#Water Tap Price List

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[halfmoth-halfman]

little treasures, life's pleasures

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Now that Soap knows when to pay attention, he realizes you and Ghost aren't as subtle as you think you are. Word Count: 3.2k Warnings: mentions of blood, injuries, swearing Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part three. part four.

You don’t use your married name, Soap discovers.

Honestly, he gets it; Simon Riley is allegedly dead to the world with a seemingly endless list of enemies who’d love to get their hands on anything they could use to bring down The Ghost and, based on what Soap saw in your file, you’ve acquired quite the list of enemies yourself. If he were in either of your shoes, Soap would probably do the same.

He stands to the side, leaning with his back to the wall as Price talks about…something? Soap knows he should be paying attention- he had fully intended to, he swears- but then you and Ghost showed up, sitting down right next to each other. There’s an appropriate amount of distance between your chairs, but at the top of the meeting, Ghost folds his arms and leans back, long legs spread just wide enough for his knee to lightly tap against yours, and Soap immediately loses all interest in everything else. 

He keeps his eyes on Price, giving the illusion that he’s listening, but angles his head just enough to see you and Ghost through his peripherals. You’re both staring straight ahead, fully focused on whatever Price is talking about, but every so often Ghost shifts just so and nudges his knee against yours. It’s a subtle movement, not something you’d notice if you weren’t looking for it, and happens once every fifteen minutes or so. 

Around the forty-five-minute mark, Price asks you a question and you lean forward, answering to the best of your knowledge. Ghost shifts, sitting up a little straighter, watching as you and Price go back and forth. When you’ve finished talking, and Price is satisfied with your answers, you lean back in your chair and Soap sees Ghost's knee nudge against yours once more. He catches your quick glance over to Ghost, though he’s back to paying attention to Price, and the way you try to hide your smile by pretending to scratch the tip of your nose. 

The next time Ghost shifts, you meet him in the middle and set your knee against his, staying that way for the remainder of the meeting. 

-

If Soap thought Ghost's hovering was bad when you were recovering from your leg injury after Las Almas, he doesn’t want to know what Ghost will be like after this.

He’ll probably move his bed into the infirmary, Soap laughs to himself as he wraps bandages around your poorly patched head. The ambush had taken the team by surprise, with a private quickly ushering you away for safety. Unfortunately, “safety” turned out to be in the direct line of an oncoming grenade and the ensuing explosion knocked you head-first into a nearby humvee.

You don’t remember much after that. At some point after the fight, you're picked up, then placed in the passenger seat of the humvee. Someone orders you to talk Soap through bandaging the bleeding slice on the side of your head before Soap appears holding a roll of gauze and a canteen of water.

(Soap assumes it’s to give you something to concentrate on so you don’t fall asleep and worsen your concussion, but you know it’s so Ghost can find the private in charge of your safety and give him the dressing down of a lifetime.)

“You’re wrapping my eye, Soap,” you groan, leaning slightly away from him. He curses under his breath, unraveling the last loop of bandages.

“Sorry, Doc. Not as good at this as you,” Soap jokes. 

“You were doing fine until you tried to turn me into a pirate.” Soap scoffs in mock offense and playfully nudges your shoulder. He readjusts the bandage near your left ear, moving it up just slightly when he sees the thin black lines peeking out from the bottom. Curiosity overtakes him, as he “adjusts” your bandages again, lifting the bottom to reveal a simple outline of a skull he knows all too well tattooed in black ink just behind your ear. 

“How’re we doing?” 

Soap slides the bandage back down at the sudden sound of Ghost’s voice as the Lieutenant approaches the humvee. 

“All good to go,” Soap says, clapping his hands and stepping back. You feel around the bandages, humming in satisfaction.

“Not bad, Soap,” you smile at him, “keep practicing and you might put me out of a job.” You give him a wink before pushing forward to stand on your feet. You stumble only a little, using the humvee door for balance and Soap doesn’t miss the slight way Ghost’s hands flinch to help you before you right yourself.

“Five minutes and I’ll be ready to move,” you nod to Ghost.

“I’ll hold you to that.” There’s a brief moment, where Ghost’s intense gaze focuses directly on you, eyes moving back and forth between your head wound and your face. His shoulders tense, hands flexing into fists before he looks towards Soap and the moment’s gone. 

“Let’s go, Sergeant,” Ghost calls, walking past Soap towards the other vehicles. Soap follows, turning back just once to see the private who had been with you approach you sheepishly, eyes cast down at the ground. You set a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, saying something Soap’s too far away to hear, and turn to lead him back to your vehicle.

-

It isn’t his intention to end up in the infirmary first thing in the morning, but Soap’s day seems to be off to a particularly shitty start as he wakes up with the mother of all migraines. He’s tempted to power through it, but as soon as he sits up the world spins, and feels so nauseous he considers it a miracle he didn’t immediately puke right there. 

It takes him a while to make his way to the infirmary, but he gets there without incident. One hand rubbing his temple, Soap leans forward to push the infirmary door open. It swings open before he can reach the crash bar and he nearly falls forward, almost colliding into Ghost. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap curses, stepping back to allow Ghost out of the infirmary.

“You alright, Johnny?” 

“‘m fine, Lt,” Soap sighs, giving Ghost a half-smile and lazy thumbs-up. Ghost doesn’t seem to believe him, but then again, Ghost’s face is just like that so Soap’s not sure if his excuse works. “Just wanted to say mornin’ to the Doc.” 

“Right…” Ghost’s eyes travel over Soap, narrowing slightly as he looks back up at Soap’s face. His eyes seem darker, Soap thinks, and when he looks closer he notices the crease of fresh paint on Ghost’s eyelids. They stand for a moment, silently scrutinizing each other before Soap breaks the tension. 

“You been up a while?” Soap asks even though he knows the answer. It’s not uncommon in their line of work to have uneven sleep patterns, but Ghost has one of the most fucked up sleeping schedules Soap has ever seen; Soap isn’t sure he’s ever actually seen Ghost sleep for more than a thirty-minute power nap. 

“For a few hours. The Doc needed my help with something,” Ghost shrugs, “heading down to the practice range now, if you care to join?”

“Sure, I’ll be there in a bit.”

Ghost nods, starting down the hallway, “Take your time,” he calls back towards Soap, “no sense in rushing. We both know I'm the better shot anyways.”

Cheeky fucker. 

Soap rolls his eyes, pushing the infirmary door open and stepping inside. He finds you at your desk in the back, sorting through reports, and sipping from a small mug filled with steaming tea. 

“Mornin’, Doc.” You look up in surprise, smiling as Soap pulls up a chair on the other side of your desk.

“Good morning! Something I can help you with?” 

“Got anything for a migraine?” 

“Ouch,” you grimace at him, “lemme see what I got for you.” You down the rest of your tea, setting the mug back on your desk as you begin rifling through the drawers. Soap exhales in relief, scrubbing a hand down his face and pressing into his closed eyes to try and distract from the pain. He opens one eye as you hum, but you’re still looking through your desk, picking through pill bottles. 

Soap takes the time to look over your desk; you have a system of organized chaos composed of stacks of folders, sticky notes, two mugs, an impressive collection of colorful paperclips, a pile of labeled pens, and-

-Wait. 

He looks back, checking to make sure he isn’t seeing things, and, yes, two empty mugs are sitting atop your desk. He knows which one is yours- it’s the same one you always use- the adorably round one painted to look like a sheet ghost (a joke Soap is just now getting), but the solid black one next to yours is unfamiliar. 

“Aha!” You find the bottle you’re looking for and hold it out to Soap. “Take two of these, and grab some food. It should kick in in about thirty minutes to an hour.” Soap reaches to grab the pill bottle, but his attention is pulled towards your hand that appears to be smeared with a black…something? He takes the bottle and examines the faint black fingerprints staining the orange plastic.

“What happened?” he asks, nodding toward your hands.

“Oh!” You examine your hands, rubbing some of the excess stuff off. “One of my pens broke and the ink got everywhere. I thought I got all of it, sorry-” Soap shrugs noncommittally, “-guess we’re both having one of those mornings, huh? Here, let me get you some water to take those with.” You stand, grab both mugs, and disappear to the other side of the infirmary. Soap pops the pill bottle open, eyes roaming over your desk as he fishes out two of the chalky blue pills. 

With the mugs gone, he has a better view of the right side of your desk and, more importantly, what had been sitting behind them: an opened and well-used circular tin of standard-issue black camouflage face paint. He doesn’t know how he didn’t put two-and-two together as soon as he saw your hands, but he’ll blame the migraine in this case. 

The Doc asked me to help with something, my arse.

-

It’s one of the hottest days on record so, of course, it only stands that today would be the day for the A/C to go out. 

You’ve had more people coming in and out of your infirmary in the last six hours than you’ve had in the past six months. Handing out ice packs like candy on Halloween and treating multiple cases of almost-heat stroke, you’ve been nothing short of slammed since you walked into the infirmary this morning. Like everyone else, you’re miserable in the sweltering heat, your jacket hanging wide open and sleeves rolled up above your elbows. It does little to help. 

“Got a delivery for you, Doc,” Soap calls out, waltzing into the infirmary during the first lull you’ve had since morning. He holds out a tall thermos, shaking it so you can hear something sloshing inside. He’s abandoned his ACU jacket, standing there in a black cotton beater, smiling widely, but you can see the beads of sweat rolling down his face and collecting on his collarbone. “Ice water, fresh from the mess.”

“John MacTavish, you are my hero.” You snatch the thermos from his hands, gulping down the chilling water and letting out an obscene groan. 

“Well, it’s nice to finally be appreciated,” Soap winks. You hum, flopping down into an empty chair and leaning back to take another swig from the thermos. 

“Any word on the A/C?” you ask between frantic sips. Once you’ve had your fill, you hold the thermos loosely in your hand as you lean back in your chair.

“Nothing yet. Price said…” Soap trails off as you grab the collar of your own beater and pull at it in a poor attempt to fan yourself. It’s not so much the action that catches his attention, but the small metal chain around your neck with two solid black rings hanging from it. Soap’s never been married before, but he knows a wedding ring when he sees one. Though the fact you’re wearing both rings only leads to more questions. He supposes Ghost has never seemed the type to wear jewelry. Then again, Ghost never seemed the type for marriage, either. 

“Price said…?” 

“Huh?” Soap snaps his eyes back up to your face, praying that you hadn’t just caught him staring near your chest, but you have your head leaned back with your eyes shut tight and the frigid metal of the thermos pressed against your forehead. 

“You said, Price said…and then stopped?”

“Right! Right, yeah, he said it should be fixed by this evening.” You groan in disgust and sluggishly sit up in your chair. You move the thermos from your forehead to your neck, sighing as the chilled metal meets your overheated skin, but all Soap can focus on is the necklace that now hangs outside of your shirt. The rings clink together softly as you move, setting the thermos down and wiping the sweat from your brow. 

“I-”

Soap turns as the doors swing open and another medic rushes in. “Incoming, Doc: two more passed out on the practice range!” 

Soap turns back to you and finds the necklace tucked back into your shirt as you chug the last of your water. You toss him the empty thermos with a thankful smile. 

“No rest for the wicked, eh Soap?” 

-

Missions don’t often go wrong for the 141, but it does happen on occasion. However, they’ve never had a mission end with this many injured before.

You already dismissed Price, his injuries treated with strict orders for three days of bed rest, at least. Gaz had been a bit more extensive and, while you were tempted to keep him overnight, he assured you he was fine enough to sleep in his own cot. You let him go but stressed that if he felt off in any sort of way, to hightail it back to the infirmary. 

Which left Ghost and Soap. Between the two of them, it took you and two other medics a full thirty-six hours to finally get them stable and it was another full day before either of them woke up. You let them rest, waiting until they’ve gotten enough strength to be relatively back to normal before you tell the other medics you’ll take over and they can worry about other patients. 

You wait until the three of you are alone to lay into them, a week’s worth of built-up frustration, stress, and worry spilling out of you. 

“Why is it always you two? I swear, every heli Price gets in is shot down and crashes in some fiery explosion, and still, you two manage to outdo any injury he’s ever gotten!”

Soap, at least, has the sense to look ashamed as you pace around the room, airing every grievance you can think of. Ghost’s eyes follow your every step, but he says nothing, taking every insult you throw. Your rant lasts for nearly an hour before you collapse into a chair and cover your face with your hands, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyelids. They can hear you taking deep breaths, counting backward from ten under your breath. 

“Sorry for worryin’ ya, Doc,” Soap speaks softly. You sigh, dropping your hands to your lap.

“S’alright, I just…want you to be more careful.” You don’t look at either of them as you sit up, one hand coming up to massage your neck. Guilt crawls up his spine as Soap takes in the deep bags under your eyes and the weighted hunch of your shoulders. “Try and get some rest, both of you. We’ll see how you’re feeling in the morning.” With that, you head back to your desk, busying yourself with catching up on reports. 

He isn’t sure what wakes him, but when Soap opens his eyes, it’s nearly pitch black with the clock reading 3:11 a.m. in bright red. He shifts, trying not to tear his stitches as he gets more comfortable, and turns to his right to check on Ghost. He finds the curtain between their beds drawn just enough so that he can barely see Ghost’s head from where he’s laying and a soft light from one of the bedside lamps glowing behind it.

“Two’s the perfect number, in my opinion.” That’s your voice, murmuring softly from the other side of the curtain. Quietly, and carefully, Soap pushes himself up further in his bed, sitting up so he can angle his head to see around the curtain. When he does, he immediately sinks his teeth into his cheek to keep from making noise.

Ghost is sitting up, propped up by an army of pillows and you’re sitting on a low stool on the right side of his bed with your back to him so you can stretch back and lay your head in his lap. His right hand is draped over you, lightly running his fingers over the set of rings on your necklace as you talk.

“I think three would be too many, plus then we’d have to deal with the whole middle child syndrome thing.” 

…what are you talking about?

“Two’s it for you, huh?” Ghost asks, the tiredness evident in his already gruff voice. 

“Yeah-” you turn your head and smile up at him, “-a boy and a girl. Not sure about names, though. For a girl, I was originally thinking Kate, after Laswell, but the more I think about it, the less sure I am about it. Then I was thinking we could name her after one of the guys, but the only one whose name would even work would be Kyle’s; we could turn that into Kylie. What do you think?” There’s a long silence as Ghost stares down at the rings sitting against your chest. It lasts so long, Soap starts to think Ghost has fallen asleep when the man suddenly gathers the rings in his hand, staring down at the black metal in his palm. 

“Spent a lot of time thinking about this, have you?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he calls your name, quiet but firm, and you sigh. 

“It’s just a fantasy,” you whisper, ”like how people talk about what they’ll do when they win the lottery.”

“So, you don’t want-”

“With you, of course, I do.” One of your hands slides gently up his torso, stopping at the extensive bandages wrapped around his chest, while the other absently fiddles with the hair on the left side of your head, skirting over the scar left by the humvee. “But do you honestly think we’ll live long enough for it to happen?”

The room lapses into silence, the only sound a soft echo of the ticking clock beside Soap’s bed. I shouldn’t be listening to this, Soap thinks to himself. He carefully maneuvers himself back down the bed, going even further to lay facing away from the curtain, and you, and Ghost, and any talks of children and impossible futures. He squeezes his eyes shut in a futile attempt at sleep, but his mind is going a million miles a minute and Soap knows he won’t be sleeping for the rest of the night.

Several long minutes pass by in the quiet dark, before Ghost speaks again, “What would you name him?”

“Hm?”

“The boy, what would you name him?”

Your answer is instant.

“Thomas.”

[nanivinsmoke]

✩ Happy Ending

✩ kento!nanami x fem!reader

✩ warnings & tags: public sex, sex in a bathhouse, soapy sex, rough sex, handjobs, anal teasing, ass job, boobjob, degrading, squirting, creampie, panty sniffing (this is new for me), etc…

when a trip to the spa ends up….surprising.

nanami handed the receptionist his id, pushing up his glasses as he took a look around the nice, clean, establishment. he hadn’t been to a spa before and when his coworker gave him a coupon for this one; he decided to make use of it.

“enjoy, mr. nanami,” the receptionist smiled brightly, handing the blonde back his id, along with a towel and what he assumed was a wrapped up kleenex. what was he going to need that for?

he made his way into the private locker room that came with his coupon, and he began to undress. he looked into the mirror in front of him and looked at the noticeable changes on his body. his muscles were tense and there was some scarring from his last mission.

he looked at the sign next to the mirror and its lists of massages he could possibly get. ‘happy ending?’ he questioned to himself, wondering what it was since there was no description; only its time. whatever it was an hour of it must’ve been enjoyable. tapping the tablet right next to the sign, he scheduled his massage and headed to the adjoined bathhouse.

he placed his towel and glasses on a nearby shelf and stepped under a shower head, its scalding her comfortable waters easing some of the tension once he turned it on. he lathered up his nude body good, suds cascading down his body as it mixed with the water.

he rinsed off and hopped in the huge pool of water, he sat underneath the running fountain and closed his eyes as the warm waters hit his skin.

while he sat there, you stepped into the bathhouse, wearing a short red robe, holding a stool in one hand and two small buckets in the other. you placed the stool in the water beside him, startling a bit. “oh shit!”

“sorry, sir. didn’t mean to startle you. im here for your massage” you smiled, hoping to calm him down a bit before you got started. he took a look at you, eyes scanning your curves that poked out through the sheer robe. you were practically naked underneath it, besides the fact that your were wearing panties. mahogany irises darting back up to your cute face, searching your own for any malice.

ever since his last mission, he had been a little jumpy. it took a toll on him, and his body paid a price for it. he nodded his head, after realizing you had no ill intentions, and sat on the stool, his muscular back facing you. you dropped your robe to the side and got to work on him.

pouring a bucket of suds on to him, you lathered his body up and you could feel how tense he was. you started with his shoulders, easing out all the kinks and soreness, working your way down his back. nanami hadn’t had a massage in years and this by far was his best. the way your hands were soft and thorough against his rugged body was enough to make him relax. he was relaxed enough to even let out a groan.

the moan was starting to become pleasurable for him, having his body worked on was enough to make his dick twitch—and he immediately put his hands over his bulge. but, as you moved to the lower side of back—right above where his ass started—he couldn’t help but to throw his head back and let out a shrew of cuss words. his dick thumped as your thumbs kneaded and pressed into his muscles, and he was seconds away from fisting his cock—that is until you pulled away.

he sighed, feeling blue balled; he was going to get one off when you left. but, this was just the beginning of the massage; and you dumped your other bucket of suds onto your nude body—pressing your boobs into his back and reaching over and replacing his hand with yours, catching the six foot male by surprise.

“what are you—“ he wanted to speak but the way you were massaging his balls and his hard on had him sucking in some air. it didn’t take him long for him to understand what a happy endings massage meant, but he couldn’t resist his urges. he let you continue working your soft hands around his cock—looking down as your smaller hands wrapped around him; working down from his pink mushroom tip, to the bottom of his nine inches.

you could see the translucent droplets of his precum leaking out and the way his balls felt in your hands, just showed you how much he was pent up. he needed to release badly and you were going to pull out all the stops to help him.

the feeling of your soft lips being planted on his skin made him let out a shaky moan, his eyes were low and lidded and he could feel his orgasm coming. you moved your lips up to his neck and sucked on it, a deep moan escaping him—following his long await release. milky white ropes pool out and onto your fist, coating your soft skin.

his hips jerked as he came, his balls trying to empty out every last drop; before you removed your hand. he sighed, body still slightly twitching from his orgasm, before opening his mouth up to speak—only to let a moan out. brown eyes dart up to your face, seeing that pretty little smile while your round—soft tits, smothered his cock. your tits were covered with his cum and you opened your mouth, letting a string of spit glide off your tongue; and in between your tits.

he sat there in pure bliss, mouth agape while he watched you give his sensitive cock another milking. the way you looked so sexy while doing it and the plushy feeling of your tits had him spurting all over them in the matter of seconds. he let out deep groan, one that made you press your legs together. he was hunching over as you continued bouncing your tits on his sensitive shaft, trying to get every last drop out.

he pulled you back by your hair, the roughness taking you by surprise—pulling you up by your strands, so he could smash his lips onto yours. your eyes widened, but you closed them—letting him dominate you. the kiss was so lewd, he made out with your tongue, a spit trail following when you pulled away—only for you to slurp it back up. from that moment on, you knew he was different than most your customers. he was the only one to make you wet, the only one who had you craving for more.

with your previous customers you stuck to handjobs, oral, titjobs and sometimes assjobs. but, with him it was different. she was going to let him fuck her stupid. he reached behind you and grabbed two handfuls of your fat ass, holding you up and carrying you to the nearby recliner beach chair. he took a nice long look at you and noticed you still had his babies on your wet skin, along with your black panties.

big rough hands pull down your panties, ‘accidentally’ rubbing against your slit when he did— with your essence sticking to the fabric. with no hesitation he brought the fabric up to his face and took a big whiff of your cream; your scent taking over his mind. you could see his dick jump as he continued to smell you, your face hot with embarrassment as you watched him.

nanami then took his free hand and began to jerk himself off, the smell of your juices aroused him so much cock leaked white ropes; hitting your body once more. his hips jerked he rode out his third orgasm, his mind so fucked with the thought of you—it was like he was in trance. “so, much sir…” your voice soft, manicured hands rubbing his milky white cum into your skin.

dropping your black panties, he remembered about the kleenex and towel the receptionist gave him and he walked over to the stand; only for him to realize that it wasn’t a kleenex—instead it was their custom made condom.

nanami chuckled and brought over the items, only for him to catch you licking up his leftover nut. it was sexy for him to see, he never had anyone be so vulgar; yet he had never showed his kink off to another person.

the blonde held up the condom to you, non verbally asking you and you shook your head—a smirk etching on his lips. he hovered over you as you laid on the blue beach chair, cunt glistening with your slick. his eyes darted up to your plump lips and couldn’t help but to reattach his to yours. just by kissing him alone had your pussy thumping, you needed him; and the way your body was covered with goose bumps—let him know how much you needed him.

“turn around,” his voice deep and demanding—you couldn’t help but to comply. breasts smushed together on the chair, your fat ass so round and beautiful for him, and your legs were so damn sexy. just looking at you had him wanting to paint your skin with nothing but his cum.

skipping the foreplay, he went right to spreading your ass apart; showing off that pretty pussy. hole clenching around nothing, your slick slid down your cheeks—towards your pretty little ass hole. the way it was shining for him, he couldn’t help but to tease it—rubbing his thumb around it before dipping his finger in and out. the sweet melodic sounds from your lips was such a turn on for him, he could listen to it daily—a huge turn on for him.

nanami leaned down and placed his hard cock between your cheeks, suckin in some air from how you smothered him with its fatness. never in a million years did he think he would be trying out his fantasies, especially in a place like this. the way your slick coated his shaft and mushroom head as he moved, and made him throw his pretty blonde head back. this was unfucking believable for him and the more he moved, the hornier you became. and soon his pretty tannish cock was glistening with your juices.

“fuck, gonna cu—“ he couldn’t even finish his sentence as you wiggled your ass against him—hard—making him cum pretty ropes of white all over your ass. you shuddered, riding off your own orgasm as you continued to move against him. this was the first time you ever came from havin your ass cheeks fucked and the first time you ever had man cum this much.

pulling back, his dick slipped out from between, and you turned your head slightly to look at him.

“sir i hope—.“

“—kento” he corrected and you smiled.

“kento, i hope you have more left over. this time i want you to do it inside~” your voice was so seductive and the way your eyes were darkened with sheer lust, fueled him. pressing his tip at your soddened entrance had you sucking in some air, arching your back up slightly; as he proceeded to stretch you out.

“so…big~” he pushed himself deeper inside of you, the feeling of your wet spongy walls clinging to him, had him pulling out prematurely; slapping his dick against your cheeks—eliciting a whine from you.

“kento….i want all of it. every last drop—hngh~” he slammed himself inside of you, filling you to brim with his cock. he let you adjust to his size for a second, lifting you up slightly by your tummy—making a deep arch for him, pumping his cock in and out of you. grunts and groans puddled out of his mouth, brown eyes fixated on your ass clapping and rippling against him—watching the white film build up.

“so. fucking. wet!” he slapped your ass, hard, the stinging sensation was painful, yet pleasurable—making you scream. “more~!” you begged, teeth sinking into your bottom lip; turning your head slightly to look at him. your face contorted with arousal was enough for him to continue to punish your cheeks with his hands. the way it wobbled with each smack and his strokes were so hypnotizing, yet it only made his desire for you grow.

he grunted and pushed your head down, pounding your pretty pussy deep into the chair, irises rolling in the back of your head—showing nothing but white. he was fucking more than just your body. he was fucking your mind as well.

nanami could feel your walls spasming, clenching frantically around him, “go ahead and cum for me baby. show me how that pretty pussy could milk daddy’s cock.”

his vulgarness and his powerful thrusts, made your orgasm come quicker. his tip hit the spongy spot repeatedly, making you gush all over him. your walls contracted around him, as you came—his own orgasm following behind. he pushed himself in deeper, cunt sloppy and wet while he fucked you, “let me breed this pretty pussy. g’na let me do that, hm?”

you were so dizzy from your orgasm, all you could do was nod your head; before he shot his load deep inside of you—milking him as he pumped.

“fuck!” he cursed, slowing his stroke down before pulling out of you; his cum pooling out of you, until he plugged his fingers up into your cunt. he caught you by surprise as he wriggled his two fingers inside of you, mixing his fluids with yours—driving you insane, only for you to push him out as you squirted. he slapped your ass as the translucent liquid flew out of you, pulling your head back to kiss you—making you snap out of your euphoric daze.

“c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up doll and end your shift, so i can take care of you for the rest of the night.”

[moonsaver]

Yan!Alhaitham wears you to work.

It was easy. Finding your shampoo, soaps, scents.. practically any daily use items that you usually bought from the bazaar. He stalks you almost casually – nodding at you familiarly when you do spot him, as if seeing him for the 5th time in the same day wasn't creepy. You seem uncomfortable, but don't bother confronting him about it. Mainly either due to the fact you don't want a confrontation, or you simply aren't sure if he's stalking you in the first place.

In the shower, your scent fills the entire bathroom. He considers any free time now dedicated to thinking about you. The fabrics you wore yesterday seemed to have a few loose threads. According to the bottle of perfume he bought at the same time as yours, yours is running out. A visit to the old lady tucked away in the corner of the bustling street is probably on your weekly schedule, now. The scent of your soap clings to his skin comfortably, emanating gently in a still space. If he stood for long enough, your acquaintances might actually realise they're smelling you on him. Whether or not it's a good thing.. who knows. He doesn't care.

The tap stops, and he steps out. The droplets of water follow his feet as he walks. Your towel – or rather, a duplicate he bought. Your scented oils. Your hand cream. Your preferred ink, pens, even the bookmark you'd recently bought. All of them are assorted neatly into his drawer. All duplicates, of course. His diligent hand picks up the perfume bottle, the liquid ebbing on the glass surface as he tilts it in the sunlight. Your birthday's coming up soon. He's also recently caught wind of your favorite flowers – this time by accident. His prickly ears manage to pick up the particularly interesting conversation you had approximately 16 days ago, when you mentioned the recent Sumeru Rose body lotion you'd just bought. Although, he's not blind. He's observed the twitching of your hands towards the Lumidouce Bell scented bottle that was recently imported. You had to draw your hand back by force due to the price. Your birthday's coming up. He managed to get a look at the price after you left dejectedly with the one you were talking about.

His fingers press and spritz the perfume over his clothes. The fabric must have practically shaped themselves to the drops of the perfume from how often he's sprayed it in the same place, but now his closet smells like you. Perfumes last longer than lotion, he thinks. He should just get you a different perfume, instead. The merchant sold Lumidouce perfumes, too. Your birthday's coming up. The fact repeats in his mind. Should he get you a card? No, that's not enough. He saw you recently pick up a romance book. Unfortunately for you, it's a series, and the last he's heard about it – is it has deadly cliffhangers. He'll probably gift you the next volume.

He feels a slight tug of a smile on the corner of his lips, his fingers sliding over the vast collection of books, landing on the stiff spine of a book. He's already bought it in advance. Should he sneak in a small card in there? That would be better. If he remembers correctly (which he always does); you should have half the day off on your birthday, and you plan on spending it with your friends and family. He'll give it to you before you clock out. Maybe, he thinks, if his words sift through well enough, he'll manage to squeeze himself into your guest list. So, for the time being, he thinks up certain conversation topics for today, and the next day, and so on until your birthday. By rough estimates, you'll be familiar enough with him to invite him just shy of a day or two before. The door of his room clicks as he leaves.

The Akasha had not much use to Alhaitham until he realized the significant potential it had after that Cyno-prediction system those sages crafted up. He manages to tinker in his own study enough to make a special version of you. And so far, it's 100% accurate. He can already visualise you on your way to work, and the conversation he has in mind. Your responses are crafted skillfully by the device in his head, before you even think about uttering them.

[rcksmith]

Sun and Water - Kaz Brekker

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: A LOT OF ANGUISH. Lots of mention of post-traumatic disorder. Curse words. Mention of death. Blood. Slave market. Mention of murder. VERY EMOTIONAL. VERY SWEET.

Word count: 4k

A/N: This one was very emotional for me. I cried writing with my playlist on full blast. I hope you love it as much as I do.

💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

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Ketterdam smelled of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was a dark place by birth that housed even darker people. Its soil was stained with blood and despair; of both Grisha and ordinary people. Their hiding places were for tormented souls who had long lost their humanity.

If you walked the wrong streets at night with an arrogant attitude, you would definitely not return alive. But if you turned south, and had a little money in your pocket, your feet would take you close to the huge, shiny, flashy casinos run by Pekka Rollins. You would pass clubs where the smell of beer mixed with cheating, and the laughter of drunks drowned out the screams of convicts across the boat harbor. The colors of these establishments ranged between red, orange and yellow, a vibrant explosion that, in such a funereal place, became infinitely more macabre.

If you were more adventurous, and had a little more money, you would pass by pleasure houses. With pink and purple facades, provocative titles and women perched in the windows, waving at any gentleman who smelled a fair amount of kruger, their chants insinuating and seductive. The silk pieces of these places waved like a Land in Sight flag for the lost and tormented men in that sea of stone that was called Ketterdam.

To less experienced - and novice - eyes, those places were just grotesque pieces that were part of a strange scenario. Just a bad city, without many mysteries or secrets. But Kaz Brekker, whose mother's name was Ketterdam, knew that these establishments were more profane than they first appear. Its sins were part of a long list of money laundering, human and arms trafficking, drug exports, a meeting point for commissioned murders and, deep in the corrupt heart of that city, the headquarters of the black market. He knew that Ketterdam was not just a land of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was the place where anyone could have absolutely everything for the right price.

And that's how he found you.

Kaz didn't like to remember that day. But it was engraved on his skin like a tattoo, like a hot iron. A damned, cursed reminder that despite his Herculean efforts to be the monster everyone whispered about, Kaz was still a man of flesh and warm blood. With a heart that writhed.

Something about that day in the past wasn't right. It was like a mysterious whisper in the breeze, an omen in the unknown eyes of the wanderers, a mistake in a painting that made his nerves itch. And Kaz Brekker always hated mysteries that he didn't know how to solve.

His cane banging against the thick, crooked stone floor in that even darker part of Ketterdam, the hem of his black coat swinging from side to side in the cold wind. He had 2,000 kruger in his pocket - the Crow Club's only money to pay employees, bribes, drinks and bills. He used and abused Ketterdam to offer everything at the right price, and now he was going to pay his debts to men who provided information, to locals who spiked the beer with water and sold it for a cheaper price, and to women who seduced targets and facilitated robberies. It was the only money he had.

He didn't have to look to the left, there was nothing for him there. He didn't have to wonder why people seemed to crowd closer to the curve of the last street. But, in a way that Brekker could never explain even in confidential whispers to his own soul, he turned that corner.

With his cane tapping on the ground, money in his pocket and responsibilities to fulfill, he approached, against all odds. Step by step, the air grew thicker, the invisible ropes tightened unjustifiably on the pulse of his neck, the ghostly sensation of the icy water approaching like the waves of the dark sea.

Those sensations were getting more confusing with each pump of blood. The physical consequences of his soul being shipwrecked at sea never came lightly, and this was a warning. A warning that Kaz Brekker should have turned around and walked away. While he still could.

The men around were euphoric. The women looked sadistic. And the racket of voices was too loud for him to be able to focus on a single line of conversation. The hands of men and women were raised and clutched money notes tightly, waving in the wind as if it were a flag, their sadistic, depravity-hungry eyes staring forward like predators in hunting season.

Perhaps in a parallel reality, Kaz would have followed every sign Ketterdam gave him to turn his back and leave. There's nothing for you here, Dirty Hands. Ketterdam needed demons and monsters to stay stand, it fed on trauma and anger to perpetuate the ‘everything for the right price’ market. People's chaos and hell were what maintained the local economy. Any possibility of redemption, peace and, worst of all, love, were severely condemned.

Go away, Bastard of the Barrel. Maybe Kaz would have exerted the steely control over his veins more tightly, maybe he would have listened to the city's singing and paid more attention to the sea that swelled its tide, and then there would have been a life in which he wouldn't have widened his eyes at the scene.. Go away.

The sea roared, the waves broke, the putrefying hands of the bodies drowned in the depths of the ocean grabbed his ankles with more ferocity, preventing, restricting, screaming that his place would forever be there with them in the dirt of the sea. But it was already too late. He looked at the reason for all the commotion. The sun fell on that girl's hair and it was as if the rays had also penetrated the deepest waters of that vast oceanic darkness, exorcising all the claws that retreated with infernal screams, letting go of his ankles as if they were burning.

It was like a ship's anchor being pulled up with extreme brutality, splashing water everywhere, pushing the dying pieces into the depths of hell, scaring birds in the air, and finally, finally, bringing his soul out into the warm air.

Kaz Brekker felt his entire body shake as if he had just died and been reincarnated, it was like an explosion in the darkest depths of his chest that made his blood warm again, his heart show that it was beating and his soul breathe.

The scene in front of him shouldn't have caused any commotion in his spirit. Ketterdam was not a good place, and it was home to even less good people. That open-air slave market was nothing new. It was repulsive, disgusting and disgusting, but not new. And it wasn't something Kaz got involved in. Everyone had problems with him, and he didn't play anyone's hero. Never.

Until now.

One of the girls was sitting on that improvised wooden stage, eyes extremely scared and that damn sun shining on her hair that shone like the heat of release that made him breathe for the first time. She was young, small as a rabbit, and her fur didn't belong on those rusty chains on her wrist. You.

That was all an lapse. A powerful lapse not only in his judgment, but in his long-tormented soul. He blinded himself for the first time since Pekka.

The deprivation of air, the burning of the claws sunk to the bottom of the cruel ocean, the ice that shook his bones and the smell of dead flesh swollen with rotten water had finally given him a respite.

A truce so portentous and so overwhelming that, for two blissful, desperate seconds, Kaz fucking Bekker felt fucking normal. He was breathing, for the love of the Saints. He felt the heat of the sun, his muscles were light, his heart was swollen and the corners of the world were as colorful as when he was 8 years old.

He felt Kaz Rietveld.

All because that girl was in his sight. As if her sight was a miracle to his torment. As if she were a curse to Ketterdam. No good feelings have a place here.

But it was already too late. That lapse made Kaz approach as if he no longer controlled his feet. It made his heart beat with blood that wasn't his. It made him take out the only money in his pocket and hold it up high as the biggest proposal. None of that insanity was coming from Brekker. But from Rietveld.

“Her.’’ he said in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

Yes, Kaz didn't like to remember that day. Because it was confirmation that the boy he had tried so hard to keep dead and drowned in the sea was as alive as tangil. And that beating heart was his. Fucking hell. That lapse cost a lot; all the money the Crow Club made in that month. Kaz Brekker had countless dangerous people to pay and he had no idea what would do. But what irritated and infuriated Kaz the most was that, when he looked into the eyes of that girl as fragile as a rabbit, he didn't regret it.

Not at all. Not a bit. Even when he had every reason in the world to regret it.

He didn't regret taking you out of those horrible rags you wore and buying you a dress. He didn't regret bringing you to his quarters even when still had no fucking idea what he would do to you now.

What use would such a small, fragile and beautiful girl would have? You looked like a little rabbit. He made a fucking mistake, because now this little rabbit was looking at him with those big eyes full of emotions: fear, innocence, curiosity. Brekker hated it. But his soul was smiling.

''Don't worry. I won’t touch you’’ Kaz said that day. His words dripped with venom, disgust, and self-loathing. He constantly thought that his condition was a sarcastic and cruel joke from the Saints that Inej prayed so much to; doomed to never stand a touch, to always be a broken and pathetic bastard to the point of mortal weakness. This always aroused anger, hatred, and a thirst for revenge against Pekka.

But looking into your big eyes…he felt as if something very valuable had been brutally ripped from him long before Kaz understood what he wanted.

Inej was wrong. The Saints were not merciful. They were as fucking sadistic as the demons of Ketterdam.

--------

The days passed, and Kaz still had no idea what to do with you. Or how to pay his debt to so many people or how to replenish Crow Club drinks. He hid you from the rest of the dregs because he didn't want to and didn't know how to explain the situation. What would he say? Kaz Brekker never did anything without a plan. Everyone knew that. And your presence refuted ALL the certainties and theories that Kaz always had a motive.

Until one day, what he knew would happen happened; fate than those who do not pay powerful people. If he didn't have money, then he had to pay in blood. As it always would be in Ketterdam.

--------

The moon was paler than usual that autumn, sending icy golden rays across the dark city. The breeze smelled of sea air, smoke, sand and blood.

Kaz sat down in his writing chair, gasping as the thud made his broken ribs hurt. His teeth clenched tightly and dropped the broken cane to the floor, his blood on the silver raven combined with the dried blood around his face.

“Oh My God’’ the voice that Rietveld’s soul loved so much sounded, terrified and in panic.

You.

Kaz closed his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath that you had chosen to come in at that exact moment. It had been 2 weeks since you were here, with him, but your presence still made his hate the reactions and sensations he had.

Brekker couldn't have feelings. Ketterdam didn't accept that, it didn't tolerate that. And the proof of this was the bloody state he was in. Sentimentality is a weakness. He repeated to himself. But why then did his soul not regret anything when he saw you? Damn, he'd probably do it all over again.

“Get out of here’’ his voice was hoarser and lower than usual. And, when you did the opposite and took a step forward, Kaz looked at you warningly ‘’Now’’ Brekker could handle a beating, he'd had it his whole life. He could deal with broken ribs, with a bloody face, with a broken cane, with wounded pride. But he can't deal with the feeling that, when you looked at him, what hurt and tortured him more than anything else was the fact that he was robbed of your touch. He couldn't touch. And it never sparked anything but a fire of rage and revenge. Until now.

Kaz Brekker couldn't feel you. Not even if he fell to his knees on the floor and prayed to all the Saints. Not even if he sobbed asking for just one day of mercy. Just one day. Just a memory of how your skin felt beneath his hands. It had been more than a century since Brekker had touched another skin, warm skin. His was always cold, cadaverous, wet even when it was completely dry. And that was never a reason for despair. Until now.

He wanted to touch you more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to slide his fingers across your cheek more than he wanted to slide his hands across money notes. But the sensation would send him back to the waters of Ketterdam. Back to the sickening feeling of rotten flesh and death surrounding him, making his chest tighten and his vision blacken as that traumatic memory would drag him back into.

The Saints were a fucking sadist. “Please…’’ your voice was broken and completely tearful. Please…

That single word - that single word alone had the power to bring his gaze up to you. Your pleading voice, your eyes filled with pain, not for your own, but for his, the way you whispered as if you was about to crumble.  You looked more scared than the day he took you from the slave market. Kaz fought down the tightening of his chest, his throat closing in. Please. Oh. He wanted to throw caution in the wind. Just once. Only for you. He wanted to put his gloves aside, just once. Just to hold your face. The desire to beg the Saints on one knee came back with more force. ''No" Kaz looked at you, staring into your eyes, as he saw you step closer. He watched the silk green dress flow, the fabric he bought for you, and for some reason it made him ache more. Damn dress.

He kept his eyes locked on that green silk for longer than expected. His body was completely bruised, but his thoughts were just feeling envious of that dress. That dress was on your skin. Feeling something he could never feel. Lucky dress.

Kaz heard your sobs get louder. "I beg you’’ You were about to fall apart “let me help…’’ He didn't know the extensions of his own injuries, but the look in your eyes said they were serious. Perhaps there was more blood than he expected.

Yes. his soul, Rietveld, screamed. Screaming so loud his bones shook. Yes. Touch me, make the cold go away again. Take me out of this ocean one more time. Help me. Touch me! Make the hands of the corpses leave my neck. Touch me. Saints, this is the most unbearable thing in the world. Kaz had no idea how long it had been since he had heard a person sob for him, but your voice broke something in him like nothing else. Kaz could get stabbed and beaten and shot, but this—this was the one thing he couldn't bear. "No'' Yes!

But you seemed in tune with his soul. As it has always been since he first saw you. You seemed to see beyond Brekker facade. Your footsteps reached him like desperate birds, your beautiful eyes growing wider every moment you saw the details of his injuries.

He didn't move from the chair, even when he should have, even when you fell to your knees between his feet, looking at him with so much fear and panic that he felt his heart skip a beat. Damn organ.

Yes. You looked beyond Brekker, You looked at Rietveld. And no one ever looked at Rietveld. “I promise to be quick. Just let me clean up the blood. Let me sterilize the knife cuts.’’ Your voice had so much pain that Kaz thought you were the one who suffered the beating. Which was impossible. Because Kaz Brekker would never let anyone touch you. but he can't touch you either. Yes, his fucking fate.

He wondered if you were so shaken because of guilt. Did you know that the 12 men he owed money got together to beat him? Did you know that he just hadn't paid because he used all the money to buy you? That's why you were so sentimental? Because the guilt. Out of pity. But it was impossible, Kaz never said anything about it. Maybe he was just looking for reasons to justify the magnitude of your concern with something other than feelings of the heart. “Please… I can't- I can't see you like this.” Your voice took him out of his thoughts, realizing that no matter how much he screamed inside, his expression remained as hard as a stone.

“I’m scared that something irreversible could happen.’’ you were honest, exposing your heart because you knew he wouldn’t expose his “Please, the thought of you dying makes me scared.’’ Yes, you were scared…like a cute rabbit. His body was hurting too much to know which stab wound was deeper, which were more superficial and which caused you so much panic.

Kaz swallowed around the lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly in his chest, but for a reason completely different from the wounds and bruising that plagued his body. Kaz wanted to put his guard up and push you away, but the sight of you kneeling before him, your eyes pleading for his consent as you raised your palm up to his battered and bloodied skin, that pleading tone - And that dress. The fucking dress he bought for you - was making him lose.

Kaz looked down at your face. His heart was burning. What am I doing? Your eyes, gazing up at him with tears rolling down your cheeks, you were breaking because of him, for him. And saints — he couldn't…Not when you looked that way. Not when every fiber of his being wanted you. Touch me. Make me come out of the sea. Make me breathe again Kaz closed his eyes, his breath sharp as he braced himself. A moment of hesitation before he finally speaks. "Quick."

It was another lapsus. The biggest mistake he could make. Ketterdam was again screaming in the background in the form of furious winds; that city did not allow pure emotions, redemptions and love.

You were so quick to get up and run to the bathroom, returning with a damp towel and a desperate but relieved look. Your knees dropped to the floor once again between his feet, and your breathing was faster than it had ever been before.

You were going to touch him

It was a mistake. An absurd error. A sin and a profanation of the worst kind.

The tide of the icy ocean within him changed course, beginning to churn its waters and threatening to drown Kaz Brekker once again. The sensation was as if his skin was swelling from the cold waves, like a corpse that had been discarded at sea for centuries. And that wouldn't be far from the truth. Kaz Rietveld was shipwrecked in that ocean along with Jordie. Along with all the other unfortunate people in that damned city.

So why did he also feel Rietveld now more than ever? when you were about to touch him.

Kaz's soul stirred, perhaps in desperation, perhaps begging for release. Maybe for both things. The emotions were so strong that he felt like vomiting the salty sea water stuck in his lungs. Then he focused on one point: the smooth skin of your neck.

You were so nervous and desperate that he could see your vein pulsing, a few errant droplets of sweat running from behind your ear to your slender neck, making their tempting way, mocking Kaz for not being able to follow the same path with his fingers.

Would he be able to fool his demons if he made that journey with his mouth? Could it be that his tongue also carried his traumas?

The wet towel went over one of his cuts, and Kaz swore so loudly that it scared you. His fingers locked for a second in the chair, but your fear of him changing his mind was greater than your fear of his reactions. You pressed the towel again, and again, and moved from one wound to the next. Your movements were in automatic mode to want to take advantage of his permission as much as possible, to help as much as possible in a time limit that you didn't know.

The invisible clock chimed like a premonition.

With one hand, you used your trembling fingers to move a piece of his cut shirt to the side. And your and his skins brushed

Holy Mother of Saints. Kaz grunted, letting his head fall back and pressing his fingers into the wood of the chair's arms even more. He closed his eyes tightly. The avalanche of emotions raised a tisunami in his sea and crashed over him with such brutality that Kaz felt he might die again. And revive.

Your fingers brushed against his skin once again, and this time his chest exploded on a different note; as if the heat of the sun was fighting to rescue him from the bottom of the sea. Making its way through the petrifying waters like a ray of heat. Like a chance. A hope. Or as an illusion.

Kaz Brekker never cried. He came out of that ocean swearing revenge, like a ghost, a monster, the murderer of Rietveld. Vowing to be a knight of the apocalypse. But he was none of those things. Kaz was a man of flesh and blood. With a heart that bled every day, with a soul neglected and so massacred that it bordered on unrecognizability: but not total annihilation.

Kaz Brekker never cried. But Kaz Rietveld did.

Being touched, after so many years without even human contact, made Brekker want to vomit, scream, cut his hands off, drown himself with Jordie, blow Pekker's brains out. But it made Rietveld want to cry, to cry out to the saints for salvation, to beg that he could have just one good thing in life. Please. his soul tore in prayers. Please…let me have this moment…for the love of God, have mercy on me just now. Somehow, he didn't vomit, and his skin on his became more like being caressed by the sun. He squeezed his eyes closed even more and imagined himself on the roof of the Crow Club, beneath the midday sun of the height of summer.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your hands pressed bandages into his deep cuts.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your breathing was heavy and your fingers pushed the rest of his bloody shirt away.

You were the sun. Just it.

Kaz repeated that like a mantra. A prayer. A choir. An exorcism. But his midday sun at the height of summer was beginning to be clouded, the sea on the horizon was beginning to swell, and Jordie's voice was beginning to rise from the dead in the air. The second he couldn't take it anymore, you pulled his hands away. Brekker breathed a sigh of relief. Rietveld screamed in despair.

‘’You’re going to be fine’’ your voice was as shaky as his emotions.

Kaz couldn't open his eyes yet. Not now. Not at this moment and… the absence of touch gave way to the feeling of extremely warm lips touching one of his bandages for a second.

This removed him from his disabilities. Stunned and perplexed, Kaz opened his eyes immediately and tilted his head towards you the same second his your moved away.

If your touches had been the sun, that micro kiss had been the entire fire.

“My mother one day said that kissing the wound makes it heal faster.” Maybe you were holding on tooth and nail to all the things that guaranteed you that Kaz Brekker would survive that moment.

Maybe a kiss heals wounds faster... indeed. Kaz Brekker thought before a curve of a smile painted his lips.

[the-comorbidity]

Pay Girl

summary: sex was a commodity in the QZ, and Joel Miller would do (and pay) damn near anything to have you

warnings: MDNI!! prostitution, consensual sex, mean!joel, prostitute!reader, oral (m receiving), fingering, p in v, mentions of subspace, overstimulation, use of "baby brain", "dollface", "pretty girl", face tapping? not like slapping, just light taps, biting, possessive!joel

wordcount: 1942

a/n: welcome to my first ever post/work on this account!! i hope you enjoy, please be sure to provide feedback if possible xx

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Joel Miller was not above paying for sex. Here, in the QZ, everyone was on the verge of murder for any sexual release, and men would crumble just for the sweet feeling of sliding in.

Joel Miller was not above paying for sex.

He’d learned of your little business when he was snooping for more passages to the outside. It was… quiet, he’d admit. Didn’t look like what it was from the outside with nothing demarcating the door other than a ratty sock just outside the door. He stepped in trying to scour the place for supplies, and came out with a list of services and prices instead.

He’d tried a few different women, but you were his favorite.

You, with the soft skin and the sweet voice. You, with the fruit scented hair and the vanilla scented lotion. You, who was much younger than Joel.

You, who was the stuff wet dreams were made of.

He could always tell it was you who came to his door. You knocked thrice every time, raps on the door so soft that if Joel had the radio any louder, he would’ve missed it. But even if it were, he scheduled a time and you were nothing if not purely obedient.

He opened the door and you were there, ratty sneakers and a shirt that exposed your midriff. He’d guessed you got your hands on a tube of lipstick, because your cheeks had a light dusting of pink, and your lips looked the perfect shade of kissable.

Joel didn’t say anything, just moved over to let you in, but he was already growing hard at the thought of seeing tears roll down your pretty face.

“Where do you want me?” You say, and he nods towards the bed.

“Sit up on the side, I want your mouth on me first.” You hum so goddamn innocently, and Joel was sure he’d cum in his pants if he had to spend another minute without his hands on you.

He unbuttons the bottom three buttons of his flannel and unzips his jeans while you strip bare and take a seat, and you can feel your mouth water at the trail of hair that goes from his stomach to his cock, which slaps up against the golden skin of his belly. He steps up to you, cupping your small face in his much larger hands, and tilts your chin so he can stare down at you.

“You want me?” He asks and you nod, peering up at him through your eyelashes and fuck, he needs you.

“Beg.” His voice is pitched higher just a little, like the words he’s saying don’t have a filthy meaning behind them. But it’s the way your voice wavers when his cock twitches at your pleads and his hands in your hair that keep your head tugged back and the tears on your bottom lid, it’s that which makes him shut you up.

“Kiss it. No hands.” You do as he says, keeping your thumbs held behind your back as you bend down and kiss the tip, the salty taste of his precum floating over your tongue to coat your senses in everything him. His hands gather up your hair in a rudimentary ponytail, urging you to take more.

Joel tosses his head back, a deep groan etching and carving its way from the bottom of his throat as he feels your constrict around him. Sweet, darling you, he can feel you gagging when the tip of your nose brushes the wiry hair that sits at the base.

He’s so thick, you think, and your lips are tiring from stretching around him. There’s a particular moment in which he tugs you down by the hair but thrusts up at the same time, and you gag so hard your hands come flying forward to push him away on instinct. He practically pushes you off of him, a disgruntled noise coming from him.

“Didn’t I say no fuckin’ hands? The fuck am I payin’ you for?” Your lips tremble, and his hand surprisingly comes up to hold your chin tenderly before winding back and tapping your face a few times as if you were stupid and he were trying to explain the simplest thing to you.

“Do you think you can lay back on the bed? Can you follow those orders, or is it too fuckin’ hard for your little baby brain to comprehend?”

“I c-can do it.” You lay back, just as he says, your back propped up with pillows that smell so distinctly like Joel and as his hand sneaks up your inner thighs to the place that’s dripping for him, you feel yourself start to get a little floaty.

His fingers brush the insides of your thighs, barely inches away from where you need him the most. He hears your breath hitch when he swipes a finger, collecting your juices before bringing it up to his mouth. He hums around his finger, cleaning it off and getting it wet before bringing it back down and pushing it in. He feels you squirm away almost immediately, caught off-guard by the sudden intrusion, but he throws an arm over your hips and leans down, effectively pinning you where you lay.

“Nuh uh, pretty girl, you take what I give you, you understand? No squirmin’ away.”

God, he’s so mean. But as he adds another finger and begins to circle your clit with his thumb, skin rough and calloused, the only thing you pray for is that he doesn’t stop. Your legs shake from the onslaught of pleasure, and he looks like he finds joy in your struggle to speak.

You can’t even tell him you’re on the precipice of release. The noises spilling from you aren’t close to words and he needs you to ask permission before you do, but you can’t escape his pleasure because of the heavy arm over your waist. His eyes are trained on you, lips twisted up in a sick smirk that tells you exactly what you need to know; he knows you’re about to cum.

“Remember to ask, dollface.” He’s so unbearable. Your hands unfurl themselves from his sheets and instead claw at the arm that lays heavy over your waist.

“Joel, ‘m close.” You manage to get out, and he chuckles.

“Yeah?” He says, readjusting himself so his mouth is level with your ear without halting his motions, “hold it.”

“Can’t, Joel, please.” You beg, yet he remains silent, curling his fingers slightly to add to your pleasure. He sighs, as if you couldn’t complete the simplest of tasks.

“If you cum now, you’re not stopping. No breaks.” His voice goes dark, and you try everything possible to stave your orgasm off, but the nips of pleasure become too much and your toes curl as your pussy clenches around his fingers, your thighs tightening over his wrist.

He clicks his tongue at you as he grabs a condom out of the nightstand and rolls it over himself. He makes you feel worthless, with the way he pulls his fingers out of you and replaces them with his cock, stretching you out beyond belief. He quiets your whimpers of overstimulation by shoving his fingers in your mouth, and he gives you no moment of reprieve, fucking you almost immediately after you cum.

You’re sobbing around his fingers. The pace he’s set is unbearable and you want nothing more than him to fully shed his flannel and run your fingers over his skin, pulling him close. You need to feel his weight on you, something, anything. He’s dangling you in this fragile headspace and you need him. Finally, he pulls his fingers away, using his hands to push your thighs up and fuck you deeper somehow, pushing you over the edge again, the orgasm sharp, all pain and pinpricks. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and he laughs at you, all dark and growly.

“Joel.” He looks up at you from where his glance was, watching you take him almost effortlessly. You reach your arms out, not trusting your voice for anything more than his name.

“You wanna feel me? You want me close?” You tug at the buttons of his shirt, and he unbuttons them quickly and throws his flannel away before allowing you to tug him by the shoulders onto you. He tilts your head up, exposing your neck to him before swooping in and marking you up.

“Mine,” he whispers against your skin, “all fuckin’ mine.” Your nails sink into his skin, dragging down to leave raised red tracks in their wake. He groans into your neck, the pain making him fuck you even harder. The noises the both of you are making are obscene, coupled with the sound of him sliding in and out and the rickety headboard slamming against the wall, it’s all too much and you can feel your third orgasm growing just out of reach.

The sting of overstimulation has faded once again, and you can tell that Joel nears his end, with the way his hips meet yours with no set pace, and the way his hands curl tighter into the meat of your thighs, definitely leaving bruises for the next few days.

“You close?” He asks, just a peak of the softness that lay behind the rough and tumble exterior.

“I need-” You grumble out the rest of your sentence, curling your hand around his wrist and placing his fingers on your clit, the barely-there pressure already causing your body to twist. He gets the hint, circling your clit with more and more pressure until you choke on your words and look up at him with tears in your eyes.

“Awh, you’re gettin’ there, ain’t ya? Almost there for me?” You nod, eyes rolling back once again when the pleasure gets overwhelming.

“‘M there, pretty girl, you gonna cum with me? You gotta cum with me, wanna feel this gorgeous cunt milkin’ my cock.” His words are making you clench around him, and suddenly you’re getting closer and closer to bliss. It’s not razor sharp, not like your first or second ones. No, this seems more gentle, as if you’re running up and then subsequently rolling down a grassy knoll. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, welcoming to the ache in your joints. He cums with a mighty groan, emptying into the condom. He thrusts a few more times, toying with his own prickly feeling of overstimulation before pulling out, ridding himself of the prophylactic and tying it off. Joel groans as he rolls over, pulling you with him until you rest on his chest.

“How was that?” You ask, a chuckle pouring out of the Texan.

“Glad I asked for ya.” He says simply.

From the first time meeting Joel to now, you realized he was a man of very few words, rather showing his affection in ways of service or physical attention. But then again, you’re a pay girl. Aftercare isn’t in the “contract”, so to say. With Joel, you could get about five minutes of his soft, molten interior before he built his walls back up, inevitably getting out of bed to clean you with a towel that had all of the fibers burnt together, like he was wiping you with sandpaper. He’d help you get your clothes on, maybe offer you a drink.

But at the end of the day? You were here for payment. And he’d shell out ration cards and cigarettes to you and call it a day, but the both of you knew that you’d end up in his bed again.

[iridescentprose]

quest—xenk yendar x fem!reader

summary; being frenemies with xenk

author's note/ warning(s); just fluff; i'm not well versed in dungeons and dragons lore. most of my knowledge comes from the recent movie adaptation. please enjoy!

*header pictures do not belong to me*

The boisterous chatter within the tavern ceased the moment your boots hit the floorboards. Patrons - drunk on ale and joy, or full of whatever obscure meat was on their plates - turned to look up at you. For once you understood their stares. After all, you were clad in blood, guts, and what you hoped wasn't vomit while standing next to an infamous paladin who had not a scratch on his armor.

Despite slaying the same beast together, your partner - who followed you around like a fly to a corpse - survived the battle unscathed. Even his blade was stain-free thanks to some unexplainable magic you didn't bother to figure out.

"Just a water, thank you," you said to the waiter behind the counter as you settled into one of the wobbly stools. You didn't bother to wait for Xenk as he maneuvered his way through the crowd that formed along the walk way. Behind you, everyone was hovering around him, thanking him for slaying the beast that could've threatened a slew of homes.

"Thanks," you muttered to the waiter as you picked up the cup he slid towards you. You took numerous gulps from your drink as the crowd began to dissipate to give Xenk some space. You turned your back to them and found yourself face to face with the waiter and his finger tapping on a slip of paper in front of you.

"Tab's getting full," the waiter tapped the slip of paper etched with numerous food and drink items. Next to them, were accumulating prices, expenses you had yet to pay.

You read the list, some charges dating back from months ago when you were low on funds. You slowly shook your head, unable to find the words to come up with an excuse. As of now, money hadn't been your number one priority.

"Then put it on mine," a voice said from behind you. You could see his noble smile he was bearing even though you didn't turn to look at him. Gingerly, he took the seat next to you as the waiter nodded and sheepishly tucked the slip of paper away before you could protest.

"Thanks, but...you didn't have to do that," you said once the waiter was gone and Xenk had settled at the bar. He looked around, taking in your surroundings as if he were a newborn who was just seeing the world for the first time. You rolled your eyes playfully. "I'm not going to be able to pay you back."

"Consider it a gift," he said, his eyes finding your face after he seemed satisfied with what he saw around the tavern. You look down at your cup, avoiding his gaze.

"You can't keep giving me gifts."

He frowned and rose an eyebrow. "Why not?"

You turned to face him, a look of slight annoyance settling on your features. "Because—"

Because you had no means of paying him back. Because you weren't friends, but rather partners completing the same quest. Because once the quest was complete, you wanted no reminders of what could have been.

But every excuse that you had on your tongue vanished as his hand settled upon on your chin. Lightly his fingers guided your face towards his, as if he was trying to get a better look at you.

"Because, why?" he asked, eyes pleading to know. His thumb swept across the skin of your cheek, swiping away whatever grime had been left over from the creature you split in two.

Your annoyance, now gone, had been replaced with bashfulness. It was as if he had caught you doing some wrong and you were in for another lesson on nobility and righteousness.

But as the noise around you faded and his face drew closer, you were convinced otherwise.

"Y/n?" he whispered, shaking you out of your trance.

"Yeah?"

"You might want to take a breath. I'm not sure how much longer you can hold it."

Not realizing you had been holding your breath, you felt the heat rise to your cheeks. Xenk, who found your flustered nature amusing, smirked mischeviously before a hearty chuckle fell from his mouth. Playfully, you swiped his hand away from your chin and lightly shoved him in the shoulder.

"Forget it," you said before gulping the last of your drink. You rose to your feet and made your way towards the exit with the heat still rising to cheeks and a smile teasing your lips.

And like always, he followed after you.

[gomzwrites]

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

a/n: all aboard the h0rny choo choo train

Pairing: Professor John Price x fem!reader x Mr Simon Riley

contain smut(18+), minors bACK OFF, AGELESS & UNTITLED ACCOUNTS WILL BE BLOCKED!!

Notes:

✎…Banner taken from Pinterest ✎…Reader's texts are in purple ✎…Want to be added into a tag list? click here ✎…Part 1 is introduction, just me setting the scene for our reader and displaying the vibes from Price and Riley in this AU ✎…Part 2 (you're here!) is smut :) ✎…Chocolate is just my thoughts, process, notes, recommendations and future planning for the series, I welcome discussions over there if you're interested :D

Tags: ungodly amount of praises(self indulgent fr), power dynamic(dom!Price), sub!fem reader, sub!Simon(*winks* -whimpering and stuff yk), oral(f!receiving - Price giving), p in v sex(Simon fucking ya), very small dash/hint of exhibitionism, implication of Price x Ghost (they kissed and Price dom both u and Ghost), aftercare - let me know if I missed anything else

➵ Part 1 | ➵ Part 2

ogeh for those who didn't read part 1, in short you're now in Price's office with Simon and the spicy is about to happen after you consent wheeze-

Yes…yes please…

You managed to speak as their faces leaned closer, staring at your lips as they fought to kiss you, foreheads brushing each other harshly as Prof. Price let out a frustrated sigh.

Let her choose then.

Once again, they stare back at you, Prof. Price giving you a smirk as he traced his hand around your neck while Mr. Riley tilted your chin, giving you a desperate stare as you gulped. You let out a soft chuckle as you darted your eyes between them.

Will this affect my grades?

That made them stop dead in their tracks, before Prof Price laughed hard. You felt the rumble and vibration of his chest on your back as Mr. Riley scoffs. 

Only one way to find out.

You blushed slightly as you contemplated, your eyes flicking over to Prof Price’s lips and then to Riley’s, but ultimately you reached out your hands and leaned forward towards him.

M-Mr. Riley sir...

Call me Simon, love.

A smug look is evident on his face as Prof Price only hums and lets go of you. Simon held your hands and brushed your wrists slightly as he stared into your eyes before closing in the distance, ghosting his lips slightly on yours as he asked once again.

Are you sure you want this?

You nodded again before a few taps on your neck reminded you.

Yes….Simon….

With the way his name rolled off your tongue, he let out another breath as he finally connected his lips to you. It was soft and sweet, slow and gentle, as if he were testing the water, one eye opening to see you in the midst of the kiss to observe you. You were in complete bliss, with your eyes closed as you melted under him, memorising every feeling and taste of his hot lips on yours. As you pulled apart slightly, he only gave you half a second to breathe before he latched onto you again; this time the kiss was much more aggressive and desperate.

God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this.

He breathes between kisses, hands holding onto your cheek as you moan softly, feeling ticklish when Prof Price also indulges himself on you, trailing wet kisses around your neck while he holds onto your waist, trailing downwards slowly before giving your thigh a squeeze through your skirt.

P-professor…?

Let me feel you, sweetheart, can I?

He rasped against your ears as you gave a nod, muttering a small “yes” to which Prof Price immediately turned you to face him, so now your back is leaning against Simon. You watched with anticipation as Prof Price let his hand roam around your thighs through the fabric, teasingly squeezing sometimes, before he grabbed the end of your skirt, pushing it upwards to your hips until your legs were in full display.

Christ, so this is what you’ve been hiding from us...

He licked his lips before holding your ankle, putting featherlight kisses from there as he trailed up towards your hips, deliberately not giving your inner thighs the attention as he hummed. You let out a shaky exhale as he stopped just shy of where your underwear is, which is still hidden under your skirt.

Be a good girl, and show us, would you?

Simon whispered into your ears, hands moving down from your hips down to your thighs, slowly pulling them apart and holding them up with his rough hands. You were beyond flushed at this rate as you realised how wet you were, an obvious damp forming in your high-rise brief that was baby blue with floral patterns of white camellia and tiny roses. You could hear Simon let out a small chuckle as he looked down.

Cute.

Prof Price tuts as he runs his hands along the lace at the waist opening, tugging it slightly and watching it snap, making your skin jolt slightly as you let out a quiet whine.

Professor…please…

Please, what hm?

You bit your lips as you turned away, burying your neck in Simon’s chest while your hands were twisting on his shirt. Simon kissed your head, his voice deep and low, as he urged you again by squeezing your thighs.

You've got to tell him what you want, that’s what good girls do yes?...

You take in another sharp inhale before finally muttering as you flutter your eyelashes and glance at Prof Price with doe eyes.

Can you touch me more? D-down there… please sir?

Attagirl…

He gives you a kiss on your forehead before finally tracing his finger around your brief and pressing his thumb on your aching clit, giving you the attention you desperately needed. He starts trailing a circle around it before using his fingers and swiping along your folds with an up and down motion, hissing at how incredibly wet you are.

Shit… all this for me? Mmm fuck…

You swallowed your moans, cranking your neck deeper into Simon’s chest and arching your back slightly every time his knuckles barely touched your clit. Prof Price seized this opportunity by kissing your exposed neck and gently nibbling it, careful not to leave any marks as he groans.

You needed more.

You grab his arm, fingers digging slightly into his biceps as you stare back at him with half-lidded eyes, your mind already foggy when they barely did anything.

Prof Price seemed to get your wordless pleas and smirk against your neck, giving it one more bite on your neck before he retracted his fingers as well. You looked back at him with a confused expression, watching as he gave Simon a look before kneeling before you as he rested his hands on your inner thigh.

Almost like on cue, Simon then takes off your brief, stuffing it into his pocket as he leans back, pulling you with him as he wraps his arm around your waist, expertly pulling the skirt and tossing it away. You gulped hard as you took in the situation, shaky hands covering your mouth as you stared down nervously.

You felt Prof Price’s hot breath against your now soaking sex; you heard him mumble something before he kissed your clit, then slowly on your entire folds, groaning against it and sending electric waves of pleasure straight to your spine. He licks up a stripe of your slit, making you whimper as you let out a muffled moan.

Want to hear you, pretty girl.

The vibration of his voice on your core makes you dizzy. You comply as you let go of your hand, unsure where to place it before deciding to rest it on Prof Price’s hair.

That’s it...use whatever you can grab and hang on to it.

He whispers before sucking your clit, another moan escapes as you try to close your legs, but Prof Price’s hands were firm, pressing and pinning your leg as he continued lapping at your pussy, taking in every sweet juice that was leaking out of your hole. You mewled, hands gripping onto his hair, legs already trembling as you felt the familiar coiling feeling around your tummy. As you slowly let more noises out, choking out a sob moan when you felt Prof Price’s tongue drawing letters on your bundle of nerves, you felt a pair of hands sneaking under your white button shirt, slowly raising up until it rested on your bra, fingers clasping around it with ease as Simon whispered into your ears.

Feels good, hm?

You let out a whine as he pulled down your bra, rosy pink nipples so hard that they were poking out from your shirt. He gave a low curse as he groped around your meaty flesh, trailing circles around your nipples as he kissed your ears, pinching them and smirking as he was satisfied that he had pulled a few high-pitched moans from you with that action. 

With the combination of Professor Price’s brutal pace of eating you out like it was his last meal and Simon’s teasing touches on your breast, you were quick to turn into a whiny, moaning mess. Pleas and names fall from your mouth as your body shutters from the pleasure you were receiving.

f-fuck…mmm…please please please-

Fuckk… taste so good love, god if I would’ve known-

Good girl, shhhhh shh shh....doing so well for us, hmmm?

Simon hushed and swallowed every sound you made when you got a bit too loud by kissing you deep, groaning, and letting out a small "mmhmm" himself as Prof Price thrust his tongue into your drenched pussy. He could feel you twitching as he dived deeper into you, his nose nudging your sensitive clit in the best way as he angled himself.

F-fuck…mmm s-sir!! No wait- haaaah - mmmm gonna cum-

Come for me darling, come on my tongue...I know you can do it

P-Price!!

With a silent yell and head thrown back, you arch your back as you come into his mouth, his deep groan sending your head spiralling as he remains still, lapping away the remaining juices until you push yourself away, whimpering when the oversensitivity starts to hurt.

Goddamn, you taste so fucking good, sweet girl.

He whispered as he stood up; you watched as your spend was covering his beard, glistening under the light; he licked on his lip as he gave you a devilish smirk; then leaning in as you felt you get pushed up, then you hear another groan and a soft moan.

Simon was kissing Price, licking around his lips and panting as he tried to take up all the juices. The scene made you blush at how hot that looked. Simon pulled away as a string of saliva connects between his and Price’s lips, staring back at you as he wiped it away with the back of his palm. 

He removed his shirt and trousers, revealing his toned body adorned with an intricate tattoo that covers his sleeves. You gasped slightly as you ran your fingers over them before getting lifted up by Price as he once again pulled you in to lean on his back.

You watch as Simon now stands before you, essentially getting caged in the middle between them as he kisses you. You can almost taste your own through his lips as the heated make-out continues. He pulled away, grinding himself on your thigh as you let out a moan, feeling just how hard and how big he was. You gave a gulp as you looked down and saw the obvious tent in his boxers, which…had skull patterns.

A small breath left your chest in a wheeze as Simon frowned slightly, biting your neck as he whispered huskily.

What’s so funny, hm?

You giggled slightly before whispering back as you tugged his boxers slightly.

Nothing.

He hums back a reply and watches as you slowly pull down his boxers, bit by bit, until his cock sprung free from the confines. You let out a gasp when you realised just how thick and veiny he is, and god you can already tell you’re gonna feel him for days. 

Oh…

You mumble with a blushing face as you slide your hand and circle the tip with your thumb. Simon groans as he leans forward with both arms resting on the table beside Price, his head digging into your neck as he kisses sloppily.

You can take him, can you?

You bite your lips as you stroke Simon further, anxiously nodding as Price nibbles on your ears, then he lifts one of your legs up with his hand as Simon lines himself up to your entrance. Anticipation pooling in your eyes as you hold your breath, feeling the tip of his cock slip up and down your folds, collecting the juices you had and mixing them with his precum. With a whispered warning, Simon then pushes the tip in as both of you groan in unison.

You grabbed onto his shoulder as he slowly eased in his length, shushing and cooing you the entire process before finally nestling deep inside of you. You felt him twitch as he let out a shaky exhale.

Fuck you’re so goddamn tight….shhhh shh I know I know, doing so well for me sweet girl…a-ah fuck…this pussy…

You whimpered and sobbed slightly when his hard cock bumped your cervix, claws digging into his back as pain and pleasure mixed together. He laid still for a few moments before breathless whisper into your ears. 

Can I move now…please? God you feel so good…

As you moan in reply and move your hips, he takes that as a yes as he slowly pulls out before completely plunging back into you in one motion. Your grip on him gets tighter as you dig your nails into his back, the action only spurring him further as he picks up his pace, biting down on your neck as he leaves the first of many purple spots on your soft skin.

F-fuck…s-so big… God, you feel so good. Si….hah-p-please…

Your pleas and moans got much louder, which was immediately handled as Price covered your mouth, his fingers digging into your thighs with a harsher force as he shushed you.

Shh shh…yeah feels good on his dick isnt it? But you need to be quiet darling…hush now…anyone can walk in on us…

That made your insides clench, and Simon groaned with a hiss as your gummy wall contracted around him, practically milking him at this rate. The fact that you could be caught at any moment, the risk of it all turned you on.

You nearly wailed when Simon hit you just right on the soft, spongy spot of yours. You felt him smiling against your neck as he readjusted himself, getting closer to you as he continued to strike at your weakest, most sensitive spot. You felt your orgasm quickly arriving as tears pricked at the edge of your eyes.

Mmmm-mmclose-!

You whimpered in a muffled tone as Price kissed the nape of your neck and Simon began to thrust faster.

Fuck….thats it…come on, this cock...be a good girl and come for me-

You were about to have the best orgasm of your life before a knock on the door made everything stop. It was as if time was frozen as you held your breath, horror and panic seeping into your eyes as you trembled. You could even feel Simon’s change in demeanour as he bit his lips.

Professor? This is Dr Gaz, ye free mate?

You glanced back up at Price with glossy eyes as you shook your head. Who knew what he said earlier was actually going to happen? And speaking of what he said, were the doors even locked?

However, it seems Price was unbothered, only giving you a calm look, but something about his eyes made you rethink that. You were right in your guts as Price slightly pushed you forward, making you jolt as it meant pushing yourself further into Simon’s dick, and that made Simon fucking whimpers as he choked on his breath. Price tsked softly as he yanked Simon’s hair, forcing him to look at him.

Quiet, you don’t want to get caught again, do you?

Simon hissed before nodding slightly, a frown and desperate look evident on his face.

Good boy.

You swear that you felt his already hard cock grow, stretching you out further as you bite on your lips, drawing blood at this rate as you try to hide your sounds, but it is incredibly difficult, especially when you are seconds away from achieving your high.

Price? Huh, it looks like he’s out.

You waited with shaky breaths, hearing until the sound of footsteps faded out, before relaxing again, sighing in relief, then hitching your breath again when Simon started moving suddenly at a relentless pace.

W-wait!! waitwaitwait-aH!

You slurred your words as Simon pounded you, feeling his ragged breathing and whines as he himself chased his high.

Fuckkk im not gonna last… shit-

S-Simon!!

You choked out as you clung onto him, your walls spasming around him as you felt his hips stuttering as he dug himself impossibly deep inside you.

Where do you want it, pretty girl?

Price rasped into your eyes as your mind grew hazy, pressing his hand onto your tummy, which made you almost scream out as you tried to answer back, drooling slightly as you barely got the words out.

o-outside… aHhh shit- mmmm g-gonna c-comeee!

G-good girl….hngn…go on... I want to feel you come. Come for me, my good girl-

You succumbed to the overwhelming feeling as you arched your back and threw your head backwards, clenching around Simon’s cock like a vice as he lay still, moaning into your ears as he waited till you came down from your high. He hissed as he took out his drenched dick, furiously pumping it as you slumped onto Price.

S-Simon…

You urged him on as you shakily caressed his neck; he rested his forehead on yours as he finally came, uttering strings of "yes" and your name as he let out ropes of white onto your tummy.

Good job, you did so well for us...such a good, good girl...and you did well too Simon...

Price purred as he gave Simon’s hair a ruffle before kissing your head as well. You breathed out with a satisfying smile as you picked up some of Simon’s spend and watched it trail around your finger, utterly in bliss as Simon watched you lick it and moan around your own digits.

God damn minx...

All three of you took a moment to calm down, basking in the afterglow, before you felt Price holding you up and carrying you to the sofa nearby, carefully placing you down on the soft fabric as he motioned to Simon with a tilt of his head. You heard shuffling sounds; presumably Simon was picking up his and your stuff as Price left, only to return later with a damped hanky as he wiped your tummy and thighs, being attentive as he avoided your sensitive area.

You blushed at the softness of their actions as Simon helped you wear back your skirt. You tried to sit up to leave only to be pushed back down by Price.

Rest for a bit, I’ll drive you back later.

You know where I live?

I don’t, as a matter of fact, but you can tell me later, alright, sweetheart?

You nodded and lay back down as Simon sat down beside you, with Price looming over you as he sat on the couch armrest.

A few silent moments passed before you cleared your throat as you spoke.

So do you guys do this often?...

Simon snapped his head back to you with widened eyes as you smiled, gesturing to yourself as you laughed.

Fucking your students, I mean...

No. We’ll admit, you’re the first.

Price said confidently as he poked your forehead, shaking his head in disapproval before he thought for a moment, locking his eyes with Simon, seeing his neck burning up as he turned away.

But we do have fun with each other sometimes.

John.

Oh, come on, it’s obvious now, isn’t it?

You hummed back as you stared at Simon, then back at Price, giggling slightly when Price flashed you a grin as Simon's face grew redder by the second.

Is that true, Simon?

He doesn’t answer you, only grunting as he glares at you from the corner of his eyes. You gave a laugh as you patted his back gently, grinning as you took in his bashful look, one that you wished to commit to your memory forever.

You wonder how the next encounter with them will be like as you let the situation sink in. Oh my god, you were quite literally fucked by your lecturers.

Next time, we should probably do this somewhere else. We can’t have others bother us again.

Simon nods at that as he rests his head on the couch beside you. 

wait….there’s a next time???

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

a/n: okay look, Idk if anyone knows what im talking about when I was describing the undies, its these ones from Uniqlo- they're literally the most comfy undies ever and the lace doesn't itch at all XD I swear they're cute, anyways- come say hi in chocolate if you want to hear more of my thoughts with the fic

comments and reblogs are always appreciated :D

➵ chocolate

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by @thesingularityseries thank you <3

so I've started working on the British Gangster AU for Rory and TF141, very much in the vein of Guy Ritchie/Quentin Tarantino - told in a weird timeline format, lots of hopping between character POVs, etc.

snippet gets kind of long (sorry) and is still VERY rough. Also, the MI5 officers are absolutely written to basically be Statham and Vinnie Jones... so yeah...

warning for mentions of violence and criminal activities

Thames House, MI5 Headquarters, London, UK

It's not the first time Rory Sinclair has found herself inside an interrogation room, it's certainly the first time she's been the one to be questioned however…

Hazel eyes roam around the room. It’s the same sterile grey they always are, a mirror on the wall she knows the camera is set up on the other side of recording her, cheap mic on the table picking up audio, the uncomfortable metal chairs the authorities will keep a person chained to as if they lost all rights the moment they walked through the door. 

And before her are two carbon copied hardboiled officers: matching ill-fitting suits, close-cropped shaved heads, five o’clock shadows, and appearing as though they’ve both broken and have had their noses broken several times over. 

Manicured nails tap against the table top, french tips clicking against fake wood laminate. One leg crossed over the other as her foot bounces in time to a tune on replay in her head to keep herself occupied. One way or another... Fixing the way her coat sits to keep out the cool air from the AC they've clearly turned up to make her less comfortable and therefore more willing to talk. Focus lazily swinging from one officer to the other like a pendulum. 

Uninterested. 

Apathetic. 

She yawns as a set of files is tossed in front of her, skidding across the table, covers falling open, and before her sits the faces of four men.

The two officers sitting across from her put on their best good cop, bad cop performance as they give her the stare down - except one of them forgot to play soft.  Arms crossed, sullen faces, tight jaws. 

Real hardasses. 

“Miss Sinclair, it's in your best interest to realize that your choice of career puts you in direct contact with some less than savoury individuals,” the first officer husks. “These four especially, been keeping tabs on them for some time now. Drugs, weapons, illegal gambling, murder – all in a day's work for the 141, eh?”

She offers no reaction at all, there wasn’t a rap sheet in the world that could surprise her anymore. Her career was built on representing individuals with longer lists of crimes than that. Her stoneface response clearly isn’t the reaction the authorities were hoping for with the way they lean in towards her, cutting into her personal space, black tea on their breath permeating the air.  

“Ever heard of ‘em, love?”

Rory leans back in her seat, hands sliding into her lap as her heel continues its monotonous motion. “Can't say that I have, no.” 

“Then permit us to inform you, miss.” 

The larger brute of an officer thrusts his finger towards the first picture, a ragged, roughly bitten nail pointing to a stocky man with a steely gaze, mutton chops, and a neck tattoo. “This ‘ere's the leader. Goes by ‘The Captain’ – Jonathan Price.” 

Price

“Been at this since the age of sixteen…” 

The warehouse sits quiet, still, and dark. Water-stained windows, milky and clouded, creak and rattle with the ocean air from the nearby harbour. The giant factory doors open with a squeal, and the silhouetted forms of four inky figures stand there in the night as a body hung from the rafters by chains swings to and fro, murmuring from behind a strip of duct tape. The night is foggy, and the wisps of vapour crawl into the abandoned building. Shafts of light that beam in through the holes in the corrugated metal roofing cut shadows across the faces of the visitors in tailored suits, long overcoats, and leather shoes. 

Silent surroundings are broken by the tapping of soles on concrete and the rasp of a match being lit as it’s held up to the recently snipped end of a Villa Clara cigar, sparking it to life with a burning orange glow. A heavy plume of smoke is blown out, swirling and thick as it trails up towards the worn openings above – the only thing allowed to escape the oppressive stare of sharp blue eyes. 

Tape is ripped from the mouth of the man swinging idly from the chains that bind him, mouth left raw and red as adhesive is torn away from skin and stubble.  

“Where did you think you were, York?” he whispers hoarsely around the stub of his cigar as he stands before the hanged man, arms crossed over his chest. There’s no need to raise his voice – his figure, his name, is intimidating enough. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout, Price.” The hanged man huffs out a nervous laugh, pleading with someone who he knows off reputation alone is merciless. “Don’t know how the bastards in London handle things, but Liverpool – this is my city, yeah?” “Course it is, innit.” 

If York had hands available to hold up in surrender he would. Waving the white flag in the presence of the head of England’s most powerful gang in a heartbeat. It was rare for a person to be given the opportunity to meet with Price in person and it usually wasn’t for good reason. He had people to handle these sorts of things, and more important matters to attend to. But, sometimes, a person needed reminding of just who sat at the top and how much power he wields. Power that he ruthlessly holds onto. Whether it's the Irish, the Russians, or the cartels who try to step into his territory, he offers no leeway, never an inch spared. This is his territory, a hunting ground he worked his way up to the top to attain and he won’t let that slip through his fingers for love nor money.

He says nothing more on the matter as cold, unreadable eyes look up at his prey from under a heavy brow. John doesn’t see the point in wasting his words or his breath when it's no longer necessary. His point has been made well known, and the body – when it’s found – will take care of the rest.

With another puff of smoke released, he slinks back into the shadows, Gaz at his right hand, leaving his two guard dogs to handle the rest. He can trust them to handle matters properly with little oversight. His Lieutenant, Riley, has no trouble keeping MacTavish on a leash.

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[chaosbarelycontained]

You Know I Think I Recognise Your Face

North Country Boy Chapter 2

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!OC

TW: swearing, angst, awkward teenagers (yeah, I know)

Words: 2.1k

Synopsis: Jules meets some of her new team mates and lets the Lt know where her boundaries lie.

Captain Price awkwardly cleared his throat, shaking Jules from her frozen state. With a pointed look at his Lieutenant, Price then addressed his new Sergeant.

“Drop your kit in your room and join us for tea, eh? Don’t let it get cold.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied.

Moving to follow him out of the briefing room she felt a hand wrap around her wrist.

“Ju…” Riley began, his voice quiet and low.

Her eyes glanced down to where his hand rested on her and then they were back on his face. She stared him down coldly without even a hint of expression until he released his grip and then she made her way out of the briefing room without a single backward glance, stooping to grab her kit bag as she passed.

Standing before the door to Room 3B, Jules stared at the handle and the card scanner above it. Price hadn’t given her the key-card. In the absence of any other option, she slid the card for her old room from the pocket of her pants and tapped it against the scanner, which chirped and flashed green. Jules smirked a little at the Captain’s deviousness and pushed down the handle.

The room was as nondescript as any other billet she’d bunked in over the years. She lay her kit bag down on the foot of the perfectly-straight covers and made a perfunctory scan around the space. There was a small window above the head of the bed, the sky beyond already beginning to take on the dusky hue of twilight, and a closed door to the left. Opening it, Jules was relieved to find a sink, toilet, and shower. The usual single wardrobe, chest of drawers, and bedside table completed the ensemble and she gave a small hum of satisfaction before making her way back downstairs to the mess.

Following the clamour of voices and the clatter of cutlery against china, Jules quickly located the mess again after Price’s rapid tour earlier. She pushed open the door and was hit by a wall of noise and smells of food from the kitchens. Casting her eye about she did a recce of the room and quickly surmised the order of things. Grabbing a tray from the stack by the wall she joined the queue at the hatch and then had her plate filled with a hearty beef stew and dumplings. Nodding her thanks to the server she found an empty seat at the end of one of the tables, filled a glass with water from the jug in the middle, and then settled in to eat her tea.

She’d barely managed two mouthfuls before her elbow was jostled by someone taking the seat to her left whilst another sat in front of her. She acknowledged both of them with a small nod and then went back to eating her food. When the expected conversation openers didn’t arrive she looked up to see both soldiers staring at her, broad grins on their faces. Swallowing awkwardly Jules offered them a strained smile in return but they said nothing and just carried on staring.

“Hi?” she said in bemusement.

“Hey,” one responded, whilst the other gave a “hullo”.

“Can I…help you?”

“Just comin’ ta gi’ ye a welcome,” the guy to her left said, his words thick with a Scottish accent.

“Thanks,” she replied, forking up another mouthful of stew.

“So you’re the spook from The Duke’s?” the other asked in reference to her affiliations with the Lancs and the SRR.

“That’s me.”

“Proper chatterbox aren’t ye?” the first teased, leaning his cheek on his hand.

Jules remembered him from the briefing now, one of the guys who’d heckled the Captain. MacTavish, he’d called him.

“MacTavish, right?” she asked.

“Aye!” He grinned, his eyes lighting up when she recalled his name. “That’s me. This is Gaz,” he added nodding at the fella opposite, who saluted goodnaturedly.

“Jules,” she offered, taking a gulp of her water as she mentally tried to match the names she’d been given to the list of 141 members that had been on Price’s data drive.

“Get an offer ye couldn’t refuse?” MacTavish pushed.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Captain there, gave ye an offer? Dug ye oot of a hole?”

Jules eyed him suspiciously and he held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Don’ worry yeself, I’m no prying. Ye don’ have te say.”

“Let’s just say I had a problem with some orders, yeah?” Jules smirked, raising her glass again.

“Amen to that,” Gaz agreed, holding out his fist which Jules bumped with her own.

“Gaz…that’s Garrick, right?” she asked, which he confirmed with a nod. “You’re from the Duke’s too, yeah?”

Gaz opened his mouth to respond but his words stalled as he glanced over Jules’ shoulder towards the door. Raising his chin in greeting at whoever had entered, he then turned his attention back to her.

“Yeah, I did my time at Kimberley, so did the Lt, actually. Hey Ghost!” he called across the room. “The newbie’s one of ours.”

Jules stiffened in her chair at the mention of the Lieutenant’s name. She saw MacTavish beckoning him over and held her breath, trying to focus on getting another forkful of stew into her mouth in an attempt to disguise the rising tide of her anger. To her utter relief she saw him shake his head and leave the room with his plate of stew.

“Thought we had him there for a minute, Soap,” Gaz sighed, shaking his head.

“Soap?” Jules asked, a little confused.

“Aye, tha’s me,” MacTavish said.

“Why Soap?”

“‘Cause he’s good at cleaning house,” Gaz offered, whilst MacTavish beamed at her.

Jules couldn’t suppress the snicker that bubbled up from her throat, grateful for the distraction. It was short-lived, however, when Soap began his “not prying” line of questions once more.

“So ye ken oor Ghostie then?” he asked, not missing Jules awkwardness.

“Like I said before, I used to. Not seen him in ten years,” she shrugged off the question.

“Ooooh, so you know the man behind the mask…” Gaz speculated, his eyes widening with the anticipation of gossip.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Jules replied, swallowing the last of her water. “A lot can change in that amount of time.”

“But what’s he look like though?” he pressed, eager for any speck of gossip about their Lt.

“What d’ya mean?” Jules asked, becoming more perplexed by the minute.

“Never takes his mask off,” Soap offered with a shrug.

“You mean never as in…never? At all?” Jules’ voice was thick with incredulity.

“Nope, never.”

“Crazy-arse bastard,” she muttered, filing away that piece of information for later.

The two soldiers still stared at her expectantly, as if she were about to divulge some key piece of intel but she left them disappointed. She stood, scraping her chair backwards as she gathered her plate and cutlery.

“Sorry gents, it’s been a long and very weird day. I’m gonna turn in for some early shut eye ‘cause I’m sure tomorrow’s goin’ t’be just as crazy.”

“Too right,” Gaz agreed, but Jules had already left the table.

She deposited her tea things by the wash-up station and left the mess. The list of duties for the next day had already been pinned to the noticeboard opposite so she took a second to check it and groaned internally. For all intents and purposes it looked like she’d been let off lightly. There was an equipment audit scheduled for the afternoon and she wondered what that might entail but it was the morning’s activity that concerned her the most. It was a skills assessment which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have phased her but this one wasn’t led by the Captain, it was led by Lieutenant Riley. Shit.

Jules’ plans for an early kip were scuppered. Her brain just wouldn’t switch off and, after a couple of hours of tossing and turning she gave up. Leaving her bed with a frustrated huff she stuffed her feet into her trainers and made her way down to the mess for a glass of milk to try and reset her racing thoughts. Voices filtered into the corridor from the mess and she slowed her pace, automatically making her steps lighter and almost soundless.

“Ach, come on Lt, gi’ us a bit o’ somethin’ eh?” Soap’s voice carried loudly.

“Leave it alone, Johnny,” came the low and slightly muffled rumble from behind Ghost’s mask.

“Not even the tiniest bit of back story?” Gaz probed.

“I told you, I’m not gonna talk about it. We knew each other a long time ago, that’s it. You old hags are gonna have t’get your gossip somewhere else.”

It was then that Jules stepped into the room, which fell silent as the three guys turned their eyes in her direction.

“Don’t mind me,” she muttered, keeping her head down as she searched for the milk in the fridge.

“You joining us for a brew?” Gaz asked, shaking his mug of tea in her direction.

“No, ta,” she replied as she located the milk and filled herself a glass.

“Cannae sleep?” Soap queried sympathetically.

“Summat like that,” Jules said, downing her drink and then rinsing her glass. “Night, fellas.”

With a nod of acknowledgement to Gaz and Soap’s chorus of “g’night”, she left the room. Ghost had remained silent, simply folding his arms over his chest, but she could feel his stare boring between her shoulder blades long after she’d left his line of sight.

* * * * *

Juliette looked up from her desk, startled by the cough from her bedroom door. Her cheeks flamed red as she saw Simon lounging in the doorway, a lop-sided grin on his face.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked, nodding with his chin towards her book.

“Wuthering Heights,” she groaned, dying internally at the thought of her messy hair and the giant spot that had erupted on her forehead the night before. “I gotta annotate three chapters for homework.”

“Homework?” he scoffed. “You’re such a swot, Jules.”

“I am not,” she protested, shifting a stack of notes underneath the latest issue of Just 17 magazine. “I can’t understand the bloody thing anyway.”

“You got Mr Benedict for English?” Simon asked and when she nodded he stepped further into her room.

Juliette’s heart skipped a beat and she almost forgot how to breathe when Simon leaned over her desk and took her pen from her hand.

“I had him too, he loves Wuthering Heights. You need to be highlighting bits like this…and this…” he drew circles around phrases in the book. ‘And make sure you talk about pathetic fallacy. He’ll go mental for that.”

“Cheers, Simon,” she beamed and he smiled back at her.

“Not a fan of English then?” he asked as he straightened up and looked around at her room a bit more.

She prayed that she’d remembered to put all her dirty washing in the basket and that he wouldn’t notice the poster of Damon Albarn that she’d ripped out of Just 17 and pinned to the wall next to her bed.

“Nah, I like I.T. and Maths,” Juliette admitted, and she really did.

She loved computers and how they worked. Miss Talbot had promised to give her extra classes on coding if she passed her end of topic test next week.

‘Told you, you’re a total swot. Maybe even a geek.”

“Am not!”

“Yeah you are,” he teased, laughing as she smacked him on the arm. “I gotta go. If you need any more help just tap me up.”

“Yeah?” Juliette blushed again, relishing the thought of maybe spending more time with him without Rob being his usual twatty self.

“Course.”

“Mint,” she exclaimed, “Thanks Simon.”

“Laters, Jules,” he said as he left her room, throwing her a cheeky wink.

Juliette groaned and let her head thunk onto her desk. Her heart pounded a rapid tattoo but at least she remembered how to breathe again. Lifting her head she gazed at the pages of the novel where Simon had made notes for her in his distinctive boxy script. She pulled the book closer to her, vowing to keep it forever, but then nearly vomited in embarrassment as she caught sight of the piece of paper that had lain just under it, the writing clearly visible. Down the centre of the paper was written the words TRUE LOVE with numbers next to each letter but it was the names at the top of the page that made Juliette want to crawl into a hole and never return.

Juliette Kelsall and Simon Riley.

She’d never be able to look him in the face again.

Taglist: @aykxz98

[mistydeyes]

Angel with soap please :)?

thank you sm for submitting! hope you have a great day!

link to the prompt list and 1k celebration!

prompt: angel - this time you're their knight in shining armor as you save them

pairing: John "Soap" Mactavish x fem!reader (codename: Iris)

warnings: swearing, violence, mention of weapons and injury

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

It had been three days since you lost contact with Soap. 72 hours of absolute hell as you all spent sleepless nights trying to find where he was following his recon mission with Ghost. "Fuck Johnny, where the hell are you?" Ghost mumbled and you yawned as Gaz filled everyone's mugs with another round of black coffee. "Have we tried the tunnel system?" you mused, picking up another map of the city. "We can look tomorrow, Laswell is sending a few Marines as backup," Price commented and you hoped he would finally offer you some reprieve. "Everyone gets some rest, we'll head out at 0500 tomorrow," he said after a moment and everyone raced out of the safe house's dining room to the bedrooms. As you attempted to get some sleep, you could see Ghost staring at the ceiling. "We'll find him tomorrow, I can feel it," you whispered and he turned to you. "I hope so Iris."

The next morning your geared up and split yourself with the 12 US Marines. You led your group through the darkened tunnel system, shining a light at anything that moved. "Any sign of him," you heard Gaz's voice crackle through the comms. You all updated your current status as you could feel the tension mounting. "Keep looking then, he has to be somewhere," Price commanded and you headed further East on the dimly lit concrete. Your boots sloshed around the mud and water as you continued. Eventually, you heard a subtle tapping on the walls. At first, you wrote it off as water droplets in a distant corridor but as they became more uniform, you thought otherwise.

"You hear that?" you asked your group and you silenced their chatter with a single hand movement. As you all listened intently, you realized it was Morse Code and spelled out the familiar S-O-S. Your heart filled with a glimmer of hope as you continued to track the source. No water droplets sounded like that and you hoped at the end of the tunnel you would find your missing Sergeant. Eventually, the sound's volume increased and you found it sounded like someone stomping a boot on the ground. "It's this way," one of the Marines said and you turned to regain the lead. As you flashed your lights down the hall, you could see a growing blood trail at your feet. "I think I have something," you crackled through the comms, "might need a medevac." "Keep us updated, Iris," Ghost demanded and you swear he sounded hopeful.

Before you rounded the corner, you stopped the group. "If he thinks we're one of them, he's going to shoot, let me go first and I'll send a signal," they nodded in response and you grabbed a flashlight from your vest before continuing. "Soap, it's Iris, we heard your SOS," you yelled and your voice echoed along the damp corridor. You waited another moment before continuing. "Johnny it's Y/N, we're here!" as you stopped, you could hear hoarse coughing to your left. You sprinted down the corridor and found a bloodied and bruised Mactavish leaning against the wall. He had two bullet wounds to his leg and arm as well as various cuts that would require antibiotics. "Iris?" he choked out and you ran to hold him. "He's here!" you shouted and you soon heard the boots of your group head in your direction. You wiped some of the dirt out of his face as he gripped you. "I'm here, Johnny, I found you," you reassured and your worry lifted as you saw a smile appear on his face. "Glad you're here, Iris."

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

So many projects, so little time... anyway, here's chapter 11, "The Battle-Sick"

Page 3 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable ?:

I was a wonderful thing, shaped for fighting, Loyal to my masters, I slayed living warriors, Friends and foes, I was a weapon of war. I shall never be avenged, shall I fall in battle, As I am cursed, in the eyes of kin and enemies, To be not a man, but a monster. I am starved, of blood and flesh, Alone I roam this land, a damned Beast.

Soap can feel Ghost’s gaze burning at his nape, questions left unanswered in the silent space between them.

In the span of a few hours, Soap saw someone else come out of Ghost’s actions. A man, buried years ago in dry earth, dead in all ways but physically. The man Captain Price mourned, the man he aspired to be.

The man that saved those children wasn’t the infamous Ghost. 

Soap brushes a shaky hand over his mouth, the metallic taste of blood still sticking to his teeth. He’s running out of adrenaline, he knows, and the wheezing of his breath seems to be only getting louder in the empty alleyways.

He trips over nothing, barely catching himself on the cold wall, when strong arms pull him up.

“Coffee shop, on our three. Hold on just a little longer.” Ghost murmurs, hand coming under his shoulders to support his weight.

Soap goes to answer, finding his voice weak and scratchy, “aye.”

Ghost’s breath on his neck is somewhat soothing, in a way Soap shouldn’t find from a man like him.

The coffee shop has seen better days, to say the least. The stairs to the first floor have collapsed, and the ground floor is completely trashed. Quite like everywhere else in the city, Soap bitterly thinks to himself.

Ghost lets him down on the only chair that seems stable in the shop, and turns to clear it of hostiles. Soap gets up to follow him, but his vision darkens the moment he tries to get on his feet, and he falls back with a huff.

It would’ve made him angry, to be left so useless, but…

Simon has been left paralyzed, defenceless, shoved a knife to his palm and bared his scarred throat, and still trusted him. Never looked at him with any less than…

Than what? What is that emotion, in Simon’s eyes, when he looks at Soap? He blinks away the dark tendrils encroaching on his vision, brows furrowed as he tries to keep a semblance of a train of thought.

Ghost returns before he can veer it back on track. “Please tell me you found somethin’ teh drink.” Soap groans.

“Affirmative, got us a tea.” Ghost spreads the supplies he gathered from around the shop on the table next to Soap, teabags among the bottles of water and scrap fabric.

Soap sneers, “awa’ an’ bile yer heid, we’re in a fuckin’ coffee shop and ye pull out tea, fuckin’ Brits-”

His list of expletives is cut by rough coughing, and Soap has to spit out the excess mucus on the floor. Ghost crouches down, and gently cups his cheek. Soap’s eyes snap to his. Whatever emotion is swirling in those dark brown eyes, he still can’t name, but it makes his heart twist.

Ghost tilts his head up, brushing fingers over the probably bruised skin of his neck, “have any trouble breathing?”

Soap’s breath catches, not from any physical wound, “no. Jus’... throat pain. Ah didn’t lose consciousness.” cold hands soothe over his bruises, making him involuntarily sigh.

Ghost nods, “tea will help with that.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles as he pulls back his hands, Soap almost chasing them. Fatigue is starting to take its toll on him, and his head feels like it weighs more than a LTV right about now. A tap to his cheek makes him open his eyes (when did he close them?), “can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

That’s the only warning he gets before a wet towel brushes over his mouth, sweeping over flaking, dried blood. “Surprised the wee ones weren’t afraid o’ either of us. One skull-faced bastard, the other looks like a damn vampire.”

Silent laughter shakes Ghost’s shoulders, “those kids were tough ones, swear they were about to fight me when we first met.”

“Tougher than they need teh be, at their age.”

Ghost’s movements become somber.

Soap catches one of the many questions floating through his tired mind, “why’d you save ‘em?”

The towel is thrown to the side, replaced by a dry one, “...I wanted to.” Ghost simply answers.

It doesn’t satisfy him, “that why ye worked with the Hunter?”

Ghost’s hands freeze for a short moment, before continuing to softly clean Soap’s neck. His words weren’t said with anger, but the harshness of them remained all the same. It leaves a bitter note in Soap’s mouth.

At what point did seeing Ghost get hurt by his words stop bringing any sort of satisfaction?

“I worked with the Hunter because… I worked with anyone. No questions asked, no job too dirty for me. Not that it was ever about money.”

Ghost lowers his hands, resting them in his own lap. His eyes drift downwards, lost in the past, “I did what I did because I didn’t know anything else. Survival meant fighting, and it didn’t matter who.”

Ghost rises to his feet, taking a cup off the nearby shelf and setting about to make the tea, “as long as there was blood on my hands that wasn’t mine, I knew I was alive.”

Soap opens his mouth, cruel words at the tip of his tongue, but he falters when Ghost’s really hit him.

Because he knows that feeling.

That hunger for violence, that need to feel bones break under his hands, a yearning stronger than anything for fresh blood. It is not a want, it is not something they take pleasure in. It’s simply the only way to feel alive. For Soap, it may be only for the Hunter and their soldiers. 

But when you’re constantly trying to survive, won’t the whole world start to look like an enemy?

“Why didn’t you stay with the civilians?” Ghost shakes him from his reverie.

The answer is stupidly simple. “I told ye we’re doing this together.” Soap stares deeply into Ghost’s widening eyes, “and I meant it.”

“But…” Ghost sighs, “we don’t have a way to find the Hunter.”

He hands Soap a cup, the aromatic tea somewhat pleasant for once. It is cold, but it does help the scratchiness in his throat as it goes down.

“Aye… We’ll-” a yawn cuts off Soap’s sentence, “we’ll need teh catch another fecker, maybe…”

Ghost’s eyes narrow at him, “what you need to do is sleep, Sergeant. You can’t even stand on your feet, can you?”

Soap scoffs, “‘course Ah can, ye weapon.” he thumped the mug down on the table, and held on it for dear life as he tried to rise from the chair.

Ghost caught him no more than 2 seconds later, when Soap’s face was about to have a very personal meeting with the dirty floor.

“Of course you can, huh?” Ghost goads.

Soap drops heavily back down, “wheesht.”

“Speak English.” he can fucking hear the smirk on Ghost’s lips.

Soap drops his head, finally giving in to the need to just crumple, “means shut yer puss…”

A hand on his hair surprises him, but Soap doesn’t dare move as fingers card through the tangles. It feels really nice… almost putting him to sleep.

Ghost’s voice is soft when he orders him, “c’mon, I’m sure we can find you a better spot for a nap than on a stool.”

He doesn’t really answer, far too knackered to be coherent. Soap feels the hand recede, and footsteps echo farther and farther away from him. A few minutes later, Ghost returns to urge him up, “set up some blankets and pillows behind the counter.”

Soap appreciates the attempt to keep him in the know, but at this point he’d let Ghost lead him over a cliff, and he won’t complain one bit.

The makeshift bed reminds Soap of the shitty pillow forts he would build with his sister back when they were kids, and the blurry memories make him suppress a laugh. With the way Ghost is staring at him, Soap thinks the giggles make him all the more concerned.

And what a concept that is. Ghost, concerned over his well-being.

Ghost lets him down carefully, wrapping him with moth-eaten blankets. Compared to the last “bed” Soap slept in, this is as good as a five-star hotel.

He can barely keep his eyes open, but Soap, as aware as he is in his compromised status, can’t let his guard down when Ghost turns to walk away. He manages to catch the sleeve of the giant man, and dark eyes turn to stare at him.

“Yer… yer not gonna leave me, right?” he mumbles.

Ghost stops, “just gonna go keep watch by the window. Not leaving.”

Sleep claws on Soap’s eyelids, and it takes far too much willpower to keep them open, “stay ‘here Ah can see ye… Don’ run off now…..”

The last thing he hears before he goes unconscious is, “never, Johnny.”

Gentle fingers card through his hair.

“Johnny.”

John groans, unwilling to open his eyes and start the day.

“Wake up, love.”

“‘S too early for that shite, let me sleep.” he burrows deeper into his pillow, enveloped in warmth and safety.

His pillow starts, very rudely, shaking with laughter, “fine, you lazy bastard.”

That voice… sounds familiar. Familiar in the way a knife’s weight is in John’s hand, in the way blood spills over his wounds, like the buzz of adrenaline in a fire fight.

Yet John feels… safe.

Gentle fingers card through his tangled hair. Why would it be tangled? Isn’t he at home?

“Can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

John frowns, “my face is clean.”

Hands tilt his face up. There’s some sort of tackiness to his skin, he notices. A metallic taste bursts on his tongue.

John opens his eyes.

Dirty blond hair, messy from a mask pulled off non too kindly, rich brown eyes wide in surprise, dark like a grave’s fresh dirt. Scars leave valleys and hills on pale skin.

The features are there, but John can’t make sense of them. A stranger’s face, yet it feels so familiar.

Perhaps it is only the emotion carved into it, fear and shock twisting the man’s eyes.

Soap wakes up with a start, grasping tightly at the thin blankets wrapped around him. It takes him a few seconds to shake off the dream’s warmth, to feel again how cold the coffee shop really is. He takes a cursory look around - Ghost must have left for overwatch while he was sleeping.

He eventually forces himself to get up, encouraged by the fact that his legs stay somewhat steady under his weight.

“Ghost?” 

Soap walks over to the wider area of the coffee shop, where once there were floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed patrons to bask in the sun while drinking, but now are shattered.

In a dark, hidden corner, that Soap almost dismissed immediately, a huddled shape rested against the wall. Ghost’s dark gear blends near perfectly into the shadows. Soap is sure, if he wasn’t looking for the damn man, he’d never find him.

He has to step closer to actually see his eyes through the mask and darkness. Ghost is completely out, so still, he might as well be dead.

Soap huffs. In the entire time they’ve been fighting together, he’s never seen him asleep. The nearest thing to it was the rest in the shed, but even then Soap knew Ghost was constantly ready to strike, if it were needed.

Here, curled into a small ball, hands wrapped around himself, Ghost looks so unnaturally small and harmless. 

Soap doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Ghost shifts, murmuring something under his breath and curling further into himself. 

He scoffs internally and turns to find something to eat. The fuck is he doing, thinking this giant international criminal is cute. He blames that weird fucking dream he had, as well as a million different other excuses.

Soap repeats the mantra in his head ‘He’s not fuckin’ cute, he’s not goddamn endearing’, as he finds a couple of sandwiches that seem to be edible enough. He collects enough for Ghost as well, for when the bastard wakes up.

Whining from the dark corner makes him freeze.

Soap turns to look at Ghost, his shoulders now taut and shuddering, “...Ghost?”

“N-no… I wouldn’t… I’m sorry…” Ghost whispers, eyes scrunched shut.

Nightmare. Soap wonders if that’s what Ghost saw back in the shed. “Ghost”, he calls again, louder, the previous calmness he felt washed away.

Ghost’s hands crease his black jacket, leather gloves cricking in his tight grip, “I’m sorry… P-Price…”

He knows he shouldn’t get closer, that night terrors can make the friendliest of soldiers hostile, when shrouded by conjured nightmares and warped memories. But the sight of Ghost in that state makes Soap feel the need to do something, anything to help him.

He chances a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, “...Simon? Wake up, yer safe-”

Muscles bulge as they shoot up at him, Ghost wraps his hand around Soap’s, and in a blink, they’re on the floor. He pins him down by the neck, heavy breathing and shaking.

It hurts tenfold, to be choked for the second time in a few hours. Soap claws at the massive arms, attempts to lessen their heavy weight on his windpipe. Even in his sleep, Ghost is a force to be reckoned with.

When Soap sees those dark eyes open, searching wildly for hostiles, he thinks that perhaps, in his sleep, Ghost is even more terrifying. Fighting against the worst his mind can think of.

“S-Simon-” Soap manages to whisper.

The hands retreat instantly, and Soap turns to his side, coughing and massaging his wounded neck.

Ghost has crawled backwards until he hit the wall, eyes still wide open, their whites standing out over black painted skin. Soap heaves himself to his knees, moving closer to the shivering man. But Ghost shakes his head.

“Don’t-” Ghost says between breaths, “stay back.”

Soap, as he often does, refuses to listen, “why?”

Brown eyes flicker down to his neck before returning to his, “I’ll hurt you.”

“Ye won’t.” Soap stops in front of him, sitting back on his haunches.

Soap can see the tension still wrecking though Ghost, muscles trembling with fatigue and soreness. He chances a hand again, laying it on Ghost’s shoulder. The body under his palm freezes.

He leans in closer, tries to see inside Ghost’s eyes to his thoughts. 

This close, he can see just how pale his eyelashes are, how there are flecks of black shoot through the rich brown umber of his eyes. Something about them draws Soap in, in a way an oil painting would. How dark Ghost’s eyes are, how his pupils blend with the sclera.

“Johnny-” Ghost whispers, “the mask…”

Soap’s brows crease, “ye want me to take it off?”

“Please.” 

At his begging tone, Soap doesn’t hesitate, and slowly slides a hand over the skull, pulling it up and off.

Simon stares up at him, his eye black running down his cheeks, from tears or rain, he's not so sure anymore. At that moment, Soap realizes what emotion lingers in Simon’s eyes wherever he looks at him.

Faith.

Simon… has faith in him. More wholly than Soap remembers ever seeing.

Not just in life and death, but with this as well. With his most vulnerable moments. It shines through so clearly now, the serenity over Simon’s features the longer he looks at Soap.

He looks…

“Beautiful…”

Simon frowns in confusion, “what?”

Soap presses a thumb to the dark tear tracks, swiping under Simon’s eyes. “Yer bonnie. Never… noticed before.”

Simon opens his mouth to answer, and it breaks Soap from the trance he was stuck in. He pulls his hand away, as if it was burned, and wrecks his mind for a way to veer the conversation away from his stupid, weird behaviour.

Stupid steamin’ dream, stupid Simon with his stupidly pretty eyes, stupid-

“Ye said Price’s name. When ye were…”

Simon looks away, lips curving downwards minutely, “don’t remember.”

Soap sighs. Should’ve expected the deflection-

“He was… my captain. Before.” Simon murmurs, eyes on the broken shards of glass scattered on the floor. “I haven’t seen ‘im in years, not since I became legally dead.”

Soap can imagine. He remembers, even in his brief interactions with the Captain, just how much it was obvious that Simon meant a lot to him. If he knew Simon was Ghost, surely Price would-

“That’s it.” Simon murmurs, eyes alight with a new fire. Soap raises an eyebrow, and Simon turns to face him fully.

Gone is the softness in his tone when he says, “I know how we can get to the Hunter.” 

Ghost stands up, offering a hand for Soap, “we need to get our hands on a radio.” Ghost leaves him behind as he starts collecting their equipment.

Soap follows him, shoving a still wrapped sandwich in his hands, “what are ye planning, Simon?”

Those dark eyes stare at him with newfound conviction, as Ghost pulls the mask back over his head.

“There’s only one other person who would be able to locate the Hunter in this city.”

Soap’s brows shoot up when he understands.

“Captain Price…”

[stevethehairington]

✨ Mack's Stranger Things Fic List ✨

✨ Most Recent Work:

for all the pretty mouths and pretty words | 5.4k | steddie

Eddie snags both drinks with a thanks to the bartender and turns to head back towards Steve. Things have been going well, things have been going really well — not even that rocky start could put a wrench into things, and the note they left off on before Eddie slipped away was promising. Eddie is eager to see where the rest of the night will take them. He has high hopes.

But, as Eddie is intimately familiar with, highs are not meant to last, and hopes are easy to lose.

Things, meet wrench.

He makes it three steps when his stride stutters because — oh. That’s. That’s Steve, with a girl. A pretty girl. With short, sandy brown hair and freckles. It’s the same pretty girl Eddie had seen with him earlier. The one he’d thought, for a second, might be Steve’s girlfriend. He’d let himself hope she wasn’t, when he first approached, and let himself start to actually believe it when he’d tried his hand at flirting and Steve had flirted back.

But now...

Now Eddie’s not so sure.

Or, the one where Steve puts his foot in his pretty mouth and Eddie pays the price. Featuring: cherry stems, half smoked cigarettes, and the world's biggest misunderstanding.

✨ Completed Works (below the cut):

the privilege of being yours | 3.1k | steddie

“What do you think?” Eddie asks, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve laughs, already reaching for Eddie’s ankle. He curls his fingers around it and gives it a tug, beckoning Eddie closer. “They’re perfect, you’re perfect. I love them,” he adds, as Eddie scooches into his space.

Steve cups both of his hands to Eddie’s face and kisses him right on the center of his mouth. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he says.

The kiss turns into something else as Eddie’s lips split against Steve’s, and he murmurs back against them, “I can’t wait to marry you.”

When they break apart, Steve taps Eddie’s knee. “Okay, where’s the rest of your sense of tradition? I showed you mine, you show me yours now.”

“Oh, I’ll show you tradition alright,” Eddie responds, and he reaches for his left sleeve.

Or, the one where Steve and Eddie share a rooftop, beloved traditions, and so much love.

✨

hold your breath and just dive right in | 4.5k | steddie

“Come on, man, what are you waiting for?” Steve calls, several feet out from the shore where he’s treading water with a perfect, practiced ease. Fucking show off. “An invitation?”

“Ha ha,” Eddie shouts back, deadpan. He makes no movement towards the water, though. Just digs his toes into the sand and wiggles them, watching the tiny grains spill into the spaces between and swallow his feet.

He glances up to stare out at the lake, and his stomach roils uneasily at its vastness. The other end is visible from where he stands, but it still seems so far away. They’re nowhere near the middle either, and even Steve isn’t that far out. It still makes Eddie nervous.

The funny thing is, it isn’t even his recent experiences with Lover’s Lake that’s putting this horrible feeling in his gut. Well, okay, maybe it is a little bit. But mostly, it’s because Eddie already didn’t like the water before that. He’s never been a fan.

Because Eddie Munson does not know how to swim.

Or, the one where Eddie Munson does not know how to swim, and Steve Harrington is nothing if not the perfect teacher.

✨

keep me on a rope | 6.6k | steddie, unrequited stommy

Tommy wipes his palms against the side of his jeans and squeezes through the crowd, never once taking his eyes off of Steve as he makes a beeline right for him.

He’s a couple feet away, gearing up to call out his greeting when someone else beats him to it and sidles up to Steve. They touch Steve, putting their palm low on his waist, half tucked up under his blazer. It’s an intimate touch, an almost possessive one in a very casual sort of way.

Tommy freezes in his tracks.

Steve perks up in the presence of his new company, back straightening and body turning into theirs — receptive, familiar.

He tilts his head, just enough that Tommy can see the smile gracing his lips, the softness in his eyes, and the other person dips their own chin, leaning in to whisper something into Steve’s ear. Their curtain of hair sways forward, brushing against Steve’s collar, and Steve reaches up to tuck it behind their ear, giving Tommy a clear view of—

Of Eddie Munson.

Or, Tommy Hagan attends his ten year high school reunion hoping for one thing, and leaves with something else entirely.

✨

trippin stumbling flippin fumbling | 5k | steddie

“Don’t be such a coward,” Eddie tells himself. “Fucking— go.”

His body doesn’t move. Not even an inch. His ass stays glued to his seat, his feet firmly planted on the floor. His hands don’t leave ten and two.

“God dammit,” Eddie groans, dropping his forehead down to the wheel.

Except — he underestimates the distance, and rather than pressing into the top of the wheel between his hands, his forehead smacks squarely into the center of the horn.

He jerks back so fast he gives himself whiplash, but the damage is done. There is no taking back the short, sharp, loud honk that emits from the bowels of his traitorous van.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit,” Eddie hisses, eyes going wider than the moon hanging in the sky tonight.

He immediately slouches in his seat, sinking down as low as he can go. But it’s too late. He’s caught Steve and Robin’s attention now, and despite parking off to the side and a little further back, his set of wheels is unmistakable.

They’ve seen him. He can’t leave now. He has no choice but to go inside.

✨

when i turn out the lights | 1.8k | stommy

Steve tells everyone who asks him hat his first kiss was Sheila Anderson when he was fifteen years old.

But, really, that's not true.

It was Tommy Hagan. When he was fourteen.

Or, the one that tells the real story of Steve Harrington's first kiss.

✨

love grows (where my rosemary goes) | 3.2k | steddie

“Do you know you have, like, a trillion freckles on your face?” Steve asks right back, leaning in. His left hand winds itself around the strap of Eddie’s overalls, pulling him in too, and the right one catches Eddie’s jaw. It’s cold from his own lemonade glass, abandoned somewhere by his feet, and his thumb sweeps over the bridge of Eddie’s nose, the apples of his cheeks. Doubles back to tap the single freckle that sits right on the tip.

It’s true — Eddie does have freckles. Maybe not a trillion, but when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds like today and becomes a more permanent resident in the sky, those pesky little polka dots like to make their appearance, painting his face in faint faint dusting. They’re not obvious or anything; nobody really notices them unless they’re looking for them.

But that’s the thing about Steve. He’s always looking. Always seeing.

It’s why Eddie loves him so much.

It’s why — oh. He loves him.

✨

the strength to let it show | 3.2k | steddie

Steve keeps his voice quiet enough as he sings now, not wanting to disturb the masses just one room over, but it’s still loud enough for him to get a little lost in it. He matches the strokes of his sponge with the tune he’s singing and even starts to wiggle his hips along. It’s hard not to want to dance to this one — Bennie and the Jets, because it came on the radio in the car while he was making his rounds to pick up the kids, and it’s been stuck in his head ever since.

Most of the dishes are clean now, so all that’s left is the silverware. The casserole dish was the last of the major pieces. Steve’s just finishing rinsing it, letting the excess water sluice off the sides before he sets it on the kitchen island with the other plates waiting to be dried.

In the process of turning, two things happen at once:

1. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back as he belts out the chorus, “She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit, you know I read it in a magazine, oh. B-b-b-bennie and the jets!”

2. His eyes fly back open to land right on Eddie. where he stands in the doorway — no, leans in the doorway, like he’s been there a while, like he’s gotten comfortable.

So, the thing is, Steve likes Eddie.

As in, he kind of wants to date him. And to kiss him. And to be his boyfriend.

But, he also doesn’t want to tell him that. Not in so many words, anyways. Those have never been Steve’s strong suit, words. He always messes them up. Never picks the right ones, always ends up sticking his foot in his mouth. The thought of sitting Eddie down and making some big… confession is mildly (extraordinarily) terrifying. Big speeches and grand declarations usually are — don’t let the romcoms and the chick flicks fool you. They’re never as easy as they look.

He doesn’t not want to tell Eddie, though, either. So it’s… well, it’s a tricky situation.

Until Robin, brilliant brainy genius Robin, suggests that instead of telling him, he should just show him instead. That way Steve can avoid the dramatic deliverances and still get his point across, just in a way that’s comfortable for him. On his own time. At his own pace. He can gradually show his hand, can drop hint after hint until Eddie gets it (and Robin is confident that he will in no time at all).

So Steve does.

✨

shake it loose together | 6.3k | steddie

Steve keeps his voice quiet enough as he sings now, not wanting to disturb the masses just one room over, but it’s still loud enough for him to get a little lost in it. He matches the strokes of his sponge with the tune he’s singing and even starts to wiggle his hips along. It’s hard not to want to dance to this one — Bennie and the Jets, because it came on the radio in the car while he was making his rounds to pick up the kids, and it’s been stuck in his head ever since.

Most of the dishes are clean now, so all that’s left is the silverware. The casserole dish was the last of the major pieces. Steve’s just finishing rinsing it, letting the excess water sluice off the sides before he sets it on the kitchen island with the other plates waiting to be dried.

In the process of turning, two things happen at once:

1. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back as he belts out the chorus, “She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit, you know I read it in a magazine, oh. B-b-b-bennie and the jets!”

2. His eyes fly back open to land right on Eddie. where he stands in the doorway — no, leans in the doorway, like he’s been there a while, like he’s gotten comfortable.

✨

to my heart i must be true | 14.4k | steddie

Robin starts to smile, this big, evil grin that unfurls slowly across her face, and oh. Oh no. That’s not good. That’s never good. That always means trouble.

Robin sticks her hands on her hips and juts her chin out at Steve. “I bet I can get a Valentine’s date before you can,” she says, all arrogance.

Dustin and Lucas oooh at her fighting words, then turn to Steve for his rebuttal.

“Robin, Robin, are you sure you want to do that?” He asks, standing to his full height. His shoulders roll back, and he feels the patented Harrington Charm flooding back through his body like a switch has been flipped.

“Absolutely certain,” Robin replies, not backing down. She holds out her hand.

Steve shakes his head at her, then lets an easy, confident smile curl his mouth. “You’re gonna regret that,” he says, then smacks his palm into hers, “but you’re on.”

In which a bet is made, Steve’s prowess shines until it doesn’t, and sometimes things don’t end up the way they’re planned.

Sometimes, they end up better.

✨

i was thinking maybe i could lay beside you | 3k | steddie

Their room is the last door on the right, just like Joyce told them.

Eddie pushes inside first, immediately flicking the lights on. He spots their bags in the corner and beelines straight for them.

Steve, on the other hand, freezes in the doorway.

Because, oh. Oh.

There’s only one bed.

Which — Steve doesn’t know why this surprises him. This isn’t a hotel. It’s a guest room at a friend’s house. Of course it’s not going to have two beds in one room. He doesn’t know why he was expecting that.

But it’s — it’s fine. This is cool. He can share a bed for the night. He’s shared lots of beds in his day. There’s nothing different about this time.

Except that there is because he doesn’t have to share with just anybody. He has to share with Eddie.

Eddie, who hasn’t even batted an eye at the bed situation. Eddie, who seems cool as a cucumber about it. Eddie, who—

Who’s already shucked his shirt off and has his thumbs hooked into his sweats, about to tug those off too, and jesus fucking christ, Steve can’t do this. He cannot do this.

✨

in all your blame, in all your pain | 2.4k | steddie

When Eddie had gotten dragged headfirst into this alternate hellscape dimension, DnD monsters-come-to-life nightmare shitshow, no one told him that by the end of it he’d be offering himself up as bat bait to do his part in putting an end to it all.

No one told him that he’d wind up mangled and shredded and torn apart, but still, somehow, alive.

No one told him that he’d be bedridden for months afterwards, as his body stitched itself back together. That some days would be painful at best, while others would be downright excruciating. That he’d barely be able to walk at first, or bathe himself, or even eat on his own.

No one told him that healing would be the most grueling part of it all.

But those were all things that Eddie could get over. Things that, with time, he could forgive. After all, it’s not like anyone had known that that’s how it was going to play out.

What Eddie could not forgive, however, was the fact that no one, not one single member of their rather large, rather extensive party had told him just how much Steve god damn Harrington loved to play Florence fucking Nightingale in the aftermath.

✨

come and rest your bones with me | 2.6k | steddie

“We’re making a fort.”

Steve is barely even halfway through the door when he is accosted with the declaration. His slick raincoat is still zipped up, his wet umbrella still wide open and dripping onto the porch behind him.

“What?” He asks, fumbling to close the umbrella and shake it out before a stack of blankets are being shoved into his arms.

“We are making a fort,” Eddie repeats, grinning at Steve. He’s got his own heap of blankets bundled against his chest, and when Steve glances past his shoulder he can see that the bones of said fort are already mostly established — Wayne’s armchair has already been moved from its cozy corner of the room to now sit directly across from the couch, and the coffee table has been pushed to the side so as to not be a nuisance to the building process.

And, well, it sounds like a lot of fun, actually.

“Yeah, sure, alright,” Steve replies with a huff of a laugh.

✨

hash brown, egg yolk (i will always love you) | 2.8k | steddie

Six months is a long time to be apart. A long time to go without seeing Eddie in the flesh. Without hearing his laugh, low and melodic, right against the shell of his ear. Without hugging Eddie around the middle and hooking his chin over Eddie’s shoulder while he stands at the stove and pushes something delicious around a pan. Without kissing Eddie.

But so is the way of being married to a hotshot musician with a band that has more than made it big.

Because that's what Eddie is. And, god, Steve couldn’t be more proud.

Even if it does mean that sometimes he and Eddie have to go long stretches of time without seeing each other.

But that doesn’t matter anymore. Because Eddie is home now, and he’s going to be home for a while. Corroded Coffin just wrapped up the European leg of their tour (“Fucking Europe, Stevie! Can you believe it!”) and they’ve been given a month before their North American leg is set to start. A whole entire month that Eddie already promised he will be spending at home with Steve.

Starting today.

✨

stuck to the gum that's stuck on your shoe | 2.1k | platonic stobin

“Talk to me, Steve,” Robin says, “please.”

And now she sounds upset, and that makes Steve feel even worse.

He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to make Robin feel bad. She’s been so excited ever since she got that letter in the mail, going on and on about the linguistics program she’d been accepted into, about the campus and how gorgeous it is, about the surrounding city and how much there is to do there.

Steve doesn’t want to rain on that parade more than he already has.

But he knows that she’s going to wheedle it out of him eventually. Might as well rip the bandaid off now.

He can barely bring himself to say it. It hurts too much to acknowledge. But he does, because he has to. Because he will have to.

“You— you got into college, Rob. You’re going to leave,” Steve finally tells her. Whispers, because if he says it too loud he thinks he might break again.

“Oh, Steve,” Robin breathes.

✨

i wish i knew how (your eyes are like starlight now) | 10.6k | steddie

“Mistletoe!” Robin cheers, and Steve’s heart stutters so hard in his chest that he thinks it might crack his ribcage and drop right out the bottom of his stomach.

His eyes fly up, and, sure enough, there hangs one of the many sprigs hung all around the apartment. Small and inconspicuous, but unmistakable. That ridiculous little plant has no idea that it’s just turned Steve’s entire world on its axis.

Across from him, Eddie’s eyes are trained up too, big and round and wide where they stick on the mistletoe. His lips are parted in surprise, and Steve can’t help but stare and think am I going to kiss those now?

When Eddie finally tears his gaze from the plant and lets it flicker down to Steve, a pretty pink dusting blooms across the bridge of his nose and spreads into the apples of his cheeks when he finds Steve already looking back.

Steve spares the mistletoe one last quick peek before he takes a deep breath and steels himself. This is it. He sticks his hands on his hips, aiming for casual, and asks, “What do you say, Munson?”

Or, Steve makes a promise, Robin likes to meddle, and the spirit of Christmas strikes (out) again. And again. And again.

(Until it doesn’t.)

✨

under my umbrella | 5.8k | steddie

Steve sidles up to the bench. Munson stands at the other end of it, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring out at the street as if that will make the bus show up any quicker. His bangs are flat against his forehead, the rest of his long hair lank and wet over his shoulders.

He looks like a drowned cat.

So Steve holds out his umbrella. Tilts his chin and raises his eyebrows at Munson as an invitation to step under and get out of the rain.

Munson looks at the umbrella for less than a second before he turns back towards the street with a scoff. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m good.”

“Dude,” Steve says, dumbfounded.

“Dude,” Munson parrots mockingly.

“You’re really going to turn down my umbrella?” Steve asks, still holding it out.

“I really am,” Munson replies, showing all of his teeth in a rancorous smile. “Now if you don’t mind,” he adds, taking a large step forward, closer to the curb and further from Steve.

Steve lets out an indignant huff and pulls his umbrella back to himself. Only just refrains from muttering an unsavory name under his breath because he’s a good person now.

Whatever. Let Munson get soaked. Let him freeze.

✨

temptations of trouble | 2.8k | steddie

Eddie ignores the flip flopping in his stomach as he meets Steve’s gaze and fits his palms to either side of Steve’s jaw. Cradles his face like he’s something special now. (Because he is.)

And then he leans in to kiss him. Right on those pretty pink lips of his.

It’s short and sweet like it always is, but when Eddie pulls back and opens his eyes, he’s met with Steve’s, wide as fucking saucers, goggling unblinkingly back at him. He can feel Robin’s stare boring into the side of his face, can feel the tiny pinpricks of Nancy’s and Jonathan’s and Argyle’s on his back too. The whole room is quiet enough to hear a god damn pin drop.

Eddie is about to open his mouth and ask what the hell that’s all about when it finally catches up with him.

He just fucking kissed Steve fucking Harrington. On the mouth.

✨

waving down the wind | 10.3k | steddie

Eddie furrows his brows, and he’s about to ask Steve what he did come over here for, when Steve starts to shrug out of his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back and lets it slide down his upper arms.

“I came over here,” Steve starts, and he gives his arm a shake when the sleeve gets caught around his elbow. Once it’s off, he bunches his fist into the fabric of the collar. “To give you this,” he finishes and holds out the coat.

Eddie blinks down at it. Then he looks back up at Steve. “What?”

Or, three times Eddie looks cold and Steve does something about it, and one time he’s toasty warm.

✨

the world will follow after | 2.6k | steddie

Another glance at the clock and Steve really has to leave now. He barely has time to shove the piece of toast Eddie, so graciously, made for him (crisp, but not too crunchy, and definitely not burnt, with just the right amount of butter spread thin across the top) into his mouth before he’s running towards the door.

He’s about two steps away from it, hand already reaching for the knob, when Eddie catches him. He gives Steve's shoulders a squeeze, then spins Steve around and reaches for his collar next, fussing with it until it’s straightened and flat. He pats Steve twice on the chest and gives him a smile.

“All set now,” he says. Then, “have a nice day at work.”

Steve, at the complete whim of his scrambled brain, smiles back, tells Eddie thanks, glances at his watch, curses under his breath, then leans in to kiss Eddie goodbye.

Then, just as quickly, he’s out the door and in his car and finally on his way to work.

It isn’t until he’s halfway there that it hits him what he’s just done.

He kissed Eddie Munson.

✨

from this moment on | 3.9k | steddie

Steve bought the ring a year after they started dating.

It was too soon, way too soon, even if everything they’d been through made it feel like they’d known each other, like they’d been in each other’s corners for forever. One year was entirely too early to be putting marriage on the table, especially when they were still so young. Not to mention, Steve knew that Eddie had a rocky relationship with the concept thanks to his parents, and, truth be told, so did Steve.

But none of that really mattered. Because Steve was that in love. He was that sure of them.

So he bought the ring. Without hesitation.

And he held onto it, for all this time. He’d had a gut feeling, back in 1988. And eight years later it’s still there. Still there and stronger than ever.

✨

can't hide the way you make us glow | 6.3k | steddie

“So,” Wayne finally says and looks between them. He gestures his can from Steve to Eddie and back. “Still just friends, huh?” He deadpans.

Steve chokes on his sip of beer, and a grin cracks across Eddie’s face.

“To the general public of Hawkins, sure,” Eddie responds smoothly, hand absentmindedly rubbing Steve’s back as he recovers.

Wayne narrows his eyes at him. “I ain’t the general public of Hawkins, now, am I?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I suppose not.”

When he doesn’t elaborate any further, Wayne lifts his eyebrows expectantly. Out with it, boy they say. He barely refrains from waving his hand in a go on then motion.

“Steve and I… we’re, uh,” Eddie’s smile turns soft around the edges, and his hand goes to Steve’s beside him, drawing it into his lap and lacing their fingers together, “we’re going steady now.”

Or, Wayne finds out that Eddie and Steve are EddieandSteve.

✨

good for my boy | 7.4k | steddie

Wayne lets the front door swing shut behind him, rattling and smacking into the frame audibly.

“Jesus, Munson!” A voice rings out — the freezer fiend’s, and definitely not Eddie’s. “Took you god damn long enough!” The head finally pops out of the freezer. “I got tired of waiting and — oh.”

The stranger’s hand slips from the handle and the freezer door thumps shut. As does the stranger’s mouth when he looks right into the face of, not Eddie Munson as expected, but Wayne Munson.

Wayne briefly recognizes him as the Harrington boy.

or, the first time Wayne Munson meets Steve Harrington is a complete accident.

✨

if you have a minute | 10.6k | steddie

They pass the cigarette back and forth for a few quiet minutes. And there’s something about Eddie’s presence that’s helping just as much as the nicotine.

Eddie holds the cigarette back out for Steve, blows the smoke out in a smooth, steady stream, and tilts his head. “You working tomorrow?” He asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Not tomorrow. Why?”

Eddie pushes himself off of the wall. “Great,” he declares and grins. “We’re doing something then. You and me. I’m gonna take you somewhere.”

Steve’s face scrunches. “What? Where?”

Eddie tuts and wags his finger. “Nope, not telling you,” he says. “You’ll find out tomorrow. Meet at my place at nine. Don’t be late.”

He doesn’t give Steve a chance to argue or further question it. Just throws a little salute and turns on his heel, disappearing around the corner.

Or, the one where Steve’s anxiety doesn’t get the hint that they defeated the Upside Down, and Eddie knows just how to help.

✨

and stars, and stars, and stars | 1.5k | steddie

“What are you even painting?” Steve questions, unable to keep himself from asking. Eddie hadn’t told him his plan when he’d first laid Steve out and gathered his brushes — just instructed Steve to stay still and let him paint, he’d see soon enough. But Steve is curious, and it’s been almost an hour now.

Steve carefully tips his head to the side and presses his cheek against his folded arms, trying his best to catch a glimpse of Eddie where he sits atop the backs of Steve’s thighs, bent over his canvas in concentration. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he’s focusing hard enough, and a piece of hair dangles against his cheek, escaping the bandana he’d tied it back with.

“I’m painting an essence,” Eddie answers cryptically, and he draws the brush in a broad stroke, low on Steve’s back.

“An essence?” Steve repeats. “An essence of what?”

“An essence of you,” Eddie says simply. The brush dots Steve’s upper back now, light little taps.

Steve doesn’t know what that means, but he’s looking forward to finding out.

✨

i want to hold your hand | 14k | steddie

The film isn’t even on Steve’s radar at this point. He couldn’t say what’s happening anymore, but he doesn’t even care. Forget Geena Davis, forget Jeff Goldblum, Steve can’t stop thinking about Eddie Munson, right there next to him, hand inches away from his own.

Steve’s pinky twitches out, like it’s got a mind of its own, towards Eddie’s hand. His heart is in his throat, breath caught behind it, as his pinky hovers, trembling. He could touch him. Wants to touch him. To hook his pinky over Eddie’s, curl them together, maybe even link the rest of their fingers too.

He’s never wanted to hold somebody’s hand so bad before.

✨

promise me nothing, live 'til we die | 2.9k | steddie

“You’ve seriously never had your first kiss, though?”

Eddie snorts. “Why do you sound so disbelieving? Come on, Harrington. I don’t exactly have a long line of suitors winding out my front door, vying for my hand or anything. Nobody wants to swap spit with the local freak. They might catch something.” He gives Steve a scrutinizing look. “I’m not like you, King Steve.”

“I’m not worried about catching anything from you,” Steve says.

Eddie tilts his head, perplexed. “Okay… thanks?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I mean, if no one else wants to, I will.”

“Will what? Line up outside my door?” Eddie scoffs.

“Kiss you,” Steve says and knocks all the air out of Eddie’s chest. “I’ll do it.”

Eddie’s eyes have got to be as big as dinner plates as he blinks at Steve. “What?”

✨

harlow gold | 4k | platonic steve & nancy

Nancy is pretty sure that she could talk to Jonathan about it. He knows a little something about being the black sheep, and Nancy doesn’t think he would judge her for it. But they’d only just broken up, and while it was a mutual decision and an amicable split, she doesn’t think it would be fair to turn to him so soon after for advice about the feelings she already has for someone else.

She doesn’t have any girlfriends to talk to either. Robin is kind of the first close female friend she’s had since Barb.

And despite this budding friendship between herself and Robin, Nancy can’t turn to Robin. She’s the type to ask a lot of questions, and she doesn’t give up easily. She’ll push until she gets the answers she’s looking for. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but Nancy isn’t so sure she’s ready for that kind of inquisition. Not about this.

Which only leaves one person that Nancy trusts enough with something as delicate as this, one person whom she is comfortable enough to confide in:

Steve Harrington.

✨

sloe gin fizzy, do it till you're dizzy | 6.7k | steddie

Eddie scoots down on the bed until he’s level with Steve and turns onto his side, shifting closer in the process.

The movement draws Steve, and his head lolls to the side to see what Eddie is up to.

It brings them nearly nose to nose, and Eddie goes a little bit cross-eyed focusing on Steve.

Steve doesn’t flinch away from the closeness. Just breathes and blinks. And then his eyes flicker down to Eddie’s lips and right back up, so quick that Eddie’s hazy brain would have missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t been anticipating it.

Eddie takes it as the invitation it has to be, and slowly, slowly closes the distance. His nose does bump into Steve’s as he enters his space, but he pauses, hesitates with his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth away from Steve’s.

He waits for the rejection, for the brutal shove away, for the disgusted “what the fuck man?”.

But they don’t come.

What does come is Steve’s mouth, pushing forward to press against Eddie’s.

✨

it's my feeling we'll win in the end | 6.3k | steddie

Eddie thrusts his hand, fisted around the diploma, into the air like he’s god damn John Bender on the football field, and he lets out a triumphant whoop.

He hears his friends go crazy in their seats again, and when he finds them in the crowd once more he sees that Dustin has climbed up onto his chair, one hand gripping Steve’s shoulder for support while the other is pumping through the air. He’s shouting Eddie’s name, and so is Mike, who is clapping so hard his hands must hurt. Lucas and Max each are holding one corner of a sign spelling out “Eddie the Conqueror” across the center, with hand painted flames licking around the words. It makes Eddie laugh, bright and buoyant, and he shakes the diploma through the air some more.

Eddie’s chest feels tight in the best kind of way as a sudden tidal wave of emotions body slams him, clogging his throat and forcing him to take a sharp, deep breath through his nose. His nostrils flare with it, and a hysterical sort of laugh bubbles up. It’s just, he’s never been this happy before. Never been this proud. Never felt this good.

He’s smiling so big that his cheeks hurt. He feels like he’s walking on fucking air. He did it, he fucking did it.

✨

find my ficlets here

✨

transformative work policy:

fanart, podfics, translations, and any such creations based on my works are always welcome!! if you're not sure about something, just ask!

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[every-aj-needs-an-angel]

Based on this incredible post that inspired the worms. Sorry it's not exactly right @flowercrowngods I just finished this and went to find the post only to realise it went in a different direction, I'm so sorry darling!

I'm sorry in advance if this is rubbish, this is my first time writing clarkson I just hope I did our beloved Uncle Wayne proud 💖

It all started with Dustin Henderson. Didn't everything?

The kid stopped by, trying to bribe Eddie into doing something with the creatures in the campaign or something. Poor boy still hadn't worked out that the only way to bribe Eddie to do anything was through Robin; because since the day Steve Harrington, of all people, had stepped through his front door, the three of them had been as thick as thieves. Wayne didn't question it, just accepted it as one of the eccentricities of the universe, especially when he saw just how happy the ex jock made his boy.

So although Dustin was way off in trying to find the way to Eddie's heart; he'd easily found Wayne's, he'd do anything for good coffee and homemade baked goods.

Especially flavourful, rich coffee and mouthwatering baked goods. Bribery through fresh ground coffee beans and handmade delicacies would always win him over, even if it was a hit and a miss for the little genius. More for me, he'd thought gleefully to himself as he'd pilfered the treats, sneaking out the front door to sit in his rocking chair on the porch, enjoying watching the world go by and listening to his kids bicker with a satisfied smile plastered on his face.

Wayne was a man of simple pleasures. He'd always been happy with his store bought instant and the kind of pastries that pop out of a can, but the delicacies Dustin had brought by just wouldn't leave his mind. He was having cravings, zoning out at work just thinking about them. And then one morning as he was driving home from a long shift, Someone Like You blasting from the speakers, the slow beat easing the tension in his shoulders. The traffic lights switched from green to red as he rolled through town, not that he minded, the only thing waiting for him these days was his bed but as he slowed to a stop, tapping along to the beat on the sill of the rolled down window, he spotted the new bakery the kid had bought them from.

The lights flipped back, and suddenly he found he was pulling into an open parking spot outside Clarke's. He's pretty sure the building had been an ice cream parlour before the quake, but most of the buildings in town had been refurbished and reopened in the last few years; sometimes with the same business, sometimes with something new. The sign above the door was painted in red and white stripes, with Clarke's Bakery written in pretty maroon calligraphy. The notice in the window was flipped to Open, it surprised him, given how early it still was, most of the town was still in bed and there wasn't a soul to be seen when the little bell above the door jingled as he entered, he would've been worried that the building had been left open by accident if it wasn't for the luscious smell permeating the air and the "Be right with you," that someone called from the back room.

Waiting was fine with him, it gave him a chance to familiarise himself with the quaint, little place. The chalkboard price lists, the display cases were so shiny they were obviously brand new, and unfortunately disappointingly empty, but he supposed it wasn't surprising given how early it still was. The smell coming from the back more than made up for it though, it was making his mouth water, and he just knew whatever they were making was going to be delicious in the way that store bought anything just wasn't any more.

Behind the counter was one of those fancy coffee machines, the ones with all the buttons and the levers; Wayne had less to deal with at the plant, but the best thing of all was the array of cups sitting on top of the shiny machine. They were all different shapes, sizes, colours and characters; it reminded him of his old collection, the one he lost to the "quake" but honestly he couldn't be too sad about it, after weeks at Eddie's bedside he was just glad that was all he'd lost.

The whole place just felt really comfortable, the tables and chairs had all been picked for comfort rather than style, most of it was mismatched, but it was the type of furniture that invited you to sit, even the rug under the sofa in the back corner looked like the type you wanted to take your shoes and socks off and sink your toes into.

Homely was the word that came to mind, unlike the kids who'd called it cute, whatever that meant; how anything inanimate could be cute was beyond him. Puppies, you betcha, babies, absolutely; the man who'd just appeared behind the counter wearing a shirt and bow-tie under a flour covered apron, icing sugar splotches on his face and mischief dancing in his eyes, yep, 100%, definitely cute.

"Wayne! Hi," Scott greeted with a wide grin that slowly slipped from his face as Wayne's brain came up with nothing but static, "Scott Clarke, remember? I taught your Eddie. We were paired up together when little Will went missing," he continued, looking less and less sure of himself.

Wayne hated it. He knew all that, he knew Scott, of course he did, but it was like his brain wasn't connected to the rest of his body and all he could do was blink and breathe. It felt like it took a Herculean effort just to breathe out a dreamy "Hi."

Scott blushed and looked down at the counter, glancing up at Wayne through his lashes, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth as he drew delicate patterns on the notepad sitting beside the register that Wayne's pretty sure he recognised from attempting to help Eddie with his homework once upon a time.

"What can I getcha?" Scott asked, pen poised over the paper.

It was like the connection snapped back into place as he thought about the coffee and pastries Dustin had brought.

"Dustin," Wayne started, raising his hand to his shoulder, "curly hair, logo t-shirts," Wayne did his best to describe. Scott taught a lot of students, just because he remembered the class disrupters like Eddie didn't mean he remembered them all.

But Scott just chuckled jovially, "I know Dustin," he admitted fondly.

Wayne smiled softly, anybody who held any affection for one of his kids was good in his book, "He brought something over for Eddie last week, coffee and a-"

"An Americano and a Yum Yum," Scott finished for him with an affectionate smile, pushing himself off the counter to start filling components and pressing buttons before disappearing into the back.

Wayne sighed heavily, leaning bodily against the counter. He was glad for the breather, he didn't know what was wrong with him; an old man with butterflies and a lead tongue, cheeks flushing crimson as his mind played him a loop of his lovesick greeting. He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Finding a bloke attractive wasn't new to him, he'd been in a committed relationship before Eddie had been dropped on his doorstep by his deadbeat brother, but John had asked him to choose between them and hadn't liked that Wayne didn't even need to think about it, of course he would always choose Eddie.

What was new was being so obvious about it. 

Maybe he'd spent too much time around Steve and Eddie, they were careful in public, of course they were, but at home, with their loved ones, they were never ashamed to let their love and affection for one another shine through; no matter how much the kids would moan or mime gagging, they didn't care. Most of the time, the pair only had eyes for each other anyway. Maybe he was overtired. Or maybe he was just tired of putting up barriers. 

When he'd first met Scott, it was the excuse that he was Eddie's teacher. When they'd been paired to find Will, he'd admittedly enjoyed being with Scott, the man was pretty and smarter than half the town put together but searching the town for a potentially dead kid wasn't exactly conducive for romance. But now, he found he couldn't find an excuse, especially now that he knew Scott was the one behind those heavenly pastries and rich coffee.

Scott came out the back carrying two trays, one filled with glazed doughnuts and the other with the pastries he liked, and Wayne felt his mouth salivate. The smell alone was amazing, but they looked incredible too, and he was hungry enough he felt like he could easily eat everything on both trays and still have room for whatever was still baking. The trays were slid delicately into the display case, Scott's tongue poking adorably out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. Wayne couldn't stop himself from smiling, no matter how much he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, Scott looked up and caught his eye, the two men smiling gently at one another over the counter before Scott turned back to the coffee machine.

"Sorry about earlier," Wayne apologised sincerely, "I just pulled a double at the plant and all I've been able to think about for the past two hours have been your pastries," Wayne admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced up when Scott didn't reply immediately to find he still had his back turned to him, but that didn't mean Wayne couldn't see his beaming smile in all the shiny surfaces surrounding him, or the blush slowly creeping from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

Wayne finds himself wanting to witter endlessly like Eddie does when Steve makes him all shy and giggly. He wants to start talking about his day and the weather and how he can picture Scott in his rocking chair at home, maybe sharing the chair or maybe Wayne could picture building him his own, so they could sit together; eating pastries hand in hand, watching the world go by. He doesn't say anything though, just rocks on the balls of his feet ducking his head, unable to keep the smirk off his face at making a pretty boy blush.

"I guess that means you're taking this to go," Scott finally says over his shoulder, steam clouding around him and turning the icing sugar splotches sticky. Wayne could be mistaken, but he would say Scott sounds a little disappointed.

He doesn't trust himself to speak, the chances of something inappropriate, like "Marry me?", coming out of his mouth are far too high, he is a Munson after all; so he just hums affirmatively.

"I'd say it's a shame, but I have to get to work as soon as I've got the kids set up for the day," Scott admits, his whole ears are beat red, the blush spreading quickly up the back of his neck.

"Maybe we could continue this another time," Wayne says as Scott hands him a warm cardboard cup and a paper bag, their fingers brushing and sending sparks up his arms; it was supposed to be a question, but it didn't sound enough like one.

"I'd like that," Scott replied with a dazzling smile that Wayne can't help but mirror. He nods once, walking backwards towards the door, not quite wanting to break the connection and not really wanting to leave, but not wanting to overstay his welcome or make Scott late for his day either. "Bye," Scott chuckled as Wayne fumbled with the door handle letting himself out with a little paper bag filled wave, floating back to his truck on a cloud as Scott disappeared back into the back.

And that's how it goes for a while, Wayne stops in every morning on his way home from work, they chat about the kids or work or the latest article Wayne read in his copy of UFO. They chat a lot about the children's book Scott is writing, about six kids who all sound suspiciously like the ones Eddie and Steve have practically adopted. A genius with a floppy head of curls who recruits his friends into discovering the secrets of the universe that the adults have been hiding from them. A ginger haired girl with an attitude big enough to fight anyone who gets in their way. A sportsman and an artist who use their unique skills to their collective advantage, and a grumpy kid who always puts himself between his friends and any kind of danger. He nearly laughs when along the way, the little group meet a girl with dark, cropped hair who happens to have superpowers; she can move things with her mind, which she uses to help and protect them along their journey of discovery.

Wayne falls a little bit more in love with every detail, it's like Scott knows, but Wayne knows he doesn't, he's just heard what he'd assumed to be fantastical tales from the kids and pieced it all together with his brilliant imagination.

Then one day, Wayne pushes open the front door and there's no beautiful smells, there's just crashing and cursing coming from the back room then deadly silence other than the jingle of the bell, followed by a cautious "Wayne?"

"Yeah, it's just me," he calls back, flicking the lock on the front door, only noticing that the sign on the door was flipped to Closed when he goes to change it himself.

As he heads behind the counter, he can hear Scott dashing around, the overpowering smell of flour nearly choking him as he wanders into the back. The kitchen looks like a bomb has gone off, there's bowls and packaging and ingredients everywhere. Scott looks beyond stressed, darting between three different bowls and trying not to slip in the flour he's spilled all over the floor. He's not even wearing an apron, so his shirt is covered in flicks of batter; he'd look adorable if he didn't look so distressed.

"What happened?" Wayne asks, picking up the dropped bowl and finding the broom from the closet, sweeping up the flour, careful not to trip Scott up.

Scott sighs heavily, "Power cut killed my alarm clock," he mutters, beating the ingredients in the bowl he's holding, simultaneously pressing buttons and flicking switches on the ovens.

Wayne looks around a little bewildered, he hasn't baked anything other than a box cake since he and Al would stay over at their grans, but he isn't useless in the kitchen, especially with a little instruction.

"What can I do?" he asks, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands thoroughly in the sink, he'd already washed up at the plant, but it wouldn't hurt to do it again, he doesn't want to give anyone food poisoning. Scott doesn't say anything but as Wayne turns around to find a drying towel, he finds it's because Scott is frozen in place gawking at him, Wayne can't keep the endeared grin from his face, "Scott?"

It seems to snap him out of it, he immediately begins stirring again, blush spreading over his cheeks, pulling the towel off of his shoulder to hand it to Wayne. He steps towards the island where most of the chaos lies and points to one of the bowls, "Could you stir that one? Just until the butter goes a creamy colour," he asks tiredly, flashing Wayne an appreciative smile when he picks up the wooden spoon and starts combining the ingredients.

Wayne glances at the clock above the ovens, Scott has to leave for school in the next hour and nothing is even close to being baked yet. The kids would help, sure it's early, but he knows they all adore Scott; Steve and Eddie have done nothing but talk fondly about him for weeks. And Wayne isn't stupid, he knows they've seen the array of coffee cups and paper bags that he's brought home recently, he just wishes they'd stop trying to goad him already.

"You got instructions for each of these?" Wayne asks, wandering around the room looking into each bowl with his bowl tucked under his arm. Scott just nods, counting to himself under his breath, grabbing a binder from the corner of the room and flicking it open on the one spare bit of counter space. It's filled with laminated pieces of paper, ingredient lists and instructions for each of the pastries that usually live in the display cabinets. "You got a phone?" Wayne asks next with an impish grin on his face.

One quick call to Steve's and twenty minutes later the kitchen is filled with the kids, each with their own bowl and recipe. Eddie's in the corner moaning about how early it is, Max is threatening Dustin for bumping into her for the sixth time in as many minutes, Steve and Mike are bickering, Steve hands on his pyjama clad hips as Mike wags his finger at him. It's loud and hectic, but everything is getting done and if they're lucky Scott might only be a few minutes late for work. 

It isn't anything like the peaceful mornings they're used to, chatting amicably as Scott potters, but as Wayne catches Scott's eye over the kids heads, he finds his own besotted smile mirrored back at him.

Dough is rolled and stretched and shaped and placed on baking trays. Robin's in charge of timings, perching herself on a stool with everyone's wristwatch in her lap, shouting out when a pastry is finished. Lucas and Steve are in charge of cooling, mainly because they're the least clumsy and Mike, Will and El are in charge of decoration, most of it only involves dipping the pastries in bowls of icing but the kids all quickly settled themselves into their preferred roles and who are Wayne and Scott to argue when they've collectively got the job done faster than they ever could've alone.

There's only four pastries to finish baking by the time Robin's yelling that they're going to be late. The kids who run the bakery during the day are already set up and dealing with customers, Wayne's agreed to stay behind and pull the remaining trays out of the oven, luckily nothing needs decorating, just cooling and taking to the display cabinets. There are implements piled high in the sink, even though Eddie and Dustin were supposed to be washing up. Wayne thinks they spent more time flicking bubbles at one another and joking around, but he doesn't mind; he's always found cleaning the dishes to be relaxing.

He finds he's exhausted as the adrenaline rush dissipates, but none of that matters as Scott dashes into the office to grab his briefcase and flies back into the kitchen, kissing Wayne quickly but firmly on the cheek, only seeming to realise what he's done after the fact. 

The kids all stop dead in their tracks, the kitchen going eerily silent for a second before Steve and Eddie start rounding up the kids, shooing them out the backdoor, dragging Robin along with them, leaving he and Scott alone in the suddenly quiet space. Scott flushes, panic flaring in his eyes, so Wayne just grabs him by the wrist and pulls him closer to plant a kiss on his flour covered cheek, dusting the ingredients off with his thumb as he wishes him a good day. Scott just grins vibrantly, heading for the exit, pausing briefly in the doorway, "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Wayne isn't sure whether it's supposed to be a statement or a question, "Tomorrow," he promises with a nod. Scott's grin turns infectious then he's gone, disappearing into the alley, the door falling shut behind him, leaving Wayne alone for the first time since he left his truck. 

He pulls the first two trays out of the oven as the timer buzzes, letting the pastries cool on the rack. Then he makes a start on the dishes, letting the gentle buzz of the bakery and the warm soapy water sooth him, he hasn't felt this way since he was a teenager; sneaking kisses and sharing cigarettes with Tony behind the bleachers. 

He finds it isn't as terrible as he assumed it'd be, to fall in love again; to let someone into his life because it's easy with Scott, so, so easy. Even when they talk about what Scott calls his theories, Scott just gives him this look that almost says "God, it's a good job you're handsome" like Wayne can hear him projecting that thought into his head with his amused smile. Even when Scott lays out logical arguments that seem to prove to him that the supernatural doesn't exist, it's so easy to just give him a look of his own. They almost remind him of Eddie and Steve when they start up a discussion about sports or the game Eddie likes to play with the kids, each with their own look that says "I love you, but you're wrong" and the thought only makes him smile wider.

It doesn't take him long to finish up in the kitchen, and he feels a calm acceptance by the time the ovens are off, all the pastries cooled and on trays and all the implements clean and dry. He's always been able to do that, have his world shifted on its axis and within the hour just be able to understand within himself that that's his new normal now.

He feels almost content as he drops off the final trays out front, giving a cheerful wave to Claudia when she shouts his name from the line of people waiting for their chance to get their hands on Scott's pastries.

Seeing how busy it is out front, he turns to head out the back door, pausing as he passes the office with this overwhelming need to just leave something for Scott. He wanders in and sits down at the desk, pulling a piece of paper from the notebook on the tabletop; pen poised as he contemplates the soundness of his decision and throwing caution to the wind as he envisions Scott's smile as he'd left for work.

Wayne's never been much of a wordsmith, not like his Eddie, but he's been listening to a lot of his favourites lately, the cassettes in his truck switching regularly between Cash, Clapton and Williams. It'd been Williams this morning, and the lyrics had been circling in the back of his mind since he'd walked into the bakery's chaos. He puts the pen to the paper, hearing Don's voice in his mind as he writes, trying his hardest to make it legible.

Well I don't believe that heaven waits, for only those who congregate. I like to think of God as love, he's down below, he's up above. He's watching people everywhere, he knows who does and doesn't care. And I'm an ordinary man, sometimes I wonder who I am. But I believe in love. I believe in music. I believe in magic. And I believe in you. Pausing, he makes his choice and adds on, Love, Wayne.

[thoughtsandbones]

All wounds take time to heal

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc ( codename: Blue)

WARNINGS: Mention of war, angst, mental health mention, drug mention, fluff, just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Song inspo: Nothing Matters - The Last Dinner Party and labour - Paris Paloma

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic!c :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3 and PART 4

Part 5

As soon as the second hand on the old analog clock passed 12, the alarm ran signalling it was 5:30am

You awaken and slammed your hand on the button to stop the beeping that interrupted your sleep.

Slowly your eyes open. You groan aloud and stretching your body across the bed. The sun was making its debut again.

Getting out of bed, taking a swig of water from your flask, the one that has been with you for years, you walk to the bathroom and splash water on your face to waken yourself up even more.

After brushing your teeth in the comfort of your own bathroom, you head over to the clothes you took out from your duffle that are in the cupboard. Picking out a simple black top and running leggings, putting them on.

Stretching your body and warming up the muscles ready for a morning run.

I hate running you thought as you tied the laces on your running shoes, but you realise you have to do it anyway. You had to get your strength up...

A secret you kept close to yourself kept playing in the back of your mind. You wished you were a part of the team. You longed to be on missions, you longed to make a difference. You didn't just want to fix broken soldiers. You wanted to be out there, helping them. Making the world a little less dirty.

Grabbing your phone and AirPods you head out your room, locking the door and head down the corridor. Passing the infirmary you take a quick look in there.

So much stuff to do in there you think as you observe the bleakness that remained unchanged.

Heading outside you see the sun rising in the east. Placing your headphones in, and tapping on your running playlist you begin a slow jog around the perimeter of base. Observing everything, what has changed - a lot- and what has not changed - the aircraft hanger is still has that dent when a helo crashed into it years ago.

How has it been nearly 12 years you think to yourself as you start to quicken your pace.

After 20 minutes you feel tired. Legs feeling like lead, you drag them back to your room.

Checking the clock it was nearly 6:30am. Taking off the shoes and running clothes you hop in the shower. Letting the warm water hit your body, soaking your hair as you bask in the privacy of this small shower.

After getting changed into your green combat trousers and black baggy top, you find your sweater and head to the mess hall, your long hair still lose and damp from the shower.

When you entered the mess hall, it was busy. All military personnel were all up and ready for breakfast. Most of them had finished their breakfasts and where talking to each other, already in the designated groups.

You search the mess hall for any familiar faces, mainly trying to see Soap or Price. But trying to avoid the masked menace, Ghost.

Grabbing breakfast, you find a seat and started picking at the food on your plate. Went for a standard english breakfast, minus the black pudding and tomatoes and, of course, PG tips tea.

Enjoying the solitude of eating your breakfast, you begin to think of the tasks that had to be done with that infirmary. Pulling out the phone, you begin typing a list of to dos on the Notes app.

"Good morning!" Someone said brightly

You look up and see Soap holding his plate on a tray and places it on the same table but opposite you and sits down.

"Good morning" you respond, tucking your phone away back in your pocket and picked up your fork to eat a piece of bacon.

"How are you?" Soap asks, grinning whilst he cut up his bacon and sausages.

"Good, yourself?" You say as you try and swallow the forming of the lump in your throat.

"Not bad, not bad" Soap replies

You can feel the tension and awkwardness looming. Then you realise he probably doesn't know your name, or much about you. Your unsure whether or not to tell him these details.

"Enjoying your breakfast?" Soap asks, breaking the silence and the thoughts running in your head

"Er, yeah it's pretty good" You respond.

"Good" Soap says, smiling at you and then continues to eat.

After taking a sip of tea, you feel like maybe it is time, Price didn't say anything about not telling them your name or other details...

Take a leap of faith you think

"I'm Hari" You say finally

Soap looks up and smiles, and then extends his right arm for another handshake. You accept and shake his hand.

"Nice to meet yer Hari" Soap says

"Nice to meet you too"

"Price says you are our new doctor" Soap chirped

"Yeah.. ermm I guess I am" You say slowly

The malpractice issue... Does Soap know?

"You guess? Where did you go to medical school?" Soap asks

"Er, UCL in London" You respond

"Ah very nice" Soap says

You take another sip of tea. But kept the mug in front of your lips.

He does have a lot of questions you ponder, gazing at his face and his body as he continues to cut and eat his breakfast. You stare particularly longer at his mohawk. You divert your eyes from him back to plate before he realises you've been staring.

The chatter in the mess hall dies down as the personnel flock towards their duties.

"You training with us today or you doing something else?" Soap asks, breaking the silence yet again

"Need to sort out the infirmary and talk to Price about" You say "He said it was in a somewhat good state, but it's barren" you add

Soap chews on his food and nods, chuckling.

"Yer, the lads have kind of stripped it of it's supplies since the old Doc left" Soap says

"Even when the door was locked?" You question him, remembering the key Ghost had in his pocket

"Well, we only just locked it before you turned up" Soap admitted

Rolling your eyes, you let out a sigh taking another sip of tea.

"So.." Soap begins and then takes a sip of his coffee.

Another questions looms you think

"Price told us about a malpractice issue you had..." Soap says, diverting his eyes from yours.

You smirk again of course he'd know

"Yeah, I killed a man" You said bluntly.

Soap's expression changed to disbelief and shock and shifts slightly back at your blunt admission

"With this thumb" You add letting out laugh as you give him a thumbs up

Soap laughs nervously, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Don't know if I can tell anyone, but it is minor" you say, trying to reassure Soap, giving him a gentle smile.

"Aye... did yer kill anyone?" He says curiously

"No, of course not" you say.

Soap nods and continues to finish his food.

You take the last sip of tea, prepare to leave. As you get up and take your dishes, Soap does the same. Both of you heading to the racks trolleys where the mass of plates once full of food lay. You add yours to the growing stack and Soap does the same.

"I'll see yer later" Soap says giving you a light tap on your back. You give him a nod and a small smile.

Heading to the bathroom, you wash your hands and stare at yourself in the mirror. You chuckle to yourself as you remember the look on Soap's face.

Heading to the infirmary, you find Price and Ghost in there, both of them wearing military fatigues, only Ghost's were all black and he wore a jacket. Talking to one another and looking around the drawers.

"Good morning" Price says as you walk in

"Morning Captain" you say nodding to Price "Morning Lieutenant" nodding to Ghost

"Mornin'" he replies, giving you a slight nod as well, arms crossed over his chest.

"Infirmary is a bit of tip" Price says

"It's non-existent at the moment Captain" You say quickly "Soap told me about fellow soldiers coming in and taking what they wanted"

Price chuckles and sighs

"Yes, that was considered normal under Doctor Allen" Price explained "We've got the names of the suppliers and there's a new desk, chair and med bed coming later this afternoon. I'll leave the ordering of supplies to you" Price said

"Excellent" You say, heading over to the old rusty med bed. It was similar to the ones in the hospital you previously worked at.

"Ghost here will give you a hand with anything you need" Price resumed.

"I should be fine, I have my laptop with me so I can order supplies. Just let me know the time they will arrive"

"You sure?" Price asks

"I'm sure, cleaning supplies still down in the west corridor?" You say

Price smiles and looks at Ghost, Ghost still looking at you, he unfolds his arms and walks over to you.

"Don' min' helpin' you" Ghost says, staring at you "I'll get the cleanin' equipment" he says walking off to the door

"Thanks Lieutenant" You say watching him leave.

"Ru-" Price begins but then stops himself when he notices your eyes widen "Sorry, Hari, you alright" Price says

"Yes sir" you reply "Just getting used to being back here"

"You seem rigid" Price says coming towards you

"Just getting used to being back here again" you say, looking out of the window and gazing at the clear blue sky.

"Bad memories?" Price asks

"No, just..." you begin, you look down at your nails and start scratching your nails with your thumb, it was a bad habit you had since you were a teen. Price took note, he recognised this habit from those years ago. Back when you were just a smiley young adult beginning your military career.

"The Captain" Price says, as though he could read your mind

You look up, pursing your lips and then look back out of the window.

"It feels weird being here and him not being here" you say, the lump in your throat stats to form. Globus sensation.

"I know, a lot of good soldiers die..." Price begins edging towards you

"But you can't let that stop you from carrying on with the task at hand" you resume for him. Turning your head to face Price, who smiled and gave you a pat on the shoulder, a misty glaze took over his eyes. He turned away and raised his hand to his face covering his eyes, as though he was trying to hold back a tear.

"I shall leave you to it then" Price said, clearing his throat and collecting himself.

It was a saying The Captain would always say when a mission or training went sideways. It was one of the last things he said to you in Siberia.

<CUE FLASHBACK> Siberia, Russia, October 12 2010 Day 3- "Blue, check your heartbeat sensor" Captain said over the radio Both of you had reached the outskirts of the base, the snow storm picking up, you adjusted up your white morf and your eye goggles, protecting your face from the harsh elements. You hold your sniper rifle up, and open up the heartbeat sensor "Checking sir" you reply over the radio "The blue dots are us, enemies will show up as white dots" you hear the Captain say. "Copy Cap" you say "Going high" you say over the radio as you spot a perfect ridge overlooking the base and signal to the Captain, he nods his head and follows. "This storm is perfect timing" The Captain says "We will be ghosts entering this base" The Captain joins you in the ridge overlooking the base. You are lying down, focusing your right eye in the scope of the sniper, eye goggles up on your forehead. "Two tangos north of us" you say "Copy Blue" The Captain says "Your target" he said, looking through his own scope. Through the scope you see the two tangos, talking and facing each other. One them just moved just in front of the other. You took your shot. Collateral shot. "Good shot Blue" Captain said, "Let's go and head to the base and get the Fire disk" <END OF FLASHBACK>

In the infirmary, you took apart the old rusted med bed. It was simple and easy for you. As you flipped the mattress off, you noticed on the other side dried blood had stained it.

"Ergh. Gross" you say tossing the mattress near the door with your boot.

As Ghost walked through he nearly tripped over the mattress that had been flung near the doorway. You turned facing him, eyes widened.

"Sorry lieutenant" You said, picking up the mattress.

"S alrigh'" Ghost said, helping you with the mattress and placing it outside the infirmary.

"Got the supplies" he said, holding a bucket with sprays and cloths up towards you. You take the bucket

"Thank you sir" You say and head over to the cupboard and start doused the cabinets and draws with disinfectant.

Ghost moved over to you and grabbed a cloth from the bucket and started cleaning up where you sprayed the disinfectant. He watched from the corner of his eyes as you grabbed a cloth and then started working on the drawers nearer to the window. He couldn't help notice how long your hair had gotten, which was tied in a low ponytail, the ends curling slightly.

In the corner of your eye, you see Ghost move near you. You think to yourself that maybe you should actually engage in conversation with him. Get to know him. And the team.

"How long have you been with the 141?" You ask, turning to Ghost and giving him a smile as you set the disinfectant bottle next to the bucket and return to the drawers

"Few years" Ghost said, not being completely honest.

"Nice, are you SAS?" you ask

"Yeah" he responded, moving over towards the bottle, grabbing it and spraying the drawers next to you.

Maybe this is the chance he thought to himself

He had been going over the exact method of how he was going to tell you who he really was last night and this morning. He watched you clean the drawers, stood on one knee, paying attention to the handles and the insides. You remained stoic. That look of concentration taken ahold of your face. He remembered that face you made in the photo with The Captain. His chest sent another 'ping' through his upper body.

Feeling the glare of Ghost you look up at him, and furrowed your brows. He diverted his gaze and went back to cleaning the drawers.

"You alright?" you asked

"All good" he said

Do it now, like plaster, rip it off he thought to himself

"Listen-" he began to turn his body towards you

"Lt! There you are!" Soap shouted as he entered the infirmary

Both you and Ghost turned around, and saw Soap coming in with a mop and bucket.

Fucking hell Johnny Ghost thought.

"Price told me to get yer this Hari" Soap said, smiling at you

Hari? Is that the name you're using Ghost thought as he looked at you, remaining stoic as you got up and went to get the mop.

"Cheers Soap" you say "Gonna add a bit of yourself in there?" you say jokingly pointing to the bucket.

Ghost was taken aback. Since when did you get so friendly with him?

"Want to see me get soaked eh?" Soap says winking at you and grinning.

"No..." you say, squinting your eyes "'Cos' of your codename... Soap" you said. Hoping he'd get the pun

"Aye" Soap said chuckling realising the pun

"It was quite punny" you said turning towards Ghost smiling, who seemingly remained unmoved by the joke whilst Soap let out a roar of laughter.

Ghost sighed and turned back to the counter and resumed cleaning, whilst Soap continued to talk to you. Of course you'd gravitate towards him.

"Never mind Lt Hari, he takes a while to warm up to new people" Soap said slamming his hand on your right shoulder. The sudden pressure made you jolt. The pain crept up from clavicle down to your entire right arm.

"Shit, you alright?" Soap exclaimed

Ghost swiftly turned around and saw you rubbing your right shoulder, and Soap reaching for your hand. A sick feeling settled in his stomach.

"Yeah all good, sore shoulder from an arm workout" you lied

You moved away, your hand slipping from Soap's, and turned to walk to the bathroom near were the old med bed was and locked the door.

"What happened" Ghost asked looking at Soap narrowing his eyes at him

"Just patted her shoulder Lt" Soap explained

Ghost took in a deep breathe and then resumed the cleaning.

"Let's get back to cleaning" Ghost said "Don't forget to add actual soap into the bucket" he added pointing towards the other bucket on the counter.

Soap let out a small laugh and headed to the bucket in the counter to grab the soap.

In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. You take your sweater and top off and look at the scar on the top of your shoulder, it curved over shoulder, front and back. After all these years, all of a sudden, the pain felt the same as the moment you got shot in Siberia.

On the other side of the door, Ghost continued to clean away the grime and gunk surrounding the drawers. He didn't mind helping, the infirmary was a right tip after Doctor Allen left. He decided for now he wouldn't tell you who he was. He couldn't... not just yet. Letting you think he was just a ghost.

[saintship]

WAIT wait headcanon of red hood!reader.( because i simp for DC characters too), but your price daughter that was tortured to death by Makarov and price and force 141+König believed that you died.

But you lived and now your now red hood dun dun DUUUN. anyway maybe the force 141+könig captured red hood!reader and confessing their love after finding out that your alive.

NUTSHELL between red hood!reader and price:

Before Makarov ruined everything:

Price: my sweet little girl🤗

Reader: I love you too dad🤗

After Makarov ruined everything:

Price: my sweet little girl your alive

Red hood!reader: I HATE YOU!!!😡

Price:*emotional damage*

This is so cool!

I’m not well versed on DC so I had to consult some sources BUT Red Hood is awesome and I hope I do the Red Hood name justice!

She will bleed red

König x Price’s daughter!reader

Warnings: descriptions of torture but not overly graphic, violence, grieving 141 and König, reader kills people, Price & reader angst, reader is badass, König and reader are close

I think people listing what music they listened to while writing is so cute so I wanna do it; I was listening to a playlist of almost all Labrinth songs

Hope you enjoy :)

Tap.. tap.. tap..

Hyena felt water dripping on her hairline. Something was blindfolding her, and something else had her restrained to a pose that forced her to endure the dripping water. Hunched over, her head tipped slightly forward. The air smelled of wet cement and perspiration.

Struggling only made noise—the sounds of her ragged breathing echoing off into the corners of the room. The burn at the base of her neck told her it was likely rope that binded her torso and hung from the ceiling. She felt the fabric of her uniform still intact, and wished she could thumb over the badge on her shoulder. Her hands ached from poor circulation, tendrils of pain shooting up through her fingers with every movement. She heard footsteps.

Murmurs in Russian, murmurs in English, the dripping water.

Her blindfold was ripped from her head, Hyena blinking quickly to adjust to the low light.

“Where are your friends, маленькая мышь?”

“Quit while you’re ahead. I’m not talking.” Hyena’s words burned in her throat, the sore muscle aching with exertion. How long had she been out?

“Hm.” The man speaking hummed, stepping back to allow his partner to step forward, flipping open a knife. Hyena’s breath quickened, and then there was a sharpness between her eyes. He held the blade flush to her skin, particles away from cutting through.

“Where.” The first repeated. Hyena remained silent. The cool metal resting on her skin glanced upward fiercely, a quiet sound of ripping flesh registering dully in her ears. The cut brandished her face from between her brows to her hairline in a ragged line. She shut her eyes to protect from blood dripping into them, and thought of the team. Of her dad.

Hyena felt the warmth of her father’s hand through the cold and the shoulder pad she adorned, their faces bowed toward each other. The gap in the helicopter’s wall allowed the night air to whistle through the cabin, tousling his hair to one side.

“Stay alive, sweetheart.”

“I always do.”

His lips twitched into a gentle smile, patting her shoulder once before touching his forehead to hers, his eyes fluttering shut.

“See you in a few days.”

The air stung. Hyena pried open her eyes, dried blood cracking at the edges and falling to the ground like flecks of red plaster. Contusions littered her head and torso, more cuts along her cheeks and neck burning with pain. Particularly painful points of her stomach accompanied with a damp sensation told her she’d been stabbed.

“She won’t survive much longer..”

“Do it.”

Looking up, her vision refocused on the same man that had maimed her, who held a white bucket. He flicked off the lid with a gloved thumb, and there was no time to read the label before the container was tilted over, above the left side of her face. The substance that poured out was thin, but smooth, and burned through every living tissue it touched. She cried out, her eyes clamped shut quicker than a steel trap, she panicked, she pleaded. The burning was worse than anything; it seared, it charred, and eventually it cauterized. The skin affected felt too small for her skull, and her cries subsided to soft gasps of air.

Hyena fell unconscious.

“Come on, honey, feel bad for a guy!”

“Please—get out of the way.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby.”

From the shadows of the fire escape above him, the man looked even smaller and more frail than his intentions. His extended hand didn’t get the chance to touch that woman’s shoulder before his body crumpled under the weight of a masked figure. A brief scream escaped the throat of the woman before she sidestepped the both of them to run away. That figure pressed a boot to the man’s neck, the trim of their hood waving slightly in the night breeze. The draft that whistled through the alley they occupied was warm.

“What the hell? GET OFF ME-" His struggling earned nothing aside from a short blade being pressed to the artery running along his neck.

“Maybe someone will feel bad for you when they find your body.”

The voice that murmured above him was steady—feminine and dripping with threat. The eyes that studied him reflected the amber-colored light streaming from the lamp a few yards behind him. One eye was ever so slightly shut, scarring evident on the skin surrounding it. He could only let out a strangled gasp when the blade found its home buried in the vulnerable flesh of his neck. It remained for a moment before the hooded stranger retracted it, soundlessly climbing back up the fire escape and into the void of the dark.

That figure vaulted to the rooftop, walking to the edge to watch the city’s night life. They removed their hood, stray hairs lifting away to dance gently in the air. A weighted sigh filled the silence of the rooftop.

See you in a few days.

It had been months, and what remained of Captain John Price’s daughter was not the woman he’d wished good luck. Now, standing at a roof’s edge, she hooked a thumb under the fabric concealing her face. She didn’t get the chance to pull before a sharp pressure pinched at the back of her neck. She scrambled to feel for what impacted her, yanking out and inspecting a small needle with a feathery end. She murmured one thing before being vacuumed into nothingness.

“Dad..”

“How long has she been out?”

“Hour or so?”

“Jesus, Garrick.”

“It was the right dose, I swear, Lieutenant!”

“Right.”

Her eyes shot open. She was restrained to a chair, but more importantly, Ghost and Gaz were right in front of her. Her eyes stung with tears but she blinked them away.

“L.t.—Gaz..”

Their eyes snapped toward the voice they thought had left their lives for good.

Gaz breathing quickened. “Is that-"

“Hyena?” She’d never heard Ghost speak that way; breathy and disbelieving. She sighed.

“Red Hood..” she corrected softly.

“What? What are you- Gaz, go tell them!”

“Right.” Gaz ran off, shouts of the other names of the team fading with him.

“Jesus, private..” Ghost cut her free, and allowed her to wrap her arms around his neck briefly before pulling away to scan her for injury.

“Get this mask off-"

Her hand stopped his in its tracks, returning the cold stare that he often gave her. “No..”

“GHOST! WHERE IS SHE!”

“Dad?” She turned from ghost to see her father racing down the hall to where they were.

“Sweetheart!” He breathed, his voice shaking. He tackled her in a hug, squeezing with every ounce of love he’d held to his chest the moment she went missing. “I thought you—you-"

“I almost did.” She stepped back, her tone shocking him. A heavy silence lay between them, his daughter’s eyes dark and cold. It was almost unrecognizable, the way she carried herself.

“Sweet girl..”

“Don’t.”

His brow furrowed in frustration. “I don’t understand.”

“I waited. I waited for you, and you never showed up. They ruined me forever, and I’ll never go back to the way I was before.”

Tears began to shimmer in his eyes. “I didn’t know.. I thought you were gone.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry-"

“That’s not going to help me now.”

He let out a desperate breath, his hands itching to hold her. Down the hall, several sets of footsteps hammered the floor. She looked past her father to see the lead of the group—the man she’d grown so fond of, and thought about so often.

“König..” She breathed. König made sure to stop in front of her before pulling her into his arms, not wanting to topple her over.

“Liebes..”

Hyena had a lengthy history with König—since the moment she saw him she identified with his rocking heels, his flighty eyes, but especially his love for the rest of the team. Either one of them would cover a grenade without a second thought. So would the other boys, but König understood that carnal desire to act without thought in the name of protecting the 141, insubordination be damned. He’d repainted his sniper hood and replaced the damaged leg holster that Hyena always bothered him about. Her eyes stung.

“You’re alive.” The familiar Scottish accent nearly had her break down in tears. She pulled away from König to reach out to Soap, who grinned in disbelief.

“We’re glad you’re okay.” Gaz offered. She nodded gently before turning back to König and the Captain.

“Could you walk me to my room?”

“Do you remember what they looked like?”

“Definitely Makarov’s guys. Uniformed. They knew Russian more fluently than English.”

“We will find them.” König’s low voice sounded beside her as they reached her door. She stared for a moment at the handle.

“Never thought you’d miss it, right?” Her father spoke softly. She didn’t reply, easing the door open. She wandered to the bed, taking in everything familiar.

“Alright, we’ve got to talk about it some time. Why the face coverings?” her father sat beside her on the bed, König settling into a chair beside the two of them.

“I needed to be anonymous.”

He sighed, frustrated.

“Why didn’t you reach out, why didn’t you come looking? You’re smart. You would have reached us.”

“Figured you were halfway around the world.” Hyena began. Her father’s jaw tightened, his eyes shining with months of grief. His eyes told her that she had been right.

“And even if I did get you on the phone, somehow, by the time you got there, they would’ve realized I wasn’t dead, find me, and blow my head off.”

She felt a thin knife of guilt for using such blunt language with him, but the exhaustion was boiling over.

“Are you still injured?” König’s gentle question surprised her a bit—she’d nearly forgotten he was there given his quietness.

“Just—just scars.” She murmured before facing forward again, addressing her father.

“Listen, I’ll be able to talk to you like an adult eventually, but not right now, okay?” She stared ahead, refusing to meet the eyes she knew were pleading with her. He slowly got to his feet.

“Alright. If you need anything from me, don’t hesitate, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t walk away for a moment, and in a burst of affection, leaned down to press his forehead to hers.

She let him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too Dad.” I just hate you right now.

He left the room without looking back, gently shutting the door. Hyena felt tears slip down her cheeks freely.

“Hey.. please don’t cry, schatz, don’t cry..” König knelt on one knee in front of her, holding her face in his gloved hands. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I missed you.” She breathed shakily. König let out an amused huff.

“I missed you more. I turned to you so many times to find no one there..”

“Kön..”

“It’s alright now.” He nodded as if to reassure himself of his words.

“Could you lay next to me?”

König blinked once, his hesitation dissipating immediately after hearing her sniffle.

“Yes.”

König removed Hyena’s boots for her before removing his own, joining her in sprawling across the bed. He made it a squeeze, but pressed into his side, it truly wasn’t too bad. Not bad at all.

“How long are you planning on keeping this?” König ran a knuckle along her fabric-covered cheekbone.

“Forever.” She muttered into his vest. She felt the great rise and fall of the sigh that breathed through his chest.

“How about I make this easier?” Suddenly, König was sitting up and sitting cross legged across from Hyena. She mirrored him warily.

“What do you- hey, wai-“

But his hood was off. Tender brown eyes searched hers while his full lips twitched into a nervous smile. His jaw was darkened with stubble that just looked so perfect, his hair was a rich onyx that had grown to brush across his forehead and over his ears, and in the low light, she could barely make out the freckles that dotted the skin under his eyes.

“König… I need to tell you what happened before I show you.”

“Okay.” He took her hand gently, the stiff material of his gloves strangely grounding.

“They started with just cuts and contusions, with water dripping on me. That didn’t stop, but there was one thing they did that won’t be going away. They poured this—substance on me, I don’t know the name, I just know it burned through my skin and probably the muscle. It was like- ow, König.”

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’d been squeezing the life out of her palm, his breathing growing ragged with every word she revealed of her treatment. He massaged the hand he’d injured while Hyena studied him.

“I think I’m ready.”

He looked up quickly, finding her eyes. “Yes?”

She nodded, retracting her hand to undo the knot at the back of her head. König waited, his ambling hands rested in his lap. Slowly, she peeled away the layers and revealed her face.

The whole of the left side was a sort of angry pink color, and lined with marks of stress. It stretched across the bone, her eyebrow singed off, and a portion of her lips stretched and cracking the same way.

König breathed raggedly through his nose.

“I will find them. I swear to you,” he took her hands in his, staring fiercely into her eyes. “I will unleash your pain onto them tenfold and then some. I will not stop until they know what they did. You didn’t deserve this.”

“It’s okay.” Hyena rested their hands in her lap.

“It’s okay..”

König nodded solemnly, then looked away for a moment, a crease forming at his brow.

“What is it?” Hyena questioned, leaning to look into his eyes again.

“There is something you should know. When you were—gone, I,” he sighed, clearly frustrated. “We all thought you were gone. Knowing what I thought had happened, I- it was like I went insane.”

His glassy eyes looked into hers with a certain fear of himself.

“I became violent in every part of my life. I was afraid to call you a friend because I was expecting this. I was expecting to lose you. But that’s not an excuse. You are my closest companion. My partner..”

The rain picked up outside.

“The love of my life.”

The air stilled, any space between König and Hyena growing smaller by the moment.

She whispered her next words like a rushed prayer.

“You love me?”

His breathing stammered as he nodded. Hyena reached up to hold his stubbled jaw in her hands, blinking fondly. She slowly, ever so slowly, slid over to rest in his lap, his hands finding purchase around her lower back.

“You’re..so tiny..”

She huffed at the strange timing. “I’m really not, you’re just enormous.”

“If you say so.” His hands wandered more freely, rubbing soothing shapes into the fabric of her shirt. She relaxed into his touch, snaking her arms around his neck to rest on his broad shoulders.

“I love you too, Kön..” she breathed. Behaving purely on instinct, she leaned in and kissed him.

He froze for a moment before responding eagerly, his tongue easing her mouth open. Vibrant sounds reverberated around the room and into each other’s bodies. When she pulled away for air, she was delighted to see him chase her affection.

“You’re as beautiful as the day you left.”

fin.