leyavo

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter | 13 |

PART THIRTEEN 💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader. 3k+ words

Previous parts -> [series masterlist]

TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

| Please be aware that manipulative people are really good at twisting the narrative to look good and make others look bad! They know their targets, can be two completely different people that you wouldn’t realise what goes on behind closed doors. Trigger warning: LENA!! |

Lena’s POV:

Vodka lemonade. Lena Marston’s drink of choice, a companion she’d kept since her teen years. Where John had whisky, she had vodka and a kid, you. She likes to think that she’s a decent mother, enough to prepare you for the bad people in this world. You’re resourceful, a tad hopeful but it always works in her favour. So desperate for love that you believe every word she coats with sugar and when she does snap, you’re reminded of the harsh reality. Lena’s a realist, taking things for what they are. Whereas you’re an idealist, hoping that those around you will change for the better. That your mother will stop drinking and choosing men over you. That your father will come back and make everything right. As if taking her youth wasn’t enough, you’re still causing trouble for her now.

She thought she raised you better, maybe you are your father’s daughter. Someone who thinks they can change the world. Nobody changes, it’s laughable to imagine John any different, but as he sits opposite her with a non-alcoholic drink she can’t help, but laugh.

It’s been years since Lena’s seen John, a few phone calls here and there to lay the foundations. To complain about you, ask John when he’s going to pick his daughter up and have a word. Such an ungrateful girl. John’s age hasn’t ruined his looks, a head full of thick hair and beard. Doesn’t have to cover the grey hairs, dye his roots every month to appear younger. He’s not the one carrying stretch marks on his stomach or a scar from birthing you.

“Well how’s the wife, John? The boy…you always wanted a boy,” Lena asks, swirling the vodka around in her glass, ice cubes clinking together. She can’t remember the kids age or name and doesn’t care much to be honest. She’s thankful that she never had another.

John nods, “yep, all good. A three year old girl too.” His fingers drum against the table, sipping his beer without breaking eye connect with Lena.

Oh, that must ruin you. No longer daddy’s little girl and now you see John being the present dad that you’d only dreamt of growing up with. Another fantasy Lena told you to let go of years ago. Dreams don’t come true for girls like you.

He's not bothered to shred his jacket or remove the knitted scarf around his neck. Still the same man, gaze trailing Lena's features for any tells. John always reading too much into things or people and getting lost in the tiny details. Trying to connect them, losing the bigger picture completely. Not everything has to be so complex.

"You took money from our kid?"

And there it is…

Lena scoffs, “my kid, John. Ain’t seen you raising her.” She slams the glass to the table and points to her chest, sharp red nails jabbing herself and reminding him that she was there, not him. He’s always been too proud, wanting to be seen as a good and decent man. And in some ways maybe he is.

John leans back in his chair, gaze on his beer as if he wondering if it’s half full or half empty. There’s no way you’ve told him, he’d probably be less calm now than if you had. No, he doesn’t know everything and as per usual you’ve made it too easy for Lena. She’d thank you, but she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. That or let you craft an excuse or hint at the truth.

“She didn’t tell ya? Of course she wouldn’t,” Lena chuckles, chasing the last remnants of her drink, vodka and lemon not as strong with the melting ice. “That ungrateful little shit stole that money from me, the last time she went back to him.” She sniffs, back of her hand swiping her nose. Her eyes sting, lashes clumping with tears and she feels the weight of John’s hand on top of hers. A heaviness she hasn’t had in years, but she’s laying the foundations. Dropping little pieces for John to pick up, make him overthink and draw his own conclusions. Anything to get him off her back.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles, light and soothing. “I didn’t know,” John says and Lena dares to glance up at him, his hand retreating back to his lap.

Phase one, plant a seed of doubt. Turn a bad thing sour. The moneys technically hers anyways, for all those years she had to raise you on her own. It’s not easy bringing a kid up without a father or the usual bricks and mortar. Half the time you were the reason Lena had to pack up her life again and search for the next place to settle. And as you grew older she noticed the way men’s eyes lingered on you instead of her. You were the one picking her up off the floor though, dragging her into the shower and sobering her up. You looked after her better than any man had and she wondered where you’d learnt that from. It wasn’t her, maybe that’s why Lena can’t stand you. She’s never been cut out to be a mother, didn’t have one like that either. So, how can you care for her better than she can?

Sometimes she sees her younger self in you and it twists her insides. A poison that coats the back of her throat, weighing on her tongue that she resorts to unleashing that venom on you. Lena tries not to think of being a teen with a toddler, lying on a mattress as you scream a fever. She can still hear those cries in the depths of a night terror, because to her you were a terror. No life and isolated from everything she once knew. The week days merging together till John called on a Saturday or Sunday, offering Lena a piece of her old self. His money the one thing giving her life.

Your teen years are what she loathed most. Lena refused to get you certain clothes, bought you a size too big so it swamped your body and said it would save her money in the long run. You are your mother’s daughter after all, she doesn’t want to compliment or encourage you in fear you’ll do better than her. There’s that spec of your father though, the spark of fire you strike back whenever one of her boyfriends tried to lay down the law. Never did learn.

“Fancy a smoke?” Lena asks, pulling a pack menthol cigarettes from her handbag. She slings her coat over her shoulders and smiles as John nods.

Another distraction, a break between the forced conversation and Lena wonders if you’d smell the lingering scent when John gets home. It’s distinct, something you despised.

The rain pelts on the awning outside the pub, wind whipping through the patio and Lena wades through the tables to heater. A warm orange glow illuminating above johns head as he stands in front of her and lights her cigarette, he reluctantly accepts one of her menthol ones, sparking the end alight with hers. He hates the smell of mint and tobacco merged, but Lena knows he’s too stressed not to smoke. His fingers have been twitching against his pint glass since he sat down an hour ago.

If he wasn’t married and loyal like a dog, she’d probably sleep with him. Anything to get him off her back. You’d definitely leave if you knew she’d had her claws back in him. The one scrap of hope you hold onto, John.

John exhales a cloud of smoke, head tilted as he watches the wind carry the fog away. “How much?” He asks, turning the cigarette in his hold.

“Don’t matter, we sorted it out. She’s an adult now John, needs to learn there’s consequences. Lord knows she should’ve learnt ‘em six bloody years ago,” Lena says, flicking her ash into the nearest tray on the table. She glances to John out of the corner of her eye, the muscle in his jaw flexing at the mention of six years ago. A testy subject for all involved, especially you. A turning point that solidified your hatred for John.

“Spit it out Lena,” he snaps, never one to beat around the bush with her. Hook-line and sinker. “You and her are always dangling that in my face, but I’m yet to be told what actually happened.” His nose wrinkles as he takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed at Lena.

His gaze doesn’t waver from her face, she’s not even sure he’s breathing as he waits for the verbal blow. Ash burning his fingers. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

“You really wanna know your kid?” Lena cocks her to the side, arched brow rising. He nods, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “She was arrested for the possession of drugs at fifteen, John. Went to a young offenders institute for months until I managed to get the charges dropped.”

John opens his mouth, but she waves him off. She relays the details, telling him of that night and the months that followed, answering his questions in between. Exaggerating certain parts to prove a point, that you’re not the good kid he thinks you are.

“That boyfriend of hers, you can thank him. She gave me hell for years John, I don’t blame you. I know you were working that huge case and couldn’t be home, but I did my best,” she says, wiping the salty tears rolling down her cheeks and leaning into john’s embrace as he wraps an arm around her. Too easy.

"I'm here now, let me help," he says, palm smoothing up and down her arm. She tucks her head under his chin and wraps her arms around his torso. It’s like she’s a teen again, clinging to John for warmth.

Lena releases a trembling breath. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still using. You know those mood swings and lashing out,” she mumbles into his chest. He tenses, slipping out of her hold and stepping back.

“What really happened between the two of you?” He asks, leaning down to try and catch her wandering gaze. “Kid, can’t even talk about ya’ without…”

“She’ll bleed you dry John and be gone before you realise,” Lena’s voice muffled, cigarette balancing between her lips as she dug through her handbag. “Your kids actual phone number, she’s got two.” She hands him a faded receipt, blue ink smeared on the crumpled paper.

John’s POV:

John thought if he saw Lena face to face he’d know, some sort of gut instinct to untangle the mess in his head. Dad intuition or whatever it’s called, but he doesn’t have that with you not yet. If anything, all he’s sees in Lena is you. You can’t be doing drugs, he checked your bag whilst you were in the hospital and if you had Toff would have added it to your medical notes. The mood swings, John knows are more trauma related. If Lena is lying what does she gain from doing so?

The smudged ink of your second phone number burns a hole in his pocket. Already stored in his contacts list just incase. He’s not going to bring it up with you either, knowing you’ll get rid of it and he won’t be able to reach you one day.

The mist of rain blurs John’s surroundings outside his truck. Window cracked open a fraction as he tries to get rid of the fogged up glass, old heater ticking away. Your bedroom light is still on, but John doesn’t want to enter the res house, not till he’s got his head sorted and he’s prepared. The last thing he wants it to scare or push you away. He knows if he reaches out too fast and close, you’ll withdraw. Maybe even leave him and never look back. Part of him doesn’t want to dig up that police report, it’s probably been cleared off your record by now as you were a minor and the charges were dropped. Doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it though. His stomach twisting as he realises how alone you must have felt and he now understands why you think he wasn’t there for you. He knows he wasn’t there.

Lena’s minty scent clings to his clothes, he can smell it on his moustache and fingertips. The alcohol gel in his car not giving him much help, if anything he doesn’t even think it has a particular aroma to it. He curses himself for leaving his cigars back in his office, locked away in the top drawer. Meeting Lena wasn’t planned, the whole evening throwing him off as he sat in his truck at three in the morning. The missed calls on his phones unanswered, he’d warned Angie of that though and wasn’t expecting her to ring anytime soon. No, Simon’s number appears in the chain of notifications, on and off for the past two hours. A text of his return soon, always giving him an estimated arrival.

The next op isn’t his main worry though, but it should be. He hates to think it. There’s a niggling feeling that if John goes away now, you might not be home when he returns. The thought alone making him not want to have the have the talk. He has to though. A light tap against the glass draws him out of his thoughts and he rolls the window down. One skeleton gloved hand rests against the truck as Simon leans down to greet John.

“Work or the kid?” Simon asks, his gaze flitting to the line settling between johns brows as if he already knows. He wrinkles his nose, swaying in his spot as if the stench of minted tobacco has just invaded the thin layer of his mask. The cheapest cigarettes that are supposed to be left on the shelves, well that’s what Simon says.

John nudges his head to the passenger seat, watching Simon circle the truck and open the door. The old vehicle rocking as he fell into the seat and closed the door lightly. John’s lost count of how many times he’s had to fit the handle back on whenever Simon slams the door. The engine sputters to life and they don’t say anything till they’re out of the military base. Nothing but the open road and the darkness wrapping around them.

“Went to see Lena,” John says, the red light glaring at him and he slams the brakes, both of them lurching forward in their seats.

“And you came back with more questions than answers?” Simon replies, raising a blond brow at the captain. He’s never been a fan of John’s ex.

John fills him on the evening and everything Lena told him. Simon silent, nodding along as he listened. John can’t help, but see you in another light now and he tells Simon so. His mind wandering back to the shattered lamp, did you knock it off or break it? He knows you’re lying about your mum and he hopes you’ll pluck up the courage to confide in him. He doesn’t even want to go into the whole Johnny and you situation with Simon, he’s not ready for that yet. The one thing he definitely has to pull you up on.

“I just don’t know what to think,” John mumbles, fingers pressing against his temple and the dull pulsating ache. The past few weeks were weighing on him, work escalating and your unpredictable moods around him made him try ten times harder to accommodate your needs. Lowering his voice, stepping back and offering you more space in hopes you’ll come to him. He can’t keep saying later with you. He’s running out of time.

“She’s gotta have a reason to lie,” Simon pauses, holding a hand up and silencing John before he can offer his thoughts. “Think about it, she’s not had a stable upbringing and well, you don’t know the full story. You need to talk to the kid before you jump to conclusions.”

John nods, looping back round the streets and driving to the military base. The back of his throat burns, mouth dry as Simon’s words sink in. He doesn’t have all the information and you deserve to be heard. He owes you that much.

The truck rolls to a stop outside the res house, the light from your bedroom off. John removes the keys and holds them in his palm, elbow on the door panel. Simon exits the truck, walking round to johns side and he reaches over the door and pops the handle down opening it for him.

“Take a breather, then talk to her. It’s all fresh and amplified mate, just don’t interrogate the kid. With the right questions you’ll be able to figure out the situation.” Simon nods, advice given and he disappears down the gravel path to the main building without another glance.

John's lucky to get two hours sleep, giving up as soon as the sunlight filters through the blinds. He makes his bed as usual, tucking the sheets under the mattress and sits on the edge. His suitcase stares at him beside the chest of drawers, his fingers turning his wedding band deep in thought. He glances to the clock reading seven forty and he rises from the bed, pulling his door open.

He walks into your room, expecting the the door handle to rattle and the lock to click, but it swept wide open.

“Come on, up you get Kiddo,” John says, tugging the duvet off you. “You’re coming home with me, no discussion.” He tosses the flimsy duffle on your bed, pulling your clothes from the hangers in the wardrobe.

You catch the hoody he throws at you, mumbling under your breath as you shove it over your head and accept your fate. He thought you'd fight him on it, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

Lena stirring things up 🥴 johns going to have the talk with kiddo in the next part 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

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[leyavo]

ahhh another part of I am my father's daughter?! can't wait to see what John does 😨

Yesss will be posting soon 😏 lots of angst don’t worry. Dare I say things are getting messy

[leyavo]

Next part of I am my father’s daughter tonight??? 👀

[leyavo]

Did I watch Kpop demon hunters and then imagine TF141 as demons?

Yes I did 😏

Demon Hunter!reader x Demon141

[leyavo]

Demon hunter!Reader joining the TF141 not realising they are all actual demons. They hide it well, skull masks covering their faces and every inch of their skin covered. They only operate at night, slaughtering the enemy. competition.

Your first point of contact are Gaz and Soap, both half human/half demon made it easy for them to fit in with the humans. Their presence lighter and approachable. Price and Ghost flit around like shadows, icy breeze crawling up the back of your neck as they appear beside you. They’re ancient, the names they use not their own.

The contract you signed, smoke and mirrors. Your soul given to Captain Price in exchange for joining their task force. He promises to give it back if you earn it and prove yourself worthy. You’re not allowed to hunt them or cause them any harm. Other demons are fair game. “You’ve gotta work for it though, nothing comes for free Hunter.”

Smart really, commanding you to send other demons back to their own realm so the TF141 can have you and yours.

The first time you come across a den of demons they hang back and let you fight it out alone. “Hunter, you’re more than capable,” the Captain says, leaning against the wall. He cups his hand around his cigarette, leaning into the flame as he lights it.

The second time, they demonstrate their skills. They move like liquid, filling in the open cracks between the light. Smothering their targets. You don’t even see or hear them move, but you feel the crushing weight as an enemy strikes you in the chest. Your dagger wedges beneath the demon’s ribcage and you watch it turn to dust. The black soot clinging to your skin, you taste it on your lips. A bitter twang tingling on your tongue, the acidic powder turning to slime as it mixes with your saliva. You spit a big glob of the tar on the floor and snatch the mask the Captain offers you. Not a black knitted balaclava with a skull, yours is dark grey, silvery flames weaved into the yarn.

Your blade glimmers in the gloomy, derelict barn. Another evil entity trapped within the metal, it shines like melted mercury in your grasp.

The Captain doesn’t give you back your soul just yet though. He forces you to teach them how to banish the entities from the blade completely, each of them had somehow acquired one from a hunter.

You never remove the onyx pendant around your neck, the stone one of protection. No malevolent being can touch it without burning. A family heirloom to keep you safe. You catch Ghost staring at it whenever it slips out from beneath your top. He’s always watching.

Gaz is the only brave one to touch you, he stitches a gash above your brow that won’t stop bleeding. His thumb swiping the red clumped in your brow, inspecting the substance before he wipes it on your sleeve. He favours his human side, more in touch with the natural energy around him, but he tiptoes on the darker side without a second thought when he’s angry or frustrated. Uses it to his advantage by luring humans/hunters in.

Johnny’s intrigued by the notion of a human without a soul. He asks you loads of questions, pushes you and is eager to see your reaction (nearly got you killed on a few occasions that Price had to pull him up on it). Silly humans and their souls, you can do so much more without them. Laughable how he wears a cross. You got back at Soap by leading him into a demon trap, which ended up with the guys torturing you till you let him free. You might have burnt him a little with the banishing verse (Ghost threatened to cut out your tongue, but they needed it to get Soap to safety).

The Captain dangles your soul in front of you whenever you challenge him, he’s not afraid to send you to another realm. “So be careful Hunter.” He even goes as far as threatening to wear your skin, possess your body.

Ghost reminding you that you’re no more than an attack dog for them, he whistles to get your attention and points when he wants you to attack. A pat on the top of your head when you don’t get injured.

You’ve still not earnt your soul back…

[Masterlist]

[leyavo]

Sergeant!Reader that’s normally assigned as Soap’s shadow. Where he falls back, you step in. Even finish each others sentences over comms, Gaz and Ghost stumbling over their words as they try to the do same. A bit of rivalry between the four of you.

Price is forever mumbling down the line and threatening to split you two up. He’d love a bit more silence.

“Might need to trim that moustache captain, can’t hear a word ye’ saying.” A string of curse words echoing in response and a “can ya hear me now Soap?”

What they didn’t plan on though was you both being afraid of big dogs. Johnny and you cornered by a group of rabid hounds. “A pack of demon dogs.”

Johnny’s murmuring prayers, confessing his sins and apologising for eating that yoghurt you left in the fridge. So he did see the label.

You can hear Ghost telling you to just shoot. “Can’t shoot a dog a L.T,” you say, nudging Johnny forwards because he’s got more muscle on his bone than you. Gaz ends up swooping in and saving you from the snarling beasts, you don’t step out of his shadow till you’re back on safe ground.

Johnny can’t shut up about how you tried to feed him to the dogs. “They should have sacrificed you, wouldn’t have to listen to you go on mate,” Kyle mumbles, which turns into a debate on what flavour of dogfood you’d all be.

He complains so much that Price makes you both work at the kennels till you learn to be around dogs. “I hang around with you guys, isn’t that enough?” You may have earnt yourself another month there.

Ghost and Gaz pop by for moral support (to see you two squirm and later help you).

[Masterlist]

[leyavo]

My dyslexic ass staring at a paragraph wondering if it’s my dyslexia or someone’s missed out an important connecting word in the sentence that makes it make sense.

It’s me. I missed out that important word.

[leyavo]

Simon Riley dating someone that grew up with a similar childhood like him.

He loves that you haven’t lost your childlike wonder and remained soft. You don’t let your bad experiences taint the way you treat others either.

You introduce him to the whole inner child notion and he listens to you as you talk about the toys you’ve recently bought. All the little trinkets you wanted as a child, but never got. He doesn’t make fun of you, knows that it makes you happy to acknowledge your younger self.

If he sees something you’ve mentioned, he’s definitely buying it for you. He even likes that you’ve got him stuff he wanted when he was a kid too.

Reading comic books together, he takes them to the base with him when he’s away. Smiles when he finds your little notes in between the pages. Silly thoughts of the plot line and how it was your favourite character. He loves that you’ve given him the space and safety to be vulnerable together, to touch on the past and create some good.

John Price dating someone disciplined like himself. Self assured and ready to go for what they want. You’ve known what you’ve wanted since you were young and done exactly that. Nothing can stop you once you have a goal.

He teases you for your military folding and the way you tuck your clothes in the drawer. Asks if you’ve ever enlisted knowing that you really haven’t. Loves that you can talk you’re self out of anything, saved him a parking fine a few times.

He loves that you approached him first and asked him out. Likes that you’re upfront about your feelings and assessing the relationship, making sure you’re both on the same page. There’s no room for silent treatment or lashing out, not when you two are honest. Too honest that you end up mirroring each others bad habits and come face to face with the things that need working on.

Because that’s what you do, you work on the hard stuff and come out on the other side of it a better person. You make him a better person without even meaning to. He’s the first one in your corner, backing you up when you’re stressed with work and need to vent, his similar train of thought easing your worries and helping you figure out a solution.

Johnny Mactavish dating someone that grew up just as wild as him. Both from a big family, elbows clashing with siblings at the dinner table. Never a quiet room in your childhood home that you aren’t afraid to take up space.

The type of kid that had scraped knees from climbing trees and mud splattering your shins. One that didn’t come home till the street lights came on.

Athletic too, he likes to look through the boxes of medals and trophies you worked hard for. Asks you about the skills you’ve learnt etc, if you’ve taken a fighting sport he’s definitely rolling around the floor with you.

He loves that you match his competitive nature, always seeing who can get home first from a morning run. Or betting on which team are going to win the match.

Rock climbing, hiking….any extreme sport really. You’re both up for it. He loves that you push him to do more, encourage him to keep going even if it’s difficult. Not everything comes easy, but you know that time and effort always pays off. That and it doesn’t hurt to have a little fun and take a risk.

Kyle Garrick dating someone who’s strongly led by their morals. Someone who was taught to stand up for those in need. You’ve always sought justice and did the right thing even when it was hard. There’s not much you’re backing down from and it keeps Kyle level headed.

You hold him accountable for things, let him know that what he’s done doesn’t sit right with you and you are the first to admit when you are wrong. The first to apologise, there’s no shame in it for you.

But above all he loves how caring you are, how you can comfort anyone no matter their age. How vulnerability is a strength and not a weakness.

How you build him back after a mission, let him process all the emotions and then ask for you. When he’s ready, so are you.

He lightens your mood, knowing that you’re deeply moved by what’s happening in the world currently. Gives you a breather, offers you a space to shut out everything beyond your home with him.

[Masterlist]

[leyavo]

Johnny loves laying in bed with you on Sunday mornings. His head resting on your stomach as your fingers trace the freckles on his back, a light chuckle rumbling from his throat as you tell him how you, “used to like those dot to dot pages as a kid.” And he starts to sun bathe more and more, any excuse to have your touch on him.

Gets you to smear aftersun moisturiser on his back when he’s burnt it a little, “can’t reach Bon’.” You put it in the fridge and he can’t help the shiver that crawls up his spine as you squeeze the moisturiser directly onto his skin. He pouts sometimes asking you to warm it up in your hands, tells you that it’s not sunk into his skin and if you can continue the circular motions till it is.

He always holds your rings in his palm whenever you put on his suncream or aftersun, wondering if he can figure out the size from observing the silver bands. Thinks one day he’ll be holding a wedding, engagement and eternity ring in the same palm. He’s going to get you all of them.

The golden cross he wears has a habit of falling to his back, settling between the dip of his shoulder blades and you find yourself fiddling with it as he talks about his night out with the guys. How he loves coming home to you after they said their goodbyes. Likes that you left the duvet curled back so he can slide in beside you and feel the cool sheets against his skin.

Sometimes you’ll even read each other’s journals, legs tangled together as you both read aloud your favourite lines. Johnny doesn’t let you see the black notebook though, that’s for his darkest days on ops that he uses for therapy. He’s told you a few bits and pieces, but he’s glad you never pry. Your words are like poetry to him though, he even gets his favourite quote tattooed on his inner wrist in your handwriting. So he can get a little reminder of you when the cuff of his sleeve rides up.

Sundays at home were made for laying in bed with you though.

[masterlist]

[leyavo]

Both will get posted, but what would you like to see first?

(I am my father’s daughter will also be posted Friday possibly)

[leyavo]

| The Basics |

Kate Laswell x Sergeant!reader (female)

Summary: you’re part of the TF141, but find yourself working closely with Laswell after an introduction from Gaz.

[18+ MDNI] woman x woman, soft dom Laswell and sub!reader. No sex in this, but introduction to Kate and reader’s contract.

You’re halfway through a training drill when you hear Kyle calling you from above, his steps creaking the wooden boards on the second floor of the house. Your eyes trail after his echoing voice and the rain of dirt falling through the cracks in the ceiling. The grime coats your goggles with a thin layer of brown dust, you swipe your gloved fingers over the lens and flinch as a rubber bullet hits the strap of your tactical vest.

Soap’s orange pellet drops to the ground, you toe the faux ammo to the side and tense as another round strikes your helmet at the crown of your head. The captain calls a break in the drill and he appears in the hallway three doors down. Lieutenant Riley’s shadow creeps onto the floor and climbs up the wall opposite, but he stays in the darkness of his designated room.

Kyle descends the rickety stairs, skipping two at once as he lands on the bottom floor. “I’m all done, Laswell’s waiting for you.” A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, he hasn’t been in this maze of brick walls for a minute and he’s already feeling the heat.

“She’s what?” You blurt out, lowering your gun and meeting him halfway in the narrow corridor.

“Yeah, said she’s gathering intel and you had some leads,” Kyle whispers, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. “Urgent apparently, something about contract work so try not to stand too close to her.” He leans back, nose scrunching. Cheeky bastard, you can’t smell that bad. You shove him out of the way as you drag yourself up the stairs.

Contract work, so you don’t have to explain yourself when you’re called upon. Laswell and Price the only ones privy to the agreement. Part of you thinks Gaz has a similar one with her, he is a little disheveled. A knowing look directed at you each time he tells you that Laswell wants you.

You’re drenched, T-shirt clinging to your chest and back. The lack of windows in the basement and the strategically placed heater give you hell, it might as well be with the temperature down there, messes with the senses. You hate the summer, want nothing more than to take a cold shower before seeing Laswell but you aren’t that lucky.

That’s not the worse of it though, you’re dressed in the rattiest clothes you could find knowing that training would only wreck your new gear. Price is still bragging about the decade old trousers he’s been using, some sort of competition to see who can survive the longest without new clothes. Johnny’s got a habit of ripping his trousers at the crotch and Kyle hates keeping torn clothes. You’re convinced Simon’s had the same jeans since he joined the military, but he never divulges how long.

You pass your locker in the armoury and roll on some deodorant, tossing it back in with a clang. The water bottle on the shelf, empty you forgot to refill it after your sparring session with Soap. You pat the gym towel at the nape of your neck, wiping the sweat on your front and back. It would have to do, can’t keep Laswell waiting. Your tactical vest and gloves take up the rest of your locker, your shoulder on the door as you attach the padlock again.

It’s not till you’re standing in front of Laswell, do you realise how shabby you look. The gaping flap of fabric curling over your shin and showing the dried blood on your knee. A little scrape, nothing to worry about. The dark green trousers faded, a darker patch sewn on to cover the hole on your hip. That’s not the worse of it though, you’re praying it’s just a check in. Swapping of intel.

Kate circles you, tongue clicking as her eyes roam all over your body. You glance over your shoulder. “Stand to attention, forgetting the rules already?” She says, pausing behind you, waiting for you to do as your told. Your head snaps back to the front, her firm voice making you straighten your spine and lift your chin.

She returns to lean on the edge of the desk, her gaze flitting to your belt. You’re standing between her legs and she hooks her finger through your belt loop tugging you closer. A soft smile warming her usual cold features. You stumble into her, arms still tucked behind your back.

“You can relax,” Kate says, her hands try to work your buckle undone. Her brows furrow, line settling in her forehead as she tugs the metal clasp and you with it. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, stomach tightening as her knuckles glide along the exposed skin at the top of your waistband. The touch brief, cool against your burning flesh.

Kate huffs, hands slipping away from your belt. She pokes the dent in the middle of metal clasp, head tilting to look up at you, before her eyes dart back to the stubborn belt. A silent order for you to get to it. She taps your hip, hurry up.

The clasp digs into your fingers as you try to pry it open, grip slipping from your clammy grasp. Kate leans back, arms folding over her chest giving you a glimpse of her breasts pushed up, three top buttons of her shirt undone. A sheen of sweat glistens on her collarbone and she clears her throat, your eyes darting to the column of her throat as she does so. The clasp finally gives way and you release a breath, but you choke back your words as the zipper of your fly catches. A few teeth missing that you yank it down and break the rest of them.

The dirty clothes you wear are nothing compared to the old cotton briefs you only use for training days like today. The stretched waistband riddled with small holes, elastic pulled from the threads.

“This won’t do,” Kate says, shaking her head. She plucks the wiry string of elastic and it snaps back on your stomach. The sting drawing a breath out of you. Kate rubs the sore spot, light soothing circles.

“I thought you needed intel?” You say it without thinking, gasping as she slaps your clothed pussy. Heat pools between your legs and you fight the urge to clench your thighs together, a twitch of your leg giving you away though.

Kate pushes off the desk, walking around you. “More of a briefing,” she says, lips ghosting the side of your neck. Her fingers trace the curve of your hip and she pulls your back flush to her chest as her hand slips beneath your cotton briefs.

Your hips jerk forward as her hand goes further, fingers tracing your folds. The last time this happened she had you bent over the desk begging for release, but today she’s gentle and particular. A light teasing that you know it won’t go beyond whatever this is.

Her nose nudges your cheek and she nips your earlobe, “you remember clause thirteen?” Kate asks you, her hand retreating from the warmth between your thighs. She spins you round to face her, safety pin balancing between her teeth as she pinches your fly together and secures it in place with the silver pin.

The contract she had you sign when you agreed to this. “Yes, to look after myself,” you mumble, forcing your belt buckle closed and tucking your t-shirt into your trousers.

“Is this looking after yourself, honey?” She asks, voice soft and sweet like the term of endearment she casually throws at you.

You’re still getting you used to a lighter hand. A softer approach. Yet to meet Kate’s wife too, maybe that’s why she’s being so nice. Easing you in before she introduces you.

Laswell sits behind her desk, glasses sliding over her nose as she picks up a brown folder from the pile. “Come back when you’ve re-read the contract and are equipped with the basics.” She doesn’t spare you another glance, shooing you away with the flick of a wrist.

You spend the next couple days combing through the contract and highlighting certain parts. The ratty old cotton briefs are in the bin, along with the other two.

Three days later you get a parcel, no label other than your name written in black marker. The ink bleeding into the cardboard. You don’t remember ordering anything and no one’s ever sent you anything as you don’t share your location whilst you’re working. Johnny volunteers to sniff it out, open the package you know because he’s a demolition expert. You shove him away, walking off to rip the tab open.

“What’s tha?” Simon says, hovering over your shoulder and you shriek, clutching the small parcel to your chest. They’ve never seen you get anything before, nosey fuckers too invested in the rare sight.

“Just a-,” you stumble over the words, trying to dodge Kyle’s hands as he tries to sneak a look. Stuffing the contents to the bottom of the parcel. “- a brief.”

A lot more than a brief. You rush back to your room, fingers denting the soft cardboard in your grasp. The door slams, walls shaking as you empty the contents onto your bed. Five pairs of cotton briefs, Laswell’s initial subtly printed on the front.

And a note - the basics.

[Masterlist]

This has been in my drafts for ages 😌 more Laswell? 🫡 I am dyslexic so there might be some errors.

[leyavo]

Urgh do you want a Laswell x fem!reader one shot 👀 I’ve got one very low down in my 60 drafts and she might even go low down…kinda

[leyavo]

It doesn’t matter what day it is, the first morning with you is what Simon loves the most. Your head on his chest as his arm curls around you and keeps you in place. Fingers trailing the smooth skin on your arm. This is real he reminds himself, he can feel the beat of your heart drumming against his ribs and he doesn’t care that his shoulder aches at your weight on him. You alone anchoring him in the present.

The scrapes and bruises you traced last night are still there, but nothing hurts as much as this moment. Your glassy eyes trying not to spill the tears over your lashes, the indent of your teeth in your bottom lip where you bite back all the questions. He finds himself making up silly little stories of the temporary purple and green mark’s marring his flesh, anything to hear that breathy laugh.

He lets you guide him into the bathroom, watching you turn the shower on as he leans against the sink. Your hand hovering under the spray of water as you fiddle with the taps and adjust the temperature. He never could quite get the knack of it. Either it’s too cold or burning hot, most times he didn’t care or couldn’t be bothered, but you took the extra time to set the atmosphere. A flickering candle on the windowsill, the heady scent of jasmine hitting him through the steamy bathroom. The white flowers and green leaves something he wasn’t fond of till you gifted it to him and now it’s one of his favourite aroma’s, another piece of you.

Your hand reaches for him, palm slipping into his and he follows you into the shower, light drops of water prickling his neck and beading down the valley between his shoulder blades. His gaze dips to the bubbles of shower gel you’re mixing in your hands, a hiss leaving his lips as you drag the white foam over his biceps and around his elbows. The tension slipping away from his aching muscles. Your slow, deliberate touch a ritual whenever he comes home and he finds himself tracing the bubbles on your collarbone and taking the shower head off the wall and holding it over your trembling form.

You pat yourself dry before tiptoeing out of the room and leaving him dripping on the bath mat, returning with a warm towel straight from the dryer. Simon’s never felt a love like this, little things you prepare for him that are normal for you. Things your parents did for you as a kid, you do for him like it’s second nature. Washing his dirty blonde hair, cleaning the oozing wound on his torso as if it’s a scraped knee, a “I know, I know,” falling from your lips as he tries to hide the wince. He doesn’t need to hide it though.

Simon’s favourite thing about the morning is you.

[Masterlist]

[leyavo]

Johnny loves laying in bed with you on Sunday mornings. His head resting on your stomach as your fingers trace the freckles on his back, a light chuckle rumbling from his throat as you tell him how you, “used to like those dot to dot pages as a kid.” And he starts to sun bathe more and more, any excuse to have your touch on him.

Gets you to smear aftersun moisturiser on his back when he’s burnt it a little, “can’t reach Bon’.” You put it in the fridge and he can’t help the shiver that crawls up his spine as you squeeze the moisturiser directly onto his skin. He pouts sometimes asking you to warm it up in your hands, tells you that it’s not sunk into his skin and if you can continue the circular motions till it is.

He always holds your rings in his palm whenever you put on his suncream or aftersun, wondering if he can figure out the size from observing the silver bands. Thinks one day he’ll be holding a wedding, engagement and eternity ring in the same palm. He’s going to get you all of them.

The golden cross he wears has a habit of falling to his back, settling between the dip of his shoulder blades and you find yourself fiddling with it as he talks about his night out with the guys. How he loves coming home to you after they said their goodbyes. Likes that you left the duvet curled back so he can slide in beside you and feel the cool sheets against his skin.

Sometimes you’ll even read each other’s journals, legs tangled together as you both read aloud your favourite lines. Johnny doesn’t let you see the black notebook though, that’s for his darkest days on ops that he uses for therapy. He’s told you a few bits and pieces, but he’s glad you never pry. Your words are like poetry to him though, he even gets his favourite quote tattooed on his inner wrist in your handwriting. So he can get a little reminder of you when the cuff of his sleeve rides up.

Sundays at home were made for laying in bed with you though.

[masterlist]

[leyavo]

I’m bouncing between editing three fics 😏 all Dad!TF141.

I am my father’s daughter and I’ve got Dad!Kyle and Dad!Johnny on the way too

[leyavo]

Johnny owning a tartan weaving mill and merging yours and his family colours when you marry.

duke simon who oversees the textile industry (idgaf if it’s unrealistic) and his pretty dove of a duchess who wears exclusive pieces, fabrics, dyes and patterns yasss

[leyavo]

TF141 x intelligence Analyst!Reader

Part two -> [part one]

Summary: intelligence analyst!reader watching an interrogation and seeing a different side to sergeant Garrick.

You’d watched plenty of interviews or interrogations, but never been so up close. This time however, your nose is hovering in front of a pane of glass instead of a computer screen. There would be no rewinding or increasing the volume. Your headphones still on your head, gripping on for dear life just above your ears and pulling at your scalp.

Lieutenant Riley had dragged you from your desk and marched you down to the basement. Which was normally off limits for you, analysts don’t blur the lines with the likes of sergeants, Lieutenants or Captains. You know your place, up in the sky and six flights of stairs to the computer rooms. Now though, you’re a hybrid analyst. Someone shadowing a task force, researching and scanning data, but that meant analysing the people in real time too.

Witnessing it firsthand, your only security being a sheet of glass, a mirror to the man staring through it on the opposite side. You’d worked out in the field once before running intelligence for a small op, but hadn’t ventured out since, not after what happened. Your commanding officer dumped you in the darkest corner of computers and left you to do what you do best. You’d grown into your new role, leaving behind the intelligence corp for data analysis.

The Captain’s leant against the wall as Kyle circles the table and looms over the guy. You know these men on the task forces are a different kind of specimen, not your clear cut soldiers following a set of orders and chain of command. No, these men were good at bending the rules. Acting first and asking for forgiveness later. They get the job done don’t they?

You’re yet to see sergeant Garrick in his natural environment, even Johnny warned you not to piss Gaz off. You’d read his file, just like the rest of them, but Kyle Garrick’s a skilled interrogator and manipulator. He valued mental intelligence over physical, liked to pick at your brain whenever you offered him intel. If there’s anyone to watch out for, it’s Kyle Garrick. The man with the soft voice and gentle smile, those keen eyes always on you though.

“Data,” Simon calls your name, making you flinch at the sudden shadow creeping over you. “Relax, take a step back,” he says, guiding you back a few steps with him. “Look at the bigger picture.”

Don’t they know you’re the detailed person? The one to spot a needle in a haystack. You don’t glance away from the man’s stare through the two way mirror, part of you convinced he can see you too. John’s figure flits past the mirror breaking your gaze, giving Kyle enough time to slam the guys face into the table. The clang of metal echoing through your ear, a crack of bone snapping and it twists your stomach, bile rising in the back of your throat.

You rip your earpiece out, unlike your headphones you can’t lower their shouting voices. It carries through to the room you’re in, dates and names repeating, but you can’t look away from the man’s bloody face. Red trailing down his nose. Kyle’s hand clamped on the nape of his neck, fingers digging into his flesh. Your heart hammers in your chest, blood rushing in your ears that you put your headphones back on your ears to muffle their voices.

Names and dates. Names and dates. They sound all so similar and as Kyle’s booming voice breaks through your headphones, it clicks.

Zhanecc.

“It’s an anagram, not name,” you blurt out, nudging Johnny away from the computer and highlighting the profile on the screen. The same one you collated, every little thing you found of the man being interrogated. One name you hadn’t heard of before now, probably above your rank and pay grade.

Kyle’s pressing the guys face into the steel table, spit hurling as he shouts. You didn’t expect John to be the good cop in this scenario.

“Mention Czechna,” you say, inching closer to the glass and watching the twitch of the guys brow. A flicker of knowing in whatever code word John had repeated. Czechna, you’d read the word once before, but couldn’t find anything on it.

Kyle and John go back and forth, your gaze flitting between them like you’re watching a tennis match, neither one of them dropping the ball. If Kyle’s the bad cop, well John’s beginning to meet him halfway. There’s no room for good when it comes to this situation though, you’d been warned. Extract the intel in any means necessary, there wasn’t much time to waste.

“Good job, Data,” Johnny says, patting your back. He’s a little heavy handed, you stumble forward and fling your hands out to catch yourself on the edge of the desk.

You follow Simon out the room and into the hallway, swerving Kyle as he appears in front of you. A spec of red stains his T-shirt, right at your eye level so there’s no way you can avoid it. You don’t think you can look in him in the eye either, not when he’s still wound tight.

“I can take you up if you want?” Kyle asks, that soft voice he normally uses for you tainted by that red spec.

All you could think about was all the blood on his hands. “Lieutenant’s got clearance,” you say, as if you’re going back to the dark comfort of your analyst desk and not your living quarters. You don’t spare a glance at him or John, thankful for Simon’s long legs making you hurry behind him.

Do not piss Gaz off.

[masterlist]