the jacket to stare at the single bullet hole piercing through from front to back. "Guess I'm gonna need a new coat." The slight tremor started creeping back into her voice.

"You should go, before the police get here. You don't need to be connected to this." He'd leave as soon as she was clear, and that would be it, he thought.

"Here," she'd dropped the coat in her lap and dug through a pocket to come up with a small white rectangle. "Here's my card, you can send me a new jacket as a thank-you. Burn it after memorizing it, ok?" She told him her size and her smirk almost drew another almost-smile from him. Instead, he wordlessly took and scanned the card and pocketed it as she rose to leave. The address was for a town several hours away. (Tori. It also said her name was Tori.)

"Hey," he'd stood, checking again on the bloody graze on his arm, but her call drew his attention back to where she stood, destroyed coat draped over one arm. "I didn't get your name."

His name? "Six, they call me Six." It had been a very long time since he'd used anything else.Or anyone had thought to ask.

For some reason that got another one of her quick laughs, but the smile this time was full and genuine (albeit a bit bloody from her bitten lip), and he was suddenly reminded just how long it'd been since anyone smiled like that at him. It'd been what, almost two years now?

"Number Six, like in the show?"

"What?"

"You know, The Prisoner? Cult show from the 60's? Who is number one, you're number six?"

He shook his head, "don't have much time for watching anything" which was a lie since he had the downtime, often, but it wasn't really his to spend.

"He's a spy who retires and gets isekai-ed to a resort in Wales, you'd love it"

(He gets what? )

The sirens were getting closer, and she glanced over one shoulder as she took a step back away from him. "I should go, at least before the adrenaline crash hits and I'm really a mess. But stop by sometime and we'll watch the show, it's just seventeen episodes so we can do that in a day."

"I- uh, that sounds . . . fun." It actually did.

She looked back at him with one last grin, then with a curious salute, raising her hand in the "ok" sign to her eye with a twitch of the wrist, she turned to go. "Ok Number Six, be seeing you!" Then she was gone, her trot turning into a run at the edge of the park before he lost sight of her.

He also ran. He ran in the opposite direction she'd taken. It had sounded nice, her invitation. Maybe in a different lifetime, the man he'd been before . . . everything, the man he could have been, would've accepted it and been free to go watch old spy shows. There was a debriefing waiting for him, though, then back to the safe house or hotel they'd keep him at, then the next mission, and the next. He'd accepted that as part of being Sierra. It's what Fitz had promised him, that he'd get to take out truly bad people and maybe make the world fractionally better and he'd kept that promise, but also that his time wasn't his own, he wasn't his own.

Still, it sure as hell beat the alternative.

.

.

.

Three weeks later, the woman, Tori, opened her door to answer a knock, to find a courier from a delivery service asking her to sign for a box. The sender was a vaguely titled export service. Inside the box was a hip-length jacket, similar in cut and fabric to the one she'd sacrificed in a wildly desperate move that day of chaos weeks before. The name on the label, though, nearly made her drop the coat in shock as how much more expensive the replacement coat was than her original outlet one had been. There was no note with it, she didn't need one. 

Chapter 2

[mandareeboo]

Prompt Wamma and Horse on a date with Horse having her armor and reigns.

"Did you double check-"

"They're all asleep, Wammawink. Relax." Horse toddled out of the grass with a roll of her eyes. The armor and reins she'd once bore proudly hung awkwardly around her cartoonish body now; the chestplate almost brushed the ground, no longer held up by a muscular stature, while her saddle was just a little too big and wiggly. The reins didn't quite fit into the curve of her muzzle, leading them dangling like too big pants. "Honestly, do we have to do this like this? I feel like an embarrassment."

Wammawink shushed her, rubbing her muzzle soothingly. "Oh, babygirl, never. You just look so handsome in your armor."

"I look better when I fit in them," she tsked, but beamed under her praise. "Back home, Rider would always show off to the village girls by having me walk past them, all shiny and stuff. I got lots of apples."

Wammawink led her over to the river, happily settling in with her front hooves dipped into the cool ripples. Horse loafed down next to her, looking up at the stars with vague interest. "Your village must have been very proud," she hummed, but moved on before the topic became too somber- they both knew how hard it was to talk about home as a place. "I sure hope I can meet this Rider person of yours, Horse. She sounds very nice."

"She's my person, you know?" Horse asked, rhetorical. She'd realized pretty quickly that the centaurs didn't quite understand. "I dunno how the rift will work, but I hope you'll get to see her before I go home."

"Oh, let's not talk about goodbyes tonight." Wammawink leaned on her side, running pudgy pink fingers through her fur. "Sometimes, when I feel sad, I like to imagine that the war is over, and you wouldn't have to fight anymore."

"That'd be... pretty anticlimactic."

"Hmm, maybe. But then you and Rider would want to stay, and find new adventures. And we would all travel together. Can we just... imagine that?"

Horse hesitated. She didn't want to give Wammawink the idea that might be reality. But she also really did like Wammawink, and the herd, and maybe even a little piece of her liked Centaurworld. "I'm not great at imagination games, babygirl."

"That's okay," she said, fingers tightening. "I'm the best at making up happy endings."

She leaned over to nuzzle her chin. It was something she'd done plenty of times with Rider, and even with the awkward angle it garnered a chuckle out of the llamataur. "We'd follow the stars," she added hesitantly, blooming under the full force of Wammawink's smile. "Zulius would probably try to give Rider a makeover. Glendale would steal some more silverware off Durpleton's plate while he played tic-tac-toe with her. And every night we'd share gigglecakes while Tail tried to make Ched laugh for real."

"Ah, what a wonderful ending," Wammawink said, eyes fluttering shut. "Tell it to me again?"

[officialyasen]

MITS Precision K2 Grunt Rail / ADVK grip

Eotech 552 + Larue Tactical QD riser

Surefire M620 + VG6 Precision LOPOM mount

VG6 Precision GAMMA556 muzzle brake

BE Meyer MAWL C1+ laser aiming device

Viking Tac Gen 1 sling

Team Julu Design Titanium MLoK rail section