quillcraftconquer

[quillcraftconquer]

Hear me out? More like hold me back.

Put me on the table.

[quillcraftconquer]

Bout to start writing Yautja smut, I have no shame.

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon x K9 Part 7

(K9 POV)

tw: graphic violence, animal death (dog), torture, captivity, ptsd, panic attack, dissociation, firearm discharge, gun violence, mental health crisis, vomiting

Part 6

__________________________

The gravel bit into my knees through the fabric of my pants, sharp bits breaking the skin. My wrists were bound behind my back with something that burned, plastic cord, maybe, or metal. My arms had gone numb hours ago, but I didn’t dare move.

Panzer stood five feet away, his fur bristling and his teeth bared. He was snarling, pacing in tight little circles, his lip twitching every time one of the men got too close. His hackles were raised, his whole body straining against the leash looped through a rusted car door handle. He’d already bitten one of them. I could see the blood on the man’s arm.

They were yelling fast, angry words in a language I didn’t know. One of them pointed at Panzer, and another shook his head.

I turned my face just enough to see him. Young, maybe mid-twenties, hair cropped short and boots dirty. He was wearing some sort of tactical uniform, but I didn't recognize any of the writing on his sleeve. He spoke again, slower this time, even though I didn’t know the words.

Panzer let out a deep, throaty growl.

The man raised the pistol.

“No, No!” I screamed.

I lunged forward instinctively, gravel slicing my shins as I hit the ground chest first. The plastic cords tore into my wrists.

“Don’t you fucking touch him! Don’t-”

The muzzle flash bloomed like lightning.

Panzer dropped.

The leash slipped free from the car door and coiled on the dirt beside him. His legs twitched once, then nothing.

My scream didn’t even sound human. One of them shoved a hand into my mouth, fingers digging against my teeth and pressing my tongue down until I choked. Another hand wrapped around my throat, thumb pushing against the bruises already blooming there. The hand in my mouth forced it open, another man coiling thin metal wire around my head. 

The wire cut across my lip as they wrenched it into place.

A crude gag, twisted from fencing wire or maybe a coat hanger, whatever was lying around. It bit into the soft skin at the corners of my mouth until I tasted blood again. They wrapped it twice, once behind my head, once around my jaw, pulling until I couldn’t open my mouth even if I wanted to scream. 

My body jerked as the man holding me stepped back and let go. I crumpled forward, heaving dry sobs through my nose.

Panzer’s body lay motionless in the dirt, his eyes open, unblinking.

I woke mid-scream.

The sound tore from my throat without warning. My lungs seized, and for a split second I didn’t know where I was. I kicked out hard, legs tangling in the blanket I’d dragged into the tub hours ago. My arm smacked against the tile and my stomach lurched.

I threw myself out of the tub, knees crashing against the tile floor as I scrambled for the toilet, dry heaving before I even reached it.

My hands gripped porcelain and I pressed my forehead to the rim. I choked on bile, trying to swallow it down. 

I couldn’t tell if I was hot or freezing.

The handle to the bathroom turned, light flooding inside.

“Ava?” June’s voice called softly. “Are you-?”

The door opened, and my heart dropped in my chest.

I launched toward the sink, fingers scraping under the cabinet in a blind panic. My hand closed around the cold polymer grip of the pistol just as the door swung wider.

A single shot cracked through the room, deafening in the small space. Plaster exploded beside the door frame, splinters of wood raining down. June shrieked, stumbling back, her hands raised in panic.

“Jesus Christ! Ava, it’s me-it’s June! It’s-”

She ducked, scrambling back into the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks.

I blinked. The recoil still buzzed through my arm. My ears rang. My chest convulsed with broken, hiccupping gasps. The shadow in the doorway was gone, but the threat wasn’t.

“Ava!” Dad’s voice rang out inside the room, and the door burst open again.

He stopped when he saw me, and his eyes went straight to the pistol in my hand.

“Put it down,” he said firmly.

I backed up on my hands and knees, the tile slick under my palms with blood. I couldn’t make sense of anything. The shape in the doorway wavered, waiting like the ones who used to come when I was weakest, half-naked, sick, and too tired to scream.

“Don’t touch me,” I rasped, the gun shaking in my grip.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, hands lifting. “You hear me? But I need you to give me the gun, baby. Please.”

I couldn’t feel my hands.

My body trembled as he took one cautious step inside. Then another.

When he reached me, he dropped to his knees.

“It’s me. It’s Dad. You're home. You’re safe,” he murmured, his hand closing around my wrist.

“Don’t-” I jerked, weakly pushing against him, but my limbs had nothing left in them. 

“I got it,” he said, and wrenched the pistol free.

It clattered to the floor, skidding under the sink.

I shoved hard against his chest, scrambling upright. My feet slipped on the tile as I bolted for the door. My shoulder slammed into the frame as I turned the corner, almost slipping on the hardwood. I could hear him calling after me, feet pounding behind mine.

I made it halfway into the yard before my knees gave out. I hit the ground hard, hands and jeans slamming into the wet grass. The taste of acid was already at the back of my throat.

I doubled over and vomited.

I curled forward with a choked sob, retching again even when there was nothing left. My palms sunk into the mud as I shook.

“Ava, baby-” Dad’s voice cracked hard. “Talk to me, please- just stop running- please.”

He crouched behind me, a hand gliding up to rest on my back. The feeling pulled another half choked scream from my throat.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch you, I promise,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Jesus, I don’t know what to do, fuck-”

Light fingers prodded against my side, and I lurched forward. My father’s hand, fumbling with the zipper pocket on the side of my hoodie. His fingers were clumsy, and when the fabric caught, he cursed under his breath.

“Just need your phone, just your phone, sweetheart, I swear-” he whispered, voice thick with tears. “I need to call him-I need to get you help.”

He finally pulled it free, staggering back just a few paces, one eye still on me as the line rang.

“What the fuck do I do?”

I pressed my forehead into the grass, still on my knees in the yard. The blades were cold and wet. The leash was gone, and Panzer’s body still lay somewhere in the corners of my vision.

“She pulled a gun on her sister. She fired it. Blew a hole damn near through my wall. She looked right at her and, fuck-. She’s out here now pukin’ her guts out like she’s gonna die and I-I’m standing in the goddamn yard like an idiot because I don’t know whether to hug her or call someone to sedate her. She’s not even seeing me.”

He stopped. I knew he was crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

I could hear my dad pacing, the gravel shifting under his boots. He set the phone down gently by my head, pressing the speaker button.

“Ava.”

I flinched.

“Ava, it’s Simon. You with me?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out except a ragged gurgling sound.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quickly. “Just listen. That’s enough.”

I closed my eyes.

“Put your hand on your chest. Right now. Just one.”

I hesitated.

“Top of your sternum. Center mass. Feel it rise.”

My trembling fingers obeyed without thinking. I curled them lightly against my chest.

“That’s yours. That heartbeat’s yours. You’re not dead. You’re not theirs. You’re here.”

“Now,” he continued. “Right hand to the dirt. Do it slow. Press your palm down.”

I lowered my right hand. The grass gave way to damp soil, cool and soft beneath my fingers. My hand shook violently, but I obeyed.

“Feel that?” Simon asked. “That’s not concrete. That’s earth.”

Another sob crawled up my throat.

“You’re not underground. Not in a fucking van. You’re in your yard. In Kansas or whatever cow-fucked place this is.”

“Come on, baby,” My dad whispered from behind me. “I’m right here. You know me. I’m your dad.”

I wanted to reach for him, I did. But my body wouldn’t move.

Time twisted and my body ached. I could barely hear the mumbling voice on the phone, my lips brushing against the puddle of vomit under my face.

My knees hurt. 

I wasn’t sure if five minutes passed or twenty. I barely registered the distant sound of tires on gravel.

A shadow knelt down beside me. I heard him shift, one knee pressed into the dirt beside mine.

“I’m gonna take your hands,” Simon said slowly. “You can hit me if you need to. But I’m gonna help.”

I nodded, or maybe I didn’t, but either way, he reached out.

Gently, he took both of my hands in his and slowly pressed them down into the dirt with his own.

“Feel that?”

I nodded.

“Cold, wet. Got some give to it,” he said. “That’s not concrete. That’s not blood. It’s dew.”

His thumbs rubbed over the backs of my hands.

“This is real. You’re not there anymore. You’re on your knees in your front yard, and you’re safe. You’re not there anymore, Ava.”

“Your dad’s behind you,” Simon continued. “He’s scared because he loves you. But he’s not going to hurt you. You’re not in that room. You’re not a prisoner.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about the bathroom, about the shadow I saw, about Panzer, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

“I know,” Simon said. “I know it still feels real. But it’s not. That’s over. It happened. And you lived.”

I could hear the porch creaking behind us, the soft chirp of crickets, the breeze rustling through the tall grass at the edge of the fence line.

“Is she…” June’s voice was small, like she was afraid of the answer. “Is she gonna be like that forever?”

“No,” Simon said gently. “She won’t.”

June looked up at him, her face scrunched. “But she…she almost-”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off softly. “It’s scary. But it doesn’t mean it’s permanent.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked down at her shoes, her fingers tightening around her legs.

Simon shifted beside me, still crouched in the dirt. His voice was quieter when he spoke next, like it was just for me.

“It takes time,” he said. “Some days are good. Some days are shit. That’s how it goes.”

 I didn’t lift my head.

“She doesn’t even sleep in her bed anymore,” Dad said. “She sleeps in a goddamn bathtub. With a gun.”

“I know.”

“She can’t keep it,” He continued. “Not like this. Not when she’s-” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the yard, the dirt, to me.

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t let you keep a gun if you’re not even sure where you are.”

Simon crouched beside me again, bending his head down until his eyes were level with mine.

“You ready to get up?”

I nodded.

He slid his arm under mine and eased me upward carefully. My knees wobbled, and for a second, the world tilted, but his grip tightened. Behind us, Dad let out a breath. 

“Will you stay?” he asked suddenly, his voice aimed at Simon. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how to help her.”

“I’ll stay,” Simon answered. “As long as she wants.”

Dad ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not gonna sleep tonight, and neither’s anyone else if she’s in that tub again.”

We moved slowly up the stairs together, Simon at my side, Dad trailing close behind. My legs still shook with every step, but I was upright and present enough to put one foot in front of the other.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, watching as Dad and Simon examined the splintered wood. 

“Could’ve been worse,” Dad muttered, kneeling to touch the edge of the splintered door jamb. “But I’ll need to sand this down and get a new hinge in.”

Dad looked at me one more time, like he wanted to say something else, but all that came out was, “I’ll be up early. Holler if you need anything.”

He stepped out and down the hall. June followed, throwing one more look over her shoulder before disappearing into her own room.

Simon stepped forward and shut the door softly, turning back to face me.

“You want the bathroom?” he asked. “You can take it if that’s where you’ll sleep better.”

I shook my head.

Simon grabbed one of the spare blankets from the end of the bed and spread it across the floor, then lowered himself onto it. Flat on his back, arms folded beneath his head, like this was just another night.

“It gets better,” he said. “Eventually. Not all at once. Not in a straight line. But it does.”

I didn’t move, still planted at the edge of the bed, the tops of my feet gently pressing into his side.

“Sometimes it gets worse first,” he added. “Sometimes it gets worse for a long time. But even then, that’s still healing. Doesn’t always look like it, but it is.”

“I didn’t get better right away,” Simon continued. “Wasn’t some epiphany. It took years. I still have bad days.”

I shifted on the bed, tucking myself under the blanket and pulling it up to my chin.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he added. “And you don’t have to pretend to be. But you will find your way back.”

I could still feel the gun in my hand.

I could still see June’s face.

If I could do that, if I could almost kill the person I loved more than anything in the world and not even know it was her, how was I supposed to trust myself again?

My teeth scraped against the edge of my nail.

“If you don’t get better,” Simon said, “if it takes years, or if it never looks the way it used to, that’s okay too.”

“I’m not waiting for you to be okay,” he added. “I’m just here. However long you need.”

My thumb slipped from my mouth.

“Okay.”

--

Tags: @skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz, @alex1011sdzfgh

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon x K9 Series : Pt 6

TW: PTSD, alcohol use, emotional abuse, trauma-related flashbacks, references to torture (graphic), guilt and self-loathing, mentions of human trafficking, strained family dynamics.

Pt 5 refresher, I made some edits to be happier with my writing. Other parts on pinned post

(Also, I just wanted to say I am/was very invested in this story. I had started writing K9 and her dog, Panzer, months ago. I based Panzer off my own dog, a working line German shepherd named Harley.

Last Wednesday, I had to say goodbye to Harley at only 3 years old due to Canine dysautonomia. Writing about a character also losing her dog and best friend so young has been hard while grieving my own.

I’m still working on this story, I promise. I just have to take it a bit slower. )

_________________________________________

Simon woke to a drumbeat in his skull. His mouth was dry, his throat felt like sandpaper, and his stomach churned with leftover beer.

He groaned as he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, the roughness of his stubble scraping against his palm. The mask lay beside him on the cot. For once, he had forgotten to put it on.

He didn't forget last night, though.

He remembered every bit of it.

The bar. The drive to the base. His shouting. Her foot against his chest. His hands on her wrist.

Fuck.

Simon dropped his face into his hands, breathing deep like it could somehow erase the memory.

 It didn’t. 

All it did was bring back the image of her eyes when he grabbed her. 

Angry. Exhausted.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, standing on unsteady legs.

The barracks were quiet as he crossed to the kitchenette, bare feet scraping against the floor. It smelled like coffee, a single mug sitting empty on the counter waiting for him.

Johnny sat at the table, his legs stretched out and the chair tilted back. A half-eaten piece of toast dangled in one hand and a mug in the other. 

Simon moved to the counter, grabbing the mug and pouring himself a drink. The coffee sloshed against the rim, a droplet of the hot liquid landing on his knuckles.

“You look like shit,” Johnny muttered without looking up.

Simon grunted.

“Why’d you leave the bar?” he asked.

Simon kept his gaze down. “Tired.”

Johnny snorted. “Tired.” He leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking under him. “Had enough energy to come back and scream at her, though.”

Simon’s jaw ticked. “How do you know about that?”

“She told me what happened.”

Simon’s hand tightened around the mug. “What exactly did she say?”

Johnny’s eyes finally flicked up from his mug, his expression unimpressed. 

“Did you?”

Disappointment coated Johnny’s every word. It didn't matter that they were friends, didn't matter that they fought together. For the first time in his life, Simon felt small. 

“Yeah.”

Johnny didn't answer right away. He took another slow sip from his mug, the feet of his chair scraping quietly against the floor as he sat upright.

“First time she’s ever said more than two words. Shit thing to do,” Johnny said, scooting his chair back as he gathered his things. “Figured if anyone knew better, would’ve been you.”

Simon stayed at the table, finishing the bitter, lukewarm coffee like it was his punishment. Then, he grabbed the report folder and made his way to Price’s office.

Simon walked in and set the file down on the desk, sinking into one of the chairs across from Price. 

“Post-op,” Simon said. His voice sounded worse than he felt, which was saying something.

Price didn’t look up. “You and Cricket are flying out today.”

Simon blinked. “What?”

“K9,” Price clarified, flipping through a separate folder. “She requested leave, going home for a few weeks. You’re going with her”

Simon stared at him, deadpan. “The hell for? It’s home leave, not a fucking assignment.”

Price’s eyes remained glued to the paperwork in front of him. “You read all of this?”

Simon shrugged. “Enough.”

He slid it across the desk toward Simon, finger skimming the top lines.

Tier One trafficking network. Cartel-backed. Arms and personnel supplied by foreign intermediaries. Victims sold to terror affiliates across three borders.

And there, highlighted in bold:

Subject: ‘K9’ – captured during a failed extraction. Returned alive. High-profile asset. Potential retaliation likely.

Price leaned back. “We didn’t pull her out of some third-rate back-alley op, mate. She was in one of their markets. They lose products like her, they start looking for compensation. If they clock her anywhere alone, she won’t make it to the gate, let alone the plane.”

Simon grinded his teeth. “So I’m her bodyguard.”

Price leaned forward. “She’s not safe. Not yet. And neither are the people around her, not unless we keep her in our sights.”

“This isn't babysitting,” Price continued. I don’t give a fuck what you do while you’re there. Get drunk, get laid, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit if you two speak, or fight, or sit in silence the whole damn trip. But make sure she gets on that plane, and make sure she comes back alive.”

--------

The airport was crowded and loud.

Tucked into the far end of the terminal, curled into one of those molded plastic seats with a bag hugged tight against her knees, Cricket looked like she wanted to disappear.

Simon stood nearby, leaning against a structural beam with his arms crossed over his chest.

Simon glanced at the clock. Still thirty minutes to boarding.

He exhaled through his nose and shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms. He moved to the seat beside her.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. He hated this, never knowing what to say, or how to start saying it.

“I’m not gonna bother you,” he said. “Not on this trip.”

Her fingers kept picking at the seam of her bag.

“Price set me up at a hotel a few miles from your folks’ place. I’ll drop you off when we land, and then fuck off.” He paused. “Won’t be near unless you call.”

Still no reaction.

“I mean it,” he added. “I’ll be close, but I’ll stay out of your way. I just… I wanted you to know that.”

A beat of silence passed. 

Simon leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I know I made things worse the other night. You don’t owe me shit. But if anything goes sideways, or if it feels wrong… I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

His head turned toward her just slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

“…Okay,” he repeated quietly, like the word didn’t feel real.

She didn’t say anything else, just kept her eyes forward, hands folded in her lap now.

Simon looked away, staring down at his boots like they might offer some kind of answer.

“…Okay,” Simon said again, under his breath this time.

By the time they landed and cleared baggage, Simon’s nerves were fraying.

The drive was a little over an hour, and the whole way, he muttered under his breath about everything.

"Feels like I’m driving a bloody coffin,” he muttered, adjusting the seat again. “Everything’s backwards. Wheel’s on the wrong side, roads are too damn wide.”

Simon squinted at the GPS. “Take a left at what? That’s not a road, that’s a goat trail.”

Eventually, the roads narrowed into gravel. Trees lined the fields, and fencing stretched across long, open pastures. Faded tractors sat in the distance, flanked by hay bales and barns that had seen better decades. They passed a small cattle herd by a rusted-out silo before a two-story farmhouse came into view.

Simon slowed as they rolled into the drive. He saw the man on the porch before the engine stopped, a tall figure with thick arms crossed over his chest, posture straight as a board. 

She opened the door first, hesitating for only a second before stepping out.

The man’s eyes softened the moment he saw her. He moved down the steps in two strides, sweeping her into a hug.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured into her hair, holding her tightly. “Been waitin’ on you.”

After a few long seconds, the man looked up, finally noticing Simon climbing out of the driver’s seat.

“Name?”

“Simon.”

The man stepped forward, extending a hand. “Rick Callahan. I’m her dad.”

Simon reached out and took it, but Rick didn't let go right away. His grip tightened, studying Simon. The scars that curled up from Simon’s jaw. The one near his temple, half-faded. Finally, Rick’s eyes flicked down to the way Simon’s hand stayed near his hip, his sidearm tucked just out of sight.

“Military?” Rick muttered.

Simon released his hand. “Something like that.”

Rick gave a curt nod, but the studying didn’t stop.

The screen door slammed open and a voice rang out. “Is that Ava? Is that you?”

Ava.

Something in Simon's chest tightened at hearing her name.

A teenage girl came tearing down the porch steps, barefoot, a flannel tied around her waist and braces flashing in the sunlight.

“Oh my god, you’re actually here!”

Rick cleared his throat. “That’s June. My youngest.”

The teenager collided with her sister, grabbing her into a full-body hug, rocking her side to side.

“You ain’t staying, are you?” Rick asked suddenly.

Simon blinked. “No.”

“Good.” Rick crossed his arms. “She doesn’t need someone here telling her what to do.”

“I’m not here to do that.”

Rick gave him a long look. “Hope not.”

Cricket stood a few feet away, her duffel still in hand. Simon could feel her listening, watching the conversation unfold.

Simon took a breath and moved closer to her.

“You’ve got my number,” he said quietly. “Hotel’s ten minutes out. You don’t want to see me, you won’t.”

She nodded.

“But if anything feels off, call. I’ll be there in five.”

Simon shifted his weight, resisting the urge to say more. Without another word, he turned, boots crunching on the gravel as he made his way back to the car.

--------

Simon dropped his bag on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed. His sidearm came off first, set neatly on the nightstand. Then his phone.

He stared at the screen for a long time. No notifications.

He turned the volume to max, then triple-checked it. Simon set the phone on the pillow next to him like it might vanish if he looked away too long.

It didn’t matter that Rick was with her. It didn’t matter that she was technically “home.”

���Safe” didn’t mean the same thing anymore. 

Not after you’ve sat in the dark with your fingernails torn out, ribs shattered, skin peeled back just enough to make breathing feel like torture.

Not after Roba.

Simon exhaled and let his head fall back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. He hadn’t meant to go there, but it crept in anyway. 

He remembered the sound of the chopper, the cold metal floor beneath him. 

The bandages. 

The blood that soaked through them. 

The way no one met his eye when he landed. No embrace, no “you’re home.”

He remembered standing at his brother’s grave, hands clenched so tight he’d torn the stitches in his palm.

He remembered the empty flat. The creaking pipes. The silence.

The anger.

He’d come back four months later and there was no one. His mother was gone. His brother was buried. 

But Ava…

Ava had a porch light left on. 

A sister who threw herself into her arms. 

A father who hugged her like he didn’t give a shit how long it took, as long as she was there.

She had people.

And for a moment, a bitter, selfish moment, Simon wasn’t sure if that made him feel relieved or furious.

Because he wanted that for her.

And because some buried part of him still hated that no one had wanted that for him.

-----

Tags: @skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz, @alex1011sdzfgh

[quillcraftconquer]

Gaz x Male Reader

The pub was packed. Loud music, spilled beer, voices rising over each other.

You were standing at the bar, laughing at something some random guy said, leaning a little too close for Gaz’s liking. He reached out, fingertips grazing the sleeve of your shirt.

Gaz’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

From across the room, he watched. His beer was forgotten in his hand, every muscle coiled tight.

When the guy leaned closer, whispering something in your ear that made you laugh, Gaz slammed his drink down onto the nearest table and stalked across the room.

You barely had time to register him behind you before he was grabbing your wrist, tugging you away from the bar.

"Gaz-" you started, confused.

He didn’t answer.

He shouldered past bodies until he found a dark hallway tucked behind the bar, deserted except for the throb of the bass through the walls.

He pushed you back against the wall. Not hard, just enough to pin you there, one hand planted beside your head, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise it.

His face was inches from yours.

"You enjoyin' yourself, sweetheart?" he asked.  "Laughin' at his shite jokes? Letting him touch you?"

You opened your mouth to explain, to say it was nothing, but Gaz wasn’t interested in explanations.

He kissed you instead, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he had every right, and he did. You melted against him immediately, fingers fisting his shirt.

He growled into the kiss, pressing his body against yours. You could already feel how hard he was, grinding slow against your thigh.

"You’re mine," he muttered between kisses, "Not his. Not fuckin' anyone else's."

You barely managed a nod before he was kissing you again. His hands were everywhere, sliding under your shirt, palming your chest, dragging down your sides possessively. You gasped when his hand slipped between your legs, cupping you through your jeans.

"Hard already?" he teased, "Fuck, you like when I get rough, don't you?"

You nodded, hips jerking against his hand, desperate for friction.

He chuckled against your throat, biting just under your jaw, hard enough to leave a mark.

"You’re fuckin’ lucky we're still in public, mate," he muttered, squeezing you through your jeans. "Otherwise I'd have you on your knees right now... mouth full of me... showin' everyone who you belong to."

You whined helplessly, fingers clutching at his jacket, nails digging into his arms.

He kissed you again before pulling back just enough to press his forehead against yours.

"Now let’s get you home. Need to remind you exactly who you fuckin' belong to."

His words left no doubt that when he got you alone, you wouldn’t be able to walk straight by the time he was done.

And you couldn’t fucking wait.

The door slammed shut behind you the second you stumbled inside, Gaz's hands already gripping your hips, dragging you backward into him.

He backed you toward the bedroom, peeling your clothes off piece by piece, tossing your shirt somewhere over his shoulder, mouthing at the skin he uncovered.

By the time he shoved you onto the bed, you were half-naked, flushed and panting, your cock already straining against your jeans. You propped yourself up on your elbows as you watched him tear his own shirt off.

You couldn’t help it, a whimper slipped from your throat at the sight of him, his muscles flexing, cock already dripping.

"Fuck," you breathed, "You're…you're unreal, Kyle."

"Wait 'til I’m inside you," he said. "Then you can tell me how good I feel."

He crawled up the bed, hands forcing your legs apart and trailing kisses down your stomach.

He kissed lower, brushing his lips against your cock without warning, and you bucked into the touch with a moan.

"Fuck, Kyle, please." you gasped, begging.

He grinned, licking a slow stripe up the underside of your cock, keeping eye contact.

 "Could listen to you all fuckin’ night." he murmured. 

He wrapped his hand around you, squeezing just enough to make you gasp, and started stroking.

You choked on a sob, hips jerking uselessly.

"Fuck," you sobbed. "I need you inside me. I need to feel you."

The sound of your voice must have broken whatever restraint he had left, because suddenly he was stripping his jeans off, grabbing a condom from the nightstand, and rolled it on with shaky hands.

He grabbed your hips, dragging you down the bed toward him with a tug.

"Turn over," he ordered.

You rolled onto your stomach, moaning when his hands gripped your waist.

He pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, leaning down to kiss between your shoulders.

"You ready for me?" he murmured against your skin.

"Always," you whispered.

He pushed in slow, stretching you open until you were gasping his name over and over.

"Fuuuck," he hissed through his teeth, bottoming out, hips flush against your ass. "You were made for me, love. Tight little hole just fuckin' made for me."

"Kyle," you whimpered. "Feels so good, fuck, you feel so good."

You writhed under him, grinding your hips back, chasing every deep thrust.

He groaned, snapping his hips into you rougher, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the small room.

"Greedy," he muttered, biting at your shoulder. "So fuckin' greedy for me."

He bent over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth hot against your ear as he panted. He groaned deep in his chest, fucking you harder, deeper, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

His hand slid down your stomach, wrapping around your cock, stroking you in time with his hips.

"Come for me," he ordered.

It took only a few more strokes before you were burying your head in the sheets, body locking tight, spilling across the bed as you came hard.

Gaz cursed, hips jerking as he thrust deep one more time, grinding into you as he came with a desperate moan against your skin.

He stayed there for a long moment,  his arms wrapped tight around you, keeping you close. Gently, he pulled out, discarding the condom before dragging you into his chest, tangling your legs together under the covers.

[quillcraftconquer]

I have SO many drafts! Help me pick what to work on:

[quillcraftconquer]

TW: Pure smut

Captain Price’s cock drives into you again, the stainless steel table he has you propped up on scooting backwards another inch. Your body slides with it, disconnecting him just an inch to where he isn't seated full inside of you.

His hands immediately grab your hips, pulling you back down. Your skin squeaks against the metal, your fingers curling around the edge in an attempt to ground yourself.

"No runnin'," he muttered, lining himself up again. "You're takin' every fuckin' inch."

He thrust forward again, so deep you swore you could feel him inside your stomach. Before you had time to gasp, he was already dipping his head down, tongue slipping inside your mouth and swallowing whatever desperate sound you were going to make. His beard was still wet from being in between your thighs, the taste of you on him making your toes curl. You arched your back up to him, and his hands slid to the small of your back, changing his thrust to an angle that had you seeing stars.

"You wanted this," he hissed through gritted teeth, "Didn’t you, love? Thought I wouldn't notice?"

Fuck, you did want this. You’d brush up on him, bending to pick up supplies, or smear a little sauce on his lip when you made the men taste what you cooked. 

You just didn't think he’d act on it. 

It was supposed to just be some light teasing, banter.

You never thought you'd be bent over your own kitchen counter, ruthlessly fucked by him.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” You cried out, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming feeling.

His head dipped down again, lips gently brushing alongside the shell of your ear. His thrusts slowed for a moment, antagonizigly so.

“You’re not sorry yet, love.”

Captain Price pulled out slowly, your arousal glistening on his cock. He turned you over with a surprising gentleness, your feet landing on the top of his boots as he slid back into you. 

"Good girl," he purred, "Doing so fuckin' good for me, love. So perfect."

His hand clasped the back of your neck, holding you down as he continued to fuck you. One hand came down on your ass, the sharp sting flushing your skin.

"Look at you," he growled between long, filthy strokes. "So ready. Bet you’ve been drippin' for me all day, haven’t you, love?"

Each thrust knocked the breath out of you, Price's hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise and dragging you back to meet every brutal drive of his cock.

Teeth sank into your shoulder blade, causing you to jolt forward in surprise. 

"Say it," he snarled against your skin. "Tell me who fuckin' owns you."

“You do.” You moaned.

“Again. Say my name.”

“Fuck- You do, John.”

He groaned and slammed into you harder, driving you up the table with every thrust.

Your orgasm hit, knees buckling as Price’s hand caught you, holding you against the table for him as he fucked you through it.

Price cursed, grinding deep inside you, hips jerking as he came with his forehead pressed against the middle of your back.

He pulled out slowly, a soft, almost pained sound catching in his throat at the loss of you. His hands skimmed down your sides, soothing touches that chased away the last tremors of aftershock.

"You alright, love?" he murmured.

You nodded weakly, unable to find your voice yet. 

He pressed a kiss into your hair, murmuring against your scalp:

"Did so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart. So perfect."

[quillcraftconquer]

Beneath Us Part 6 (Ghost x Reader)

Sorry everyone, I'm on a roll with this series lol. I'll update the K9 series next. Also, this one has smut in it, so TW!

Pt. 5

___________________________________________

The clock on the far wall blinked 03:13, casting a faint red glow across the room. I shoved the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bunk, the concrete floor cold against my feet even through my socks. Grabbing my sweatshirt off the bedpost, I slipped it on and made my way out.

I rubbed my hands together for warmth as I padded toward the kitchen, already craving a mug of tea.

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise when I entered. Ghost was flat on his back, half under the sink, his boots braced against the floor and a wrench in hand. The dark hem of his shirt rode up slightly to reveal his pale skin.

"Didn’t think anyone else was stupid enough to be up this early," I said, leaning against the doorway.

Ghost let out a grunt.

I padded across the room and hoisted myself up onto the counter. The old wood creaked under my weight, but I stayed there, swinging one boot idly in the air.

"You always get up early to fix sinks?” I asked.

Another grunt.

"I get it." I said after a moment. "Maverick does the same thing. Stays up late and works on shit. Not really a morning person."

The wrench clattered loudly against the pipe, and Ghost pulled it free with a muttered curse under his breath. He shifted to adjust his grip, his boots scraping lightly against the floor.

"You and Maverick seem close," he muttered.

“"Yeah," I said, shrugging even though he couldnt see me, "he’s my brother-in-law."

“What?” Ghost blurted, letting out another curse as he shot up too fast, the front of his head cracking hard against the underside of the sink.

I winced as the sharp metallic clang echoed through the kitchen.

"Since when?" he snapped.

"Since when what?" I asked, frowning.

Ghost dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. 

"Not… not since when," he muttered, "I meant how long have they been married?"

"They’ve been married seven years now," I said. "Got a one year old son. Little hellraiser already."

He just sat there on the floor, staring up at me, wrench limp in his gloved hand. Then, as if snapping out of it, Ghost dropped his gaze and grunted. Without a word, he shoved the wrench back into the tangle of pipes and slid under the sink again

"You got any kids?"

"No," I said. "Just a dog."

"Would’ve figured you for a cat person."

"Close enough," I said, leaning back on my palms. "He's a Pomeranian, basically a cat. I always thought about getting a cat, but my boyfriend back then, Simon, was allergic. I guess after that I just never really thought about it again.”

Below the sink, Ghost went completely still.

I glanced down, expecting some sort of grunt in response, but the only thing I saw were the worn soles of his boots, unmoving.

"You alright down there?" I asked, trying to joke. "Need me to call for backup?"

"Fine," he muttered, the wrench clanging against the pipes again. "They make allergy shots now. For cat allergies."

"You have a cat?" I asked, unable to hide the smile tugging at my mouth.

He shrugged, or at least it looked like a shrug from where his boots jutted out. "Stray. Found her a couple years back. Couldn’t leave her."

"What's her name?" I asked, genuinely curious now.

"Smudge."

Ghost pushed himself up from under the sink. He rotated his shoulder once, flexing it like the cramped space had stiffened him up, and reached out to turn the tap.

Water gushed cleanly from the faucet, the earlier leak nowhere to be seen. Ghost tested it carefully, running his gloved fingers under the stream. Satisfied, he gave the knob a small twist to shut it off.

He grabbed the battered metal kettle off the stove, filled it under the newly-fixed faucet, and set it back on the burner with a clatter.

"I’m gonna grab a shower," I said, pushing myself off the counter. "Before the rest of the base wakes up and the hot water’s gone."

Ghost didn’t say anything, just nodded once.

The shower room door creaked as I pushed it open. Someone had put up a row of shower curtains. They hung from rusted metal rods hastily rigged across the stalls, thin but enough to give a little privacy. The smell of damp concrete and industrial soap filled my nose as I stripped down, tossing my clothes into a loose pile by the wall. The water sputtered when I twisted the knob, then rushed out, filling the stall with a thick cloud of steam.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the cool tile, letting the water roll over me. My mind kept slipping back to the way Ghost hands had closed around my waist yesterday, the heat of him bleeding straight through the fabric of my sweatshirt. To the way his shirt had ridden up when he twisted under the sink. A shudder rolled through me, this one having nothing to do with the heat of the water.

Ghost's face materialized in my mind, those piercing brown eyes boring into me. I felt my nipples harden, my breath quickening as I imagined his gaze on me. My hand drifted down my body, fingers trailing over my skin as I pictured his hands doing the same.

“Fuck,” I muttered, My fingers found their way between my legs, and I let out a soft gasp as I began to touch myself. “This is wrong.”

Simon was gone. This wasn't cheating. It wasn't wrong.

Still, it felt wrong.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to picture Simon’s face. 

Simon hovers above me, his breath hot against my neck as he eases inside, inch by inch, filling me with a stretch that makes my toes curl. 

"Fuck, you're so tight around me," he whispers, his voice husky, eyes locked on mine like I'm the only thing that matters. His hands roam my skin, one cupping my breast while the other grips my hip, pulling me closer. "That's it, love, move with me," he urges, his lips brushing mine. "Fuck, you're driving me wild."

My fingers moved faster, my body responding to the scenario playing out in my head. I could almost feel Ghost's - No, Simon’s, tongue tracing the curves of my breasts, his teeth nipping at my nipples, gloved hand roaming over my body.

No, not gloved. 

Simon.

My back arched, my hips bucking against my hand as I chased the orgasm building inside me.

“Fuck, Ghost.” I whimpered, a moan escaping my lips as I came, my back collapsing against the tile. I laid against it for a moment, trying to catch my breath. 

My chest ached. I stood there, the water still pounding down around me, staring up at the ceiling through burning eyes.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Simon was dead. Gone.

And here I was, touching myself to the thought of a man I barely knew. I slammed the water off, grabbing the thin towel from the hook outside the curtain and roughly dried myself off.

I lifted my head, confused. I glanced back at the shower. I knew I had turned it off. 

Another shower was still running.

I wrapped the towel tightly around myself and stepped out, my bare feet slapping against the concrete floor. There, folded neatly besides my pile of clothes I had discarded, was Ghost’s mask.

Panic and mortification clawed at me, but before I could do anything,  the sharp squeal of a knob twisting off echoed through the empty shower room. Ghost emerged from the mist, a fresh, dry mask already pulled down over his face. The rest of him was completely bare except for a towel slung low across his hips, water still clinging to his skin. Scars marked deep into his flesh, old wounds crossing his ribs, his shoulder, and curling up along his abdomen. Parts of his skin were warped, the flesh darker in patches where it was burned. 

"I'm…" I stammered, cheeks burning, "I'm sorry, that was... that was unprofessional, I-"

"Could've made it even better for you, love. All you had to do was ask." Ghost interrupted me.

I let out a weak laugh and blurted out the first stupid thing that jumped into my scrambled brain.

"Guess I'll... uh... put in a request form next time?"

Jesus Christ. A request form? What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Bring it to me yourself. Might need a demonstration."

I stood there frozen, staring at him like an idiot as my brain refused to process what he just said.

He reached for his clothes and dropped the towel from his hips. It hit the concrete floor with a wet slap.

My mouth opened and a half-gasp, half-wheeze escaped my lips. I slapped my hand over my eyes like it would somehow erase the sight already burned into my retinas.

"Oh my God," I gasped, the sound high and strangled. I spun around so fast my towel nearly slipped, my heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the rustle of him dressing behind me.

My face was burning, my entire body vibrating with embarrassment. 

"Could think about me just fine in the shower, but can’t handle the real thing, huh?"

I spun around and found him sitting on the bench, fully dressed. He leaned back, arm thrown across the back of it casually.

“Get dressed.”

“Here?” I choked out. “In front of you?”

Ghost tilted his head. “Yeah. You’re not shy now, are you?”

Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I bent down to grab my clothes from the bench. My hands fumbled awkwardly with the fabric. I opened my mouth and let the words spill out without thinking.

"So, uh," I said brightly, “I heard Ethan and MacTavish are trying to smuggle some alcohol on base. I mean, if they get caught, I am not bailing them out, I don’t care how drunk they are-"

I yanked my underwear up, heart racing so fast it made me dizzy. I grabbed my pants, forcing one leg in, then the other, nearly tripping over myself in the process.

"Honestly," I rushed on, tugging the waistband into place with frantic movements, "They’re all probably gonna regret it tomorrow when Price chews their asses out, but hey, morale’s important, right? Nothing boosts morale like terrible whiskey."

I pulled my shirt over my head, my hands shaking so badly it took me two tries to get the sleeve on properly. My damp hair stuck to my neck.

"And technically," I said breathlessly, yanking the hem of my shirt down, "technically I think they’re only breaking about...three base regulations? Maybe four if someone ends up shooting someone, but honestly, that seems pretty unlikely, right?”

Ghost was still sitting on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. His mask was tilted just slightly towards me, digesting every word spilling uselessly from my mouth.

“I mean, the last time that happened was in Karskaya and it wasn’t even our fault-"

“Your shirts on backwards.” Ghost interrupted me. I glanced down at the front of my shirt, the tag hanging out the collar. 

Before I could even think of a response, Ghost rose from the bench, turned, and walked out, his boots thudding softly against the concrete as he disappeared into the hallway.

[quillcraftconquer]

Beneath Us (Ghost x Reader) Pt. 5

(All other parts featured on my pinned post.)

_

My arm locked under Ghost’s, twisting it toward his spine as I planted my boots into the mat. His body was heavier than mine, but I had the leverage, and I wasn’t about to give it up.

The fabric of his jacket strained under my grip as he shifted, testing my hold. His breathing was calm and maddeningly controlled.

"Let go," he warned.

I gritted my teeth, tightening the pressure. "If you're gonna tap, tap."

Ghost didn’t tap.

Instead, he twisted hard to the right, using brute strength and technique in one movement. I felt my balance slip, then felt the world tilt as he hooked my leg and wrenched free.

For a split second, I knew what was coming.

He was going to slam me into the mat. Hard.

Instinctively, I braced for the impact, squeezing my eyes shut.

But it never came.

Instead, I felt him catch me mid-fall, one hand braced firmly between my shoulder blades and the other catching the back of my thigh. He lowered me carefully. My spine barely kissed the mat before he stepped back, releasing me.

I pushed myself upright, wincing when a sharp twinge lit up my lower back. Ghost stood over me, his chest rising and falling and his hands loose at his sides.

"What’s wrong with your back?" he asked.

I shook out my hands, brushing invisible dust from my cargo pants.

"Old injury," I said, "Years ago. It’s nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," he muttered.

I stiffened, pushing myself upright. "It doesn’t affect anything."

He tilted his head slightly, the skull mask shifting and exposing a small sliver of skin on his neck.

"You shouldn’t be active duty if you’re carrying an injury," he said.

"I manage it," I said evenly. "Been managing it for a decade."

Before he could say anything else, a sharp yelp cracked through the gym.

I turned just in time to see Ethan go flying across the mat, landing hard on his back with a wheeze as Sergeant MacTavish straightened up with a grin.

"Christ," Ethan groaned, sprawled across the mat like a broken toy.

Maverick let out a bark of laughter from the sidelines. Garrick shook his head, amusement flickering across his face.

"Keep your guard up, Hooch," Maverick called, barely containing his grin.

"You said we were keeping it light!" Ethan wheezed, pointing an accusing finger at MacTavish as he struggled to sit up.

MacTavish just shrugged, unbothered. "Light for me, mate."

Price called a break a few minutes later and we filed out of the gym, boots scuffing against the concrete as we made our way toward the mess.  Maverick and Ethan were already throwing jabs at each other across the table when I sat down, tray balanced in one hand. 

MacTavish, predictably, zeroed in on me.

"So," he said, stabbing a sorry-looking piece of chicken, "where you from, Lieutenant?"

I sipped my water before answering. "Georgia. Born and raised."

His eyebrows lifted. "Bit far from home, innit?"

"A bit," I said, picking at my food.

"And how long you been in?"

"Long enough," I said casually.

"How long you known these two idiots then?" he asked, nodding toward Maverick and Ethan.

"Bull and I went through basic together," I said, nudging Maverick’s boot under the table. "Met Hooch later when he was a Sergeant."

"Hooch?" MacTavish echoed, grinning at Ethan.

Ethan shrugged. "Hooch. You know, alcohol. Moonshine. Booze.

MacTavish turned back to me. "And you?”

Maverick’s face lit up with excitement. "We call her peaches."

"You’re takin' the piss," Soap said, shaking his head.

"Peaches," Ethan repeated. "Georgia's the Peach State, y'know."

He squinted. "The Peach State?"

"Yeah," Ethan said around a mouthful of food. "Whole thing. State fruit. License plates. Festivals. You name it."

I just shook my head. "I hate callsigns," I muttered, "Don’t use it."

MacTavish and Ethan kept laughing, trading stories across the table. I pushed my tray away, my appetite gone. Maverick glanced up at me, catching my eye as I left the mess hall. He followed me out, waiting until we were out of earshot from the others before speaking.

"You good?" he asked.

We leaned against the side of the building, the silence stretching between us. I watched the chain-link fence in the distance rattle in the wind, my arms crossed tight over my chest.

"It's been worse," I said finally. "It'll pass."

After Simon went missing, there hadn't been a grave to visit. No ceremony, no folded flag. I had poured myself into work. Into the next mission, and the next, trying to fix what they hadn't been able to save. Recovery missions came later. Searching for the missing, the lost, the presumed dead.

Trying to bring someone, anyone, home when they couldn’t bring him back.

Maverick had followed me into it without question.

"We've done good work," Maverick said quietly, like he could hear the thoughts clawing their way through my skull. "You know that."

I nodded again, staring down at the cracked asphalt.

"Bull," I said dryly, "you’re getting sentimental."

He grinned. "Someone’s gotta."

I gave him a shove toward the door with my shoulder, and he laughed as he went.

It was raining again.

Shocking, really.

Maverick and I were soaked to the bone after a morning spent hauling supplies across the base. My boots squelched miserably with every step.

We ducked into a side building, half-supply shed, half-break room,  shivering and cursing the weather.

Inside, Corporal Riley was already there, crouched by a battered table and fiddling with an old electric kettle that looked like it might electrocute someone at any moment.

Maverick shook out his jacket like a wet dog, spraying mist everywhere. "Place looks like a cemetery."

Simon didn’t even glance up. "You're not wrong."

Maverick grinned, already gearing up. He elbowed me lightly, then sauntered closer to Simon.

"Oi, Corporal," he said, putting on his worst British accent, "fancy a spot o' tea, mate? Maybe a crumpet? A bit o’ rainwater to wash it down?"

Simon finally looked up, giving him with a stare that would have frozen a lesser man.

"You're an idiot," he said dryly.

Simon shook his head and went back to the kettle. The thing rattled ominously but eventually clicked off. He pulled three battered mugs from a shelf and started pouring without another word.

Maverick crept closer and clapped Simon hard on the back, a solid, jostling thud that made the tea slosh dangerously.

"Good man, Riley. Saving American lives one cuppa at a time."

Simon scowled over his shoulder but didn’t actually push him off.

"You spill it, you’re drinking it off the floor," he muttered.

I dropped into a battered chair, peeling my wet socks halfway off my heels just for some relief.

Maverick grabbed his mug. "Proper British hospitality. Where’s my bloody scone, mate?"

Simon ignored him entirely, settling by the table with his own tea.

I blew across the mug’s surface and took a sip, expecting nothing.

It was good.

Annoyingly good.

Maverick slurped his loudly, grimaced, and gave Simon another solid thump on the shoulder. "Tastes like wet garden dirt. Top notch."

I smirked into my mug, finally muttering, "It’s good."

Simon caught my eye over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow raising, the faintest tug of amusement pulling at his mouth.

Maverick plopped into the seat beside me, knocking his knee into mine with a grin.

"Admit it," he said loudly, "we’re practically locals now."

Simon huffed and leaned back against the wall, his eyes slipping half-shut.

Maverick set the mug of tea down in front of me, fanning the surface with his hand like it would cool the contents.

“I was going to call the family tonight, you want to join?” He asked, already pulling up the video app on his tablet and settling onto the floor next to me.

“Yeah.” I answered, leaning across the room to shut the door. I caught Ghost’s eye as it swung shut. His eyes narrowed as he watched Maverick and I before giving a quick shake of his head, walking off.

“When does our southern hospitality start to rub off on others?” I muttered.

“Doesnt.” Maverick answered, grinning as his wife popped up on the screen. “Hey, baby. I had to drag Peaches out of the gutter to come and talk to you and little man.”

“Hey, sis. How’re you guys?” I asked, waving.

I let Maverick talk for a few minutes, letting him tell his son goodnight. 

"Hey, tell little man we’ll be back in a week or two. We got some bad weather coming in but it’s supposed to pass before we get back," I called out, patting Maverick on the shoulder.

"I’m gonna get out of here. Love you," I waved at the screen, pushing up off the floor.

Maverick grunted his acknowledgment, too focused on arguing with my sister about another animal she wanted to bring home.

I pulled my sleeves down and turned toward the hallway, only to slam face first into someone.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I gasped, rubbing my nose.

Two gloves hands held my waist, steadying me. Deep brown eyes stared back at me, framed by the black fabric of his mask.

My stomach sank.

I knew those eyes.

I shook my head, blinking rapidly. That was insane.

Not just insane, impossible.

I didn’t know those eyes.

The longer I stood there, caught in that stare, the harder it became to breathe properly. A sharp ringing in my ears blocked out the sounds around us.

"You alright?" Ghost asked.

I forced a quick nod. "Yeah. Fine."

His grip loosened almost immediately, like he realized he was holding on too long. I pushed past him before I could embarrass myself further, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.

When we pushed into the barracks, the first thing I heard was Ethan’s voice, complaining.

"There's no fucking coffee," he announced from his bunk, sprawled out like a man on death row. "None. Not a bean in sight. Just goddamn tea."

I snorted, grateful for the break in tension.

"You're on a British base, dumbass," I said, tossing my hoodie onto the end of my bed.

Below me, Ghost sat down on his own mattress, not saying a word.

I stretched out on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling and letting Ethan's endless complaining rattle around the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, rolling onto my side and pressing my face into the scratchy pillow, trying to force the unease to drain out of me.

It was nothing. It had to be nothing.

Still, long after Ethan had gone quiet, I laid there wide awake, haunted by the feeling.

[quillcraftconquer]

I feel like one of them has those terrible nautical stars and it is definitely coloured in wrong.

Humour me, what're the T141's 'embarrassing tattoos'

[quillcraftconquer]

Humour me, what're the T141's 'embarrassing tattoos'

[quillcraftconquer]

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon x K9 Part 5

TW: This part has smut. Please skip if you don't like that!

____________________________

The bar was small, the wood was worn, and the air thick with the scent of cheap beer. Johnny and Gaz were in the corner, talking low between themselves, their laughter coming in uneven bursts, products of the empty glasses in front of them. Simon sat at the bar, fingers idly tapping against his fourth glass, half-listening to the woman beside him.

“…and she had the nerve to tell me I was overreacting,” she said, leaning in closer. “Like, sorry for having standards, right?” She laughed, a high, nasal sound. “But you get it.”

He didn’t. And he didn’t care to.

Simon’s mask hid most of his face, but his eyes were fixed on his drink, idly watching the condensation building on the side as he listened to the woman continue on. He had no interest in her story. Truthfully, he had no interest in her, but the past few weeks had been an utter shit show. He was buried in paperwork, and now, on top of everything else, Price had given him the responsibility of training and overseeing her. Johnny had dubbed her Cricket, because that’s all they ever got in return; silence or a soft, barely noticeable nod. Now, between stacks of reports and mission briefings, between training schedules and supply orders, he spent his days watching her. Watching her nod. Watching her shake her head. His patience wore thinner by the day. He’d tried everything; questions, commands, even small talk, and all he ever got was a flick of her eyes or a slight movement. Nothing more. He was done with it. All he wanted was to unwind, even if it meant sitting here, listening to this woman’s endless voice.

The end goal was a one-night stand, a single evening of intimacy with no intention of pursuing a relationship or further involvement beyond that night.

Across the room, Johnny and Gaz were watching, openly entertained. Johnny leaned in, muttering something to Gaz, and Gaz snorted into his drink, shaking his head. Simon ignored them.

The woman was still talking.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, her voice pulling him back. “What’s with the mask?”

Simon didn't answer.

“Don’t you ever take it off?” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “It’s... kinda weird, you know.”

He cut her off. “Do you want to leave?”

She hesitated, blinking. “What?”

“With me,” he clarified, finally looking at her. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Her lips parted slightly. “I...well, that’s sudden.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, sitting a little straighter. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

Simon stood, setting his glass down. “Tell me on the way out,” he answered flatly.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and made his way toward the door. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking between him and the room, but after a beat, she stood and followed, her footsteps light behind him.

As they walked out of the bar, the woman turned to Simon.

 "So, are we going to your place?"

Simon didn’t respond, his focus on the car ahead. The woman’s heels clicked sharply on the pavement as she trailed behind him. Reaching the car, Simon leaned against the hood, his movements deliberate as he started to undo his pants, trying to tune out her chatter.

“Are you going to take the mask off?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Simon didn’t look up, shaking his head. “No.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she sighed dramatically, hands on her hips. “Well, how am I supposed to kiss you with that thing on?” she complained, voice rising slightly.

Simon tilted his head slightly, his annoyance growing. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

He pushed his briefs down, freeing his erection, and the woman's gaze lowered, her expression transforming from irritation to arousal. Simon rummaged through his wallet, extracting a condom and ripping open the foil packet. He discarded the wrapper onto the hood, his hands moving as he rolled the condom over himself. She licked her lips once, stretching to bend over the hood. Simon's hands closed around her hips, his fingers grasping her skin as he positioned himself behind her.

With a subtle shift of his weight, he guided himself into her. Simon exhaled, his head dropping back as he began to shift his hips back, drawing himself out of her. He snapped his hips forward, closing his eyes as he settled into rhythm. She let out a loud, performative moan each time his hips connected with hers, her voice rising to a shrill pitch as she continued to make noise. Her moaning grew louder and more frantic, her body bucking back against him. Simon's patience finally snapped, mumbling under his breath.

“Bloody hell, shut up,” Simon muttered, exhaling sharply, and she froze beneath him.

“What the fuck did you just say?” she snapped, her head whipping back to look at him. Simon winced as she jerked forward, pulling away from him.

She readjusted her dress, muttering under her breath, “Unbelievable. I come over here thinking maybe this’ll be different, but no, of course not. Same shit. You’re all the same, too fucking proud, too fucking rude to even have a decent conversation, and now you’re just-”

Her rant was cut short as she slapped him across the cheek. The force of it made his head whip to the side.

“Fuck you,” she spat, her voice seething with rage. She turned sharply and stomped back toward the bar. 

Simon sighed, peeling the condom off and tossing it onto the ground. He tucked himself back into his pants, leaning his hands against the hood of the car.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his neck in an attempt to ease the tension building in his shoulders. He fished his phone out of his pocket and shot a quick text to Gaz, telling him he was leaving and to catch a ride with Johnny.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Simon started the car, the sound doing little to drown out his thoughts. When he finally parked in the lot, he sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel, feeling every ounce of exhaustion that suddenly hit him.

With a sigh, he pushed the door open and made his way inside. The moment he stepped in, he spotted her.

Cricket.

She was curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, a half-empty bottle of beer sitting on the coffee table beside her. 

Simon tossed his keys onto the table, the clatter echoing in the room. He picked up a folder of paperwork from the stack that had been nagging at him all day, flipping it open as he walked toward the living room. His eyes skimmed the pages, barely absorbing the words, the beginnings of a migraine clawing at his brain.

When he entered the room, he glanced over at her. She remained still, head resting gently in her hand.

“What are you watching?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she gave a slight nod toward the screen.

Simon’s grip tightened on the folder in his hand. He stared at her for a long moment, his patience finally snapping.

“Goddamn it!” he growled. “Can you ever fucking say something?”

Her body stiffened even more, her eyes widening just slightly, but she remained silent. 

Simon’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his anger bubbling over. He knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't be taking this out on her, but he couldn't stop.

“Say something!” he shouted, stepping even closer. “I’m your superior officer, and you will talk! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

He squatted, shoving his face in front of hers, forcing her to meet his gaze, but her eyes stayed glued to the space behind him, distant and hollow.

“I don’t know what the hell Price was thinking, putting me in charge of you,” he seethed, his hands clenched into fists. “I’m stuck here, dealing with your fucking silent act. I’m drowning in this shit, and you, you, can’t even open your goddamn mouth!”

His breath was hot, his frustration taking over every word. “You think this silence is gonna protect you? You’re wrong. Talk. Or I’ll make you.”

Still, she didn’t respond. 

Interrogation was about pressure.

About knowing when to push and when to pull back, how to break down walls until nothing was left standing. He was good at it, ruthless when he needed to be. But this? This was different.

And it wasn’t working.

He swallowed the frustration, tilted his head, and tried again.

“C’mon, love,” he coaxed, his tone soft, almost sweet. “Just one word. That’s all I want. Just let me hear you, yeah?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

He hummed, trying again. “I know you can. I know you want to. Just you and me here, no one else. It doesn’t have to be much, just a little something. A yes, a no. Hell, I’d take a ‘fuck off’ at this point.” He huffed a small laugh.

But she just sat there, gripping her arms so tightly her nails were pressing into her skin. Her breath was short and uneven.

Simon exhaled through his nose, his patience fraying. “You make this real fucking hard, you know that?” He reached out then, fingers curling around her wrist as he tried to pry her hands away from where they were digging into her arms.

The moment he touched her, she moved.

Her foot shot up, planting squarely in the center of his chest, and before he could react, she shoved.

Simon stumbled back, catching himself against the floor with a grunt. His eyes snapped to hers, stunned. For the first time in what felt like forever, she had done something.

He let out a breath. Then, to his own surprise, a laugh. He wiped a hand down his mask, glancing back up at her. “Well, fuck me,” he murmured. “Didn’t think you had that in you, love.”

He ripped the mask from his face, tossing it aside carelessly, the discarded piece of cloth hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Simon moved towards her again slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But this silence had gone on long enough. He needed something from her, and damn it, he was going to make it happen.

“Come on, love,” he coaxed, his voice tender. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her leg, the warmth of her skin pulling him in. Slowly, he placed it there, palm pressing lightly against her knee. His thumb brushed her skin, trying to force a reaction.

Her eyes flashed, wide with something that wasn’t fear.

Anger.

A swift movement caught him off guard as she jerked her hand up, aiming for his face.

Shit.

Simon's instincts kicked in. He grabbed her wrist mid-strike, his grip tightening around it to the point it left her no room to pull away. Her body tensed beneath his hold, and for the briefest of moments, their eyes locked. 

Without thinking, he moved to shift his weight, trying to gain the upper hand, but she was faster. In one fluid motion, she twisted beneath him, using her legs to push him off balance. Her free hand gripped his shoulder, flipping him to the ground and leaving him momentarily stunned.

Simon hit the floor with a harsh grunt, his back aching from the impact, but before he could react, she was already on top of him, her body pinning him to the ground.

Her eyes blazed down at him, full of fury. He stared up at her, heart thudding hard in his chest.

“You’ve got me pinned, love,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise. “You win.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just held him there, her hands firm on his chest.

Simon’s chest rose and fell with each breath. His body was still, pinned beneath her, but his mind was screaming. The alcohol had done a number on his senses, and his judgement.

Finally, with a small exhale, he placed his hands on her hips, fingers curling into her sides as he gently, slowly, shifted her off of him. He stood up, still trying to process the flood of emotions that had flared to life inside him in the span of seconds.

Without looking back, he walked toward the bathroom. The shower hissed to life as Simon stepped under the cold spray, the icy water cutting through the heat in his body. 

He stood there, under the cold water, letting it soak into him, hoping that somehow, it would wash away the truth that he’d been avoiding.

He wanted her.

He had no idea why or how, but it was there, and it was undeniable. 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a wave of guilt washed over him. She was his subordinate, a soldier under his command, and he had no right to think of her in that way. The last thing she needed was a superior officer who saw her as anything other than that. She needed support, not this.

He tried to push the thoughts away, telling himself it was wrong, that he was crossing a line. But as he stood there, the water pounding against his skin, he felt his cock begin to stir, growing harder with each passing moment.

He would never act on it. 

He would never jeopardize his position or her career by pursuing something that could never be. But as he reached down and wrapped his hand around his shaft, he couldn’t shake the lingering guilt. He pictured her small hands wrapping around his shaft, her fingers tracing the veins that ran along the length of his cock. He imagined her tongue darting out, licking the tip of it. As he stroked himself, he felt his cock grow harder, the skin tightening as he envisioned her lips closing around him.

He pictured her cheeks hollowing, her eyes looking up at him with a mixture of desire and need. His hand moved faster, his strokes growing more intense as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. He imagined Cricket's hands on his hips, her fingers digging into his skin as she pulled him closer, her mouth working him fiercely. He felt his balls tightening, his cock throbbing, as he envisioned her swallowing him whole, her throat constricting around him. He gritted his teeth, his hand moving furiously as he felt his release rising up. He came, his cock jerking, his body shuddering. He stood there, his chest heaving, eyes closed as he felt the tension drain out of his body.

Simon exhaled, his arm resting above his head as he pressed his forehead against it, the cool tiles of the shower offering no relief. It was just a fantasy, an escape from the frustration that had been simmering for days. Nothing more. 

Just a fucking fantasy, he told himself.

Still, shame crept over him.

Simon shook the thought from his mind, dragging the towel over his body. The rest of the world could fuck off for all he cared. He needed sleep. He needed to shut his brain down.

His feet felt heavy as he shuffled through the hall. When he finally reached his cot, he was ready to collapse into it. He looked down at the bed, something catching his eye.

There, resting neatly on top of the sheets, was his mask.

Then, across the room, he saw her. Cricket was curled up on her own cot, her body wrapped tightly in the blankets, a rare moment of peace on her face.

For once, she was asleep, in the same room as him. He watched as her chest rose and fell, eyes twitching under her lids.

Simon quietly moved onto his own cot, the floor creaking softly beneath his boots as he settled down. He stripped off his boots and laid back, the faint sound of her breathing filling the air. Simon’s eyes closed until there was nothing but the darkness, quiet, and the strange feeling of not being alone.

—————-

Tags: @skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz,

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon X Reader

(K9 Series, from reader perspective)

TW: mentions of animal death, Abuse, emotional Distress/Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Violence, Sexism.

_______________________________________________________

Another dog trotted past the window—a spaniel, I think—its tail wagging like a banner as it practically dragged its owner along.

Panzer had never been one for leashes. The one time I tried, he gnawed through it in minutes. Despite his wild streak, he never strayed far. He slept curled between my legs, his head resting on my thigh, always close, always mine.

Or at least, he used to.

My lips thinned as I leaned my head against the cool glass of the hotel lobby window. Simon had still been asleep when I woke. I’d taken his keys, packed up my things, and loaded the car before making my way downstairs.

The lobby had been bustling earlier, but now, with breakfast service over, it had emptied out. I considered grabbing something to eat—until I caught sight of the ground breakfast meat. My stomach twisted.

The first meal they gave me after I was captured was meat. I had already taken a few bites before I noticed the familiar tan fur clinging to it.

I haven’t touched it since. I can’t. 

I checked my watch again. Our flight was in a few hours, and Simon was still nowhere in sight. I couldn’t blame him. If I could sleep that soundly, I would have.

I wanted to ask him how he did it.

Price had let me read his file. I knew what he’d been through—how Roba had used him, broken him. I knew about his home life, his father, how his mother and brother were killed.

And yet, somehow, he slept.

I never could. Restless nights drove me to rooms with locking doors—Price’s office, the bathrooms, even a supply closet. Something about having the power to keep them out made sleep come easier.

The memory of Simon’s face when the door clicked shut flickered through my mind. I wanted to open it again, to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I wanted to say, Surely, you understand.

But maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he was stronger than me. Maybe he didn’t need a locked door.

Sleep had been just another thing Panzer helped me with. His presence was a comfort—always watching, always guarding.

Before I could dwell on it, Simon rounded the corner. His phone was clenched in his hand, duffel bag in the other, his jaw tight, anger flickering in his eyes.

He wasn’t wearing his mask.

I didn’t know why he wore it in the first place, and I knew my confusion showed. Johnny had noticed once, chuckling as he toyed with a tangle of wiring.

“Nothing special underneath there. You get used to it,” he’d said.

Lately, that seemed to be everyone’s answer. The base psychologist. Johnny. Even Gaz, after I flinched at his touch.

You’ll get used to it. It’ll get better. It takes time.

But what if I didn’t?

What if no amount of time could fix the year and a half I’d lost? What if I never got used to it? What if, ten years from now, I still missed Panzer just as much?

Would that be okay?

I wanted someone to tell me it would. That it was okay if it never got better. That I didn’t have to move on, or heal, or let go.

That I could just be, and that would be enough.

Simon scooped up the keys from the table, letting out a relieved sigh as he sank into the booth.

“Thought you left,” he mumbled, head tilting back against the seat.

His words caught me off guard, though they shouldn’t have. Maybe it was the way he said it.

I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t have left. I wanted to ask Why would I? Where would I even go? But the thoughts tangled in my head, stuck somewhere between my mind and my mouth. Every time I opened it, nothing came out. It was like my body had made the decision for me—Don’t say it. Just let it go.

I hated that. I hated that silence had become second nature. That it always felt easier to swallow things down than to let them out.

Simon shifted beside me, head rolling to the side until his gaze met mine. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

There were things I wanted to ask—questions that had been sitting on my tongue for weeks, maybe longer. About him. About the mask. About how he could just close his eyes and sleep while my mind never let me.

But I couldn’t form the words.

So I did the only thing I could.

I lifted a finger to my cheek, tapping it lightly. A quiet gesture, but it was enough.

Simon’s brows pulled together in confusion. His gaze flicked between my face and my hand like he wasn’t sure what I was getting at.

I hesitated, then reached out, gently tapping his cheek. The contact was brief, barely there, but his eyes sharpened with recognition.

“In the bag,” he said after a moment. “Can’t wear it through the terminal.”

That was it. No further explanation.

I missed Johnny’s ramblings, the way he could fill a room with words without needing anyone else to speak. I missed Gaz’s patience. I missed the space Price gave me—no questions, no pressure, just the offer of room to breathe.

I leaned my head back against the window as I watched the world move beyond it. People passed in a blur—couples dragging suitcases, parents corralling restless children, business travelers walking with purpose. Lives moving forward, unburdened.

I envied them.

Minutes passed, maybe more, before Simon finally spoke.

“We need to go.”

I didn’t move right away, lingering in the moment, as if staying just a little longer might change something. But it didn’t.

With a quiet exhale, I pushed myself upright and followed him out.

The car ride to the airport was as silent as the first time. The plane ride even more so. No conversation, no questions, just the steady hum of the engine and the occasional shift of Simon in his seat. I stared out the window, watching the world stretch out below, shrinking into something distant.

By the time we landed and made our way back to base, Price was waiting for us.

He stood near the entrance, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his stance stiff with displeasure.

Not at me.

At Simon.

Price didn’t say a word as he turned on his heel and led us inside. The walk to his office felt longer than it was, the echo of our boots against the floor filling the silence..

Simon stepped inside, and Price gestured towards the chair next to the door.

“Sit,” he ordered.

I did. Price shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, but it did nothing to block the sound.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asked. “Putting your hands on a superior officer?”

Simon's answer was calm. “He had it coming.”

Price exhaled sharply, “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They call her K9, Price. You know why?”

There was a long pause.

Simon’s voice dropped lower, more bitter now. “They don’t call her K9 because of the goddamn dog, Price. They call her K9 because they think she’s a bitch. That’s how they see her. That’s how they treat her. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was some dumbass joke, some stupid fucking reference, but now I know.” His voice rose angrily.  “I know what they really mean. And I’m not just gonna let them walk all over her.”

There was a long pause.

Price finally spoke, his voice hard again. “She didn’t need you to fight for her, Simon.”

“I’m not fighting for her,” Simon shot back, “I’m just not standing by and letting them treat her like shit.

“If you think you know best,” Price said, his tone almost resigned, “then fine. You want to take responsibility for her? Congratulations. You’ll be the one to bring her along on the next mission. You’ll train with her, run missions with her—everything. She’s your responsibility now, Simon.”

Finally, the door to the office creaked open. Simon’s frustration was palpable as he stalked out, his brow furrowed in irritation. Without a word, I grabbed my bag and followed him into the barracks.

Johnny was in the middle of tossing a small ball in the air when he spotted us. His grin was wide, eyes lighting up.

“Welcome back, K9.”

Simon whirled around, voice sharp. “Don’t call her that.”

Johnny blinked, his smile faltering in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I said so. Pick a different damn callsign if you want to call her something.”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat. “Hushpuppy.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed, and he growled low, “No.”

I couldn’t help it—my lips twitched into a small smile as Johnny winked at me, his focus returning to the ball as he sent it spinning in the air.

__

Tags: (Sorry if I missed you!)

@skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz

[quillcraftconquer]

Hey there!

Welcome to my blog. I'm Quill (she/her), and I write Task Force 141 fanfiction. If you enjoy stories with angst, smut, and complex characters, you're in the right place.

My fics contain mature content (MDNI 18+), including heavy themes and explicit material. I do my best to include trigger warnings, but please read with care.

I'm always open to suggestions or hearing your thoughts on my work. Feel free to send me asks, requests, or just chat about Task Force 141.

Happy reading!

Headcanons / Blurbs

Mandated Physicals

Hide & Seek

Favorite Positions

Foreplay

Ailments

Take It

Kinks

Simon Headcanons

John Price

John x Ex Wife Series (COMPLETED)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

John x Reader

Simon Riley (Ghost)

Simon x Reader

Simon x Vet Reader

Beneath Us Series (WIP)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Simon x K9 Series (WIP)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

John "Soap" MacTavish

John x Reader (COMPLETED)

John x Reader Part 2

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Gaz x Male Reader

Misc:

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon X Reader

Same TW's as before. I'm going to take a little break and try to finish up some stories after this part, and attempt to build a master list for my profile. Anyhow, enjoy!

Pt 1, Pt 2

____________

Simon’s phone buzzed in the cupholder, but he didn’t need to check the screen — he already knew who it was.

There would be hell to pay for putting his hands on a superior officer, but at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The consequences could come later — the angry phone call, the disappointed stares from Price — he’d take it all on the chin. Without a second thought, he snatched up the phone, silenced it, and pulled up the maps.

The plan had been simple: stay on base for the night, catch a flight in the morning. But that plan died the moment he saw her like that.

If he took her back to that base, if he made her step foot on it again, he knew he’d never forgive himself.

Not when she sat slumped in the passenger seat — silent, small — her temple pressed against the cold glass, fingers clenched around the leather collar like it was tethering her to the present.

The phone stayed pressed to his ear, the fourth hotel now telling him the same thing as the others — only one room available.

Two beds, sure. But even then, he hesitated. He’d never once seen her sleep in the same room as anyone back at the barracks. Part of him itched to just say fuck it and book the room anyway — she was a soldier, after all. She’d slept in far worse conditions, he was sure of that.

But another part of him — the part he thought he’d left rotting in the dirt back in Mexico — couldn’t do it. It was the part of him that knew too well the cost of vulnerability. The part that remembered what it was like to sleep in a room with strangers, body wound so tight it could snap, knowing rest was a luxury you couldn’t afford. And now, watching her, he couldn't stomach the thought of making her feel that way.

Simon dragged a hand down his face, his mind spinning. None of this was easy — not the drive, not the silence, and definitely not the weight of trying to make the right call. He’d always been the act-now-ask-questions-later type, but now? Now all he could do was overthink every option.

“The hotels only have one room,” he started, “It’s two beds, but— I could sleep in the car. Or if you don’t want a hotel at all, you can have the car, I’ll sleep… outside or somethin’. Doesn’t matter.” The words kept coming, unsteady and uncertain. “We could go back to base, too. If you want.”

Shrug.

“Hotel?” Simon asked again. She hesitated for a beat before giving a small, almost reluctant nod.

“Okay.” He punched in the address and started driving, the silence suffocating. Every now and then, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his mind churning.

When they finally arrived, Simon was out of the car in an instant, careful not to linger too close to her as they made their way to the room. Once inside, he set his bag down without a word, resisting the urge to look at her, and immediately made his way to the bathroom. The door shut with a soft but deliberate click, and the moment it did, his breath rushed out in a sharp exhale.

What the fuck was wrong with him? His pulse hammered in his chest, like he’d just been in a fight instead of a silent car ride. He leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edge hard enough to make his knuckles ache. His heart wouldn’t slow, his chest felt too tight — like he was trapped. Why did it feel like he was doing everything wrong?

Simon yanked his balaclava off, the cool air hitting his skin. Without thinking, he turned on the faucet, letting the icy water run over his hands before splashing it onto his face. It didn’t help. The weight in his chest didn’t ease. His reflection stared back at him, exhausted, the beginnings of dark circles already creeping under his eyes.

He reached for the mask, fingers brushing against the fabric — and then hesitated.

She’s already seen you without it. 

The thought was immediate, intrusive, and it only made his stomach twist harder. His hand hovered over the balaclava.

He hated wearing it to sleep. Always had. The feeling of it clinging to his skin as he tried to rest was suffocating. But the idea of not putting it on — of consciously choosing to let her see his face, of giving her that vulnerability — made his skin crawl. It was stupid. Completely irrational. And yet…

His fingers curled into a fist, pulling back from the mask. Every instinct in him screamed to put it on, to maintain that thin barrier of control. 

It wasn’t a big deal.

Johnny had seen him without it. So had Price. It didn’t mean anything.

Simon exhaled sharply, snatching the mask off the counter and yanking it back over his head like it would somehow pull his composure back with it. It didn’t. 

With a resigned breath, he swung the door open — and froze.

His brows immediately furrowed.

The comforter from one of the beds was bunched in her arms, a pillow balanced precariously on top. She wouldn’t look at him, gaze fixed somewhere behind him as she gave a quick nod toward the bathroom.

Simon blinked. “…You’re gonna sleep in there?”

She nodded again, already stepping past him.

His head turned, watching as she tossed the pillow into the tub and shook the comforter loose, draping it over the porcelain like she’d done this a thousand times before. Like it was normal. 

“You’re—” Simon swallowed, forcing his tongue to cooperate. “You’re gonna sleep in the bathroom.”

Another nod.

The casual way she did it confused him. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just silent acceptance — like she already knew she wouldn’t sleep in the bed. Like she’d already decided it the moment they checked in. 

His gut twisted.

“Because the door locks.” Simon said, the realization settling in his chest.

This time, she finally glanced at him. A small, almost imperceptible nod — and then she was reaching for the door, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Simon’s mouth opened — to say what, he didn’t know — but the door clicked shut before he could get a word out. The sharp turn of the lock echoed in his ears. His hand hovered in the air like he might knock, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He just stood there. Staring at the closed door.

Jesus Christ.

Slowly, Simon sank down onto the edge of the bed, his mind racing. His fingers dragged the mask off his head again, his thumb immediately finding its way to his mouth as he bit at the nail.

What the fuck did he do wrong?

Or worse — what didn’t he do?

Should he have offered to sleep in the car? Should he have just… stayed outside entirely? Fuck, he didn’t know. He couldn’t tell what she needed from him, and that fact alone was eating him alive.

Was this his fault? Had he made her uncomfortable just by being here? Should he have—

Simon’s gaze flicked to the door again. His knee bounced restlessly. Maybe he should knock. Ask if she was alright. Or — no, that was stupid — he’d probably just make it worse. Maybe he should offer to sleep in the hallway. Or leave the room entirely. God, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know how to do this. How to navigate this situation without making her feel worse than she already did. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to do something — but what?

His jaw clenched.

Before he could spiral any further, exhaustion yanked at his bones, the weight of the day finally settling into his muscles. His head fell back against the mattress, and despite his mind still running in circles, his body made the decision for him.

Sleep dragged him under before he could figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.

___

Simon scrubbed a hand down his face, his body screaming in protest as he pushed himself off the bed. His back felt like it had been trampled, knees aching from the awkward sprawl he’d fallen asleep in.

The shrill blare of his phone alarm still echoed in his skull as he swatted at his thigh, fingers fumbling against the fabric of his pants until he finally silenced it. “Fuck me,” he groaned, rolling his neck and immediately regretting it. His bladder screamed louder than his muscles, though, and he moved toward the bathroom, glancing at the door.

Still shut.

He knocked, knuckles barely tapping against the wood. “You awake?”

Nothing.

Simon tried again, voice a little louder. “You good?”

Silence.

His hand found the handle. It turned easily, and the door swung open — to an empty bathroom. The comforter was neatly folded in the tub, the pillow stacked on top of it like it had never been touched. She was gone.

Fuck.

Before his mind could spiral, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He snatched it out, already glaring at the screen. Price. Great. He swiped to answer, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he moved toward the toilet.

“Yeah.”

“Where the hell are you?” Price’s voice came in gruff, straight to the point. “And where’s K9?”

Simon froze mid-zip. “Don’t call her that.”

There was a pause, as if Price hadn’t expected to be corrected. “…What?”

“I said don’t call her that,” Simon repeated, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended. “She’s not a dog. She’s not some bloody asset. She’s—” He cut himself off, teeth grinding. “Just don’t.”

Price exhaled like he was trying to bite back a response. “Alright. Where is she, then?”

Simon swallowed hard, patting his pockets for his keys as he flushed the toilet. His hand came up empty. Brow furrowing, he patted again — and then again, his stomach dropping when he realized the distinct weight of the car keys wasn’t there.

His pulse jumped.

Where the fuck were his keys?

“Simon.” Price’s voice cut through his spiraling. “Where is she?”

“She’s—” Simon scanned the hotel room, his eyes darting to the nightstand, the desk, the floor. Nothing. His keys were gone. His jaw clenched. “She’s fine.”

“Fine,” Price echoed flatly. “Then why didn't you answer my call last night?”

Simon swallowed thickly, moving back toward the bathroom, eyes searching the tub, the counter — anywhere. “Had my hands full.”

“With what?”

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose. His knuckles were white around the phone. “She’s fine, Price.”

A long, dubious silence. Then: “Simon. Don’t lie to me.”

Simon’s teeth ground together, his free hand gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. His mouth opened — to confess, to tell Price she was gone, that he’d fucked it, that she didn’t even feel safe enough to sleep in the same damn room as him — but the words stuck in his throat.

“She’s fine.” Simon forced the words out like it was fact. “I’ve got it under control.”

Price was quiet for a long beat. “…Right. Well, your flight’s in a few hours. Get her back to base.”

Simon’s stomach twisted painfully. His hand curled into a fist against the sink. “Copy.”

The call ended without another word.

Simon finally lowered the phone from his ear, his pulse a war drum in his chest. Slowly, his head turned back to the folded comforter in the tub. His keys were gone. She was gone.

And he had no fucking clue where she went.

___

Tags:

@trulovekay, @enfppuff,

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon x Reader

TWs: trauma and grief, abuse, mental health struggles, Violence, Objectification.

Pt. 1

_______________________

Three weeks. K9 had been on base for three weeks, and Simon hadn’t heard a single word from her. Every morning, before he even opened his eyes, her cot was always empty. She spent most of the day tucked away in John’s office, immersed in writing. John mentioned they were documenting everything from the past year and a half, trying to capture as much intel as she could recall. In the afternoons, she would settle at the table, often across from Johnny, silently listening as he rambled on about his day or meticulously worked through some item he was dissecting.

She wasn’t scared anymore, or at least, it didn’t seem like it. Simon couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going through her mind, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to. Small talk always made him uncomfortable, something he’d avoid if he could. That’s why Johnny was always the one to fill the awkward silence between them, effortlessly filling the air with chatter. Simon would throw in the occasional quip, but mostly he just listened. It was probably why she and Johnny got along so well—he loved to talk, and she was content to listen.

He tried, though. Despite the pull to sink into the comfort and familiarity of silence, he made a conscious effort to start a conversation.

“You hungry?” he asked, huffing out a breath as he plated the breakfast—sausage, eggs, bacon, and a side of toast. She sat at the table, her coffee untouched, as if it were an item on display rather than something to be drunk. Ignoring the subtle shake of her head, Simon placed the plate in front of her. She eyed it for a long moment, then methodically separated the toast from the rest.

“You don’t like eggs?” Simon asked. A shrug was her only response.

“You don’t eat meat?” Another shake of her head.

“Do you want something else?” Another shrug.

Simon’s lips thinned, and he fought to summon any trace of patience he had left.

Most mornings went like that. He’d since learned to accept it, but it didn’t make the routine any easier. In fact, it only made John’s request feel more burdensome.

“I need you to take her back,” John said, handing him her folder, now brimming with the papers they’d been compiling.

“Take her back where?” Simon asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“To the States. You’ll turn this in to her superior officer, she’ll get the rest of her things, and come back.” John’s tone was calm, almost casual, as if it were just another task.

“I can’t take her.” Simon’s voice was firm as he tried to hand the folder back, but John’s expression remained unchanged.

“Why?”

“She does better with Gaz. Or Johnny.” Simon shrugged, jostling the folder to emphasize his point.

“I’m not asking Gaz or Soap. I’m telling you,” John replied, his voice firm.

“When?” Simon’s jaw clenched, the irritation starting to seep through despite his best effort to hold it in.

“Today.”

His teeth ground together as he fought to contain the frustration that surged beneath the surface. He crinkled the folder in his hand, before tossing it onto his cot with a sharp motion. Without another word, he stormed toward the bathroom.

The lock clicked behind him, and he ripped his mask off, throwing it onto the counter with a thud.

“God dammit,” he muttered under his breath, leaning his palms against the cold counter, his chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh.

And then, there she was, staring back at him in the mirror, like some kind of wraith. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders, her body still damp from the shower. Her eyes flickered to his mask before returning to meet his gaze.

Fuck.

Simon grabbed the mask off the counter, his frustration bubbling over. The last thing he wanted was her seeing him without it. The fabric of the mask felt like the only thing standing between him and complete exposure. He spun to face her, his grip tight around it.

“What?” he snapped, not meaning to let the irritation slip into his voice.

K9 just stood there, silent as always, her eyes flicking briefly to the mask in his hand before returning to his face. There was no judgment, no reaction, nothing.

Then, without a word, she raised a hand and pointed behind him, toward the sink.

He turned, following her gesture, and there it was—her hairbrush, sitting innocently on the edge of the sink.

The frustration that had been seething inside him melted. He realized, too late, that she wasn’t staring at him because of his mask—or the lack of it. She wasn’t bothered by his appearance at all. She just wanted her damn hairbrush.

His grip on the mask loosened, and he exhaled sharply, annoyed with himself.

“We’re leaving in a few hours,” he muttered, “and when you're in the bathroom, lock the damn door.”

The plane ride was, as expected, silent. Simon sat beside K9, the hum of the engines the only sound in the otherwise quiet cabin. His mind raced, and whenever he tried to focus, his thoughts kept returning to her. She hadn’t spoken since they left the base, hadn’t given any indication that she cared one way or another about leaving. To Simon, it was unnerving. He was used to noise, to conversation, even to small talk with Johnny—anything to fill the empty space between them. But K9? She was content to sit there, her expression unreadable.

They disembarked from the plane in silence, the terminal bustling with the usual noise of arriving passengers. Simon led K9 through the crowd, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around her. Reaching the car, they climbed in without exchanging a word, the engine rumbling to life as Simon pulled out of the parking lot. 

Simon’s eyes flicked between the road and the passenger seat, where K9 sat, her gaze fixed firmly out the window. He wasn’t sure why he kept trying—he had no real hope that she’d open up. Still, the silence gnawed at him, digging into his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"Long drive," he muttered, "Guess you’ve been here before, huh?"

No response. Of course.

Simon tried again, the words awkward but forced out of him. "This your old stomping grounds?"

K9’s eyes never wavered from the passing landscape. She didn’t even acknowledge him, her face unreadable. Simon clenched his jaw, frustration settling in his chest. It wasn’t like he expected her to suddenly start chatting with him. 

Simon’s thoughts drifted back to file, the one that had been handed to him before they left. He’d read it. Of course, he had. Everything from her training, her assignments, her intel reports. Her skills were undeniable—specialized, high-level. But there was something else in the file, something buried beneath all the operational data. An entire section marked as ‘Classified’.

He could’ve read more. He could’ve gone deeper, delved into the details of the year and a half she went off the grid—disappeared, no word, no trace. He’d seen the reports, the one-word descriptions, the harsh statements about her abduction.

He could have found out everything. He could have read those details and understood it all. But it felt… intrusive. Violating, even. Her life was something she’d lost.

Another mile passed in silence. His attempts at small talk were still met with nothing but the faintest of glances from K9, and Simon realized he wasn’t doing himself—or her—any favors.

“Must’ve been hard,” Simon tried again, speaking more to himself than her. “Coming back here after everything.” He wasn’t sure if she could even hear him, but he said it anyway.

Nothing.

Simon exhaled slowly, his hand gripping the wheel a little tighter. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have on the road. If he was lucky, maybe she would talk when they were back at base. But Simon wasn’t holding his breath. K9 was silent, distant, unapproachable. And now, after everything, it was like she was miles away from him, even when she was right next to him.

Finally, the base came into view. The familiar sights of the barracks and the tarmac greeted them, but Simon felt no comfort in the sight.

He slowed the car to a stop at the gate. The guards barely gave them a second glance as they waved them through, the automatic gesture almost too casual. Simon parked near the barracks, throwing the car into park with a sharp movement.

He glanced over at K9, her face still impassive, her eyes once again focused outside, but this time, he noticed something—a slight stiffening of her posture as they neared the base. For the first time in the drive, she seemed to react to something.

K9 opened her door without a word. She didn’t look at Simon, didn’t say anything—just stepped out of the car, her movements tense. Simon followed her, his boots crunching on the gravel as they walked toward the group of soldiers gathered by the barracks.

The soldiers were drinking, laughing, their voices thick with camaraderie. But when K9 appeared, they quieted down, their eyes tracking her every step. At the center of them stood her superior officer, a middle-aged man with an easy grin and the kind of arrogance that came with rank.

The moment he spotted K9, his grin widened, though it didn’t seem welcoming. It was more of a smirk, something too familiar, something that felt like an ownership of her.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show her face,” the officer said, his voice too loud, too mocking. He took a swig from his bottle before turning his attention to Simon, sizing him up. “You’re Ghost, right?”

Simon nodded.

The officer laughed, clapping him on the shoulder too hard. “Good to meet you, man. We’ve heard a lot about you. Don’t usually see someone like you around here.”

Simon didn’t respond, his face hidden behind the mask. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the worn manila folder. Without a word, he extended it toward the officer.

The man hesitated, glancing at the label before taking it. “Ah. K9’s file.” His mouth twisted slightly as he said her call sign, like the name itself annoyed him. “Figured that’s what you had.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Not sure why she’s still got one, to be honest.”

Simon said nothing, his grip releasing as the officer took the folder. Silently, K9 turned and started toward the barracks to grab her things, her shoulders stiff and her gaze fixed ahead. No one called after her. No one even looked at her.

“Hey,” one of the men by the trucks called out, cracking open a beer. “You want one?”

Simon shook his head. “No.”

“Damn shame about the dog,” one muttered, taking a long swig of his beer.

“Yeah, well, not like it was much use anyway,” another snorted. “Just like her.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed.

“Should’ve just sent her packing when the dog went down,” a third one said. “She’s dead weight now.”

Simon didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the superior officer who was casually flipping through K9’s file. His jaw clenched beneath the mask, the muscles in his neck tightening with each page turn.

“You gonna give her a different callsign now?” one of the soldiers drawled, his voice dripping with mockery.

The officer snorted, tucking the file carelessly under his arm. “Nah,” he said, grinning. “We didn’t call her K9 because of the dog. We called her K9 ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

Laughter erupted around them, sharp and mean. Simon felt his resolve crack, anger bubbling beneath his ribs. It wasn’t his place — she wasn’t his soldier to defend — but watching the casual cruelty from her own team made his blood curdle. Before he could open his mouth, she did.

“Where’s his collar?”

Her voice was quiet — barely a thread of sound — but it sliced through the air like a knife. Simon turned, startled to find her standing just behind them, her expression blank, her eyes locked on the officer. None of the men had heard her approach.

The officer didn’t so much as blink. “Tossed it.” His tone was flat, dismissive, like he was talking about garbage. “Didn’t see the point in keeping it.”

Simon barely heard the words — his attention was locked on her.

For the first time, he saw it — the crack. It was small, just a flicker, but it was there. Her jaw tightened, her throat bobbed like she was swallowing glass, and her eyes burned with something sharp and aching. Grief, cold and heavy, flashed across her face before she wrenched it back down. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, rigid.

But Simon saw it. And it did something to him.

They don’t call her K9 because of the dog.

The officer’s words echoed in his head, sick and bitter now. We call her K9 ‘cause she’s a bitch.

Simon felt something curdle inside him. His stomach turned, his pulse hammered in his skull.

He was never going to call her K9 again.

Not after knowing what it really meant. Not after seeing how they stripped her of her name — her humanity — and reduced her to a slur disguised as a callsign. She wasn’t K9. She was a soldier. A handler. Someone who had lost her partner — and not a single one of these bastards gave a damn.

And now they couldn’t even give her his collar.

Simon turned, his voice low and sharp. “Where is it?”

The officer barely glanced up from the file still tucked under his arm. “What?”

“The collar.” Simon’s tone was like gravel, scraping low from his throat. “Where did you throw it?”

The officer scoffed. “I told you — tossed it. Probably in the bin behind the barracks, if the trash didn’t already get picked up.” He smirked, slow and nasty. “Why? You planning on digging it out for her?”

Simon moved before his mind caught up.

One step forward — his hand colliding hard with the officer’s chest, shoving him back a step. The laughter died. All eyes snapped to them. The officer’s face twisted in disbelief.

“The hell’s your problem?” he spat, regaining his footing.

Simon didn’t answer. His body moved on instinct, stepping in close until the officer’s smug grin faltered.

“It’s just a collar, man,” the officer scoffed, trying to sound unaffected. “The dog’s gone, who gives a—”

Simon’s hand shot out, seizing the front of the officer’s vest and yanking him forward. The movement was fast, violent — and it stunned the group into silence. The officer stumbled, his smirk finally cracking into something nervous.

“You want to finish that sentence?” Simon’s voice was low and lethal.

The officer froze, his eyes darting to the others as if expecting someone to intervene. No one did.

Simon leaned in, his masked face mere inches from the officer’s. “You threw away the last thing she had of him. And you laughed about it.” His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the man’s vest. “Say one more word about her. Go ahead.”

The officer swallowed hard. “Look, man—”

Simon yanked him closer, his voice dropping into a deadly growl. “You think it’s funny — calling her K9 like that. Stripping her down to a damn insult.” His grip turned crushing. “You ever call her that again, and I promise you — I’ll bury you next.”

The officer stumbled back, gasping as Simon shoved him away like he was nothing. The tension hung thick in the air, but Simon wasn’t paying attention to any of it. His eyes were already on her. She stood like a statue, her face locked in that cold, unfeeling mask — but he could still see it. The grief bleeding through the cracks. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way she didn’t even look surprised. Like she’d expected this all along.

Like she thought she deserved it.

“Come on.” Simon’s voice was sharp as he turned toward her.

He didn’t give her time to process. His hand clamped around her arm — not rough, but firm — and he started moving. She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fight him. She simply followed.

They reached the back of the barracks, where the dumpsters sat. The air was thick with the smell of garbage, but Simon didn’t flinch. He didn’t care.

Without a word, he climbed into the trash, boots scraping against the metal, He dug through the mess with a frenzy, pulling apart old bags of food, ripped papers, and discarded trash with a single-minded intensity.

She stayed behind, watching in silence.

And then — finally — his fingers closed around it.

He pulled it out of the garbage, holding the collar in his hands, dirt caked in the grooves, but it was still intact. He climbed out of the bin, his chest heaving with exhaustion, and without a word, he walked toward her.

She stood still, her gaze trained on the collar as he approached. He held it out to her. She didn’t take it immediately, her fingers hovering over it.

Finally, she took the collar, her fingers brushing against his as she grasped it. Her fingers traced the name on the tag, the letters barely visible under her touch. Each movement was careful, as though she were afraid it might shatter if she moved too quickly. Her hand lingered there, running over the familiar grooves, the well-worn leather that had once been part of her closest ally, her only companion. 

He shook off the dirt and garbage from his jacket, trying to rid himself of the stench. As he straightened up, his eyes flicked briefly toward her, but he quickly turned away, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. Simon watched her out of the corner of his eye, her face still drawn with grief. But there was something in her posture, the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, that told him she had found some small comfort in the collar.

He turned away, unable to keep his eyes on her any longer. It was too much. He didn’t know why he felt this... pull toward her, this ache that seemed to resonate within him.

Finally, after a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice softer than it had been all evening. “We’re leaving.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. But she didn’t need to. She followed him without a word, her steps slow. Simon couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted between them. Not in a way that could be easily understood or explained, but it was there — in the way she moved, the way her hand still held onto the collar.

And for once, Simon didn’t mind the silence.

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Tag: @skeletonsucker