#this was meant to be a covert op

[bibannana]

Rex *staring at Fives*: You have got to be joking.

Fives *stuck halfway out of an air vent*: Oh right let me just- *wriggles trying to get out before flopping*

Echo *gasping for breath from laughing so hard*

[velvetures]

Honorifics

A/N: Yeah... I don't know about this. I'll probably take it down since I'm unsure if it's got enough of a consistent vibe. Let me know if it's actually something you enjoy since I don't write angst or hurt/comfort often. I ALWAYS WRITE HAPPY ENDINGS THO. That's a damn promise. Summary: You've given Ghost a title he hates, and takes it out on you. The situation goes too far, and you're both left trying to figure it out. Reader is nicknamed "Brass" since she's a long-distance shooter/sniper. T/W: angst, cursing, Ghost being an emotionally unstable human, yelling, the reader having a breakdown, smidge of not eating, smidge of not drinking anything, comfort, feelings, female reader, not proofread.

When you joined the task force, things didn���t exactly go as smoothly as you had hoped it would. Training sessions usually ended up with you either getting your ass beat or nearly surviving a full-on embarrassment by the skin of your teeth just to be told that you still weren’t in good enough shape to keep up with them in the field. Surely being a woman didn’t excuse you from being in shape for the kind of work Laswell and Price had brought you in for, but damn if it wasn’t difficult to try and have a one-on-one fight with someone like Soap or Ghost without the benefit you would typically have in a real-world battle situation. The reality that all of the men in the squad were literally the best of the best aside, there could be just barely enough room for you to compete on the same level when it came to sheer physical strength. While that wasn’t your specialty anyway, the Captain made it clear you needed to prove you could handle your own against serious physical fights without assistance. After nearly five weeks of having one of your squad mates slam you on your ass one too many times in the training hall, you finally were able to prove to Price that you could go out in the field and he didn’t have to extend any extra worries for your ability to survive.

Logistically as a sniper, it meant you frequently held a much more distant role in missions. By watching from a scope you could ensure that infiltrations, covert ops, and other hush-hush kinds of operations that typically the 141 wouldn’t have the luxury of. Being the skilled marksman you were, it made sense to take advantage of your talents and also extend you a job that progressed past what you’d experienced in your “standard” military career and multiple tours overseas. However, that meant communications were essentially the backbone of your usefulness aside from your rifle. Next to nothing else, your daily and mission-based work almost exclusively went through Lieutenant Ghost. Which… often proved to be the largest obstacle that you faced aside from making sure that your scope didn’t get bumped off sight the -often- rough flights and drives to insertion points.

The Lieutenant was particularly mean… he certainly didn’t give a single thought to if anyone thought that he was a little too harsh of a personality to swallow. That went for everything you came to learn about Ghost. From his lack of willingness to speak unless required of him, to his unique ability of appearing and disappearing from anywhere without the slightest sound or hint of where he’d come from or gone to. Trained as a distance marksman, even you were impressed that such a massive man could move around like smoke on water. That and his physical appearance; good god above. Surely a man like Ghost had never graced the face of the Earth before, else he’d have been just as mythical in his legendary life and would’ve been known by thousands of people. He stood towering over just about everyone, in whatever room he was in, and compared to your own height it was downright laughable the difference between the two of you as operators.

The one thing that made the biggest impression on you after meeting the Lieutenant was his voice and how he spoke. That thick accent always sounded rough and a little gritty. His deep timbre gave such a commanding authority that if given the choice between getting yelled at by Captain Price or Ghost… there was no choice you’d sit for hours listening to Price threaten you over Ghost. He just sounded so scary and attractive all at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it developed into a subconscious dynamic where you saw Ghost as such a superior officer -and human- that no matter how much you liked to daydream about Ghost in less-than-professional situations… You gave him the utmost respect at all times. Easiest of all to recognize was that from day one, you had never addressed Ghost to his face as anything other than ‘sir’. Not even his rank gave enough nuance to his character and presence, so for you, Ghost was inextricably attached to the name.

Ghost however… didn’t like it.

Such a simple address actually made Ghost grit his teeth beneath the shield of his mask. When he heard you call him that, he automatically related it to how he had called General Shepherd ‘sir’ as a subtle sign of mockery and defiance. Thinking about that made him more than necessarily angry and confused, but he couldn’t really accuse you of having ever been given much of a reason to detest him. Therefore, he had to come to the conclusion that you were doing it out of some kind of respect that a drill sergeant or boot camp instructor had bashed into your brain so hard that it stuck permanently. Not surprising since you were much different from the rest of the task force. Yet he had to revise that after the first six months of you being with them permanently. You had gotten settled in. Enough so that you called the Captain, ‘Cap’… Soap, ‘Johnny’… and Garrick, ‘Gaz’ like everyone else did. Exceptionalities only appeared when it came time for you to be around him or have any sort of interaction that wasn’t the occasional silent nod of acknowledgment when walking past each other in the hallways.

He honestly tried to ignore it and you altogether for that matter in an attempt to keep his bitter anger at a minimum. Seeing such a small and fucking happy woman always lingering around somewhere in the corners of his sight couldn’t be anything but a distraction waiting to happen. A bad habit that he didn’t have the mental capacity or emotional willingness to take on. Fuck… he already had to worry about the 141 as a whole, to begin with. Now you on top of that? It was more responsibility than he’d signed up for initially. Hearing you call him ‘sir’ day in and day out began to take its toll on his self-control. Ghost needed to either find out why you were hellbent on calling him that, or at least be enough of a bastard to you to be reassured that you did it because you wanted a polite way to tell him to shove it up his ass sideways.

The Lieutenant had been being nothing short of a prick in the last few months.

He was making paperwork back at HQ a nightmare that couldn’t be solved alternatively through someone like Gaz or Soap who often didn’t mind playing the part of the unbiased third party. Refusing to sign things when you stopped by his office, outright ignoring your necessary questions, and stonewalling you at every single stop along the way just to yield at the last moment and do everything you’d been asking for so the both of you wouldn’t face heat from any higher-ups. That alone was enough for you to consider talking to Soap privately since he knew Ghost the best… but you’d kept putting it off hoping that it was just a passing phase of shitty attitude.

Your patience and emotional strength fell through the floor after attempting for the third time in a week after something so fucking simple as trying to get his approval and official signature on a post-mission report Price had delegated to you after being called to Washington D.C. for a meeting. It wasn’t a major task, but knowing that the Captain had given you the responsibility first over anyone else made you want to impress him and take care of business without incident. God forbid you do something as simple as ask Ghost to pick up a pen and scribble his name at the bottom of a page so that you could send it on through the higher-up channels. It resulted in the Lieutenant straight-up yelling at you in the middle of the hallway outside his office when he’d found you standing there patiently waiting for him to show up. He wasn’t threatening physically, but it cut much deeper into your pride and feelings than it should have.

With every word that dripped venomously out of his masked mouth, you lost a little extra peace of mind on having such an untouchable and unshakably good opinion of Ghost for so long. This moment of undeserved verbal punishment was enough to make the corners of your eyes burn with inner disgrace, self-doubt, and plain old sadness which motivated you to get the hell out of there before the Lieutenant saw you cry. When you turned your back and walked away right in the middle of his berating for you being “too fucking annoying to tolerate”, your only destination was your personal quarters on the other end of the building where a lock on the door could shut out the entire base for as long as you saw fit. Upon the first estimation, it would be after Captain Price returned so that you could have at least one single chance at not getting a second punishment or dismissal from the squad. The sound of your door slamming shut and your back sliding down against it on your way down to the floor silenced the entire room around you, leaving just enough room for the papers clenched to your chest to flutter onto the ground and your weak cries to sounds amplified.

It was hours before you could drag yourself off the floor and into bed, too tired and wanting to fall back on the trained and instinctual desire to hide away somewhere isolated and not move for hours on end. Being a long-distance marksman gave you the talent of patience insurmountable to the average person, allowing days to pass by without you needing to do more than go to the bathroom before coming right back to a motionless position. That’s what you wanted tonight. You needed to focus all of your energy into your brain alone and use it to sort through the hurt burning through your eyes and throat, and the questioning that gave such a sickening feeling a chance root in your stomach. Questions of if it had been foolish to trust Ghost as much as you did the others, knowing how you’d been warned that he would be difficult to work with. Hoping you hadn’t been truly so ignorant of judging behavior to think that the Lieutenant was something much greater than his behavior had been not only today but for the past months.

The next two days were spent laying near motionless… not hungry or thirsty.

Just thinking, sleeping, and staring at the wall across from your bed.

A solid knock on your door was the first human sound that hadn’t been made by you in over forty-eight hours. You’d not looked at your phone or any communications since locking yourself inside, and there was a good chance someone from the squad had come searching for you after such a long period without seeing or hearing from you. When you refused to answer right away, another harder knock banged on the door twice and rattled the steel in its doorframe. Impatient. Testy. Quite familiar with everything you’ve been through lately. Recognizing the Lieutenant was the one outside made your gut churn all over again. Questioning whether to get up or not wasn’t hard. Laying perfectly still in bed, you waited. If you were being honest though, it’d been a long time since you’d spent so long restricting yourself from basic needs for the purpose of acting like a living phantom. Close to three years since any sniper position had left you utterly abandoned without resources. Only this time it was self-induced and nothing short of a trauma response you wanted to hide away from. Truthfully you couldn’t tell if walking to the door was an easy feat or not. After not drinking anything, using the bathroom wasn’t necessary and the last time you’d stood up didn’t cross your memory clearly.

Ghost slammed his fist against the door again one last time. But he didn’t wait long enough for you to answer before rattling the handle to the door with a heavy sigh that was audible through the cracks separating you. Metal on metal gritted softly and moved the door handle a bit further. Recognizing that as nothing short of Ghost picking the lock to your quarters without the slightest care of how he’d be breaking multiple stipulations laid out for them living in HQ. Either your physical or mental state kept you from giving a damn when the handle gave way fully, leaving a bright fluorescence light flooding in from the hallway into your pitch-black room. It made your eyes water and the urge to turn your head away was strong enough to budge your head into the blankets and pillow surrounding. Heavy boots made the paperwork scattered on the floor crunch softly and the sound of his deep breaths gave away his current state of frustration. Clearly not appreciating being locked out of a room that he had no fucking business being in. A long pause led to shuffling around, and the sound of your desk chair creaking under his weight.

“Gonna say somethin’?” He sounded no less irritated than the last time you’d spoken.

It made your throat burn to even think you’d allowed his to get in your head so deeply just to utterly rip every last bit of security and respect away from you for no damn reason. Your silence made quite the statement, even if the actual task of speaking hadn’t been a totally voluntary one. You’d not moved your jaw in days at this point.

“You’ve missed five drill sessions, two mandatory meetings, and one phone from General Shepherd.”

Listing off your offenses hardly bothered you. The consequences of this had been fully accepted days ago, and Ghost would have to do a lot more to get you up from this bed. You’d trained for hell, and no matter how badly Ghost had ruined your almost loving and patient view of him there weren’t enough men on the planet to make you get up voluntarily. Drastic… yes. Satisfying to your own pride… undoubtedly. When you didn’t even let out a single breath loud enough for Ghost to hear instead of that instant apology or willingness to appease him… please him even, with that little quip of ‘sir’ ready on your tongue, the Lieutenant was up out of that chair so quickly you heard it roll into the wall behind him hard enough to thud against the drywall.

“Goddamn it Brass, I demand a fuckin’ answer!” His loud bark caught your attention, but the feeling of your blankets being ripped off your body was a far more startling sensation.

Baring you to the cold air of the room, all your body managed was to raise chills on your skin in a feeble attempt to keep you warm or alert you to seek out that heat again. Tension exploded into shocked silence when Ghost didn’t utter more than a sharp inhale after getting one, shadowed glimpse of your body totally frozen on your stomach. You knew it couldn’t look great. Snipers could come back looking like skeletons sometimes after a long mission if they were given the orders to stay put. You’d not been laying nearly long enough for that to be the case, but dehydration was certainly a symptom you were ignoring quite easily, as well as the possibility of some minor pressure ulcers that would linger for a few weeks if you didn’t move soon. Ghost wasn’t as familiar with the sight of how you felt internally. Snipers weren’t commonly used or in collaboration with Task Force 141. You’d been their first real look at how the inner workings moved or didn’t, and much of your personal way of doing things had dispelled or blown away any misguided assumptions they’d made about your skills early on. Viewing a sniper after days of doing literally nothing, of her own free will…? That wasn’t healthy or accepted in general military companies. Lucky Ghost got the front-row seat though.

When you heard his movement next to you, weight pressed down the mattress at your side in the shape of his hands, and a low sigh registered.

“Brass…” Failing to even say something, you wondered if your own assessment of yourself wasn’t accurate. “It’s been five days.” His faltered tone was truthful, and it destroyed your semblance of time that had been misled by the absence of sunlight coming in through your room.

You thought about trying to say something, resolve falling flat when swallowing felt difficult. A gloved hand rested against your thigh and Ghost almost growled again, sounding a lot more like he was resisting the urge to squeeze you hard. Only his fingers traced along your hip and over the curve in your waist with a tense and heavy swallow. He was being gentle beyond your concept of his depth of emotion and understanding. Nearly loving as he paused over your ribcage with another pinched sort of sound. Staying like that for what felt like hours, you struggled to keep yourself awake. It had been a struggle to move your tongue in your mouth, testing what mobility you’d lost in the short term. Only Ghost wasn’t leaving like you expected, and suddenly his voice returned it its normal stature.

“This’s Ghost. Get a bay ready now, I’m bringin’ someone in.” The reverb of his voice crackled in a radio you knew hooked to his vest. A backup short-range alternative in the case that SAT couldn’t be established or wasn’t clear enough to rely on in the field. Apparently, he used it to keep in contact with someone on base. Or multiple people for all you knew.

“Copy Ghost.” A static voice could be heard and quickly the room was pitched back into a silence you wanted to remain in, but Ghost was adamant to keep infracting alone with a whole list of other rules that, for whatever reason, just didn’t fucking matter or apply to him.

His other hand searched around the dark until he found your face resting amongst the fabric of your bed, curling his hand around your head and meticulously lifting you so very slowly away from the bed with his other arm steadying your legs that had also been taken up off the mattress. You’d never touched Ghost once in all the time you’d known him. Understanding that with his sour attitude, there couldn’t be a single chance in Hell that touching him was an acceptable action. Whereas with Soap, Gaz, and even on occasion Price: hugs, handshakes, shoves, and other physical touches were common, Ghost totally ignored all human contact. Maybe Hell had frozen over outside of your quarters for your weak and still motionless body to be lifted up against the Lieutenant’s chest and carried preciously outside of your room into the burning light of HQ. His chest heaved deep and quickly against you. Both hands curled around you and flexed tighter each time you were able to hear another set of shoes approaching closer to you. Possessive like a soldier. Silent like a Ghost. Determined.

He takes you straight to the medical hall where three nurses and two of the on-shift doctors are fast to respond to your condition. Only Ghost refuses to let them take you away from him for any reason. Stoically stonewalling them just like he habitually did to you as they begged him to lay you down on a transport bed so they could take you back to a room for assessment. The Lieutenant took you there himself, with the group of nurses and doctors hot on his heels and surrounding your bed once Ghost had you settled down inside a private room.

The whole place smells sterile and like alcohol. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, but these are far different circumstances. You’re still too sensitive to open your eyes, but hands are all over your body, gloves fingers touching around the sore places on weight-bearing points on your body, pricks in your fingertips, and a needle poke to the back of your hand. It’s overstimulating, to say the least, and you’re worried they’re going to think you’ve tried to starve yourself to death or decided that living altogether wasn’t worth it and simply wasting away into your bed was the solution. Right away, one of the voices of the medical professionals breaks that worry in your mind by calling for some of the tests to be staggered, needing time between them for nothing other than your own benefit.

“Treat this no differently than prolonged active reconnaissance,” The female voice states softly. “Being on-the-gun for this long is detrimental to all senses, and she’s going to need a while to wake up in a meaningful way.” She added, voice coming clearer the closer she got to your head.

“You’ve been working very hard, I suspect. Maybe not in the field… but you’re one tough lady.” She commented to you quite personally, her hand falling to your shoulders. “We’re going to get you plenty of fluids and start you on a vitamin drip to get everything running as it should again. You’ve also got some slight bedsores, but as long as we take care of them now, you’ll be right as rain soon, sniper.”

Tests were run, treatments began, and nurse after nurse was brought in with both doctors running rotations in and out of your room for the rest of the night. All of them were under the hard watch of Ghost who’d not moved from his position sitting in the corner of your room where he could see not only you but anyone approaching the door. He’d been very quiet throughout the process, watching and waiting for someone to give him some news about your condition with actual certainty. Stewing over the guilt he felt knowing damn well he was the reason you’d shut down so far and were still unable -or unwilling- to come out of it yet. You’d been nothing but the perfect little woman, doing her job with skill and grace, making everyone around you happier just with one glance in your direction. But fuck, he couldn’t stand seeing someone do the callous profession of killing people with one single squeeze of her finger and still have so much innocent and emotional humanity inside such a small body. Ghost couldn’t wrap his mind around it. So instead of trying to do the right thing and figure it out, he did what a man so out of touch with empathy did: Try to snuff it out.

You threatened him whether you or he realized it in the beginning.

But now he could see it with that crystal fucking clear hindsight. How monstrous he was for punishing you with no foundation other than his own selfish fear of seeing a dynamic he didn’t know was possibly wrapped up inside of you. Sweet and little you, never saying anything to him other than a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’. Goddamnit Ghost knew he’d nearly killed you in a way. Seeing days of neglect in your sallow expression, darkened under eyes, and weakened body was more than even his cold heart could take all at one time. Wasting away for someone as useless as himself, all because he’d never given you enough credit for finding something worth liking in him where no one else had. Screaming at you. Cursing your existence. Right in your face, while he’d been too big of a pussy to even take off his own mask he hid behind every day as he utterly destroyed your meaningful position and life working alongside of his and his squad. Owing you his life wouldn’t nearly cover his offenses. Laughably, Ghost admitted his own life or death couldn’t measure up to yours. So instead of saying any kind of bullshit apology, he sat in the corner of your room and denied himself sleep, food, and water because there wasn’t anything else he could do until you’d been considered healthy and strong again.

Almost one week to the day you had been signed off for return to duty with zero restrictions. Your physical and mental evaluations came back clean, and with both Price and Ghost signing off on the doctor’s orders, you returned to your quarters where you expected to see your room exactly as you’d left it before Ghost brought you into the medical wing. Only nothing was as you’d left it. All the paperwork left on the floor was gone, as well as the other documents that had been left on your desk that still needed finishing. All of it was gone. Your bed and all of the bedclothes you’d been taken from were also missing. Replaced with totally brand new bedding in dark hues of dark green and navy blue with a decidedly feminine pattern on the quilt. Items you didn’t own. Or have any idea where they came from. Even the smell of stale air was traded for a woody, and familiar smell that wasn’t of a candle, or room spray; It was from a person. The person who sat in the corner of your room in your desk chair with his massive arms crossed over his chest and dark eyes staring at you through the painted visage of a skull gracing a black compression mask.

“Sir,” You greet hoarsely, still working through some of the non-significant parts of your recovery that lingered. Ghost stood from his seat and met you halfway across your room with a silent nod, his hand reaching out and motioning for you to step closer to him. Warily but complicit, you make the few steps forward and watch his hand turn to slide against your jaw and stay there firmly. “I expected you to be at drill.” You say with a tinge of surprise at the touch of his bare hand resting against your cheek.

“Should be,” He replied flatly. “But I’m not.” You nod a little, biting your tongue when his fingertip rubs over the curve of your ear. His eyes were soft and his unarmored physique was highlighted by the shadows made by the lamp on your side table. He’s inspecting you, you know as much. Clear by his thumb pressing over your pulse point and the minute exactly that he waits before speaking again.

“Do you like the color green?” His question knocks you off guard and his eyes slide over the quilt laying neatly over your bed. You were quick to answer honestly out of mere habit.

“Yes, sir.”

His hand stiffens against your cheek, and Ghost takes another step closer. His boots graze the tips of yours and his chin is nearly tucked against his chest to look down at you properly. You’re breathing a little harder, anticipating another break of his patience and an onslaught of screaming all directed at your apparent mistakes made right in front of his face. Judgments you’d still be unable to solve no matter how much you thought about it or what you did to try and find a solution of healthy -or not- motives. Ghost doesn’t yell though. He actually lowers his face down to yours, eyes locked right on you and an intensity burning there.

“Why do you call me that?” His low growl made you shiver, especially when his hand dropped lower to your throat. Now squeezing, but holding your gaze steady on him, reminding you of his strength. The power over you he’d always held, and given you the instant to call him ‘sir’ in the first place. Everything about Ghost was overwhelming, and you’d always been one wave away from drowning under him.

“You deserve the honor…” You answer, certain. Even if he’d broken your spirit and came back in the aftermath with questions you still believed to be much too complex for a single-sentence answer. Hopefully, he understood a little bit better but the way you leaned against his hand, letting him actually feel the pressure of your throat pressing into his palm. Literally offering your trust in him over again, testing the Lieutenant and watching as his eyes widened. His other hand came up to your face, counteracting the pressure you’d applied to keep your breath and blood flow uninterrupted. His face is still only inches away from yours but unflinching at the close contact.

“Brass,” He murmured, masked face teasing closer with his own lack of control. “I’m not what you think I am.” Your chest tightens with his words, soaked in desperation that heats your lips and cheeks.

“What’s that, sir?” You question, earning another flinch of his fingers against your skin.

“Safe… Trustworthy… Honorable.” He replies, getting even closer. The smooth material ghosted over your lips, and his breathing fanning over you wetly through the damp material. You sigh, feeling lightheaded. Weak in his hands, confused yet happy to have your life held in the palms of his hands. Confused about where his mistrust comes from, but gaining perspective every time he flinches when you address him in the way you always believed he’d feel the most revered and… loved.

“You’re wrong,” You challenge, hands moving from your sides to run up the thin shirt covering his chest. “You’re a man of fear. One that death shakes at the mention of. Even looking at you through my scope a mile away is enough to remind me you’re capable of inhuman things…” Your voice lowers, hearing thoughts straight from your soul escaping without filter from your brain. “Yet you’re human. So much more than anyone sees. Because it’s not evil that keeps you going. It’s the fear and hatred of losing anything that means something to you.” Your hand rests over his chest, hearing his heart thundering against his ribs.

“You’re not a monster, you are terrified of losing everything. That is why I call you ‘sir’, is because you’re a man unlike any other, Ghost.”

Hearing your own voice say his name like that feels so foreign. Coming off your tongue with the letters not fitting together in a way that you’d experienced. But Ghost… he reacts differently. His hands tightened around you and he hugged you against his chest tightly. His chest heaves up and down and the thunder of his heartbeat impossibly quickens until your left ear can’t hear anything but the repetitive thrum of blood coursing through his body. Heavy arms snake around you, one around your head to secure it to him and the other clinging to your waist with his hand fisting into your shirt until it’s skin-tight on your stomach. The Lieutenant practically shakes against you, using your much smaller frame to steady himself.

Yet he’s dropping to one knee on the ground, bringing you down with him until he’s nearly cradling you and softly rocking your weight back and forth. Soothing himself in much the same way a child would after scraping their knee on the sidewalk and the tears have begun to dry up. God, it made the massive man feel so weak; much like you did after he’d yelled at you a week ago. Both of you kneeled on the floor now with all of your wounds opened up to each other and had silently found a calm within the eye of a destructive storm that had been raging against the pair of you while everyone on the outside had been simply looking on with bated breath to see how the ending would play out.

“Brass - I…” Ghost’s voice choked up again, his arms tightening around you. “God, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t ignore you anymore… I’m losing my mind.”

You lean into his chest harder, arms struggling to reach all the way around his wide back in an attempt to support him a little bit. You understood through the way he was grabbing at anything on you he could desperately. So you did all you could and rubbed your hand up and down his back quietly allowing him the time to work through his thoughts. Both of you had been hurt by this, and while the Lieutenant’s form of apology came in the way he’d ushered you for help when you needed it most and unquestionably been the reason behind the way your quarters looked. Now it was you, cradling a man who’d never shown a single crack in his armor, feeling the weight of so many emotional wounds that he was practically bleeding out with pain and palpable regret.

“You don’t have to…” You whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Ghost just nods his head, panting heavily and giving a low sort of whine. “I’m so sorry…”

You smile sadly. “I’m sorry too.”

His eyes soften more, blinking away at wetness brimming at his waterline. “Say it again… please. I need to hear it. God, please.”

“It’s okay…” Your hands cradle his cheeks, feeling the sharp lines and hard muscles. “I’m right here, Ghost. We’re going to do this over again… Together, Ghost.”

Nodding weakly, he meets your gaze as you say his name again. Reveling in it. “Together… together, with you.”

[tropes-and-tales]

Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11:  Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4096

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains.  It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache.  You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south.  The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue. 

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply.  “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal. 

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly.  The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly.  The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention.  You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten.  Maybe that’d be better.  You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone.  It means nothing. 

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap.  You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself:  you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him.  Turning him over and over in your mind. 

Soap MacTavish.  Handsome, almost unbearably so.  He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious.  Friendly.  He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question.  Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile.  He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply.  You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.”  He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber.  “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.”  You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.”  You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter.  “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong.  Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains.  You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap.  But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another.  You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission.  Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all:  Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever.  Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke.  He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price.  He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured. 

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you.  You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match.  When you walk past, he notices, sits up.  Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes.  He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff.  “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own.  “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.”  You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you. 

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing.  “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.  His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree.  You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission.  You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing.  “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.”  You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close.  He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal.  It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you. 

You’re not sure what spurs your next move.  You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger.  You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move.  But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought.  Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess.  Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise.  His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it.  His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you.  You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?”  His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink.  Refuse to look away.  “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.”  You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm.  “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back.  He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters.  Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke.  You could still back out.  Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him.  It could change the tenor of the team.  And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day?  Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity?  Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both?  Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him.  Sweet Johnny MacTavish.  Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing.  Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone.  “If you do.  If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name.  “Wasn’t joking at all.”  Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face.  It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy). 

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says.  He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first.  Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse.  He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters.  Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative.  It’s uncharted territory.  He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either.  But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours.  One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg.  Everything about him is warm, really:  the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you.  And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed.  You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless.  He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking:  when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on.  Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy.  He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks.  He pats his upper chest.  “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is.  Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing.  But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown.  Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate.  There’s a lot of trust on both ends:  he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck.  And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…”  You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl.  I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide.  The accent is not fighting fair.  Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair.  It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed.  But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own.  His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen  Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him.  Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him?  Do you straddle him lower and scoot up?  You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned.  Any other man?  It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too.  He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are.  His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all.  There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core.  “Tell me what is working for you, yeah?  Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser.  It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine.  He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance.  He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does. 

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him.  Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair.  He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny.  Just like t-that.”

“Good?”  It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.”  You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too. 

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.”  Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.”  And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs.  His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone.  But there’s something about this position.  You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you.  You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out.  “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks.  Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway.  He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless.  You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days.  You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment.  You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh.  “Yeah, that was good.  Especially for someone who’s never done it before.”  A beat.  “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again.  “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex.  Coming makes you stupid.  “Huh?  When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head.  “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him.  He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated.  “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.”  He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him.  He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders.  “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation:  the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed.  Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees.  “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms.  You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

[mistydeyes]

undercover with undiscovered feelings

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: Your codename is Belladonna and one thing is clear you have a mood more sour than Ghost's. You hated the limelight, the shock and awe of it all, preferring to take your enemies out discreetly and quietly. Suddenly Laswell throws you to the wolves along with Soap, your fake French American fiancé. As if that wasn't bad enough, you have one secret. You're in love with him but you won't let him see past your hard exterior.

pairing: Soap x fem!Reader, sunshine x grumpy trope

warnings: SWEARING, violence, depiction of wounds, feelings being brought to the surface

a/n: thought it was time my scottish boy deserves some love

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Belladonna, the infamous 141's specialist in stealth and toxicology. Price took you on board due to your decorated resume and ability to discreetly take out your target. From day one, a certain mohawk soldier would not let you live down that your code name was also one shared with a porn star. God you hated him. Although maybe not hate, more like "unwillingly attracted to." You were polar opposites. While Johnny always was one for the theatrics, you were not one for shock and awe. You preferred to blend in the crowd, a grey man if you will. But stealth wouldn't help you here as Laswell planned to put you on in the limelight.

God, you should've known that breaking a mirror with your stray bullet would have its consequences. Now, you were sitting in this debrief in a safehouse in Italy wishing you had taken that bullet instead. Your legs bounced with nervousness as Laswell went through the planned covert op.

"I see you looking at me, Bell. I'm sorry but this mission is going to require you to get more intimate and not hide in the shadows," she said as you tried to silence your rapid heartbeat. All eyes were on you as Laswell continued, the mission was a simple one. One team would enter through the vents and gain access to a museum's records, a front for child trafficking. Another team would work undercover and make sure no one noticed the information extraction. What was your role? Oh Laswell made sure to painful describe how you would pose as a wealthy art collector accompanied by your body guard and your fiancé to be. "And who would those be?" you asked, fearing the worst. "Soap will be your dutiful boyfriend of 5 years while Ghost chaperones you through the night." You couldn't believe what you were hearing, out of all people why did they pick the Scottish idiot who you secretly liked. "What about Price and Gaz?" you wondered as Laswell had not reached the end of her debrief. "We'll be doing the hard work, you're just the distraction, Sweetheart," Price said and soon you would realize what he meant as a distraction.

"Stop shaking, Y/N," Price said as Ghost delicately tried a ring on your finger. "First, you all expect me to go undercover. Next, you make me act all cozy with this sweaty idiot. And now, you're having me try on rings to be fake proposed too?" you shouted as Soap held your hand to stabilize it. "Not just any ring, bonnie. A ring hand picked by me with the finest Japanese saltwater pearl and a band of 3 ct of diamonds set in pink gold. Now let me put it on your finger and you can go." You huffed as he and Price examined the fit of the ring, ensuring it was perfect for the planned engagement.

To your dismay, the night had finally arrived. You nervously checked the mirror as your hair lay loose around your shoulders. It was parted to one side, covertly hiding a comm in your left ear. Earlier, the boys had been relentless as you applied your makeup and curled your hair. Soap almost gained a black eye when he joked, "Well, our wee Bell actually cleaned up for once." The mission might end up being the death of you and your heart.

You felt nauseous looking at your self, examining how the dress flowed from one shoulder and ended with a waterfall of restricting pink tulle. The only thing you liked about this dress were the navy blue pearls adorning the layers of fabric, a subtle nod to your code name. "Lass, it's time," you heard Soap knock. You bunched up your skirt as you made your way to answer him. You were thankful Laswell had graciously gifted you with a knife tucked in a garter along with a set of Clostridium botulinum syringes. You opened the door to see him finely dressed in a midnight blue cashmere wool, silk blend suit. You couldn't deny he was handsome. Your pulse quickened as you examined him further, he had been asked to shave his famous mohawk and instead had a simple haircut. To him, you were also a sight to behold. Your cynical demeanor had endeared him, he loved making fun of you until he noticed a slight reaction. But now you looked even more gorgeous, he felt his breath hitch as he saw how the dress fit your curves perfectly and showed off your frame wonderfully. "Soap, let's go," you said breaking the silence and ending his trance. "You look breath-taking, Lass. Couldn't help but stare." You were glad he walked behind you as your face was bright red.

You exited the safe house marveling at the black Aston Martin Laswell had obtained for the op. As you got in the car, you noted Laswell driving along with Ghost in a black suit fixing his cufflinks in the passenger seat. "We're bringing you out of the shadows tonight, Bell" Ghost began, "don't worry we got you covered" he said and flashed his inner coat to show a gun tucked in its lining. Laswell, ever the observer, could feel your nerves. "Bell, there's some tequila in the console for you," she said and you quickly leaned over Soap's lap to grab it. Bless this woman, she knew your favorite. After taking many sips from the bottle, you tried to offer it to Soap but he disgustingly replied, "that shite tastes like dog piss." More for you, you guessed. You nursed the bottle as Laswell drove over the rolling hills of the coast. You tried to calm your nerves reminding yourself this was just another mission, something that you could add to your resume. You kept mentally telling yourself, "keep it professional".

Finally you felt the car come to a stop as Soap lightly tapped your shoulder indicating your arrival. "Let's go, my pearl," he said in a surprisingly convincing American accent. In this narrative, you were from a wealthy Portuguese home while Soap was your new money, New York City-transplant French American. He held out his hand as he helped you out of the vehicle. As you felt the cold coastal chill on your shoulders, you made your way to the entrance.

You made your way to check-in, Ghost silently following behind. You forcefully smiled, introducing yourself as Elaine de Rosales and your date as Renoir Cretin (dumbass in French). The host stifled a laugh at Soap's fake last name and allowed you three to enter.

As you entered the large gallery, you noted some familiar faces from the endless files Laswell had "gifted" you with. "Fucking bastards," you said under you breath and Simon whispered behind you, "that's no language for a lady." He was definitely getting his ass kicked next time you had a training exercise.

When Soap went for your hand, you could feel your heart jump. You should've downed that entire tequila bottle. He held your hand, gracefully leading you around the gallery as you made painful conversation about each piece. You were never one for arts and your horrible comments made that clear. "This looks nice," you said with a questioning tone and you heard Price laugh at your comment. He remarked, "Kid, you're so dry. Just try to act like you don't want to inject yourself with botulism right now." Every one was seriously out to get you today.

"You look more breathtaking than this painting, darling," Soap said aloud as you admired The Birth of Venus. He was laying on this whole couple thing, hard. You hoped he couldn't feel the heat radiating from your face as he planned a soft kiss on the crown of your head. "My love, you're too kind. You're practically carved from marble," you replied back, catching a glimpse of a pink blush on his cheeks.

After you examined yet another painting, Price notified you that they had gained access into the main server room. You gave Soap a subtle set of three taps with your thumb. He knew it was time as he lead you over to the main attraction. You lifted your eyes, gazing upon the large rendition of Eros and Psyche in front of you. Soap let go of your hand as he set himself on one knee.

Weeks before, Soap attempted to relieve your nerves as he described the masterful speech he would deliver to you. There were many revisions as he practiced the fateful moment to you. "You know, Soap, if I were a dumb, I'd say you're in love with me" you joked, "that speech was disgustingly romantic from the likes of you." "Oh fuck off, Bell. The first nice thing you say about me ends with an insult," he shot back. To anyone watching, the tension was clear but you remained your grumpy self, hiding your emotions.

Brought back into the moment, you could hear the crowd hush, eyes focused on you and him. "Elaine, ever since I saw you lost in the streets of Versailles, you have captivated me with your beauty and elegance. Your vast knowledge of art has shown me that there's more to a painting than a canvas with paint. I love you and will forever be there to listen to your musings about Monet and Degas," he began and you waited for the fateful words to fall out of mouth. However, to your surprise he continued, "I have never met anyone who entertained my antics quite like you have. You challenge me constantly with your fiery words and quips. This little dance of ours makes me a more humble, more loving man. Looking at you tonight, I realize that you are the woman who inspires me to surmount all obstacles. Will you make make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?" You were shocked, that was definitely not part of the script. Your face flushed at his kind words and he looked deep into your eyes.

"Oh yes, Renoir!" you whispered as tears fell from your eyes. He triumphantly picked you up, spinning you in his arms. He set you down and held your chin gently in his hand. He raised your face to his and placed a long kiss on your mouth. Your lips moved in sync as he held you tightly with his other arm. You were lost in each other, ignoring the full attention of the crowd. As you parted, the crowd loudly clapped at the spectacle. You took this moment to lean over to your new fiancé and whispered, "You went off script." He gently kissed your cheek and whispered back, "meant every word, Bell." Ghost returned to your side as older couples gathered, congratulating the "new couple." Your smile was genuine as you showed off the expensive ring, giddily detailing how your mothers would be so proud you bagged a good one.

You walked around the gallery more, now linking arms with Soap. You hadn't acknowledged the speech since your whisperings and went about downing numerous offered glasses of champagne. You made your way to a private gallery adored with more opulent paintings of historic love stories. Ghost positioned himself next to the security guard, allowing you both to sit on a bench and admire the artwork. After what seemed like forever, you in your tipsy state, broke the silence.

"My love, I appreciated your kind words. I never thought you felt that way about me," you said quietly, eyes trained on a depiction of. "Well El, you never gave me the chance. When we first met in France, I thought you disdained me," he replied, moving to hold your waist.

"I never disdained you, just ran away from my feelings," you whispered back. As you finished your sentence, he again placed his hand on your chin to lift your face. Just as you were about to kiss again, you heard through the comm, "Bell, Soap, we've been compromised. Gaz jammed their signals but security is heading to our location as we speak," Price said in a rushed tone.

Immediately, you feigned a dizzy spell as Ghost and the museum security guard rushed to help you. As they helped to carry you to a private room, you mumbled incoherently about how you were drunk on love. Once the security guard set you down, Soap shut the door and you discreetly injected the man with one of your toxins. As he lay on the velvet couch, Ghost replied to Gaz and Price that you were on the way.

Exiting the room, Ghost stopped a patrolling security guard and said, "There's a young woman in that room. Try not to disturb her, I believe she may have had one too many drinks and her father doesn't want a fiasco for the family."

With that, you made your way through the various guests, loudly whispering to your fiancé that you desperately wanted some alone time. No one questioned you as Ghost made his way to the stairwell and you both split into the elevator.

Descending to the ground floor, you could hear gunshots echoing through the elevator doors. As it opened, a guard yelled that you both shouldn't be down there before becoming distracted by another gunshot. You took this time to pull out another syringe and injected it into his neck.

"Nice work, Elaine," Soap said and armed himself with a hidden pistol from his suit pocket. Ghost joined you both soon after as you made your way to the other team's location. You three worked in unison as the boys provided a pleasant distraction with their gunfire. You were able to sneak you way and subdue the guards with your knife as they were distracted by the noise of falling bodies and shots fired. You finally made it to the room, notifying your presence with a coded series of knocks. Price heaved the door open as you noticed Gaz behind him, drive in hand but with a bleeding arm. You quickly tore the layers of fabric from your dress and provided a makeshift tourniquet.

"How are we getting out of here, Captain? They're gonna have this place on lockdown," Gaz asked. "There's a delivery area on this floor, we'll have to hurry," Ghost said and navigated you all through the winding corridors.

You finally snuck you way to the area but noticed 5 guards standing watch. "Gobshite, they must've already put this place on lockdown," Soap swore quietly. With the adrenaline rushing to your ears, you had an idea, "follow my lead, Renoir. Danger close, boys. Just listen for my signal" you whispered. You quickly took some blood from Gaz's leaking wound and applied it to your dress and ripped skirt. You rubbed your hands on Soap's pristine white shirt and pooled it around his stomach. You then motioned for him to cover his hands with Gaz's blood. "Thanks, mate," Soap whispered to Gaz and you quickly rushed into the large delivery room.

"Please help us!" you shrieked, you held on desperately to Ghost. "My fiancé and I were attacked by some crazed gunsman, I think he's been shot," you cried as the men rushed over to help. Your loud wailing and statements saying how you couldn't lose your love distracted them and allowed for you 5 to take them out. The minute you took one of the men closest to you out with your last syringe, you shrieked, "MY GOD, Kate's been shot!" That was the queue as the boys knew Laswell was nowhere near the museum. Soap quickly took out the two men trying to find the source of his bleeding while Price and Ghost handled the other two.

With the men down and the area cleared, you loaded into an armored van, presumably one that transported all the expensive art. With Price at the wheel, Ghost provided cover as you raced into the night.

Finally away from danger, you all breathed a sigh of relief. Gaz lay in the middle of Ghost and Price, tending to his wound while you and Soap lay in the back amongst the plastic wrappings of paintings.

"You were a great actress, lass. Who knew you had it in ya," Soap said as you sat next to him. You both were propped against the steel interior of the van, experiencing every bump Price hit. "You as well, that proposal was something else," you replied back. "Like I said in the gallery, Bell, I meant every word." With that, you finally were able to share your second kiss and Price smiled looking in the rearview mirror. "Be careful with that one Sgt, if you mess up she'll slip some ricin in your mouth." he joked as you and Soap rested against one another, you'd deal with the repercussions later.

[jozor-johai]

Some things in ASOIAF are just meant to seem vastly powerful and outright unfair. See: dragons, which basically outplay any other kind of warfare.

Stannis’ shadow assassin is meant to (seem, at first) unprecedented and overpowerful. It’s a moment where this guy wins, even though he has a smaller army, he has less popular support, even though he has cut ties to basic cultural foundations like religion and is facing ridiculous odds by making no allies among other “rebels.”

Instead, Stannis wins because he’s taken a crazy gamble to the idea that magic is real, it can be used for warfare, and it will be used as a tool, regardless of what the Maesters say. The shadow baby reveal is supposed to be this moment where you say “oh shit, this guy is straight up playing a different game than the rest of these lords.”

And then, that in turn sets you up to think Stannis is totally going to own at the Blackwater, because you saw him just use totally overpowered tactics, and then in a surprise twist he doesn’t win, and then you think: wow, it really is Melisandre and her magic which are responsible for Stannis’ success.

And then you read the Mel chapter in Dance and you see that she’s faking half of it, and you wonder what the hell all of these powers really are.

And then you go: wow, what a cool and mysterious series where people have very unequal circumstances and similarly unequal capabilities at their disposal, what a complex web of military and social dynamics this has become by inserting crazy new magical features into political action.

And then you go: wow, I wonder if this is what it felt when they invented steel weapons or suits of armor or longbows or greek fire or RADAR or air combat or covert ops or infrared cameras or tanks or drones or napalm or stealth jets or nuclear bombs etc etc etc

[callsignfangs]

The 141 boys as widowers. (bc i feel like torturing myself /j)

141 x late (implied) spouse! reader

cws: grief, mentions of loss, implied alcoholism/alcohol as a coping mechanism, mentions self-destructive behaviour, very brief mention of addiction, etc (Please lmk if I've missed anything!)

(Note: This little drabble is a little self indulgent, a bit about my own journey with grief. Each little 'story' thing does end with acceptance. Please don't read if you're not in the right headspace, and remember that you're loved and you're not alone, and make sure to reach out if you need help <3)

--

Price is the one inclined to bargaining. Maybe he could've done something - what if he'd taken a bit more time off work, what if he spent more time with you, what if he'd agreed to retire early with you, what if he was there? Ironically enough - he just ends up drowning himself in more work, probably turns to smoking or alcohol in an attempt to drown everything out.

141, Gaz and Soap especially, will definitely be the only thing he holds on for. As capable as they all are, he couldn't just up and leave his boys without a captain - he couldn't make the same mistake over again, they gave him something to care for, to nurture and to look after.

I don't think he'll ever marry again - just making half-hearted attempts to peek into the dating scene whenever leave got especially lonely. He'd never be able to find anyone quite like you, so he eventually stopped bothering with it, finding warmth and comfort in himself and the other people he loved.

He keeps a photo of you, one of your handwritten notes, and any little trinket you'd given him at all times. Saved every single snippet of you talking he could - even still paying off your phone bill occasionally ringing your phone to hear your voicemail message, maybe sending you texts when things got especially hard. Definitely does chores the exact way you always did - from the time you went out to shop in the morning to how you stacked dishes. Loves hot showers but still takes a lukewarm one each morning because your habit of taking cold showers meant the water was never hot enough for him. I think he probably adopts something after the rough edges of the hole you'd left in his heart smoothed over.

It wasn't intentional in the slightest - maybe a stray cat had clung to his pant leg while he was on a hike or the task force managed to pick up an orphaned little kid on one of their excursions. He's very hesitant with them, still not quite trusting himself with caring for another being. But he warms up to them eventually. No matter human or animal, they've definitely been brought to your gravesite once or twice.

Maybe it would be alright, eventually. He'd at least have something interesting to entertain you with the next life he found you.

--

Soap is definitely in denial. Convinces himself it's a mistake - that when deployment's finally over, he'll trudge home, kick off his boots, and be met by his sweet love, bouncing at his heels like an overeager puppy and lathering his face in flittering little kisses. He still avoids coming home like the plague - resorts to anything from taking on way too many missions, to picking up another job on the side, even to staying in hotels as if he was in some sort of covert op.

He'd be forced to go back to your house eventually, though. Not home, it wasn't home without you there. Just the same four walls and roof he camped out in on deployment. Nothing warm or special about it.

He still pretended, though. Made your bed every morning the way you liked it and prepared meals for two every day.

While Price and Ghost undoubtedly pulled him out of his slump, Gaz was the person who really started him on the road to acceptance. Having the boys over near constantly was soothing, giving him something to occupy his mind with and overshadowing the cold emptiness of the house. The occasional cuddle piles and game nights reminded him of the warmth of their bond - like the nights they spent on stakeouts, letting their own sweet joy shield them from the brutal realities of their situation.

Gaz was the first person he cried to. Soap couldn't bear the way his buzzed sides were starting to fluff out, but he'd slowly gotten used to letting your gentle hands preen him and tidy him up. Of course, Gaz had noticed, and of course, he'd insisted that Soap just had to let him have a go at doing up someone else's hair. Soap didn't know when he'd devolved into tears - somewhere between the first gentle touch he'd felt in weeks and the crippling realisation that you'd never be there to do it again.

Either way, he'd managed to cry himself to sleep in Gaz's arms that night. He continued to sob himself away for weeks, filling each day with tears.

Until each day turned into each few.

And each few turned into once a week.

And slowly, his tears dried up.

It was an arduous process, grieving. But he stubbornly forced through it, just as he'd forced his way into your heart.

And he did his very best not to change. He determinedly kept the mohawk - even used the same shampoo because it made his hair feel perfectly fluffy under your touch. He did his best to continue being his perky, bubbly self, because he knew how you practically basked in his energy.

However, he still let himself grow, let his hawk grow out so he could braid it the way he'd always considered, and he let himself have his bad days, didn't force himself to keep up his energy when he didn't really have enough.

Admittedly, though, he never married again. He found temporary enjoyment in little flings, though he let them pass when the time was right. No matter what, he always came back to your house.

Sure, it wasn't quite home without you there. But you'd been there - no matter how little the time you'd had together felt in hindsight - so maybe he could learn to make it home again. For you.

--

Gaz is angry - furious to the point of enraged tears. If it was him? He'd understand. He'd hurt people, torn apart lives and taken his fair share of them. He deserved it. But you? It wasn't fair. In his eyes, you couldn't possibly hurt a fly, so delicate and tender and so, so soft. It just wasn't fair.

His attempt at coping is to delve headfirst into a tedious slew of missions - one after another after another. It gives him something to dump all his blind rage and hurt and desperation into. His morals were a writhing, flailing, unrecognisable mess for a long time, and the best comfort he could find was in the chaotic monotony of work.

So what if he burned everything in his path to ash? At least the threat was dealt with.

Price and Ghost are the most essential to his recovery. He needs guidance, needs some sort of structure, and needs to relinquish the tight hold on his need to be good, to fix things, to help, to finally restore what he was so reliant on, even if that meant tearing himself to shreds in the process. What he needs is time to grieve, time to come to terms with the unforgiving reality - that it just happened. No-one did anything wrong, there was no violence or intent, it just happened.

He'll absolutely come to deeply regret everything he did in his grief-induced warpath, but eventually accept that he was hurt and lost and just needed the help - the intervention.

Like Price, I think he might attempt to put himself out there and find someone new every once in a while, maybe even builds up to a couple dates, but he never really finds interest in anyone. He definitely remains friends with many of the people he meets, but he just can't quite find a spark - mainly because they're not you.

He never throws out anything of yours, his wardrobe is still mostly full of random articles of your clothing, and the third drawer on the nightstand is still yours.

He always wears something of yours when he goes out, from shirts and shorts to hoodies, even some of your jewelry.

Despite it being admittedly pretty late, he finally watches all of the shows you liked and reads all the books you did. It makes him feel closer to you - cuddling up under your favourite blanket in your favourite spot and picturing you being there with him, imagining each and every one of your reactions, practically seeing your lovely face curl with smiles as you commentated over the whole thing.

Sure, you weren't really there with him anymore, but the sweet, warm mark you'd left on his heart was enough to carry him over until he inevitably returned to you.

--

Ghost is mostly depressed. He's so agonisingly hurt and lost, but you were his sun - what gave him life and love, and without you? He just couldn't muster up the energy to do anything beyond simply existing. Even he'd expected himself to crash and burn - follow in his brother's footsteps and drown in a spiral of addiction. But he just... Didn't. The affirmation that he didn't blow up and take everyone he loved down with him would be reassuring, comforting, but it wasn't. Not without you whispering praise in his ear, assuring him of his goodness and softness.

I think he'd also be reliant on Soap and Gaz, but Price would be a surprisingly big factor as well. No-one could ever really replicate the effect you had on him, the way your encouragement kept him going, but having some amount of structure, of motivation? It helped. Despite that, he absolutely tried to push them out at first, convinced that the acrid shadow of death looming over his shoulder would eventually take them as well. What are task force 141 if not determined and unfathomably stubborn, though, especially when it came to caring for their own.

Soap undoubtedly led the charge - seeing as his ceaseless energy and affection were mildly more normal (god knows Simon needed a little bit of comforting normalcy). Gaz came second, still snarky and headstrong as ever, but with softened edges and an air of gentle care. Price was last. He'd been there before Simon was Ghost, he was aware enough to piece bits of his past together - and he'd be damned if he managed to scare Simon, if he was the reason he regressed further. So he was tender. Delicate, even. Ghost would despise being handled like fragile porcelain in Price's kid gloves, but it soothed a part of Simon that hadn't peeked out since you left.

It'll take a bit longer than the others - more therapy, reassurance and care, but he'll recover eventually, let the wound you left in his porous heart scar over and go on as best he could.

I don't think he'll look for romance again either - his interest in it just died out alongside you. He wants to preserve the sanctity and tenderness of what you had, and is more than content with holding that love in his heart, and keeping it safe for you until he meets you again.

After you're gone, he attempts to follow your advice more, occasionally dragging himself out of his comfort zone, picking up new hobbies and trying to emulate your passion for life in himself, keeping a little bit of you alive with him. He absolutely douses the house in your favourite fragrance, refuses to use any hygiene products other than yours and carries something of yours everywhere, whether it be your ring or even your purse, just something to remind him he had to look after things (including himself) for you.

Even if you were cremated or buried in some other way, he'd ensure there was a gravestone for you placed alongside his mother, Tommy, Beth and little Joseph. You'd always be part of his family - his heart, and when his time came? He'd be buried alongside you, trailing along with you into whatever came next. By your side forever.

<3

Yippee. This was. A journey. /lh

Sorry if this isn't formatted the best, it was more of a massive brain dump that I forcibly shoved into something just about understandable lol

If you're seeing this, tyvm for reading mwah 😚😚

[theflyindutchwoman]

Are you good? Yeah. Yeah, we got you covered out here. Wherever you go, we go. Well, that's comforting, but I meant, like, are you good? Do you mean do I miss you already? No. I'm fine. You are such a jerk.

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - CHENFORD EDITION 5.21 - Going Under

Covering Lucy's first days undercover through her conversations with Tim is simply brilliant. Instead of focusing on the isolating side of covert operations, this montage actually emphasises how these two find ways to stay in touch… to hold space for the other, through phone calls that sound like love letters, that serve as a bond between them… And that's the beauty of this scene : it underlines the importance of verbal communication. They can't rely on their usual shorthand here. They can't just guess what the other is thinking with only a look. They have to say things aloud. And that constant dialogue brings out so many things to the surface.

Like how truly different their relationship is. From Tim and Isabel's marriage, that was plagued by miscommunication and secrecy as her recent return pointed out. Or from Sava and Jake's relationship, that was based on lies and deceit. Both Lucy and Tim make a point to constantly check-in with each other here. Right from the start, she asks him point blank how he is doing, recognising his deflection. His little smile when she asks him that… The fondness behind it… His little joke about not missing her and Lucy calling him a jerk… This is so reminiscent of their usual dynamic and they both need this semblance of normalcy. But mostly, it shows how they really pay attention to the other. They make the most of their limited time, discussing the mission as well as personal matters. Like when Lucy asks him to keep an eye on Tamara or to wait for her return to watch Top Chef… Or when she wonders if he ever wishes he had a normal job, one where he wouldn't get shot - talk about foreshadowing by the way… Those are the type of conversations they would normally have. Being undercover doesn't change that : they might be separated by this op, but they're not shutting out the other either. Those little conversations that may seem insignificant are their way of staying connected to each other. The contrast with the previous montage of Lucy sending short text messages to Nyla when she was undercover as Nova couldn't make this clearer.

That's why having Tim as her link to the 'real world' is perfect. It may not be Lucy's first undercover op but it is the first time since they started dating. Tim acting as her case officer gives them both a bit of a preview to what their future might entail, while easing them both to it. It's a way for him to be directly involved in Lucy's op. Besides, no one knows her better than him and she trusts him more than anybody else. And it also provides her with a lifeline, an anchor, the comfort of knowing he's close by. But mostly, this is what forces them to address the elephant in the room. They are both aware of the potential conflict undercover work could create, something that Lucy tried to bring up a couple of times already. But they need to go through one mission to fully grasp how important transparency is - especially Tim. The fact that this op happens right after the return of their doppelgängers and Isabel gives them the opportunity to learn from their errors… to learn from the past. It was important that these two got to fully enjoy their honeymoon period, to solidify their relationship first. So that instead of worrying on how it could tear them apart, they can concentrate on how they can make it work : by communicating, by being transparent with each other. That's the ingredient that was missing in the other relationships. And this scene introduces wonderfully that last act, when they finally voice their fears and feelings. They spent the whole mission finding ways to stay in touch, to communicate with each other and that allows them to finally confront the issue.

[mangeur-detoiles]

i am/was so excited to see you binging special ops: lioness. definitely cruz and aaliyah made the show what it was. i could see so much potential for aaliyah to be in season 2 but the straights are gonna straight. now there’s just gonna be joe’s family drama-rama colliding with her work 23/7 with the 1 hour left available for covert ops and whatever weird shit thing going on with nicole kidman’s character and her husband market manipulation or whatevs idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

One of the show's purposes is to depict how these women navigate their violent and challenging jobs at the CIA, as well as their family and love lives. However, the main problem for me is that the only storyline I find truly compelling is about Aaliyah and Cruz. I have no interest at all in Nicole Kidman's character's private life. Joe's family drama was decent imo, but I doubt the writer can create something genuinely interesting for S2.

Aaliyah and Cruz's story was clearly meant to conclude with S1, but it was executed so brilliantly and powerfully that it stole the show. As a result, the ending feels deeply unsatisfying. The journey was so intense that I was fully invested in their fate, and now I can’t accept this bland conclusion. It’s not that I simply ship them and want a happy ending; I need a closure that is emotionally resonant and as profound as their story.

I completely agree with you: their story has so much potential for another season, and I'm surprised the showrunner didn't want to take advantage of it. After all, Cruz will return at some point in S2, and Aaliyah's fate will always weigh on her mind. However, you're right—"the straights are gonna straight," and we have plenty of sad examples of incredible potential wasted by writers, producers, and executives (CBS, I'm looking at you right now!). At this point, I try to find closure in fanfiction: fanfic writers always recognize great potential and consistently deliver!

[medikits]

Captivated

~An Obito and Kira RP~

@hatredcurse

---------------------------

Kira refused to be conventional when it came to healing. She didn't charge for her services, she often worked herself into late hours and took on as many missions that required a medical-nin as possible. The origins of her abilities were unknown to her, but it was her duty to make the most of them.

On some rare occasions she even had the opportunity of working alongside whom she considered her childhood friend, Kakashi. Though... she wasn't quite sure what he thought of her, anymore. Even though he'd always been somewhat aloof to her, she'd thought they'd been close. In their own way.

However, ever since that tragedy, and ever since he joined ANBU, it seemed like he really didn't want much to do with her. He'd practically said so himself, and while it hurt... she didn't want to give up on him.

It was a little unhealthy for her though, and even other shinobi were starting to see it.

Her personal life aside, Kira had no idea that her abilities were even more useful than she might have imagined. In the wrong hands, she had the potential to allow someone to live forever. Her chakra was so potent that she'd stopped aging at a certain point, though it wasn't obvious since she was a young woman still.

That kind of healing... it was like the fountain of youth. Carefully crafted genetics by Orochimaru himself when Kira's mother had been pregnant with her. There were more than enough times for her potential to have been noticed by now, but she was oblivious to the potential dangers.

Currently, she was on a mission that she had taken alone.

Kira was meant to complete a covert ops mission on a village that had been suspected to be infected by an unknown illness on the outskirts of the land of waves. It was important that it would not spread to Konoha and she would have to attempt to heal them or... be required to isolate and burn it. Kira felt confident that she wouldn't let it get to that point, however.

So far though... everything seemed rather normal. No one appeared sickly or injured. It was strange. Just an ordinary village, if rather eery.

She was crouched atop a roof wearing her version of jonin gear. A cropped green jacket and a white tanktop, dark blue pants with wraps at her ankles and one wrap around her thigh. Her ninja headband was fastened on her forehead with her bangs over either side of it. Her ponytail was held high with slight waves at the ends from the humidity.

The mist was so dense now that she could barely see except for maybe a foot in front of her. It unsettled her, despite not fully understanding why.

[canonical-transformation]

Summary: a do-over of Chevreuse's "heads-up" to Wriothesley, with guest appearances from Sigewinne, Sonny the White Glove, Lumine, and more.

The morning after she arrested Veronique and Morris, Chevreuse was at Special Patrol headquarters dealing with the subsequent forms and reports and punch cards. The record-keeping was part of a fair justice system, so she wouldn't have it any other way, but it was a slog, and her hand was getting sore from all the writing.

There was a knock on her door. "Come in," she said.

Turenna entered and gave a crisp salute. "Special Security and Surveillance Patrol Trainee Turenna, reporting, sir!"

"Hey Turenna. What is it?"

"There's an Ultra-Black Clearance Level Intelligence Broker here to see you, sir."

"Uh..." Chevreuse could never keep track of Turenna's superlatives. Ultra-black meant important, right? "Chiori or Talochard?... or Emilie?"

"No, sir. Miss Emilie is Code Dusk-Red Clearance, sir."

"Turenna, who is it?"

"Chiori, sir."

"You could have just said that."

"Yes, sir." Salute. "Apologies, sir."

Hmm, Chevreuse had been writing for over an hour. She could use a change of pace.

"Send her in," she instructed Turenna.

A minute later, Chiori walked in, looking the same as ever. (Unimpressed. Devastatingly good. Et cetera).

"Morning, Chiori!" said Chevreuse. "You're a welcome sight, I'm drowning in red tape over here. What do you need?"

Chiori looked her up and down. "My gods, Chevreuse. I left before midnight; you stayed for the whole party. How do you look so..." Her lip curled. "...chipper?"

"Uh..."

"Not important," Chiori sighed. She dismissed the topic with a wave of the hand. "Look, I just wanted to check in with you."

"Sure," said Chevreuse, "what about?"

"Morris."

Of course: the ‘Baron’ to Veronique's Iris. When he'd learned his lover Elisa had carried their children to term, he'd arranged for her and the twins to be killed. He'd gotten what he paid for: the hired assassin hadn't been thorough, and the twins had survived.

Chiori went on: "You said last night you were going to give Wriothesley a heads-up. Has that happened yet?"

"No."

"Gotcha. And..." Chiori gave her one of those looks. "...how, exactly, is this heads up going to happen?"

"I'm surprised you want to know." Usually Chiori said the less details she knew, the better. "What's it to you?"

"Call it an... intuition." She motioned for Chevreuse to talk.

"Well," said Chevreuse, "I figured I'd drop by Meropide before the trials start, ask Wriothesley for a favour. Don't let Morris get too comfortable, so to speak."

Chiori swore.

"Is something wrong?" Chevreuse asked."That's so..." Chiori rattled off a string of disgruntled-sounding Inazuman words. "...blatant. Chevreuse, that's really gods damned blatant."

"I don't get it."

"Chevreuse, I've seen you on the job. You're good at being covert. Does it actually go out the window the moment the suspect is in custody?"

"This is a request, not a covert op."

"Plausible deniability, Chevreuse, ever heard of it?"

[...]

[libertyreads]

April TBR 2024--

This next month is set to be full of rereads, hockey romances, and new to me books. It is also the month I'm starting a certification program so it will probably be a bit of a struggle to get through this month's TBR. I don't even remember the last time I've thought that about a month's TBR. I really hope I have as much fun with this TBR as I'm expecting to. I've really been in the mood for these rereads and these hockey romance so I'm excited to finally get to it.

Silver in the Bone by Alexandra Bracken-- This is just one of a few rereads this month. Book two in the series comes out next month. I originally read this one as an ARC so I definitely need a refresher first. Tamsin Lark is a mortal with no magical talent who was never meant to break into ancient crypts or compete with sorceresses and Cunning folk for the treasures inside. But treasure hunting is the only way she could keep herself and her brother Cabell alive following her thieving foster father's disappearance. Ten years later she's looking for a ring that is supposed to save her brother from a curse. It's based in Arthurian legend.

Teen Titans: Beast Boy by Kami Garcia and Gabriel Picolo-- Another reread before a new book in the series. I remember enjoying this one slightly less than Raven's book, but I still enjoyed meeting a new character and getting their origin story. I also felt like it addressed an issue that isn't brought up a lot: male body image issues. We see it addressed a lot in fiction for girls, but there are boys who also go through this growing up. Plus it's beast boy and lots of green animals.

The Score by Elle Kennedy-- A hockey romance! I've been so in the mood for hockey romances this year. I don't know if it's because I found a few new to me authors and bought some kindle books for Christmas or what. In this one we follow Allie Hayes who is in crisis mode. Graduation is looming and she's dealing with a broken heart thanks to the end to her longtime relationship. Wild rebound sex is definitely not the solution to her problems, but gorgeous hockey star Dean Di Laurentis is impossible to resist. Just one though because even if her future is uncertain it sure as heck doesn't include Dean. It seems like he's going to pursue her after she puts him in the friend zone following their one night stand. I love it when the guy falls first or the guy is pursuing the girl so I'm looking forward to this one.

Stars and Smoke by Marie Lu-- The last of the rereads for this month. I'm so excited for the next book too. In this one we follow an international pop sensation named Winter Young who is brought into the world of spies when a major crime boss gifts his daughter a private concert with Winter for her birthday. Sydney Cossette is a member of the elite covert ops group who is forced to work alongside Winter to infiltrate the crime organization's inner circle. This was such a fun and quick read for me last year and I can't wait to go back into this world of glitz, glam, and spies.

Bad Men by Julie Mae Cohen (NetGalley)-- This one just sounded so good when I saw it on NetGalley. It's unhinged women at its finest. Saffy Huntley-Oliver is an intelligent and glamorous socialite; she also happens to be a proficient serial killer. Over the course of fifteen years, she's dispatched bad men--rapist, murderers, domestic abusers. But leading a double life has left her lonely. Dating's rough when your boyfriend might turn out to be your next victim. Saffy thinks she's finally found a truly good man in Jonathan Desrosiers, a true crime podcaster. This is a feminist thriller that asks if even a serial killer can have a happily ever after. My hopes for this one? Rich people drama and some mad women.

The Hemlock Queen by Hannah F. Whitten (New Release)-- The second book in the series is finally coming out. This series starts with Lore, who has a dark power and a hidden past, as we follow her into the intrigue of the Sainted King's royal court. The king and his priest manipulate Lore and have her spy on the prince in order to determine just who is killing the villages at the edge of the kingdom. We follow on from the events of the first book in this new one.

My Lucky #13 by Piper Rayne (Kindle)-- A hockey player who is going through a scoring draught is worried he's going to get traded before the deadline if he doesn't turn it around. Following a New Year's Eve with a woman, he has a waterfall of goals and knows he has to see her again. She wants nothing to do with him and he feels his has to change her mind. A hero falls first sounding story that I'm so looking forward to. I will say that there's a very obvious hockey error in the synopsis of this one and we all know I'm a little picky about hockey details. But I'll try to keep an open mind on this one.

Just Do This One Thing For Me by Laura Zimmerman (Library)-- I'm going to pull the synopsis straight from GoodReads since it's a Mystery/Thriller and those are hard to explain at the best of times: "'Just do this one thing for me.' Drew's mother says it more often than good morning. Heidi Hill has been juggling shady side hustles for all of Drew's seventeen years, and Drew knows that 'one thing' really means all the necessary things her mother thinks are boring, including taking care of her fifteen-year-old sister and eight-year-old brother. In fact, Drew is the closest thing to a responsible adult they've ever known. When their mother disappears on the way to a New Year's Eve concert in Mexico and her schemes start unraveling, Drew is faced with a choice: Follow the rules, do the responsible thing, and walk away--alone--from her mother's mess. Or hope the weather stays cold, keep the cons going, and just maybe hold her family together."

[eldritcmor]

I discovered you through the eldrich reader tag and just read your “them” post

I was wondering how they were recruited and—

100% the people that hired them just went along with whatever they wanted out of like instinctual self-preservation (“you want to join this military organization? Absolutely, please leave me alone now ”) and whenever reported to the higher ups, they were like, “you know what? It’s better for whatever that is to be in line of sight”

Ya know, I never really thought about that. Originally Them was to be a counterpart to Storm. Storm was meant to be the more human part of the eldritch pair. They was meant to be monster in human form. Let's get down to the brass tax.

Storm and They are military brats. They grew up around the military and observing it as they grew older. They weren't really recruited, so much as they were expected to follow in the footsteps of their parents. Being in the more southern parts of the Midwest probably didn't help either. The Midwest has a strange relationship with recruitment. The mindset is kinda if you don't know what to do with your life you can always join the military. It's makes recruitment a little easier. But being a military brat can also make it quite a bit harder to recruit as well. You, as a child and depending on the situation, now have first hand sight to how the military lifestyle can effect a person even after they leave it. Long thoughts, short both had an inkling of what they were getting into when they signed on the dotted line.

Their recruitment went rather smoothly. It really wasn't until a few years after basic that the strangeness of the pair began to really display itself. Both were new to covert ops and they had a track record of getting shit done lethally. Think of Ghost but notch down the lethal meter by like five and you'll land square on these two. That's what caught both Shepard's and Laswell's eyes. There were a lot of reports of them taking out targets without really using traditional force. One report of They was that a man was torn apart by shadows. Laswell thought it better to keep an eye on both so she moved them closer. They're both intelligence specialists.

[justiceforc3po]

SW:TOR OC: Vada Z'Elion

Colonel Vada Z'Elion - Republic Trooper (Mercenary) - Class Story Compliant, Outlander

Species: Human (Cyborg)

Age: 27 at the end of class story.

Allegiances: Galactic Republic, Republic Military (Havoc Squad)

Planet: Coruscant Stronghold

Alignment: Light-Side

Romance: Lana Beniko, Elara Dorne, Ava Jaxo, others (polyamorous lesbian)

Connections: Aric Jorgan (XO, strong platonic), Jean Larranis (Adoptive Father), Neqian Zur (Acquaintance), Sazari Ashago (Past Friendship), Theron Shan (Strong Platonic), Senya Tirall (Strong Platonic), Arcann Tirall (Strong Platonic)

Biography

Born in 10 BTC, Vada Z'Elion has always been closely intertwined with Republic Military. As the daughter of a soldier serving on a base far removed from the front lines of the war, she spent a large part of her childhood there, with her father being a local civillian working with the base. She grew up in relative peace, and admired her mother, wanting to follow her footsteps one day. This did not last- the base was eventually attacked in an Imperial effort to disrupt Republic supply lines. Though it was defended successfully, it was nearly destroyed - and left Vada orphaned overnight in the wake of the battle. Seven years old at the time, she was put into the care of Jean Larranis, a friend of her mother's and teacher at the school the base had established. The both of them grew close very fast, being the only family either of them had left. The death of her parents did nothing to stifle Vada's ambitions to become a soldier. Jean, being an ex-pilot with a very jaded view on the military, tried his very best to keep her away from this path, though he realised that in the end, it was not his decision to make. This led to Vada joining a school preparing aspiring future soldiers for the military academy when she turned 13. She thrived there, adapting to the environment quickly. It was on a trip with this school that Vada's career almost came to an abrupt halt - a covert imperial sabotage operation meant to destroy the base the school was visiting left her caught in an explosion. She survived narrowly, suffering extensive hearing loss and blinding her left eye as well as earning her a distinctive burn scar across her left side and face. Shortly after making her inital recovery though, she was approached by recruiters for the military academy - they had taken notice of her case and offered her restorative cybernetics - in case she still wanted to sign up. Vada took the offer immediately - driving a wedge between her and Jean, who was furious with the proposal and its conditions, unwilling to see further harm be done to his loved ones in the name of the Republic war effort. And so, she departed without his approval, the two having barely spoken since. She became a model soldier, eager to prove herself and serve, overtaking her peers fast. Not unpopular but quiet and distanced, she didn't build many close relationships in her time there. After graduating, she served for two years on several different minor operations, eventually being recruited to Havoc Squad at the age of 24. Quickly confronted with the messiness of real spec ops work, Vada now has to adapt to her new leadership role and reevaluate her own relationship to the military - and its values.

Personality

Traits: Calm, Considerate, Practical, Reserved, Protective

Values: Honesty, Kindness, Mutual Respect, Following the Law, Professionalism

Opposed to: Unneccessary/Excessive Violence, Discrimination, Abuse of Power, Secrecy, Unquestioning Loyalty

Miscellaneous

She is very calm and collected usually, having been taught to not raise her voice at others and control her anger well. Tanno Vik, however, has tested these boundaries beyond the breaking point before. Once.

Starting off her time in Havoc Squad following all orders without question, she grew stronger in her conviction to protect lives above all else over time, even going directly against Garza's orders on Taris, destroying the bioweapons she was supposed to secure for Republic Military.

With the start of the war, but especially after the events on A-77, Vada started learning about various philosophies in her off-time, growing particularly interested in Jedi teachings. She values the code as a good guideline for anyone with large amounts of power or responsibility, including herself.

She heavily dislikes talking about her feelings, often not feeling justified in her struggles and not wanting to burden others with her own issues, especially those working under her command - this has led to some strain in her relationship to her squad members.

On a more lighthearted note, she is a bit of a flirt and has had her fair share of flings. Of course, she would never flirt while on duty, though Seargent Jaxo has very nearly made her break that rule before.

She has absolutely horrrible taste in food, opting to eat plain rations, protein shakes and protein bars only unless someone (C2-N2) stops her.

She was a big fan of Jace Malcolm as a teen - especially after gaining her own scars. Though she is a bit embarassed about her idolisation of him now, she still owns a poster of him she has hidden away in a box of memorabilia.

[cha-melodius]

20 for the writing meme, please!

Thanks for asking! You picked a doozy, lol. (Ask me questions about my writing)

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

All right, here's some meta for chapter 2 of Nova, Baby (why chapter 2? Because it's an entire 5+1 inside a single chapter of a multichap fic, which is meta enough reason to choose it).

So yeah, it's a 5+1! I thought this was very clever, lol. Also a little bonkers, but there you go. I love this chapter because it really is a huge arc in Alex and Henry's relationship development, plus I got to play with these little encapsulated moments, and some other characters got to come in too (Nora, Pez). I'll give you some "behind the story" and lists of references for each section!

Below will be spoilers for the entire fic, so be forewarned.

I. My excuse for food-as-a-metaphor-for-love. I love that canonically Alex is a good cook, and this was my excuse to have them indulge when normally you might not get much of that in spy fiction (although, this is also a bit of a reference to my other fandom, The Man from UNCLE, where one of the spies is also a good cook; fancy dishes at safehouses is kind of my jam). I chose molé as a dish because making a traditional one has so many ingredients, to really drive home Alex putting a lot of effort into his relationship with Henry.

II. I had such fun writing this one so that, even though it's from Alex's POV, the reader doesn't know he's wearing a vest until Henry does. He might not have been risking his life (much), but he was definitely risking some broken ribs. This one has a bunch of little references in it, mostly to other spy media:

jumping through a fifth story window into a swimming pool—this is a Burn Notice reference. Throw a mattress into the pool first. Also I just love the idea of Alex being a little Extra when it comes to being a spy.

three guys who look like they walked off a Guy Ritchie set—TMFU is a Guy Ritchie movie, plus I love his movies in general.

Alex hadn’t gotten any confirmation from Langley that MI6 would be a part of this op, Henry had just shown up and Alex hadn’t really questioned it—Meant to sow a tiny thread of doubt in Alex's mind, which would pay off later when the fake burn file comes through.

he notices the way Henry’s eyelashes are wet and clumping together and his eyes are rimmed in red—Henry fucking lost it here. See also the part where he kills the men rather than his usual incapacitating, nonlethal shots. This is probably the point where he realizes how deep he's in.

Turns out, they don’t argue about what to do with it. They destroy the hard drive—direct TMFU reference, (spoilers for that movie), this is what Illya and Napoleon do at the end with the missile plans.

III. The classic Nora-and-Alex-have-a-conversation-about-his-bisexuality scene. Also I just loved the idea of Alex being so oblivious to his bisexuality that he's actually sucked cock before and written it off because 'that's just what spies do'. The layout of desks/offices in this fic roughly comes from the show Covert Affairs, since it's one of the few I've watched that actually regularly shows CIA interiors.

IV. Behind the story peek: Henry bails on this mission because he's concerned, after Lisbon, that he's getting in too deep. Also this scene Alex being a Henry-sexual (not interested in going home with any other people in the bar but can't figure out why), which I love. Also Pez in a poncho, because he would. Pez and Alex have an absolute blast on their mission, and Pez gives Henry no end of shit about Alex when he gets back.

V. Tender wound-tending my beloved. This was such a moment of honesty for them. I mean, not completely honest, but I think this is the first time Alex really realizes just how much Henry cares about him (save the full romantic feelings). There is, of course, a massive callback to this scene near the end of the fic where Alex tells Henry that he can't die because promised he'd always take care of him. All that time, he's carried that in his memory. So yeah, this is a pivotal moment.

+1. Ah, the kiss moment. I always love a kiss-as-a-cover trope, and it made for a good first kiss in this one where it would be easier to write off the potential for feelings, since it was all for the mission. Lots of canon references in this one:

in another life, he would have made a great politician—obvious reference is obvious.

I suppose I could, I don’t know, fall into the dessert table or something—a refence to Cakegate of course.

Christ, you’re thick sometimes—I changed the quote because I wanted it to be a bit less severe than "as thick as it gets." Alex is only thick sometimes in this universe, lol.

Henry’s back hits the wall next to some kind of small, indoor tree—always kissing under a tree, these two.

public displays of affection can be strategically useful for diverting scrutiny away from yourself—yes, this a CA: TWS reference

ALL RIGHT, that's probably enough lmaooooo. You asked me to ramble and I rambled. I hope this was interesting to at least one person.

[collapsedsquid]

Known in esoteric meme circles as the psy-op girl, Haylujan, also known simply as Lujan, is a self-described “psychological operations specialist” for the US Army, whose online presence has led to countless memes speculating that she is a post-ironic psy-op meant to recruit people into the US army. Lujan, who’s actually employed by the US army psy-ops division, posts countless TikToks and memes that play into this (her official website is called sikeops). “My own taxes used to psy-op me,” says one commenter. “Definitely a fed (I’m signing up for the army now)” writes another.

[...]

We’ve entered an era of military-funded E-girl warfare. In what would’ve felt unimaginable only a few years back, influencers are the hottest new weapon in the government’s arsenal. Here, cosplay commandos post nationalist thirst traps to mobilise the SIMPs, attracting the sort of impressionable reply guys and 4chan lostbois who message “OMG DM me🔥” on every post. Sanitising the harsh realities of US imperialism with cute E-girl-isms, it promotes the sort of hypersexualised militarism that reframes violence as something cute, goofy and unthreatening – a subversion of the beefy special forces stereotype in the mainstream. Arguably far more unsettling than any 20th-century CIA covert ops, there’s no hush-hush to this operation. Rather it hides in plain sight, capitalising on online irony to lull you into a false sense of security with #relatable content and the sort of tapped-in memery that can only come from years of being terminally online (she’s just like me, fr).

“Don’t go to college, become a farmer or a soldier instead,” Lujan urges her audience in a recent TikTok, before going on an anti-liberal rant about the metaverse and Impossible Burgers. Realistically, it’s not that the US army is actively funnelling trad ideology via a 20-year-old influencer – posting hot girl content as a soldier online benefits Lujan’s personal brand too – but when you consider how enlistment rates among Gen Z have plummeted, unofficial pro-military content like Lujan’s undeniably plays into the US army’s motives. See: “When the Army spends $100 million on advertisement each year just to get ratio’d by a 21-year-old girl with a Tiktok.”

More embarassing to simp for the nation than simp for an egirl

[androgynouspenguinexpert]

gather round, children, because op made an irreversible error on her graduate project three days before it's due and this blog is the only thing keeping her from snapping!

let's talk about camelopardalis!

unfortunately for him (and this analysis), cam is more of a narrative device than a character, but he has a handful of standout moments. if i had to pin him to a theme for the sake of consistency, i'd probably say processing and recovering from trauma.

cam, despite his specialty as a serenity daemon, is an incredibly anxious person - he usually keeps it under wraps, but cam starts to spiral almost immediately when he loses control of a situation. notice how quickly he bounces after someone offers him help instead of the other way around, which is what he's used to. it's his comfort zone. camelopardalis helps people; he sees it as his only purpose. he becomes incredibly stressed when he's not helping, and god forbid someone offer to share some of the emotional weight he's always carrying.

i think camelopardalis has the opposite problem to someone like avior - he's a little (read: a lot) too tied to his identity as a serenity daemon, and doesn't really consider himself an individual. it certainly doesn't help that the department has snatched him up to use as a mobile therapist-slash-trauma response worker. camelopardalis ties his self worth to his usefulness, and the department is all but happy to exploit that. maybe not consciously, but having your memory modification team want to work 24/7 at full capacity isn't something any government branch would complain about.

the tidbit that memories can be moved around but never fully destroyed is incredibly interesting to me - because, among other things, that means that cam is holding the worst memories of who knows how many people. we get a tiny peek of that later in his (what i hesitate to even call) series, but cam shuts it down as soon as he realises he's opened up too much. all this poses an interesting moral question - what are we meant to do with horrible traumatic memories if they can't be destroyed? obviously, most people just have to work through them themselves the old fashioned way, but what about people like ivan? or baby? people who have been victims of horrific magical crimes (cheers vega) that need to have their memories removed for their own sakes, and to maintain covert? is it really fair to cram all that trauma into one person? (spoiler: it is not)

okay, so we can't just shove the worst emotions known to man into a daemon and hope for the best. but now what? do we make them take turns on the trauma? do we split it up, ending up with more people holding smaller pieces? do we just pile all the horror into one person and kill them? there really isn't a good answer here, at least not that i can see. serenity daemons holding onto the memories of their charges is really only pushing the trauma one rung up the ladder, and leaving the daemon to work through recovery acoustic style.

i doubt we'll see cam in any meaningful capacity any time soon. he's really not relevant to the current A plot, and i'd argue he's bundled in somewhere with the F or G plots at the moment. still, i think camelopardalis has a lot of potential. if he eventually decides to open up to someone, he might get to experience some of that peace he strives to grant to others.