#fall for unit bravo

[rinriya]

[haledamage]

Chin for Kira and Adam 👀👀

[ CHIN ]: as they stand close to one another, the sender hooks a finger and tenderly lifts the receiver’s chin, tilting it up so that they can look at one another, and running a thumb across their skin lightly.

A bit of closure I found missing from TWC book 3. Spoilers for pretty much the whole book. 1700 words, Kira/Adam, also starring my truest Wayhaven OTP, Kira/Emotional Vulnerability because my girl thinks she’s Elsa. You can’t “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know” your way out of this one, Kingston, with musical guest “Adam’s attempt to  distance himself is no match for Kira being sad”

--

There was an envelope on the kitchen table that had Kira’s name on it.

She approached it cautiously, half expecting it to be another fancy invite to some horrifying auction. When nothing jumped out of the shadows or attempted to kidnap her, she gave in to her gnawing curiosity and picked it up.

It looked like a perfectly normal letter, addressed to “Agent Kingston” with the facility’s address underneath. A yellow sticky note was attached to the front covered in Rebecca’s familiar, tidy handwriting:

“Kira, This letter was given to me by mistake. I apologise for opening it, but I promise I stopped reading as soon as I realised it was written to you.”

Kira laughed fondly to herself at her mother’s message. Always so formal, even when accidentally committing mail fraud.

She turned the envelope over to find the neat slit that had been cut across the top, and pulled out the simple sheet of notebook paper inside. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, so she scanned the note quickly to see who it was from and why:

The Agency told me this was the best way to get in touch with you. I really hope they gave me the right person because otherwise I’m going to sound crazy. I guess there are two Agent Kingstons here? This is for the one in Unit Bravo, so if you aren’t her, can you get this to her? Thanks.

Hi. You probably don’t remember me. But I wanted to thank you for saving my life. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be in Trapper custody now. Or worse.

I don’t know how you did it. The last thing I remember was that big man with wings taking me, and then I woke up in the hospital a few days ago. The doctors said someone found me unconscious in town and brought me in.

The rest of the words on the page blurred as Kira’s eyes filled with tears. Her knees gave out under her, and she didn’t bother trying to catch herself before she collapsed to the floor, clutching the letter tightly as she tried to breathe around the lump of emotion in her throat.

As if in a daze, she looked down at her arms, her mind conjuring the memory of long, jagged lacerations carved into them, and the girl that had done it. She remembered her face with vivid clarity, wide-eyed with terror as Sin had practically ripped her from Kira’s grasp. 

Several of those marks had scarred, leaving a permanent reminder of that day etched into her skin. One of them bisected the tattoo on her wrist, the black crown broken into two uneven pieces. Numbly, she pressed her thumb to it; she could feel the frantic flutter of her own pulse underneath.

“Kira? Kira!”

She barely heard her name being called. The first time, cautious and surprised, or the second, harsher with the edge of fear.

But she felt it when Adam joined her on the floor. His arrival broke through her daze and what little remained of her composure, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

Adam’s hands shook as he wiped them away. Kira could feel the tremble in his fingertips where they brushed her face. She covered his hands with her own before he could try to hide it, pressing them more firmly against her skin. Even after everything, she still craved his touch, greedy for every second of it she could get.

He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

She shook her head, attempting to give him a shaky smile. “Nothing. Everything is fine.” It sounded so ridiculous, she couldn’t help but laugh. It just sounded like a sob.

Finding the fallen letter on the floor, now tear-stained and partially crumpled, she held it out to him. She watched his expression as he scanned it, but whatever reaction he may have had never showed on his face.

Somehow, Kira’s voice remained strong, even if the rest of her was falling apart. “When she wasn’t with the others at the auction, I--I thought she was--” She didn’t know if she meant to say “dead” or “already sold”, or which would have been the worse fate. A new wave of tears came, and she squeezed her eyes shut as if it could stop them. “But she never made it to the auction. Sin never handed her over. He saved her.”

Adam hooked a finger under her chin, gently coaxing her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he smiled softly, eyes warm and shining with pride. “He didn’t save her, Kira.” His thumb brushed lightly over the swell of her bottom lip. “You did.”

A ragged sob tore its way out of her throat, and Kira buried her face in Adam’s shoulder before another one could escape. His arms immediately wrapped around her, pulling her closer until she was practically in his lap.

Through everything that had happened these last few weeks, Kira had refused to let herself cry. She had kept moving, one persistent step at a time, bottling up all her pain and fear and heartbreak. Through the bounty, and the kidnappings, and the breaking and slow mending of her friendship with Verda. Through too much work on too little sleep, and juggling more and more secrets, and buildings collapsing on her head. Through swallowing her rage as she met Anwir’s eyes and hiding it behind a hollow but convincing smile. Through the constant tidal flow of Adam’s affection, pulling her close only to push her away again while all she could do was try to weather the currents.

If she was honest with herself, she’d been fighting to hold everything in for a lot longer than that. Since Murphy’s assault on her apartment. Since she learned the truth about the supernatural. Maybe since the first moment Unit Bravo had stepped into her office.

But this one tiny, unexpected victory had shattered all her hard wrought restraint. The bottle was broken, and everything came pouring out.

Adam held her through all of it, warm and strong and solid, the only place in the world that she felt truly, completely safe. His hands were a soothing weight in her hair and down her spine, his voice a comforting rumble in her ear, though she was too far gone to process anything he was saying.

Even when Kira finally ran out of tears, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let her go. That felt new. A delicate tendril of hope unfurled in her chest, and for once she let herself feel it without trying to push it away.

Taking a deep and blissfully unfettered breath, she sat up a little, just far enough to rest her temple against his cheekbone. “Thank you.”

Adam chuckled, a gentle and fond sound that made her heart do somersaults. “There is nothing you need to thank me for.”

She leaned back a little more so she could see his face. “For being here to put me back together. Again.” This time when she laughed, she sounded like herself again.

Adam brushed her hair out of her eyes before settling his hand against her cheek. “I will always be here for you, Kira.”

“I know.” And she did know, but it felt so good to hear it out loud. She mapped out the shape of his smile with her fingertips, tracing the curve of his lips and the slight indentations of his dimples. Committing all of it to memory. “I’m here for you too. Whenever you need me.”

“I know.” He almost sounded like he believed it. That was new too.

Before either of them could sabotage the moment by overthinking it, Kira leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like the first kiss they shared. There was no edge of despair or desperation, none of the bitter taste of “goodbye”. It was slow and sweet, heat simmering under the surface but never boiling over to become something else. Hungry, but without any bite.

Adam broke away first, gasping in a shaky breath, and Kira braced herself for the inevitable moment when he closed himself off again. With as raw as her emotions were, she’d need a little more time to swallow down the pain.

Except it never came.

When he turned away, it was only to brush his lips against the inside of her wrist. He trailed light kisses along the length of one of her new scars, followed by a firmer kiss on the broken crown tattoo, and a final one in the center of her palm.

He looked up at her, naked need in his eyes and his lips still pressed to her skin, and she forgot how to breathe.

It took every ounce of restraint she could muster for Kira not to immediately grab him and kiss him again.

Adam didn’t give her the opportunity. He dropped her hand and his gaze, suddenly unable to look at her anymore. Clearing his throat did nothing to make his voice less rough. “How do you feel?”

Weightless. Like if you keep kissing me like that, I could fly. “My head is fucking pounding.” It was also the truth, but a much safer one. Still, she couldn’t help but add, “Except for that, I feel great, actually.”

The glint in his eyes told her that maybe he’d heard the part she didn’t say, too. He knew her too well not to. “Then I shall make you some tea, to help with your headache.”

“Wait.” She grabbed his shoulders as soon as he started to move away, clenching her hands into his shirt like it would make any difference if he actually wanted to leave. “Can we… just stay like this a little longer?”

Adam didn’t respond except by settling back down on the floor. He leaned his back against a nearby side table, and then his arms wrapped around her again, pulling her close. Kira released a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She rested her head on his shoulder and melted against him, trusting him to hold her up.

The rest of the world would still be waiting for them, when they finally decided to move. But for the first time in a long time, Kira felt ready to face it… eventually.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

02 — THE NIGHT WE MET

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Turns out, as much as water is wet, Soap likes to talk.

“Bloody Shadows,” he grunts under his breath. You’d given him your knife, so he could help you take down the men searching the tunnels. Now, after killing one, he’s got a weapon not unlike your own. In one hand, he wipes off the bloody knife on his thigh and slides it into his belt, and in the other, he checks over the stolen gun.

The water soaks your calves, a cloud of blood and a body along with it floating behind you both. Taking another step forward, the water ripples, the weight of it pulling as you continue to move forward, Soap at your flank.

“Your men feckin’ suck at their jobs, lass,” your new companion hisses, low enough not to echo but loud enough to have you rolling your eyes.

“They’re not used to this kind of fighting. It’s not their fault.” You’re not exactly sure why you’re defending them, when you’re decidedly betraying your entire unit, but you feel obligated to anyway.

“Or you’re just a bad Lieutenant.”

You shoot him an annoyed glance. “Wrong. I’m not a Lieutenant, Sergeant.”

You knew of his title because of something Ghost had said earlier, his voice carrying loud enough through the earpiece in the quiet of the shops. It suited him, in a way you couldn’t quite explain, just as the smell of the sea felt like more of a home than any building you’d encountered.

Keeping your head forward, you miss the roll of Soap’s eyes, and the flexing of his hand around the knife at his waist.

“Sorry, Corporal,” he retorts, and you bristle.

“Colonel will do,” you snap back, quickening your pace but keeping your movements quiet as you spot the shadows of your men up ahead. Stretching your hand out, you encourage Soap to pause.

Soap scoffs. “Dinnae think you’re above me.”

You go to continue the petty argument, when –

“Graves has lost his fucking mind over his chick.” A Shadow says around the curved corner, and Soap stops as you do. You see a flash of red, their flashlight, up ahead, and pull Soap’s shirt to stand with you against the wall.

“How much do you bet she’s found out about another girl he’s got goin’ on the side?”

Your chest constricts, and your body feels as though it’s frozen in time. Soap’s hand comes up to remove your grip on his shirt, and you don’t make a single argument or movement against it.

“That, or she’s gone to find another superior to fuck,” the other replies.

Within one moment, and the next, you pull your knife back from the sheath on Soap’s belt, and take a massive, sweeping step to your right.

It’s not a second later that the knife has flung from your fist, and met the neck of one of the gossiping Shadows. Blood spurts out of his neck, and he quickly finds himself falling forwards onto his knees, and then effectively being pulled by the motion of the flood.

“What the –” The other starts, but in one click, you’ve pressed the silencer onto the end of your gun, flicked off the safety and shot a bullet into the back of his head.

Your hands do not tremble. You don’t even make a noise.

Soap does, though, just as the sun is set to rise.

“Christ, lass, that was clean,” he says under his breath, before letting out a low, impressed whistle. “Colonel it is.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you just put your knife back into its rightful spot in your vest, flip on the safety, and continue to wade down the tunnel.

The words of the two Shadows echo in your mind, like your very soul has been hollowed out for the sole purpose of being a cavern of mindless thoughts. You suppose that’s the way of life.

By the time the two of you reach the end juncture of the tunnel, Soap’s killed two more Shadows. You haven’t hurt any since the last few, but it’s a small mercy. You’re not exactly itching to murder your… previous subordinates.

Previous. Past.

Whatever.

“Ghost says the church is just to the right, ‘nd up the stairs,” Soap supplies as the two of you make it to the T-junction. Giving him a small nod, you turn right, finding the said stairs mere metres away.

“It’s going to be rough out there,” you warn with a short glance his way.

He chuckles a humoured sound, surprising you with its warmth. “Aye can handle rough, lass,” he teases, and you’ll forever be grateful for his positive outlook on the situation. Humour was good, when one was going through such… bullshittery.

“What’s the plan after we meet with Ghost?” You ask lowly as you start ascending the brick steps, the dripping of water a debilitating soundtrack. 

Soap is just a few steps behind you, his steps just slightly slower due to his injuries and general stress. “Eh, we’ll see. Ghost has probably got a rough idea already,” he admits. He seems to almost worship Ghost, although in a very different way to how you do – did – with Graves. “Lt for a reason, hen.”

“I’m not a chicken,” you snark back, hand resting at the dagger strapped onto your thigh. It’s a familiar habit.

Soap’s laugh, this time, comes out boisterous and almost shocked. It’s a loud, genuine thing, and you can’t find it in yourself to despise it. 

“Yer funny for a traitor,” he responds, and your stomach hollows out once more.

Traitor.

That single word – title – rings in your ears like the bombs you’ve set off in past missions. Like a tormenting, cruel ghoul, whispering taunts in your ear. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

You don’t reply as you make it to the inside of a house, the front door seeming to face exactly where the two of you needed to go. Pausing before it, you look to Soap once more, cocking your gun.

“Ready, Sergeant?” You ask, both for his sake, and your own. Your resolve is weak, trembling, almost, but there’s no going back now. Not after this.

Soap lets out his own exhale, before his deep blue eyes meet yours. “Aye, I’m ready.”

You turn.

And you open the door.

“Jesus fuck!” Soap yells out, and your focus is quickly split between his sudden words, and the hilt of a gun crashing into the side of your head.

Falling to the ground with a groan, a bloom of light taunts you in the corner of your shut eyes, your skull pounding with the sudden pain. Bringing a hand up to the source of your ache, you slowly blink your eyes open, watching as your fingers come away with sticky blood coating them.

“I found her! She’s with –” 

Looking up, your mouth falls open as a bullet lodges itself into the Shadow’s forehead, and he too, falls to the ground.

Except, unlike you, he would never get up again.

“Was that you, Lt?” Soap calls into his own comms, and he sounds nothing if not impressed. Rising to your knees, you manage to find your way back up to your feet, albeit with shaky movements.

Your vision is slightly skewed, and you feel somewhat out of it as you look outside, and spot the darkened streets once more.

Whatever Ghost responds with makes Soap laugh, but all you can focus on is that the church is so close. You guys could make it – no, you would make it.

And you would convince Graves to stop this, and to continue being the man you thought you knew.

You could fix everything.

“All good?” Soap asks you, then, appearing at your side like a trusted dog. You’re all too aware of how you must look – bewildered and bloody.

“What’re we waiting for?” Is your reply.

Turns out, a lot.

By the time the two of you make it to the steps of the church, there’s enough blood on your hands to make you think that it’ll never come off. Both figuratively, and physically.

“Johnny!” 

Breath stilted, head pounding and ears ringing, your weighted gaze sloppily meets that of Simon Riley’s.

You’d never met the guy, never seen him, either. And in person, he’s terrifying in a guttural, instinctual way. All dark-clothed bulk, skull mask dirtied and stark in the eery night. The sniper strapped to his back just adds to his whole image.

“Fuck, Ghost, you’re –” Soap begins, but a bullet just missing his ear has his words silenced.

“We gotta find a way outta here,” Ghost directs, and you nod instinctively. At the movement, his eyes zero-in on your frame – and they narrow. His hands clench around the smaller, more close-range gun in his hands, and his jaw tightens.

Right. You weren’t friends, and you could hardly be called acquaintances.

Enemies, first and foremost.

Swallowing, you flit your gaze back to Soap, inclining your head towards the multitude of vehicles along the street to your left.

“Come on, we’re sitting ducks here. Let’s find a car and go,” you yell over the sound of the harsh pattering of rain, thunder reverberating through your chest. Your eyes maintain a wincing position, hair completely wet and droplets dripping from your face and gear, mascara coating underneath your eyes, and you’re sure, your cheeks.

“The lass is right,” Soap shifts his attention from you to Ghost, “C’mon, Lt.”

Ghost waits another moment, and even with Soap looking at him, his focus remains solely on you. His gaze is hard, cold, full of hatred and distaste.

“Please,” he insists, tone gone pleading and almost desperate.

It’s all Ghost must need, it seems, because he shifts the weight of his gun between his hands once more with a direct nod. 

It’s not a moment later that more bullets are shot at the three of you, causing you to instantly find cover and press your back against it, quickly checking that your weapon is loaded. It is, thank the gods, and you quickly peek around the stall of which you’d used as cover and pop a few shots at some Shadows you see lining the streets. A few drop, and more yelling echoes throughout the town.

“There’s a truck with its lights on up ahead!” Ghost’s voice carries over the cacophony of sounds down the street, and you heave out a shaky breath. Turning just enough that you can search for the vehicle he’s talking about, your heart thumps in your chest as your eyes lock onto it.

You figure that the man must be further along the streets than you, so steeling your nerves, you stand up once more and raise your gun.

Soap and Ghost have already made a dent in the soldiers after the lot of you, but you find yourself lodging bullets into quite a few Shadows’ skulls anyways. To be on the other side like this, to kill your men, it’s a kind of pain you’d never even considered that you’d have to experience.

Your chest rises and falls at a concerning rate as you find the truck just a few feet away from you, Soap’s hand gripping the door to the passenger’s side, and Ghost jumping into the driver’s seat.

With one final pull of the trigger, you push Soap into the car, and rush into it right after him, pulling the door shut with an audible slam!

“Drive!” You quickly direct Ghost, pulling up your gun over the back of the seat and aiming it at the Shadows directing their sights to the three of you. “Before they kill us all!”

Ghost jerks, the glass of his window shattering as a bullet flies through, a searing pain bursting through the top of your right cheek. Cursing under your breath, you pull the trigger of your gun, Soap shooting his own at the same time.

With a burst of the accelerator, the truck goes rearing backwards, and your eyes go wide as you watch Ghost reverse into two Shadows, their bodies churning underneath the wheel.

“Fuckin’ hell, Lt!” Soap cries out, and just as he does, Ghost quickly manoeuvres the vehicle into drive. He’s quick about it, and you flinch as he crashes through the wired gate that had previously blocked off the street, the truck lurching with the movement.

With tight swerves, and a few more bullets shot from your guns, both you and Soap finally loosen your postures as you lose the couple of Shadows left behind.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale a deep, meaningful breath.

“You good, hen?”

Blinking away the blurriness of your vision, you jolt when Soap’s hand reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing the spot where the pain originates on your cheek. Letting out a small hiss, he immediately pulls away.

“Just a graze, I think,” you bite out, bringing your own shaky fingers to the wound. You can feel where the blood drips from it, along with the blood from your forehead.

“I found some cloth,” Soap pulls out said object, handing you a decently clean strip of tawny fabric. “Will it do?”

With a sharp nod, you take the fabric from his grip, righting yourself to face him properly. Looking down, you unzip one of the compartments on your vest, taking out a small first aid kit.

Soap lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Didn’t realise ye were a medic, lass.”

Despite yourself, and your situation, you can’t help the small tilt of your lips. “I’m a medical professional. Just chose to take lives, rather than save ‘em.”

“Well, ye saved mine today.”

Looking up from where you scavenge through the small kit, your eyes meet his. They’re so blue, and they shine beneath the night lights of Las Almas. Even with his wound, they seem so positive, so joyful and kind.

“And you saved my humanity,” you admit. It’s true, of course – if not for you crashing into him, you had no idea where you’d be right now.

Ghost clears his throat, and you quickly focus back in on your supplies, scurrying through them for the necessary items.

Pulling out a pair of medical scissors, and some cleaning alcohol, you wave for Soap to pull up his sleeve and give you his arm. He does, swearing under his breath as some of the crusted blood pulls away with the fabric of his shirt. His arm is nothing if not muscled, and if it were any other circumstance, any other man, you’d allow yourself a moment to appreciate such pure masculinity.

But this is an enemy, and this is a bullet wound.

“This’ll hurt,” you murmur, checking over the small alcohol bottle in your hand, before looking through the medkit once more. “And you’ve lost a lot of blood. Here.”

Reaching for a small piece of candy, you drop it into his open palm.

His eyes flicker from yours, to the small wrapper in his large hand. He seems to inspect it, for a moment, before his mouth twists into a mocking smirk.

“Sweethearts, aye?”

You roll your eyes, your cheeks burning for reasons other than your wound as you twist off the cap of the bottle in your hands. If you notice Ghost’s attention flit from the road ahead to the two of you, you don’t say a word.

“You need to get your sugars up. It’s not much, but it’s all I have right now,” you explain, refusing to look up at him. “Have one now, this’ll sting.”

He huffs, but undoes the wrapping and pops one of the lollies into his mouth. He hums.

With one hand on his shoulder, you bring up the bottle and drop some of the liquid onto the wound, flushing out any bacteria or infections. Hopefully.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap groans out, teeth clenched and jaw straining as his eyes flutter shut.

“Be careful,” Ghost warns, worry and threat bundled into the two words like a second skin. If you were one to be intimidated, you would take the sentiment seriously, but all you can focus on is the obvious care for his companion.

Very odd, indeed.

“How’s the candy?” You ask, grabbing a sterilising wipe and cleaning up around the wound. Luckily, the bullet had exited – there wouldn’t be a need to go digging in there. That also meant that you had to clean the other side of his arm, however.

Soap’s chuckle comes out strained, but it’s better than silence.

“Delicious, sweetheart.”

You pause your movements, briefly, your chest tightening at the mocking endearment.

“Sweetheart?” You repeat back, your tone a question, before you continue to clean his wounds, albeit with more stilted movements.

“The lollies,” Ghost supplies, and you can’t help but think that he either thinks you’re dumb, or just generally despises you.

Maybe both.

…Definitely both.

“Yer jus’ so sweet, lass,” Soap taunts, before letting out a sound akin to a whimper when you swipe the wipe a bit too close to his wound.

“My bad,” your smile is sickeningly sweet, your tone light and innocent.

Soap’s jaw sets, but silence fills the truck as you make sure that the cloth will properly fit around the wound, getting out a safety pin to keep it around his arm.

It takes a few minutes for you to wrap the makeshift gauze around his skin, the groans of pain from him few and far between. Despite everything, you were a good medic. You’d been trained well, and you had the cadence for it.

Usually.

Fastening the clip through the cloth, you fix it up so it looks presentable enough, and successful for its job.

“All done,” you say softly, hesitant to speak up in the silence of the space.

You go to pack up your supplies, before a hand reaches out and wraps around your wrist, stopping your movements.

Flicking your gaze up to Soap’s, you go to open your mouth to say something, but find yourself at a loss for words. Your eyebrows furrow, and he seems to sense your confusion, because –

“Yer wounds,” he blurts out, wincing at the suddenness of his proposal. “...Yer wounded. Too.”

You can’t stop a shocked, sharp laugh leaving your lips.  “I’m very aware of that, yes. Brilliant observation, Sherlock.”

“Let him speak,” Ghost grits out, and Soap’s grip tightens around your wrist. The smell of blood and gunpowder is potent in the night, but you find yourself at ease with the somewhat familiar scent. What’s throwing you off is the sudden add-on of their cologne – somehow, someway, you can smell it. Whether it’s military-duty, or it’s ingrained into their very bones, you haven’t a clue.

You could slap yourself for noticing, for being curious at all.

They smell oddly like cedarwood and musk.

“Let me fix ye up,” Soap supplies, and you can’t do anything but oblige.

Handing him the first aid kit, your fingers brush, and it really, really shouldn’t mean a thing. For the gods’ sake, you’d had your hands all over his upper arm just mere moments ago.

But there’s a spark.

Like a universal truth, maybe. Like a sensation of sudden purpose, as if all this time, all of your life, had led up to this very moment. To this very person.

You pull away sharply, and Soap doesn’t comment on it.

You’ll forever be grateful for that.

“This’ll hurt,” Soap chides, mocking your voice. You fight the urge to slap that smug grin off of his face.

You notice Ghost’s uneasy grip on the steering wheel as he cruises through the city, taking odd turns and slightly too risky manoeuvres. His focus is designated directly to his task, only occasionally checking on Soap.

Fingers underneath your chin force you to look to the Scot at your side, his movement gentle but fingers calloused and weathered. It’s an impossible dichotomy, but one you find yourself relaxing into anyways; the kind of impossible that one starts to think of as home.

Yet, your home is far from here.

Your home is in Graves’ quarters. At the Shadows’ base. 

It’s difficult to suppress the groan when Soap brushes the alcohol wipe against your cheek, but biting down on your lower lip does the job. If anything, it makes you focus on the sharp pain of that, rather than the graze on your cheek.

The trick lasts a few minutes, before Ghost goes over a particularly rough bump, causing the wipe to dig into your open wound. Your head falls forward, a soft grunt falling from your lips at the burst of pain.

“Aye, lass, ‘s alright,” Soap soothes, but it does little for your growing embarrassment. 

You shoot your glare his way, settling back further into your seat. “Thanks, but that’s enough for now.”

Soap’s expression betrays his inner turmoil, but you turn, looking out of the window. 

The darkness and rain battle along the forested roads, and it’s only now that you realise you’ve left the city. And, also, that you have no idea what’s happening, or where the fuck you’re even going.

“What’s the plan?” You ask steadily, falsifying your growing apprehension.

“A safehouse,” Ghost grunts the reply, and you already know that that’s all you’re going to get from him for now. Letting out a small huff, you fold your arms over your chest, resolutely not looking at Soap.

If you did, you’d see him personifying a kicked puppy.

Silence falls, once again, over the three of you. It allows for you to think, both over the storm brewing both outside, and in your head. 

You weren’t sure how long it would take Graves to realise that you betrayed him, if he would believe it at all. Somehow, you wouldn’t put it past him to say that this is all an elaborate kidnapping, but you figure he must have bigger problems to deal with than you going missing right now.

Then, there was the issue of alliances. Ghost hadn’t exactly agreed to working with you, and he definitely showed no signs of being anything but cold towards you. And, even then, could you really kill your – whatever Graves was – if it came down to it?

And what was to happen next? After everything was said and done? Would the 141 allow you to work with them?

Would you want to?

“We’re here.”

Pulling the handbrake, the truck stops, and you see that Ghost has pulled up outside a safehouse of some sort, in the outskirts of Las Almas.

You go to get out, but you realise that your door’s remained locked – and when you turn to question Ghost, you soon gather that it’s a purposeful move.

Ghost’s eyes narrow on you, calculating and assessing, before he says, voice like a gunshot in the quiet of the night –

“Give me a reason not to kill you right now, 'nd we might let you live.”

You swallow around the desert that your mouth’s become, and with shaky words, you respond.

a/n. first post of 2024!! i hope everyone enjoys, and if u did, please comment, reblog and follow!! mwah mwah

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias

[seraphinitegames]

I'm in love with the immersion, world-building, and characters of your writing. I can't help but gush about how talented you are with your you are as it's obvious how much love you put in your work.

The routes that I've been going through with my mc and his love interest between Adam and Mason was intriguing, funny and sometimes left me flustered and secretly yearing for more as although the difference between the two is like night and day, there is also a sense of familiarity the two of them share as well such as when it comes to the people they cherish and how they can react when they're threatened especially when it comes to the mc when picked as a love interest.

My favourite moments in the series would be from your most recent book, book three. I was pensive and aching to reach out towards Adam, as I wanted him to realize that it's okay to feel vulnerable every now and then, and that it doesn't make him weak as I desperately tried to reach out to him, and how when I was about to confess that I had fallen for Mason until Felix came out of nowhere, cockblocking me, which led me to furiously mutter under my breath and mind "GOD F@#*ING DAMMIT, FELIX!!"

My heart also ached for how much Sin was in pain who didn't want to hurt anyone but felt like he had to, resigned and trapped with no way out. I didn't hesitate to find any way to help him in anyway I could to free him. That's why near the end of the book I let him leave to live his life the way he wanted to. I couldn't stop imaging about giving him something to not just remind him of our budding friendship, but to also remind him to stay true to himself, and remind him that although he did do some terrible things, they don't define who he is, and that he has the right to been and feel happy as well when the guilt of his actions starts to consume him, whilst I'll also run and shout towards him when he flies of and leaves as I wave with a smile, "Goodbye! Stay safe!" I wonder how he'll react towards the mc doing this.

I can't wait for book four, as this time the stakes are dire, and the mc can even fall for the villian! I can't wait!!

Sorry for my ramblings, but I truly love the series that you've created and I cannot wait for what you have in store for us all. I hope you have a wonderful day. 😊😊

Aah, what an incredible message! I honestly cannot even begin to tell you how much it means to me to read this! <3

It's interesting you saying about the similarities of A and M—It's kind of why it's always fun writing them when they end up paired off for a mission or something.

M is very honest with A (as can be seen with that rather cutting statement by a BFF M to a romanced A at the end of Book Three! But A kind of…gets M in some ways more than the others un Unit Bravo, and it's the same for M. They both know how in pain they are—emotionally or physically—and there's a very deep understanding and bond between them because of that.

I could go on about the unique bonds between each member of UB forever, so I'll stop not before it turns into an essay, hehe! :D

But yeah, I think Sin would love to hear that from the MC. No one has ever looked out for him or cared to before, so having someone they barely know do that for him would make a very big impact—and it does depending on your ending with him!

Thank you so so much for your wonderfully motivating message! <3

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): explicit language, suggestive themes, kissing, romantic tension

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Six of Ink & Needle

You and Simon come face to face inside Dancing Faun.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Ready to go, Bravo?”

Simon shrugs on his coat and glances at the German Shepard. Bravo’s nails clack clack against the floor of the tattoo parlor as he takes a spot next to the door. He sits at attention, ears straight and alert as he clutches his leash in his maw.

They do this every Sunday and Bravo knows the routine.

Sighing, Simon walks up to Bravo and takes the leash. The dog surrenders it easily, but the moment Simon grabs hold, he recoils.

“Christ, Bravo. Need to get that under control, yeah?” Simon shakes the leather leash free of Bravo’s drool.

Bravo makes a pitiful little whine in answer. Simon reaches out to scratch the top of the dog’s head before going to one knee to secure the leash to Bravo’s collar. Getting down is the easy part. It’s the standing again that always aches.

Simon’s bad leg is acting up today. At least, more than usual. It has been months since Simon went to physical therapy, and he might need to start working it back into his schedule if this is going to be his new normal.

Wincing as he pushes off from the floor, Simon wraps the end of the leash around his fist. It’s habit, and more for the sanity of others than himself. Bravo is well-trained. Used to be a bomb dog for one of the many SAS divisions.

During his time on base, Simon would always take time to play fetch with the military dogs. Sometimes they were ones he worked with directly, while others just happened to be on base at the time with their units. Maybe it was Riley’s shadow that always prompted him to do it. He loved that dog, and a little piece of Simon went missing when he died.

Then Bravo came along, and their retirements just happened to fall around the same time.

Simon couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

It’s Sunday. And Sunday is Simon’s day to do whatever the hell he wants.

No work. No computer. No phone. No exercise.

Nothing but him, Bravo, and drinks at Dancing Faun.

Simon isn’t bothered there, and he’s thankful for that. When he first moved to the area, Simon kept ending up in pubs where people his age or a bit younger frequented. He was never left alone at those places. Someone would eventually approach him. Either it was some drunk wanker trying to fight him, or someone wanting him to take them home.

No one bothers Simon at Dancing Faun. Most of the people who come in are much older than Simon, and a good many of the men are veterans themselves. They understand Simon and his need for a bit of solitude. The owner of the pub, Ben, is also good at keeping strangers away.

Maybe it’s the balaclava that attracts them. Maybe it’s the mystery. People are attracted to danger, and while Simon left that life a few years ago, he’s never shaken his violent shadow. Retirement can’t erase the people he’s killed or the enemies he’s put away. That life is sticky. No matter how hard you scrub at it, a residue always remains.

But Dancing Faun is Simon’s one refuge from the whole world. He can drink, think about absolutely fucking nothing, and catch a football or rugby match. Afterwards, he goes home and searches through his contacts for someone willing to have it off for a bit.

It’s just physical. Only flesh. An attempt on his part to fill a vacant hole.

But today, Simon doesn’t need to call anyone, because you’re here. He knows that now without a solitary doubt. When you appeared in the doorway of his shop, Simon truly believed he hallucinated the whole thing.

But he imagined nothing.

You are real and whole and here. Somewhere.

Simon just needs to figure out how to make you come to him. He needs to make it happen.

Exiting through 141 Ink’s front door, Simon secures the deadbolts behind him. Bravo remains at Simon’s side, alert but happy, his tongue hanging out of his open mouth. At the very end of the street on the corner is Dancing Faun.

The outside of the pub is a deep, forest green with gold accents including the sign and lettering. The door is solid black with no window, just a silhouette of a faun holding a pipe. Simon pushes open the door and steps inside, Bravo right on his heels.

It’s still early, and no one is at this pub or any pub at this hour. But Ben always opens a little early just for Simon.

The inside is dimly lit, only a few of the lamps on the wall are actually on. The hanging ones above the bar are on but that’s it. The overcast morning light isn’t helping much. One of the televisions is already on displaying a repeat of a rugby match.

When the door shuts behind Simon, he hears a familiar voice call out to him.

“That you, Simon?”

“It’s me,” he replies, bending down to unlatch the leash from Bravo’s collar. When the latch is released, Bravo pads over to their usual spot at the bar, sitting patiently on the right side of the stool.

Ben appears from around the corner carrying a plate. He’s older than Simon but not by much. The guy has about ten years on him. When Simon takes a seat on his usual stool, Ben sets the plate down in front of Simon, grinning.

It’s a full English with double of everything. While the pub doesn’t consistently serve food, Ben’s wife always makes Simon breakfast every Sunday morning. It’s tradition at this point.

Next to the plate, Ben sets down Simon’s beer and a cup of breakfast tea.

“Saw you on the cover of that magazine. Congrats. It’s deserved.” Ben leans against the bar top as Simon reaches up and removes the balaclava, setting it aside.

Ben doesn’t even blink or flinch. Why would he? Simon isn’t ugly. The few scars on Simon’s face don’t detract from his features. He might hide behind the balaclava but it isn’t because Simon hates himself.

Far from it.

He has a persona to put on. He needs separation between himself and everyone else. The people who meet him and come get tattooed all expect “Ghost” and “Ghost” wears a mask. Ben doesn’t give a shit about “Ghost,” and so Simon goes without when it’s just the two of them.

“Thanks,” replies Simon, taking a sip of tea before deciding what part of his plate he wants to tackle first. “How’s business?”

“Steady. Rent’s going up. As are my bloody taxes.” Ben shakes his head and Simon slices through one of the roasted tomatoes. “Fucking Tories and Labour can’t fucking agree on one bloody fu—” Ben glances up and immediately stops talking. “Sorry.” He holds both hands up in a placating gesture. “No politics on Sunday.”

Simon smirks. “Can I have my tea first?”

Ben drops his hands and leans against the bar top again. “But—and hear me out—if you have friends in the government…” He waves one of his hands around absently to indicate his point.

“I was military. You know this.”

“I’m aware, Simon. I’m only saying—”

“Don’t,” chuckles Simon as he cuts up the sausage on his plate.

Ben waves him off. “I know. But it’s the same bloody thing in the end.”

Simon snorts and grabs his tea. “No politics on Sunday, Ben.”

Ben gives a mocking, half-hearted salute before changing the subject. “Christmas is coming up in a couple months. Heading to the Highlands again?”

Every Christmas, Johnny invites Simon out to the Scottish Highlands to stay with his family. They spend most of their time on the MacTavish farm. It’s quiet out there, and Simon enjoys it.

Simon doesn’t have anyone. His family is gone. In the ground. Johnny knows this which is why he started inviting Simon ever since they first started working together. Gaz has come out a few times, and even Price showed up once for a short hunting trip.

But this year? Simon isn’t sure. You’re here now, but he has no idea for how long. If you’ll be in England for the foreseeable future, would you go with him? Would Johnny be okay with that?

The toast sticks in Simon’s throat and he has to wash it down with the remaining tea.

“That’s the plan,” he replies because it’s the only semi-truthful answer he can give.

Ben nods and taps the top of the counter. There’s a clatter from the direction of the kitchen and Ben sighs, his eyebrows rising slightly in a goodbye as he heads in the direction of the noise.

After that, Ben leaves Simon alone. He cleans the bar and glassware, puttering around Simon as he readies the place. When Simon finishes, Ben takes the plate, and then promptly offers it to Bravo who licks it clean.

The balaclava is back in place once the first wave of customers begins to roll in.

A few come in at a time—all of them old men who know each other. Regulars. Retirees who come in every day. They either scatter about individually or cluster in small groups near a television. Several of them acknowledge Simon with a nod of the head. Two take up spots at the bar.

Simon finishes his second beer and moves on to a third, considering when he’s going to switch over to whiskey. He always does. The door of the pub opens again and Simon takes a long swig of the golden amber liquid in his glass.

“Amelia! Usual spot?” calls out Ben.

The door is not in Simon’s line of sight, but he knows Amelia. She’s one of three women who comes to the pub on Sunday. Ben always puts on American baseball for her. She’s chatty, and has—on occasion—talked Simon’s ear off. But she’s sweet, and he’s never minded the attention. Sometimes, she even brings vegetables from her garden, and Simon always appreciates the gesture when she does.

“You know it, Ben,” replies Amelia.

“Already have it on.” Simon notices Ben’s sudden shift. His shoulders sharpen, back straightening as he watches something. It’s not confusion. Not exactly. Surprise? “And you brought guests.”

Guests. As in, plural. As in, multiple.

“Just the two,” laughs Amelia. “And only one is drinking. This one will need some tea and perhaps something to eat?”

Curious, Simon shifts slightly in the stool, bringing his glass up to his mouth for a drink to hide that interest in who it is that Amelia brought with her.

The first thing he notices is a young woman cradling a pregnant belly. He knows that familiar face. Evelyn. She stopped by his shop yesterday and introduced herself. But that’s not the first time Simon has seen her. She’s your friend, the one you were with at Riot Room. Simon saw her face every time his gaze was on you, and then again when he tore apart Riot Room’s security system in search of you.

Simon still has the old grainy video. He’s watched it so many times with the hope that he’d pick up on something. A clue that might lead you to him again. Three years he’s watched that surveillance feed. Three years and he hasn’t let you go.

Evelyn’s cheeks are rosy from the cold and she grins widely at Ben. Simon escorted her across the street and to The Bird after they chatted for a few minutes. People drive fast on it, which is true, but he was also curious. He thought that if she was around, you would also be around.

When he saw you there in that café, reality started to sink in. But he didn’t say anything. He simply stared like a bloody idiot and then politely excused himself. Simon isn’t shy, but he wouldn’t necessarily call himself bold. It was more like a subtle realization that Simon isn’t crazy, that he didn’t imagine you in the doorway, that these three years have only been preparing him for your return.

Simon’s gaze slides past Evelyn and lands on the woman standing behind her. He freezes, his glass halfway to his mouth.

You see him. And Simon sees you.

You’re here. In this pub. With him.

And you cannot run this time. There is no possibility to bolt without causing a scene. You’ve come to him, and now all Simon needs to do is get you to talk to him. That’s all he really wants. He wants to hear your voice, to find some understanding, to know if this obsession is entirely one-sided.

Simon observes your eyes widening and the soft inhalation as your lips part in surprise. He knows those lips. He’s kissed those lips. Felt them against his skin. They are a brand and those parts of him that know the memory of your mouth heat with desire.

The muscles in his legs are poised for action. They tell him to get up. To go to you. To drag you into his arms and take you away from prying eyes. Because Simon wants answers as much as he wants to revel in your warmth and return to those memories.

He’s been feasting on that old encounter, dishing out little fragments at a time to staunch the hunger but never enough to keep it away. This is his chance. This is his opportunity. Right now. In this place.

Something will happen between the two of you. Simon knows this in his very marrow.

As if suddenly realizing who it is you’re staring at, you quickly glance away from Simon, gaze focused on the back of Evelyn’s head or a point beyond. Simon wants to draw your gaze back to him. He hates that he cannot take action.

Because he will. Simon will take action now that you’re completely in his sights. But he needs to be strategic about it.

Amelia grabs hold of Evelyn’s upper arm and begins guiding the two of you around the pub. The damn woman stops at every table. Speaks to every person. It’s like Amelia is dragging this out on purpose.

Simon does not look away once. You have all his attention, and perhaps you know this. You’re so…ridged, and Simon senses an uneasiness to the way you forcibly smile at every person you meet.

He is so absorbed in your presence that he doesn’t hear Ben calling to him.

“Simon.”

Simon hears his name in the distance. He ignores it, instead watching as you move on to another table.

“Simon.” This time Ben leans into Simon’s line of sight, snapping his fingers.

Simon blinks and then shifts his gaze in Ben’s direction. Ben frowns, and Simon immediately softens his features. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know he likely looks irritated.

Ben nods toward the glass. “Want another?”

Simon pushes the empty stein toward him in silent answer. Ben snags it and tucks it away somewhere, grabbing a clean one to fill. When he sets it down on the bar top and Simon reaches for it, Ben draws it out of his reach. “You’re acting funny.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Simon dryly, knowing exactly what Ben is referring to.

Ben snorts and then pushes the newly poured beer in Simon’s direction. Simon takes it and immediately takes a long drink. It doesn’t burn going down, but it’s not soothing either. Simon is on edge. He can feel it, like a venomous snake curled up in a pile of leaves.

Amelia turns and you follow, moving ever closer to him. She comes to a stop at the two men sitting near each other at the bar. Amelia is all smiles, as is Evelyn, but your smile has slipped into a neutral stare that only makes Simon sad. Like before, there is a weariness under your eyes that he longs to rub away.

Is it him? Does the very idea of the two of you coming together again bother you?

Simon immediately dismisses the idea. He noticed the tiredness when you were standing in the doorway of his shop. There is something else going on, something deeper, and Simon wants to know what it is. If he can, he will take it from you if that will ease the burden. That is, if you’ll allow him to.

The conversation between Amelia and the two men ends quickly. She guides you and Eveyln in Simon’s direction, and then you’re right there, in front of him, and Amelia is beaming like she’s just achieved some lofty goal.

“This is Simon,” she says casually, gesturing toward him, but Simon notices the underlying mischievousness to Amelia’s smile. “Runs the tattoo parlor just a few shops down. He’s the only young one we allow around here.”

Amelia’s grin is infectious, the kind that could make anyone smile. But Simon isn’t smiling. He’s too focused on you. He is so goddamn close. Simon could reach out and easily pull you right into his lap.

Amelia pats your shoulder. “I know the two of you know each other, but it’s been a while. How about you two catch up and Evie and I will go enjoy the game.”

Even though Amelia is speaking to you, she’s staring at Simon as she talks.

What are you up to, Amelia?

Her eyebrows rise slightly and Simon understands. She knows about you and Simon, at least to a certain capacity. Why else would she be abandoning you to him?

Evelyn’s grin is just as wide. Her gaze keeps darting between you and Simon with clear hope in the way she clutches her hands together in front of her chest.

“Amelia—” you interject, clearly frazzled.

“Sit,” insists Amelia, quickly ushering Evie away to her usual table in the far corner.

At first, you simply stand there, and Simon believes that you might turn your back on him and walk away. But you don’t. You don’t walk away from him nor do you break eye contact.

Slowly, you sink down on the stool next to him. Your gaze keeps darting across and over his face, like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. Are you trying to remember him? Are you relearning him the way he’s currently relearning you?

“What will it be?” asks Ben, his gaze expectant.

You slightly turn your head in Ben’s direction to address him but you’re too focused on Simon. It’s a victory. A win. Simon knows he’s won in some capacity by how intensely you’re focused in on him.

“I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.” Ben shrugs and grabs a glass, filling it up before sliding it over to you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Simon notices Ben’s attention shift to him. It’s a silent ask to make sure Simon is fine. That he’s not being bothered. But you’re not a bother, and Simon gives the look no acknowledgment. No one is going to take you away from him.

Never.

Simon sits up straighter, shifting in his stool. He keeps one arm on the bar top, but the other rests against his leg, his hand poised on his knee. Your knee is touching his, and the very tips of his fingers brush against your jeans.

It’s an electric jolt when Simon makes contact. But it’s also his way of pushing a boundary. Will you accept his touch or move out of it?

There is a span of breath, and it is you that speaks first.

“Hello,” you say weakly, brow softening.

Your voice is a remedy, the embrace after a long absence. Simon revels in it, absorbs it into himself, devours the quality of those syllables until it repeats in a pounding rhythm within his brain.

He is happy. He is whole.

“Hello,” replies Simon, and the sultry purr in his voice is unstoppable.

There is no going back. There is no return to how things were. You are all that Simon needs. Forget the shop and all of his responsibilities. You are finally here, not just a dream or memory.

That old encounter is now new and fresh. It is yesterday as much as it is three years ago.

You blink, mouth forming into a smile that stretches toward your ears. It is genuine and soft, and you glance down at your hands in embarrassment, trying to hide from him.

But you’re not allowed to hide from him. Simon wants everything. He wants those delicate lines and your harshness. He wants this smile to be aimed at him, to know that it is he that makes you happy.

When you glance up again, your smile is a bit gentler, but it only makes Simon eager.

“You’re a tattoo artist?” you ask though you already know the answer.

“You sound surprised,” replies Simon.

“Well, yes. I—” You pause, and then try again. “When I met you at Riot Room you seemed…dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” he laughs.

“Yes.”

“And yet you left with me?”

You glance away quickly, and stare at your fingers where they rub at the condensation on your glass. “Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.”

Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.

Safe. You felt—feel? —safe with him.

“What is it that you think I did for a living?” asks Simon, amusement creeping into his tone.

“Wasn’t tattoo artist,” you reply softly, lifting the glass for a small sip.

Simon’s index finger moves of its own accord, tracing slow circles over your knee. It feels natural to touch you, and you don’t pull away from him.

“I was military.”

“Was?” you ask, one eyebrow arching in curiosity.

There is so much Simon can say after that. And so much he can’t. Simon considers every possible answer before telling you the truth. “Forced into retirement. Sustained a few permanent injuries in the field.”

You surprise Simon, not because you apologize for something out of your control but because you reach out and take his hand. Squeezing softly, you look him in the eye, and the gaze is so direct that it startles him.

“And I’m sure you were very good at what you did.”

“The best,” replies Simon instantly.

The smile that spreads across your face is beautiful. He wants to capture it, to press his mouth to yours and steal it for himself.

“How long are you here for?” asks Simon, changing the subject.

You shrug. “Not entirely sure. A while.”

“And how long is a while?” Simon needs to know. Will he only have you for a few days or will he have you for weeks? Months?

“I’m supposed to be picking up a visa at the US Embassy next week. It’s being expedited but I still came early. Someone is working very hard behind the scenes to make it happen.”

You don’t elaborate, and Simon isn’t sure if he should push the subject or not. Visas typically last up to six months depending on what kind it is, and that gives him hope.

“So, you’ll be around?” he asks with just the slightest bit of hesitation.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll be around.”

Relief floods Simon’s veins. There will be plenty of time with you. He will make the most of it.

“Are you staying with Amelia?” prompts Simon, his gaze quickly shifting to find the woman across the pub. She’s sipping on her beer, but it’s clear that her attention isn’t really on the television.

“I am. The two of you know each other.”

Simon’s gaze returns to your face. “I know everyone who comes in.”

“Self-proclaimed old man, then?” you tease.

Simon grins, chuckles. “That an issue?”

“No,” you laugh softly, and it’s then that Simon realizes you’re still holding onto his hand. Your palm is warm and comforting. It isn’t slack or limp. It is present, clutching his with gentleness.

“Have any availability in your schedule?” The question surprises Simon. “For a tattoo that is.”

Technically, he has zero room in his schedule for the next few months, and will likely be booked out even longer once he starts chipping away at all those goddamn emails in his inbox. But for you? He’ll make room. Fuck everyone else.

“Tell me when and what time and I’ll make it happen.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

You lick your lips and Simon follows the movement, wanting to lean into that. To taste and remember. But he holds back. There will be a time for him to do so, but not right this second. No matter how badly he wishes for it to be so.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to call you,” you say with an awkward smile and shrug of your shoulders. “Ghost is what you told me at Riot Room but Amelia called you—”

“Simon,” he interjects. “To you, I’m Simon.”

“But Ghost—”

Simon’s hold on your hand tightens. “I know what I said. But Ghost is…a persona. He is separate, and I don’t want to be separate with you.”

“Simon,” you say slowly, rolling his name around on your tongue.

His name sounds so sweet in your mouth. He wants to know all the ways you can say it. How would you say his name when he finally kisses you again? Or when his mouth is on your body and between your legs? What will his name sound like when he’s buried deep inside you? How will his name sound then?

“I like the way you say my name,” he whispers, and the words leave him without second thought.

Your eyes widen. Your lips part. And Simon squeezes your hand again, shifting a little closer to you on the stool.

This place is too public. There are too many eyes on you. Simon needs to take you away. There are questions that still sit heavy in his mind. Things he wants to know.

His thumb runs over the back of your hand. “Will you come with me? Outside? Just for a bit?”

“Simon,” you murmur, and it takes everything in him not to groan with pleasure.

“Please,” and Simon is close to begging.

You glance over your shoulder at Amelia and Evelyn. They aren’t looking this way, and that seems to do it.

“Okay,” you agree, not even asking him where it is he plans on taking you.

Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.

Simon slides out of his stool, standing, towering over you. Bravo perks up but Simon shakes his head at him. “Stay here, Bravo.” Bravo’s ears droop slightly but the dog puts his head back down.

You stand, too, never taking your eyes off of him. While your gaze is a rush, it’s your hand which still clutches his that makes Simon tingle all over. That is what he clings to, latches on to skin against skin.

He steps back and you step forward. You are following him, moving with him, and Simon’s blood is singing, thrumming with victory, rushing to a place it shouldn’t but is.

When the two of you turn the corner down the hall, Simon tries not to rush. He is eager but fuck—he needs to control himself. This could easily spiral out of his control if he doesn’t reel himself in. It doesn’t matter how much Simon wants you. If you’re not interested, he can’t push for it.

But you’re following him. You’re talking with him. You’re holding his goddamn hand.

He can’t be wrong about this.

The two of you approach the door to the private patio, and Simon almost snaps. There is a small alcove under the stairs. Simon has to control himself, to not push you up against the wall there in the dark, and kiss you until you become soft and compliant in his arms.

Instead, Simon inhales deeply, and pushes open the door to the patio.

It’s small, just a few tables with chairs and a couple of portable heaters. The patio itself is in the alleyway that cuts through the entire street, pushing up against a row of houses and a few businesses. There is a privacy fence that keeps out any potential onlookers. Simon only comes out here to smoke, and while he could go for a cigarette, he’d rather go for you.

Leading you to a bench pressed up against the wall of the building, Simon finds a spot right under one of the heaters. It’s cold out but it’s still fall. The coats are enough but he’s not risking shit. Either the heater will keep you warm or he will.

The two of you sink down onto the bench, and still, you do not let go of his hand. Simon refuses to be first. If you won’t let go, he won’t either.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes as if trying to calm your nerves. Simon cannot hold back what it is he wants to ask.

“Why did you run?”

Your eyes snap open, and you turn toward him. He sees the sorrow, and the battle behind your gaze. You’re finding the words, gathering your thoughts, and Simon silently hopes that you do not try to lie to him.

“At Riot Room?”

He shakes his head. “Not just there. Outside the shop, too.”

You blink. Look away. Glance back. The very bottoms of your eyelids are watery. Simon does not want to be the reason you cry, but you ran from him twice. Bolted. At Riot Room, he was hurt. Devasted. He didn’t understand.

Outside his tattoo parlor, that exit he can dismiss. It’s been three years and you were probably shocked. But that first escape haunts him lays across his skin like a ghost.

“I’m sorry I ran from you,” you whisper.

Simon shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”

You glance down at your combined hands, but you’re not saying anything.

“Tell me,” murmurs Simon.

Slowly, Simon lifts his free hand, lightly takes your chin between thumb and forefinger. He guides your head up, moves your gaze back to his face. Once you’re looking at him again, Simon’s thumb travels the line of your jaw.

You lean into the touch. “I…was too close.”

“Too close?” pushes Simon.

“Yes. You felt…I wanted to stay. But I was scared.”

“Of me?”

“No!” you say quickly, your free hand gripping his upper arm, squeezing. “Never. It all felt like more. That it wasn’t just sex between us. That scared me.”

“And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?” Simon leans in and you do not pull back or shrink away. You also lean forward, and Simon is so close to getting what he wants.

“It’s been three years,” you murmur. “You don’t mean that.”

“Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.”

Simon let’s go of your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. You surrender to him, and Simon changes position on the bench, straddling it, pulling you into his lap. Your legs effortlessly go around him, and your hands cling to the neckline of his shirt.

“Have you thought of me? Tell me the truth,” growls Simon.

You’re so close. Lips just a breath away from touching his.

“Yes,” and when it leaves your throat, Simon hears the gentle break. “Many times. So many times.”

Simon hand travels up from your waist to grab the back of your neck. Your inhale is sweet. Wanton. He can’t have you completely, not at the moment, but he’ll take whatever it is you’re willing to give in this moment.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

The words barely leave his mouth before you’re closing the distance. Simon answers you with a kiss of his own. There is no hesitant gap, no pause for breath, just you and him and your mouths meeting.

The kisses that follow are not mechanical or stagnant. They are generous and lovely and hungry. Your lips are soft, and Simon’s grip on the back of your neck only strengthens when your hips roll against him.

Your hand on his chest forms a fist, your fingers digging into the front of his shirt. Simon doesn’t care if you tug and pull, if you accidentally rip it. You can have whatever the fuck you want with the way you’re kissing him.

Simon groans low in his throat as his other hand makes passes over your thighs, hips, and lower back. He’s exploring your curves, relearning your body. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has.

His blood is boiling. It is screaming, telling him to take you home, to finish what he started in the green room within the basement at Riot Room. Simon will make you his. You will take every inch of him, beg him repeatedly for more until you lose your voice, and Simon will do it, will keep going until you’re a deliciously perfect puddle in his arms.

Your fist unclenches, trails downward, and stops just above his belt. You’re going to make him fucking feral if you keep touching him like this. Any lower and it’s over. There will be no asking about taking you home.

Simon will simply toss you over his shoulder and go straight there.

Sitting up a bit, you shift in his lap, and that one small movement rubs the one spot blood is rushing to.

Fuck.

He doesn’t want to break the kiss. Simon doesn’t want to pull away, but all of his control is slipping away, melting from him like ice in the sun.

When Simon breaks the kiss, you whimper, and Simon’s answer is to dig his fingers into your thighs, pressing up into you to show you exactly how he wants you.

“Come home with me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your lips are swollen and puffy. They’re perfect, and he nips at the bottom one before gently sucking it into his mouth.

“Right now?” you breathe.

Right now? No. The two of you can’t run off together right now. Simon has a fucking tab to pay, even if Ben could give a shit and tell Simon to pay him later. Plus, there is Amelia and Evelyn to think about.

Yes, they pushed you into Simon’s path, but you’re technically here with them. He won’t take you away. Simon is selfish when it comes to you, but he’s already waited three fucking years. What’s a few more hours until you’re back in his arms?

“Tonight.”

You’re shaking your head. Why are you shaking your head?

“I can’t,” you reply and now Simon is the one shaking his head.

“When?” he asks. “When can I see you again?”

Your gaze flicks up and Simon is lost for a moment, only thinking about how wonderful you feel in his lap. It takes him back to Riot Room when you first straddled him on that couch, kissing his lips, touching his body.

His mind wanders further, forming the image of you spread out, facing the mirror.

“Tomorrow? I can stop by in the morning.”

The morning. It’s not enough time with you. What Simon wants is for you to come over tonight. He wants to take you over every surface in his home like he planned on doing three years ago.

But he’ll take whatever you give him. If you can come by tomorrow morning, Simon will cherish it. He will be happy knowing that you want to see him at all.

And while he wishes all of this, there is a hesitant hopefulness in your gaze, like Simon will reject the offer. Are you just as nervous as he is? Are you wanting him as much as he wants you? Do you desire to be close to him in more ways than just your bodies meeting?

Because Simon wants all of you. Every bit.

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

Your smile is sweet. Wholesome. You throw your arms around his neck and kiss him, nearly knocking Simon onto his back.

“Sorry,” you laugh, beginning to pull away.

“No, you don’t. Come back here.” Simon grabs at you, pinning you against his chest, taking your mouth again, deepening the kiss until your lips part for him. His tongue traces the edge of your bottom lip, and yours darts out to meet him.

Simon is lost in you. Lost in your mouth, lips, and tongue. Lost in your touch. Lost in—

“Hate to interrupt!”

You pull back so fast you almost fall off the bench. Simon might not be in the military anymore, but his reflexes are still sharp. He catches you before you topple over.

Evelyn stands in the doorway, one hand over her eyes like she’s just walked in on something she shouldn’t be seeing.

“Amelia paid the tab. We’re leaving.”

“Shit,” you mutter, starting to unravel yourself from the bench.

Simon stands with you, his fingers slipping from yours as you head for the doorway. You glance back and smile, quickly looking between him and Evelyn before darting inside. Evelyn drops her hand and then crosses her arms over her belly, grinning wickedly.

“You’re welcome, Ghost.” She winks and disappears inside, the door shutting softly behind her.

Simon stands there in the autumn cold, his bare fingers lightly touching his lips in memory of you.

He laughs softly, drops his hand, and pulls the balaclava back into place.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @theshrikeandcanary

[minihotdog]

Locked Out On Valentine's (Ending: You took the tea)

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

C/W: Smut, unprotected P in V, sexist-type humor, size kink

Word Count: 3k

Previous part

“You want some tea, love?”

***

You’re now sitting at the small round dinner table watching as he tilts the kettle into the mugs. He walks the mugs over to the table and sits across from you.

“Didn’t have anyone to stay with, did you?” He asks before taking a sip.

“I sure didn’t. Everyone is still avoiding me like the plague.” You stare down at the mug. 

“It’ll end soon.” He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb. The action catches your attention and he doesn’t miss the sparkle in your eyes. For a stone-cold man, he sure was catching himself smirking a lot tonight. 

“When I showed up to my first unit I got the same, and the unit after that.” The two of you drink simultaneously.

“What? They ignored you?”

“No,” He chuckles softly. “My first unit, they held me down and branded me with a shite-looking coat of arms made from a wire clothes hanger.”

You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand.

“What?! Where?!”

“My bum.”

You snort, “I’m sorry, that’s not funny.” You cover your face with your hands. His shoulders rise and fall with soft laughter.

“It is a little.”

“Did they ever get in trouble? Reprimanded?”

“Never told anyone, ran into them at my next unit and pummeled them into the ground.”

“Bravo!” You celebrate with your hands in the air. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Then I was disciplined for the beatin’ they got but it was worth it.”

“I agree, they had it coming.”

You take another gulp of your tea enjoying the spread of warmth inside of you.

“You’re quite fond of trouble.” He states flatly. You still, squinting at him in suspicion.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your files,” He raises his eyebrows at you. “Lengthy history of discipline, being reprimanded.”

You hum in response. “Is that the word on the street?”

He grins, his hand coming up to stroke his stubble before he sits back with his arms crossed looking at you. You roll your eyes, “Yeah, I’ve gotten in trouble a couple of times in my career, what about it?”

“How long have you been in?”

“Five years.”

“You’re tellin’ me that you’ve been reprimanded nearly every single year you’ve been in?” He now leans on the table looking over at you with a dumbfounded look.

“Shit happens, I have no problem taking responsibility for it.”

“I didn’t take you for the type to cause trouble.”

“I’m not, I just don’t have the grace other people do. I do something stupid and get caught immediately.”

“You’re right about that. You’re a naughty one, for sure.” He says before downing the remaining liquid in his mug.

He smirks to himself letting his eyes roam over your shoulders.

"I heard that boyfriend of yours was a calvary bum." He pokes, changing the subject. 

You "tsk" at him. Once everyone found out about your now ex-boyfriend they never let you live it down.

"What's his job got to do with anything?"

Simon shrugs, feigning ignorance, “Assumed a woman like you preferred men, that’s all.”

“Oh, hush!” You bite back a laugh refusing to meet his eyes. 

“I bet he cried like a child at the thought of going to the field.”

“That’s enough out of you!” You reach over the table to cover his mouth. He fights you off taking your wrists in his hands. He stands and walks to your side of the table gently pulling up by the wrists. His massive frame takes most of your view, you can’t help but feel anxiety pool in your stomach having him tower over you.

“Poor bird, spendin’ her nights with half a man. Bet he didn’t have a clue what he was doin’.”

The warmth you felt from the tea was traveling up to your cheeks. He was so close you could smell the rich cologne in his skin. His hands were so rough but warm on your pulse. 

Your eyes focus on his lips.

“Did he?” The gravel of his voice makes a shiver run through your spine. You gulp before responding.

”He was… enthusiastic.”

Simon laughs hoarsely, “Enthusiastic?” He enunciates with a shit-eating grin.

”Why is my sex life a topic of conversation to my Lt.?” You suddenly get some courage.

”You think I haven’t noticed you droolin’ over me, love. Peakin’ at me from afar. Now you show up to my flat with your tits fallin’ out of your top, your bare ass out, and a broken heart from some lad not worth the air he breathes.” He drops his head forcing you to meet his eyes. “Quite the coincidence, innit?”

”I think it’s more of a happy coincid-“ He breaks your sentence off catching your lips with his. Your brain pushes you out of your frozen state and the two of you begin moving in unison. He slowly releases your wrists and moves his hands to your waist. Your hands run down his chest.

He deepens the kiss, forcing his tongue past your lips. You moan softly as his tongue plays with yours. He pulls you against him, one hand over yours on his chest the other at the small of your back. You feel lightheaded, not in a bad way, quite the opposite. You’d fantasized about your Lt. plenty of times, his touch, the scars he hid beneath his army green top, the way his lips felt - come to find out they were soft, unlike the rest of him. His hands keep setting you ablaze when they touch your skin, the callouses nearly make your eyes roll back.

He growls into the kiss, tearing himself away from you. His arms wrap around the back of your thighs and you grab onto his shoulders. He lifts and places you on the table, forcing himself between your legs. He bites at your neck, pulling you into him. You grip the table feeling as if you could slide off at any second. 

He eats up every single gasp he gets out of you. His teeth graze your collar bone and he sucks on the sensitive skin. Your nails run over his scalp down to the back of his neck drawing a groan from him.

He stops for a moment to let you catch your breath.

”You want this, love?” He leans his forehead against yours looking into your eyes.

“God, yes!” You exasperate. 

He chuckles, still looking into your eyes.

”Hold on.”

”What do you-“ 

You squeal as he lifts you off the table and rushes to wrap your arms around his neck. You rest your head on his neck relishing in the feeling of his body against yours. Warmth radiated off of him like a furnace, the feel of his skin so addictive.

He carries you to the couch placing his knee on the cushions before gently placing you on your back. He follows you down and your hands run down his bare back.

He supports himself with one arm, the other trails down to your aching core, cupping the mound. He lets out a ragged breath once he feels the heat burning through you. He moves to pull your shorts off, dragging them up your legs and tossing them off to the side.

”Fuckin’ hell,” He groans at the sight of your bare pussy. “Such a bad girl walking around without knickers.”

He gives you one last hypnotizing kiss before brushing his lips in between your breasts. He kisses each one and carries on down your stomach and lands right above your clit.

You panic inside, you prop yourself up on your elbows, “Lt.”

”Fuck’s sake, love. As much as I love hearin’ you call me that, say my name, will you?” He laughs light-heartedly. You smile behind your hand trying not to break out in giggles. 

“What is it?” His eyebrows pull together.

”You don’t have to do that if you don’t want.”

”Eat you out?” He looks at you confused.

You nod slowly, embarrassed at the question.

He “Tsks” at you lowering himself once again while muttering something along the lines of, “Calvary muppet took the fun out of pussy, didn’t he?”

”I’m serious! You don’t have to!” You spit out frantically.

“Shut up, doll.”

He licks a stripe up your cunt and moans softly to himself. Your lips part in disbelief. He slowly laps at your clit and you lower yourself onto your back. He decides not to work you too fast yet, scared you’d pass out after being neglected by that dumb bloke for so long. 

You whine softly, legs already shaking. He wraps his arms around your thighs and presses them against his head.

He gently sucks on your clit and your hand shoots down to his head. The feeling of you tugging one his short locs encourages him to speed up. His lips wrap around your clit and toys with it as he pleases. The pace causes you to clamp your thighs around his head on your own.

Moans pour from your lips as your back arches. His hands stroke your thighs as you restrain yourself from pushing his head down further.

”Simon! Oh god!” Your mouth hangs open. You look down at him and nearly orgasm seeing him between your legs. His eyes are blown out, his thumb caresses your skin.

He lets go of one thigh and his fingers tap at your entrance gathering your wetness. He pushes two of his fingers inside you and your head falls back. Your vision goes fuzzy and you clamp your eyes shut. His fingers pump into you hitting your g-spot each time.

Your hand flies to your mouth and you let out a high-pitched moan. You chant his name tightening around his fingers. He feels your walls clamp down and continues pumping letting you ride it out. Your hips twitch, your thighs trap him where he is. 

He waits until you go limp to pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

”Fuck, you made a mess.” He groans. He climbs above you and peppers your face with kisses. “Was that alright, love?” 

You open your eyes to meet his, all you can do is nod unable to trust yourself to talk. He smirks at you, proud of himself for leaving you in such a state.

”You think you can take me, love, or do you need some time?”

”Want you so bad,” You whine out.

He lowers his head for a chaste kiss and pulls himself up onto his feet. He drops his sweats revealing the thick muscle of his thighs. His cock slaps his thigh as he throws his sweats onto the floor, the weight of it keeping it down. Your eyes meet his member and a wave of nervousness comes over you. His length was impressive but the thickness was your biggest concern. 

“Hey! You weren’t wearing underwear either, hypocrite!”

He rolls his eyes at you with a smile. A sight so beautiful you can’t help but smile back.

He takes his earlier position above you and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks up at you and you feel his tip poking into you already.

”Ready, doll?”

You nod at him.

”Say it.” He whispers.

”I-I’m ready.”

”Alright then.” He nudges your forehead with his before the two of you look down to watch the sinful show of him slowly sliding into you. You gasp, hands going to his back. He moves at a snail’s pace letting you adjust as he goes. He cradles your head, forehead against yours trying to keep his breathing steady.

”Ah, tight little thing.” He rasps out.

Your mouth hangs open, your nails digging into his skin, legs hugging his waist once he fills you to the hilt. He waits a moment before slowly sliding out halfway and bringing himself back to the same depth. Your whines draw out. His tip hits the deepest parts of you so well that you nearly begin drooling.

He examines your face for any sign of discomfort before nudging your neck with his nose. He begins with a moderate pace as he kisses along your jaw. You wrap your arms around him, fingers running over the buzzed hair at the back of his head. 

The stretch from his cock stings slightly, the overwhelming pleasure sending tingles through your bones making it hard to notice. He continues rocking his hips into yours letting you enjoy the feel of him without anything too overwhelming. You mewl into his ear as he stretches you over and over.

”Fuck, so good,” You whine.

His hand comes down to grip your breast, his thumb playing with your nipple, circling it gently. He slides his legs up kneeling with you in between his thighs. He stops, letting you catch your breath and he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He suckles the nub, playing with it with his warm tongue. He thumbs your clit as he treats the nub like a candy. He grabs you by the waist and pulls you down onto his cock, dragging you down the cushions fucking you onto him for a while. 

He angles his hips to hit all the right places, your cunt throbs around him when he hits your g-spot head on causing you to gasp.

”Oh fuck! Right there!” Your hands cling onto his forearms for dear life as he goes on to hit the spot repeatedly until it nearly hurts. His pubic bone rubs against your clit with every thrust. He picks up his pace, throttling that poor little sensitive spot. Your back arches painfully. He takes advantage of it and throws his hand under your waist keeping you in the position swinging you down to meet his thrusts.

He stuffs you with his cock relentlessly. You become a mess beneath him struggling to get words out, just high-pitched moans filling the room.

”God! Oh god!” 

“He’s not here, love. Be a good girl and cum on my cock.” He orders.

The feeling grows inside you pulling the air from your lungs. He nips the skin below your breasts and licks a stripe between them to your neck. Your pussy flutters around him before you fall deep into euphoria, his name pours from you. Your ears ring and eyes wire themselves shut as you clamp down around him. Tears pour from your eyes involuntarily. 

The sequence of flutters pulls him back into you making it too difficult to pull out too far. He buries his head in your chest as he’s pulled over the edge. He moans into your skin as your body sucks him back in, milking him so hard he blinks trying to rid himself of the fog. He begins spilling into you, his white hot streams shooting out at high velocity. He paints your walls so thoroughly that you feel his cock twitching with every spasm. 

His cum spills out of you not having any more room to fill. You gush around him and he quietly gasps. 

The two of you stay like this for what could’ve been an eternity. The post-orgasmic haze engulfs the both of you. He keeps himself inside and lowers himself onto his side, dragging you with him, throwing your leg over his hip. He pulls you into his sweaty heaving chest and kisses your forehead. 

He feels a wetness on his thumb and pulls back, wiping away your tears.

”What’s happened, Y/n?” He asks, concerned. “Did I hurt you?” He moves to pull himself out of you and you grab him, bringing him to a stop. “You’re crying, love.”

”That was amazing.” You mumble, eyes struggling to open.

”You cryin’ because it was good?” He laughs, a big goofy smile plasters itself on his face. You force your eyes open to peek at him. 

“You smile so pretty.”

He pulls you back to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you.

”Thank you, love.” You could still hear the smile in his voice. “Let’s get you cleaned up and put to bed, yeah?”

”Too sleepy.” You complain.

”It’s alright, I’ll take care of you.” Against your protests, he lifts himself slowly and positions himself to pull out of you. He gives you a single nudge with his cock still sheathed and you nearly purr. 

He pulls out slowly.

”Jesus, I’m gonna need a new couch.” He mutters. His cum spills from you, his eyes glued to your core watching it slowly pour out. His cock twitches and he has to look away. There was no way you were in shape for another round. Thankfully the memory was burned into his mind - the best thing he’d ever seen, next to you of course. 

He lets you know he’ll be back and you hear water rushing down the hall. He returns moments later and slides his hands under you.

”Bath time,” He says in a sing-song-y voice. You giggle, lacing your fingers behind his neck. He lifts you in his arms and looks into your eyes. “You were wonderful.” He pecks your lips and carries you off to his bathroom placing you in the bathtub before sliding in behind you.

”I don’t have a hair tie but I’ll try with some string,” He says mostly to himself. The warm water only reaches your belly button, once he slides behind you it rises a few inches. He wraps your hair into a funny-looking bun and ties it with the piece of string he found.

” Ta-da.” 

“Thank you, Simon.” You say sweetly leaning back against him. He holds you against him and you feel something poke into your back.

”Sorry, love. It’ll go down, I don’t expect you to stay awake long enough for another one.”

You moan in response and sigh letting the water nearly lull you to sleep. 

“Wait,” you breathe out. “Does me saying your name turn you on?”

He doesn’t respond. You try to look up at him but he tightens his hold not wanting you to see the red spawning over his face.

”Siiiiimon”

”Oh, hush.” He imitates your voice.

”Hey!”

He grabs his loofa and begins lathering you in bubbles.

”C’mon, I wanna get you in bed before you fall asleep.”

He cleans every bit of you, focusing on your breasts because no matter how much he denied it at that moment, he was still a dog. He hands you a bath bomb that he saved in case he ever had a special someone stay over and let you watch it fizz up as he cleans himself.

He dries you off and plops you down on his massive bed wearing his t-shirt. By the time he throws on his boxers you’re fast asleep under the covers, engulfed in his scent.

He slides next to you pulling you into his arms. He plants a kiss on the top of your head and whispers into your hair, “You’re mine now, doll. All mine.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Say It Again: Eric Blackburn x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @4everademigod @totalstitchlover19 @doglover-24 @bravo4iscool

Companion piece to:

Scars - Eric loves every single part of you.

See It (NSFW) - Eric wants you to see exactly how he feels.

Logistics - Eric tries to navigate the logistics of your hospital release with Navy.

Three Months (NSFW) - Eric returns home from Afganastan.

When General Steinback tells Eric to break things off with you, it takes everything in his power not to  tell his commanding officer to go fuck himself.

It’s the first day back after his suspension and he’s already spent the day ignoring the side eye he’s getting regarding his relationship with you. The only positive aspect of this whole thing is all of this gossiping will be long over by the time you return to work in a couple of months. He’s happy to bear the brunt of it if it means that you won’t have to.

When he’s called into Stein’s office he expects the discussion to be around reassignment. The two of you can’t exist in the same unit and you’re a valuable asset. He expects he’s about to be shifted onto one of the other teams like Charlie or Delta.

“You need to end it.” He’s told instead as he stands before the huge oak desk. “The two of you are integral to Bravo, we can’t have this relationship getting in the way of things, making it messy.”

“With all due respect sir…” Eric says, straightening his spine and tilting his chin up. “Ending the relationship won’t change how we feel about each other.”

Stein looks up from his paperwork and the look in his eyes…

This is not a man whose used to having his orders challenged.

“Do I need to repeat myself Commander?” Stein asks, his voice taking a dangerous edge.

“No sir.” Eric says, meeting the other man’s gaze. “But the answer is still the same, I won’t be ending the relationship.”

After that the shouting can be heard all the way down the hall, it feels like it goes on for what feels like hours, the threatening, the berating, the cajoling but still Eric stands resolute because he’s already served his punishment. Legally there’s nothing the General can do about it.

It’s a few days later that Eric discovers that he’s being sent to Afghanistan. He realises that this is Stein’s solution to the problem that Eric’s creating.

“I hate this.” He tells you, shoving his clothes into his duffle bag that night. Your sitting on the edge of the bed watching as he tosses in item after item. “I fucking hate this.”

His flight is due to leave tomorrow at 0700 hours which means he barely gets to spend anytime with you before he disappears off to a warzone for the next three months.

“Eric.” You say softly, your hand catching his before you tug him down onto the bed beside you. You cradle his face between your hands and he closes his eyes, revelling in the sensation because it’s going to be a long time before he gets to be with you like this again. “I’m going to be ok.”

That’s where all this upset is coming from. You’re just getting back on your feet and now Eric’s shooting off to another country. It kills him that he can’t be there to support you through the rest your rehabilitation, that you’ll be left to cope with all this shit alone.

“I don’t want to go.” He tells you, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want…”

I don’t want this to end…

That’s what the voice at the back of his mind is telling him because in Eric’s experience it always ends when the deployments start. He has the ex-wives to prove it. This will be the first deployment since you’ve been together that he’ll be undertaking without you.

“Eric.” You say as your fingertips ghost over his grizzled cheek. “I had a building fall on top of me and I still fought my way back to you, I have to believe that no matter what happens in Afghanistan you’ll do the same…”

“Always.” He says fiercely. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He trails off then because he’s not used to talking about his feelings, to expressing vulnerability but this is you, the woman he’s walked through hell with countless times.

“I know I’m always the one leaving but I’m also the one that gets left behind.” He tries to explain and your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “My last two ex-wives…”

He tries to smile but his expression is full of anguish.

“I came home to divorce papers and an empty house.” He tells you and your chest aches because you’ve always known he was divorced, you’ve just never been aware of the circumstances. “And I don’t want that with you, I don’t want this to be the thing that ends us.”

“Eric, I love you, that doesn’t stop because you go away for a few months.” You promise him as you kiss his mouth. “Me and you, we’re ride or die.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said it you know?” He whispers, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile.  “That you love me.”

You don’t realise that until this moment. You’ve always felt it but the words they’ve never quite managed to make it off your lips. You think that’s because you’ve never been sure of the commitment until the last few months. The two of you had always been a series of stolen moments, you’d never talked about a real relationship and what that looked like for the two of you and then you were hospitalised and everything changed.

Eric had put his entire life on hold for you, he moved you into his house, took a suspension, pay cut and reprimand. He attended your rehab sessions, dealt with your frustrations, told you were the most beautiful woman in the world when your face was held together by stitches and staples. That’s when you knew that the two of you were going to go the distance, that you had found the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

“Oh I have been a terrible partner to you, haven’t I Eric? Not telling you how I feel.” You murmur as you climb into his lap and Eric’s hands chase underneath the t-shirt you’re wearing, smoothing across the scar etched into your skin.

“Say it again.” He whispers against your skin as he draws the shirt up and over your head. “Please baby, just say it again.”

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[breakfastteatime]

Today's Survivor request is 'bed' for @calsdroid

Days after they first secure Tanalorr, dust slowly settling, the new rhythms of their unsettled lives hitting their harmonies, Cal finds himself on Tanalorr’s ground with absolutely no memory of how he got there. He feels off, exhausted energy flickering among the fumes choking his burning body. He’d been out for a simple climb, scoping out places to locate their first settlement and –

Every step harder than the last.

Every pull up a test of his will.

Every leap taking more and more.

Every echo scooping him out until –

Until he had nothing left to give.

Cal tries to sit up, only for the world to waver before his eyes, solid made liquid. He falls back, blacks out again, and suddenly BD’s there, standing on his chest, telling him not to move, help is coming.

Help? He doesn’t need help. He needs to help others. Tanalorr awaits, and the Hidden Path needs it now more than ever, their options so dwindled there is little hope remaining for them. If Cal doesn’t help bring them here, make Tanalorr actually liveable, they might –

Why is he so cold? He shivers, rolling onto his side, pulling all his limbs close to his chest. He’ll get up in a minute. He will, as soon as he’s warmer and –

–  And now Merrin’s here. Where did she come from? Her worried eyes take him in, her back of her hand pressing to his forehead. “You are burning up,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

Because he’s not sick. He isn’t. He’s just… he’s so incredibly… he can’t possibly…

She wraps her arms around him and levers him off the ground, pulling him into a hug. “You have burned yourself away to nearly nothing.” She sighs, pressing her lips to his hair. “What would Cere say?”

A note chimes in the Force, a melodic strum of a hallikset string.

Cal closes his eyes as Merrin’s magick coils around him, nearly dulling the echoes of all her travels clinging to her clothing. Vast oceans, cities hidden in the clouds, underground hives. He doesn’t open his eyes again until he feels a bed beneath him, his many layers peeled away, a damp cloth resting over his forehead and eyes.

“We’ve got you,” Greez says.

BD tells him to go back to sleep.

No, he was busy, he was –

“Sick, Cal. You’ve fought and worked your way into sickness,” Greez tells him. “You’re burning up. We need you well again. Please, just stay put and get some rest. Before you really do burn out for good. I can’t lose you too.”

He can’t stop now. He’s the last of his kind now that Cere is… now that Cere’s… Her name escapes him, his control shattered.

A hand brushes over his cheek, a thumb wiping away the tears. “I know,” Greez says. “I know. But even she’d tell you enough is enough, and you know it. You don’t need to keep running now.”

He drifts into memories and dreams, the Mantis crew, both crews, united and laughing. The twins inhaling everything Greez cooks, Bravo at the controls looping them through skies made of stars, Merrin and Gabs plotting all kinds of schemes, BD racing to record everyone, and Cere sat beside Cal, smiling as she watches.

“See?” she tells him, her hand so warm against his knee. “You’re not alone.”

“Cal?”

Merrin is suddenly ahead of him, her hand on his shoulder. Cal blinks, and it’s only Greez, BD and Kata sat aboard the ship. Tears fill his eyes. She was here. They were all here. And now –

Now, he’s still not alone. Not anymore. He never was, not really.

BD hurries over, hops on his shoulder, tells him he was sleepwalking, it’s time to go back to bed, get better, get well, so he can help build up Tanalorr.

Cal nods. “I’m going back to bed,” he announces.

“You’ll feel better in the morning.” Kata’s voice is quiet, nervous, and hopeful.

“Yeah,” Cal says. “I will.”

[agentnatesewell]

Hi Mar! 🥳 I was wondering if you have any favourite WIPs at the moment? Any pairing is good!

Hello, hello!! Thank you for the ask. I’ve been thinking about the WIPs I have seen lately and which I have really been enjoying. I’m going to mainly link fic series

Each of these do have an AO3 link. And please mind the ratings and warnings as applicable! You’ll likely need to be logged into ao3 to read, and I highly recommend making sure you have an account

For many of these writers, I’m going to share one current WIP, but you really should read other WIPs and completed works of theirs!

@fauville sweet dreams (inception au)

ava x mc/detective, nate x mc/detective, rook!

@nat-seal-well stay with me (selkie au)

nat x mc/detective

@evilbunnyking breaking the yearlings (reincarnation au) / ember days (the polymance we deserve!)

adam x mc/detective / ava x nate x mc/detective

@delucadarling in search of

mason x mc/detective (with some nate)

@wayhavenots can’t see me loving nobody but you (rook lives au)

unit bravo x mc/detectives, rook is here!

@serially-wayhaven routine body maintenance

mason x mc/detective

@ellstersmash the beach house

mason x mc/detective

@thelionheartedo3 for one brief shining moment (camelot au)

nate x mc/detective (love triangle w/ adam)

@thee-morrigan à la recherche du temps perdu

adam x nate

@deepinifhell infiltrated

farah x mc/detective

@dottiechan tempest

ava x mc/detective

@codename-mango home and danger

adam x mc/detective

As well, @nsewell has a very cool concept for a story written as a screenplay/script! (ava x nat)

Linking @serenpedac ‘s ao3 as there so many incredible stories! Tales of Tea and Fortune, I believe, is a completed work and absolutely one of my favorites - think about it all the time! And please check out When Words Fall Silent (stories mentioned nate x mc/detective)

[deepinifhell]

Unit Bravo Spoiling a Kiddo:

You know N buys them those ridiculously expensive berries from the farmer's market & then F convinces them to let the little fruit bat toddler eat them on a tarp in nothing but a diaper. The mess is epic, but the kid is very happy.

N also reads to them every single day and, depending on the parents, might be more fussy than the kid's actual parents.

N has absolutely purchased them designer baby clothes and coordinated their outfits.

N is a little sad when they're eventually old enough to want to dress themselves and then end up in like Gucci joggers, some light up sneakers F found at the store, a grubby T-shirt, and a tiny version of A's sunglasses

F & the kid go out for ice cream unreasonably often.

F also likes to take them shopping "for presents" which for the first few years is just F letting them go ham at the dollar store and then coming home with a bag of nonsense. F is very dedicated to justifying every single one of the kid's purchases. M absolutely needs those sponges they picked out.

F & M both panic once the kid hits that toddler stage where they try to run everywhere and climb everything only to fall over constantly. There are a lot of panicked close saves.

M finds themselves ready to fist fight a toddler when the kid comes home with pre-school beef.

A has alarms set to make sure that sunscreen is religiously applied to the baby every 90 minutes.

There are tactical diaper blow-out training sessions

A always knows where the kiddo's comfort object is at all times, even though they complain about the kid having a comfort object in the first place.

[itsmistyeyedbi]

of plants and dresses

Pairing: F!Detective/Farah Hauville

Word Count: 1,4k

Prompt: Fix (and Fall)

Warnings: There's nsft content in the last half of this. Nothing crazy I think, but it's there.

Tags: @happyhauvillebday

Summary: One of Zuri’s plant pots fell somehow, and Farah decided to fix it. This is nsft so minors dni!

Zuri’s apartment is full of plants.

Seriously, they're everywhere.

Farah remembers the first time she saw it. After Zuri found out about the supernatural world and the truth about Murphy, Unit Bravo were put on watch duty.

They spent ages squished into her tiny, silver hatchback with her and Nate sitting up front, giggling at her fighting for space in the back with Adam and Morgan. And once they were free of that hell, they went up two floors, took a left and spent a good minute going back and forth over house rules while Zuri psyched herself up to open the door.

When she finally did it was nothing but greenery.

They lined the windowsills, sat on counters and tables and her bookshelf, hung off the walls and ceiling. They're in the kitchen, the living room, her bedroom, her bathroom. One day Farah asked for a tour and got to learn some of their names. She even got to name some of the new ones!

Humans love to talk about the afterlife. If there’s one for plants, Zuri’s apartment was it.

She just needs to… rethink where she puts some of them. Or the type of pots she puts them in at least.

Farah is in the living room, sitting cross legged on the floor and staring at the pieces of an orange, ceramic plant pot on the coffee table. They are glinting in the light from the lamp she turned on - she doesn't need it to see better but it doesn't hurt to be extra careful.

The pieces have been cleaned and I did a test run on what Frankensteining them together will be like. Now to glue.

Nate glances over the top of his book, eyeing the super glue in her hands from his seat on the couch. “Perhaps you should put more newspaper underneath the pot. Just in case.”

“No way! What if it gets stuck on it? I won't be able to rinse it off, it'll ruin it. Besides, you,” she narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips, “are supposed to be reading and not hovering over me.”

“I'm not hovering, I just-”

“Don't worry, Natey, I won't mess up your precious, antique coffee table. Now shush, I wanna have this done before she gets here.”

She turns her attention back to the task at hand, ignoring Nate's sigh and waiting for him to turn a page before taking off the lid of the tube in her hand.

She reaches for the biggest piece, turns it delicately in her hand. She can do this, she knows she can do it. There aren't that many pieces. She just needs to take it nice and slow. With a deep breath she squeezes the tube and applies the glue on the jagged edge; she puts it down, picks up the piece that aligns with and holds them together for a few seconds.

And that's it.

Well then.

That was easier than expected. She didn't even realise she stopped breathing.

It's fixed in less than an hour. Nothing broke, nothing got stuck to things it shouldn't and she managed to add a little pizzazz to it too. After a final inspection, she stands over the ceramic pot and dusts off her hands.

“Done at last,” she grins and puts her hands on her hips. She looks over at Nate and bends at the waist to catch his eye. “And your table survived. It got a little decorated, but survived.”

Thud.

Huh. That's the fastest she's seen him close a book.

“Excuse me!?” Nate puts the book down beside him with some force and stands up to make his way to the table. “Decorated? Why would you do- oh.”

He gives her a deadpan look. Farah laughs and nudges him with her elbow.

“Come on, you've gotta have more faith in me than that. I've just gotta remove the newspapers and it'll be squeaky clean.”

He huffs and shakes his head before looking at the plant pot. He tilts his head a bit, smiling softly while nodding in approval, “It looks good. The stitching detail you added makes the cracks look intentional.”

“I know, right? I really hope she likes it.”

Their heads swivel towards the direction of the entrance as their ears catch the sound of Zuri’s car slowing to a stop outside the warehouse. A thrill of excitement runs through her. Just in time.

Nate returns to his seat, leaning back with his book in hand as he raises a brow and asks the questions she's been trying her best to prevent him from asking. “How did it break, anyway? Did something happen?”

“Oh, well, something would have to happen for it to fall over wouldn't it? It wouldn't fall by itself,” her voice pitches up as she speaks and she takes a few, frantic steps away from the coffee table. She laughs sheepishly and rubs the back of her neck with her hand. “So yeah, something happened. Obviously, but it wasn't bad…”

-

“Keep this on.”

Farah shudders as Zuri whispers in her ear, brushing her lips against it before sucking gently. The hands on her waist trail down to her hips, gripping them tightly and pulling her in, keeping them firmly against hers.

Farah can barely remember how they got here, the events of the day are all lost in a haze. She can vaguely recall going shopping and sending Zuri pictures of herself in a new sundress, some of them were steamy… It hardly matters now. All she wants to do right now is to get as close to her as possible. She wants her kisses, her hands, her.

She wants her. And she wants her to show her just how much she appreciates those pictures.

Farah lets out a breathless laugh and cups the base of her head. “I don't think I'll ever take it off with you reacting to it like this.”

“Oh, I'd like it off at some point,” Zuri walks her backwards until the back of her knees hit the window seat, her nose brushing against her skin as she slowly moves down to the place her neck meets her shoulder. Her lips tickle her skin while she speaks. “It's gorgeous, especially on you, but I don't think I could stand having anything between us for long.”

“Then you'll have to make the most of me wearing it now.”

“I plan to.”

She slowly coaxes her to sit down. Farah keeps her arms around her to pull her down with her. She doesn't want anything between them either. But the dress can stay for now, it's just thin enough for it to not really be in the way. Zuri’s touch is just as effective at turning her into a puddle with it on.

Her feet are off the floor the moment her ass touches the seat. She spreads her legs and just as she goes to wrap them around Zuri, her knee knocks into something and-

Crash.

From the wall to the seat to the floor, a potted plant falls.

They freeze, eyes darting from the broken plant pot to each other. Shit, she didn't mean to do that. Aren't those plants usually mounted higher up on the wall? She swears it wasn't there before. Farah braces herself for some kind of scolding or an expression of disappointment, but instead-

Zuri’s shoulders shake with laughter she's trying to keep in, and then her face scrunches up and she wheezes.

Farah must make a funny face at that because she bursts into laughter, and she can't help but join her. Zuri rests her forehead against hers, braids falling onto Farah's chest. She lets her laughter peter out and watches her with a grin. She's always thought Zuri was beautiful but she always manages to stun her into silence in moments like this, where she's laughing and smiling and happy, genuinely happy. And she'll never get over the fact that she's the reason she is.

Eventually her laughter stops and Farah takes the opportunity to say something. “Sheesh. I forget how flexible I am sometimes. Sorry, babe.”

“Don't worry about it,” Zuri giggles, shaking her head and cupping Farah's face. “That's hardly something to apologise for. And it's not too bad, I can fix it later.”

“Or you could leave that to me.”

“Hmm?”

Farah shrugs, wrapping her legs around her and putting her hands on her back. “I could fix it for you. Like you said, it's not too bad.”

“That's sweet, but you don't have to.”

“I know, but I want to.”

Zuri strokes her cheeks with her thumbs, pursing her lips in thought before smiling at her with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Okay. But you'll have to let me show you how thankful I am for that at some point, in whatever way you want.”

“Deal.”

[warcorrespondence]

Review: sixteen days in september

There are some fics that you know will stay with you forever, that are as powerful as the best books you've ever read, that create a world so entirely full and real that you almost feel like you've lived in it. Sixteen Days in September by Tevere is one of those fics.

fandom: Generation Kill

pairing: bradnate

not rated (I'd call it Mature), 43,428 words

This is not an easy, fun read. It's violent and horrifying, in the same way GK is violent and horrifying, and to be honest, it isn't nearly as funny (though it does an excellent job of nailing everyone's voices). And it's so well-written I catch myself rereading sentences for their stark, matter-of-fact beauty.

It's an au in which Nate, through a combination of happenstance, basic competence, and moral courage, becomes UN Station Chief in East Timor in 1999. For those who don't know the history here (I didn't) Indonesia had been occupying that country and when the Timorese voted overwhelmingly for independence in September of 1999, Indonesia refused to honor the referendum, creating a humanitarian crisis that led to 1400 dead and 400,000 displaced persons.

Brad and Espera are the two Marines assigned to protect Bravo Base (and are ludicrously outnumbered), Ray is a technician, Encino Man is...it was unclear to me what Encino Man did, mainly because he was so appallingly bad at it. There's characteristic incompetence galore, but also so much fucking competence. Nate's pragmatism wars with his compassion, Brad's easy acceptance of the fuckedupedness of the world is put to the test, and yes, they do fall in love, and it is just as based in respect and mutual understanding.

It's early evening by the time they leave the police station. Brad looks at assessingly at the sky, then at Nate, and says, "Feel like working out some of that frustration, sir?" It's a habit they've fallen into: running in the evenings. Severe, mindless exercise that's somehow become something Nate needs, like breathing. It's a clean burn in his muscles that's pure enough to feel almost religious – a kind of benediction absolving him of the day's grubby frustrations: the statistics and sitreps, endless administration forms, the pointless bureaucratic arguments. Brad runs alongside Nate with the same quiet focus he applies to everything, whether it's cleaning his weapon or tearing open a packet of Cheez-Its. He wears regulation t-shirts, shorts, sneakers with white ankle socks. The socks always strike Nate as kind of unmilitary, more suited to a college student than a Marine grunt, and the blasphemy of the thought makes him grin. Apart from when they're showering, this is the only time he sees Brad in anything less than full uniform, which is apparently all to do with something called the 'grooming standard' rather than any kind of battle-related SOP. ("If units abandon the grooming standard, who knows what kind of moral laxity could happen?" Brad says, perfectly deadpan. "Cock-sucking, goat-fucking. Homosexual relations, sir.") Nate's never been much of a runner – he was on the cycling team in college – but he's fit and not used to losing. Even as he pushes himself, though, he knows that Brad's holding back. Brad can probably run twenty miles carrying fifty pounds and barely break a sweat, he thinks ruefully. His own lungs burn on the inhale; even though it's evening, it's like running on a treadmill set up in front of a pizza oven. They run through the town, dodging goats and chickens and bemused Timorese, then out to the rice paddy plain and the isolated crossroads where the main road meets the town bypass. It's maybe a ten mile loop, and as they near the office Brad just grins at Nate and picks up the pace until they're sprinting. He beats Nate to the compound by a good fifty yards, a distance that's just short of absolutely humiliating. "Not bad for a civilian, sir," Brad says magnanimously, when Nate finally arrives. The bastard isn't even winded. "Maybe even better than Espera, but then again, he's got those little Mexican legs holding him back." He grins, slaps Nate on the shoulder and saunters off.

[loveindefinitely]

00. prologue

༊*·˚ ALWAYS HAVE, ALWAYS WILL — task force 141 x reader

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, slow burn, friends to lovers, drama, action, hurt/comfort, mystery, polyamory, angst, mental health issues, minor character death, angst w a happy ending

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

You’ve been to more funerals than you can count on your blood-stained hands.

Family, friends, teammates, superiors – at the end of the day, you’ve always found yourself staring at a casket being lowered into the earth. Or an urn.

Sometimes, there’s not enough of the body to bury, or burn. Just an arm, a jawbone, a blood splatter with a trace of ripped hair. Even then, the ceremonies are similar – morose and stagnant with the tension that only comes with grieving humans, merely waiting for the moment that their hourglass will fully tip. For when, they too, will be grieved. Lowered into the ground. Cremated.

If there is such a thing as an afterlife, you’re not too sure that you’ll want to endure more living, when the end goal is such a cruel one.

To love, to cherish, and then to wither away into nothing.

A fucked up joke.

The muddy ground squelches as you take a step back, hands tightly clasped together in front of your chest. Not a prayer, but a gesture similar enough to the patrons around you that you won’t be given a second glance.

Rain falls in thick sheets, but there’s no wind, and most of the people around you are underneath the dark grey marquee set up in front of the ceremony.

You aren’t. There’s something familiar about the clothes soaking your body, your body trembling just slightly from the chill, the dampness. A small punishment for your actions, small enough to not be noticed, but enough to repent just a thousandth of what you owe.

The Funeral Director gives his speech. Some religious nonsense, you’re sure, and the words wash over you like the torrents of rain.

You almost wish they could wash the guilt off of your mind, wash the blood that still feels sticky in your hands.

When you look down, they're pure and clean.

There’s crying. You’re not sure who from, how many, where. All that you register is the sound of gut wrenching heartbreak in the most raw, most physical of forms.

You swallow, once, your throat dry and tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Needles, drugs, passing out, cells, torture –

“Sergeant.”

Even years of military training doesn’t keep you from flinching at the title. Turning your head, you’re greeted by a man that’s never failed to make your blood run cold.

His grey hair sticks to his forehead, his wrinkles highlighted by the dreary, bleak sky.

“General,” you incline your head respectfully. He stands to your right, arms folded behind his back. He’s suited in full black, and your stomach roils at the idea of this man grieving.

“You have been assigned a new unit,” he states, as one would discuss last night’s game over morning tea. “You’re set to leave at eighteen-hundred.”

You nod.

What else is there to do? Get down to your knees and beg for some time off, when you know that’ll leave you rotting in your bed for two weeks? Ask for him to be kind in his placement, because you’re not sure you can handle more of the emotional torment you’ve dealt with over the past three years?

Instead, no words fall from your cold-bitten lips, and your legs don’t buckle.

General Shepherd walks away without a simple ‘I’m sorry for your loss’. You’re sure that even if he had said as such, the words would’ve held no earnesty, no warmth.

It’s perhaps better this way.

So, you stand, and the rain hits your body in a relentless rhythm. So different to the torture of waterboarding, the cruelty of drowning.

Although, you can’t say that the mental whirlwind you’re stuck in the eye of is any less impactful. If you open your mouth, you’re sure that water will flood every crevice, leaving you to scream soundlessly for eternity, death sweeping you in with the turn of the waves.

You wonder, for a single moment, how many grievers would attend your ceremony.

By the time the rain stops, if only for a short period, everyone has left. The marquee’s been taken down, and there’s only you and your guilt left behind to stare at the stone. It takes everything in you to walk to it, your legs almost as weak as your will.

The headstone and rectangle of dirt dedicated to the fallen are both covered in flowers.

Bending down to your knees, you softly place a single blue hyacinth at the base. You allow yourself just a moment to close your eyes, deeply exhale, and revel in your guilt.

When you stand once more, it’s with a renewed strength.

Your Captain would have been proud.

The other seven fallen men – the ones that were under your care to heal – would’ve laughed in your face. You would’ve let them.

Now, you can only hope that their bodies will be found soon, so that they too, can be put to rest beside your Captain.

a/n. jus a VERY short prologue/teaser. this is by far my fav piece i've been writing yet. each chapter will be about 7-9k words long, so it'll take much longer to update, but i'm SO excited for it!! i hope u all will enjoy this journey as much as me :)

[seraphinitegames]

**SMALL SPOILERS IN TRAILER** Fall further in love and continue your romance with the Vampires of Unit Bravo... Credits: Stock media provided by Vulk/Pond5 Stock media provided by Stooish/Pond5 Stock media provided by Canva Pro

[sebbiesolace]

*A while later, after the bodies have cooled, the walkie talkie crackles to life, and Parker’s voice oozes through the speakers.*

“Hello! We interrupt our regularly scheduled static and silence to bring you… an obituary.”

*A pistol’s hammer is pulled back.*

“Talk. Just like we rehearsed.”

*A different, wavering voice speaks.*

“I- I am the c-captain of MTF unit 713. The remainder of m-my squad has been s-slaughtered by an escaped EXR-P, and I am c-currently bound and held at g-gunpoint. M-my identification code is Sierra Oscar Bravo Echo K-kilo.”

*The MTF hesitates, before resuming their speech.*

“M-my squad was pinned between an emplaced turret and my captor. I chose to fall back from the turret. I made a mistake. S-Send reinforcements. We can’t handle the breach and rogue elements at the same time.”

*Silence.*

“I- I said what you told me to, are you gonna let me go now?”

*Desperation tinges the Soldier’s voice.*

“… no, why? Did you think I would?”

“B-but I- you said- I- I did everything you said!”

“Why does everyone think that doin’ everythin’ I say mean they’ll get to live? It’s not like you’ve got anythin’ left to give me. At this point, I get more enjoyment killin’ you, than I do keepin’ ya alive.”

*Parker’s voice is matter of fact, as if the MTF’s irrelevance was more obvious than the sky being blue.*

“Anyways, I think you’ve had enough time to ruminate on that. Now, let the world you dream about be the one you live in now.”

“No- Please, I- Please don’t- WAIT, STO-”

*BLAM*

*Parker sighs, seemingly unenthused despite the sound of dripping viscera.*

“I’m not sure what you were expectin’. A prison is where you leave people to be forgotten to history. It’s where you leave folks like me, cause the people I killed got buried instead of delivering our pizza and fighting our wars. You think these two bit hired hands are gonna do any good?”

*He chuckles, then continues.*

“Unfortunately, I take offense to that.

Watch your backs, Urbanshade. Nevermore, signing off.”

*The audio feed shuts off, leaving static.*

[He winced at the gunshots he could hear, holding a claw over his earfin. He allowed this to happen. He allowed more bloodshed. Just to keep someone down here. Was he... was he wrong. He lied to Parker. Those walkies... they could have called down a submarine. They could have gotten out.]

"I'm sorry, Parker..."

[He was quiet. So, so quiet. The MTF soldiers last words, and Parkers response rang through his head like a cow bell. The soldier... He was still human. Was it senseless? He had killed and torn and eaten but... He NEEDED to.]

"Rest.. Rest in peace, SOBEK. May death be kinder to you then life."

[Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Dead. He sent Parker out on a goose chase, and Parker found the goose. He and p.AI.nter.]

"May.. may death. May death be kinder to you. May.. May death. May it be kinder to you then- Then-"

[He LET Parker do that. He ENCOURAGED it. ]

"Then THIS."

[ellstersmash]

the beach house: chapter 2

headphones

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Mason x Theo West Rating: E for Explicit (sexual content) Words: 3,423 [Read on Ao3] Unit Bravo take to the beach to recruit some merfolk. Theo and Mason get the sand out of their shorts, then test out the bed. | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |

Mason shoves the screen door open with more force than necessary for the little resistance it gives, and it bangs against the wall. Theo’s fingers twist tight into his own as she stumbles on the threshold and goes wide-eyed.

Like he’d just let her fall.

Once she regains her footing, she starts barking out instructions to the others, who all startle at the interruption.

“Your watch, Adam. Nate, I strongly recommend you join him. Bring the book, it’s boring as hell. Felix, headphones.”

“Forgot ‘em.” Felix is draped sideways over the armchair by the window, bouncing his shit-eating grin between the two of them. “I guess you could try being quiet, for once.”

“Not happening,” Mason assures him.

Theo tuts at him, then fishes her own pair off the couch and flings them over to Felix. Mason grabs her hand again before the distance drives him mad and steers her toward the single bedroom at the back of the house.

“Really, you two?” Adam's voice booms in the small space, but before the door even shuts behind them, Theo's touch drowns him out.

Her hands slide up Mason’s chest, thread into his hair, tug at the back of his neck, pull him down to her mouth. All the chapstick’s been kissed off already so it’s just her he tastes, and he’s tempted to slow down. Savor it. But she is urgent, impatient and needy, clutching him closer to grind her hips against his and the sudden wash of sensation is overwhelming. Mason groans, his grip going too tight. Not so painful that she stops, but it will leave bruises. Little marks in the shape of his fingers at her waist and on her ass, and she’ll pretend to be annoyed about it tomorrow but she’s always pleased.

Hell, sometimes he wishes she’d stay put on him, too.

They slam back into the wooden door, pushing a soft “oof” out of her, and Nate yells from the other room, “Would you give us a moment, please? Honestly.”

Theo laughs against Mason’s lips. He pulls away just in time to catch it.

Magnificent.

He helps her out of her clothes, shirt, then swimsuit top, then both bottoms together, all tossed or kicked aside as she steps free.

She’s so goddamn beautiful. Mason moves away, a few feet of distance for the sake of the view. 

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he sees her or how well he remembers the sight; every time, her features seem more perfect. If her lips were shaped differently, her smile would be wrong, and if her nose wasn’t slightly asymmetrical in that specific way, it wouldn’t crinkle up right when she laughs, or he gives her a terrible line. She has more freckles already, and she was always supposed to have them, right where they are now.

And it doesn’t matter how long it has or hasn’t been since he last touched her. The anticipation of it, of feeling every single square inch of her under his hands, his lips, his tongue, makes his blood rise.

Fingers on her chin to keep her from deflecting, he tells her. Only the very first bit, but it's enough to make her smile again before she starts fiddling with his clothes, too. But when she pulls his shirt over his head, a spray of fine sand comes with it, and Mason winces as it coats his skin and sticks like pulverized glass.

Theo grimaces. She runs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and a fresh torrent of sand tumbles out. “That’s my bad.”

“It had to come off eventually,” Mason grumbles.

“And I’m glad I got to be there for it, but I meant because I pushed you onto the— Whatever. We can salvage this. New plan!”

Theo marches into the connected bathroom without explanation and Mason hears the squeak of various knobs, followed by a hushed string of creative curse words.

She pops her head back out and says, ”Shower’s fucked,” before disappearing again.

Groaning, Mason follows.

The bathroom is surprisingly large for such a small house, with a double sink and a white-framed mirror next to the toilet to the right, a large free-standing tub on the far wall, and the huge glass-walled shower to the left, door hanging open. He turns the knobs as well, but to no avail. They both look at the shower in defeat, then Theo wanders over and wrenches the handle on the tub.

Water pours in.

With a cry of triumph, she adjusts the temperature and drops the plug. “Scrub my back?”

“I’ll do a lot more than that.”

He tugs her to him and kisses her, soft and leisurely now that there’s time to kill. This, at least, they can do without grinding sand into any especially sensitive places. Her arms hang easy around his waist, hooked together at his back, as he brushes her hair off her face and works on familiarizing himself with all those new freckles.

“Surprised you haven’t tried to get my pants off yet,” he says.

“Know thyself.”

He arches an eyebrow at her.

“I wouldn’t be able to resist that kind of temptation,” she explains. “I would simply have to fuck you and we would get sand in even more unfortunate places, and I just don’t hate myself enough to risk that.”

Mason tilts his head toward the tub. “I won’t be wearing these in there.”

“Well, I’m hoping you’ll have enough willpower for the both of us.”

He snorts. “That’s not exactly what I’m known for.”

“Listen, if you want a good plan we have to get Adam involved. I’m just on this trip to smell tasty.”

“You’re good at a few other things, too.”

That earns a laugh. “Nate wouldn’t let me put those things on the idea board.”

She turns away from him to shut off the water, swatting at Mason’s hand when he goes to pinch her ass cheek, then she disappears into the bedroom.

Mason leaves his clothes in a semi-folded pile on the counter, though they’ll need to be quarantined until he can wash them. He tests the water temperature with a swish of his fingers, and steps in.

“Good?” Theo asks when she returns, eyes roving his body appreciatively.

Mason nods and dips under the surface to wet his hair before he leans back, hissing at the cold shock of porcelain. “Good.”

“Good. Didn’t think you’d appreciate my preferred temperature of ‘scalding.’” She sets a bar of soap and a couple large bottles on the low table next to the tub, then unties her hair from its bun. “So you’ll just have to keep me warm.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards and he flicks his fingers at her invitation. Theo takes his hand and carefully steps into the tub, lowering herself into the water opposite without so much as a splash. Leaning forward, she douses her hair—first one half, then the other—and reaches back for one of the bottles. She dispenses some product into one hand then offers the bottle to Mason. He takes it and sets it back on the table.

“What, you want to watch me lather up?” Theo rubs her hands together. “Hate to break it to you, sunshine, but it ain’t nearly as sexy as those commercials make it look.”

“How about you let me be the judge of that?”

She shrugs and gets to it, massaging the shampoo into her scalp with her fingertips and working it into a rich lather before wringing it down toward her ends. Suds slide off the tips of her hair and drip down her skin and plop into the water, and Mason follows each slick soapy trail with his eyes.

“Ten out of ten—very sexy,” he says and scoots forward.

Theo rolls her eyes but moves toward him, too, until she’s nearly in his lap. The water in the tub sloshes dangerously as she slips her legs over his hips. Mason braces her as she leans back to rinse her hair clean—no easy feat with her skin so slippery. She wrings out the water, grabs another bottle, and rakes the conditioner into her ends before looking at him in question.

Mason nods and she swaps bottles again.

Her usual brand smells herbal and sweet, and he’s gotten used to how the scent lingers on her after it’s been rinsed out. In this concentrated form—a dollop of gel in her cupped palm—it’s too intense, but he closes his eyes and sits still while she scrubs it into his hair, basking in the pleasant sensation of her fingertips running gently yet firmly around his scalp and through the strands.

She kisses him in the middle of it, here and there. On his closed eyelids, his lips, his chin, his shoulder, along his collarbone and at the base of his throat, but she never lets the soap drip into his eyes. It almost does, once, but she spots the breach and holds her finger against it and wipes it away.

When she’s finished, he follows her instructions, tipping his head back to let her rinse it off with handfuls of water—slow going, but it feels so good it doesn’t matter. Then he gets a dose of conditioner as well.

Part of him wants to ask: what is all this; why care for me; why be soft with me? But the undisturbed tension of the moment is already stretched thin, and he feels too good to risk bursting this fragile bubble for an answer he doesn’t really need. She does care for him, and she is soft with him, and that can be enough.

Besides, if he’s reading the flush in her cheeks and chest and the warmth in her eyes right—and he always is—this still works as foreplay for her. And Mason can get on board with that line of thought. There’s a thin coat of sand covering the bottom of the tub, or he’d take her right here. Just like this, wet and slippery and smelling like twelve tons of basil or some shit. 

Mason grips the back of her neck to pull her in for a hard, passionate kiss. She pushes it further, sliding her hips toward his, and trapping his cock—already half-hard and closing the gap quickly—between them. Theo moans and moves against him. Compared to the tepid bathwater, the heat between her legs is boiling.

“Mason,” she whispers, resting her forehead on his. “I really, really, really want you.”

“Don’t say that to me right now.”

“Sorry.”

But she won’t stop moving, her pussy against his now rock-hard dick, and Mason finds it hard to remember why they aren’t already fucking. There’s a reason he’s not supposed to be rutting up into her. A reason not to give her what she wants so she’ll say his name so reverently again.

There’s sand in the tub: not good enough.

The water is soapy: not good enough.

They haven’t actually washed yet; there’s still conditioner in their hair; they’ll get water all over the floor. Not fucking good enough.

She asked him to. 

She asked him to.

Mason growls in frustration and lifts Theo off him, fishing the soap off the side table with some difficulty and thrusting it in her direction. “Wash. Rinse. Dry. Now.”

She looks between him and the soap with a dazed expression until he waggles it in front of her more insistently. Then she blinks and accepts it.

Mason rinses his hair out faster than he has ever done so before, washing with the same urgency. Then he grabs a plush white towel off the hook and rubs it over his hair and half-assedly down his body before hunting down a dry one in the cupboard.

This one gets wrapped around a barely-finished Theo, who knocks the soap into the water and yelps as Mason scoops her up in his arms. She giggles as he carries her, still dripping from her toes and her hair, all the way to the bed, and when he tosses her onto the mattress it fades—if it could possibly be called that—to a bright, delighted grin.

Mason lowers his mouth to the inside of her knee and pushes her legs wider apart to kneel at the end of the bed between them. The towel parts, falls away with the weakest of tugs. He skims his lips along her skin, gathering droplets of bathwater as he goes. As patiently as he can manage, he makes his way up her leg, kissing and licking and speaking little praises that make her hips squirm and her cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. All the way up to that sensitive junction between hip and thigh and she hisses when he nips at her there—then just as quickly threads her fingers into his hair to keep him from backing off. He makes up for it with a severe kiss, sucking and licking at her skin until she’s writhing and whimpering, then just a little more.

Another mark for tomorrow.

He hooks his arms underneath her legs and rests them on his shoulders. Then he tastes her. Licks up her folds and there’s some soap on his tongue, but on the second, deeper, pass it’s only her. Warm and rich, heady and slick.

“I've been wanting to get my mouth on you all damn day,” he says, going in for another long lick to prove his point. “While you were out there splashing around and picking out fucking seashells, I was thinking about tearing your swimsuit off and holding your hips down and finding out just how wet you were for me. Did you know that?”

Theo’s pupils are wide, eyes more black than blue at this point, and signs of her arousal are flooding his senses. She licks her lips and swallows and shakes her head.

“Nothing to say?” Mason presses a too soft kiss to her clit that makes her shudder. “Did I break you already?”

She shakes her head again, more firmly this time, a challenge playing on the edges of her lips. “But I wish you would.”

Mason sucks his two middle fingers into his mouth and draws them out slowly. Theo watches, expression frozen. Watches him lower them from his mouth and tenses, wriggling her hips in anticipation. Watches and whines when he slides them along the length of her wet inner lips. Then he circles her entrance and sinks his middle finger in deep and she drops her head back to the bed.

“You know what they say about wishes,” Mason says.

“I get three?”

He smirks and adds the other finger, fucking her deep and steady and gently stretching her open for him. “Keep wishing like that and I’ll give you a lot more than three.” He curls his fingers up to hit just the right spot. “But I meant the thing about being careful.”

“Ohfuck. Yeah, I’ll take my chances.”

“Suit yourself.”

Her hips arch off the bed when he moves his mouth back to her clit, and he has no soft kisses for her this time. Lips and tongue and the threat of teeth, he knows what she likes, what her body needs from him. Her chest heaves unevenly, lower lip drawn tight between her teeth when she isn’t moaning or whining or babbling encouragement. She’s been building since the beach and unravels all too quickly. His wrist isn’t even stiff by the time she comes, with her fists twisted into the sheets and his hair and a low melodic sigh.

Mason coaxes her down, then shrugs out from under her legs. Theo’s splayed out, flushed and happy and satisfied, on the comforter, and she’s so fucking beautiful. A flash of pride wells up inside him, and that less comfortable something else, but all that can wait. He’s not done.

He takes his dick in hand and pumps a few times. “Up for more?”

Still breathing heavily, Theo nods and gives him a thumbs up. “Begging for it.”

For a second or two, he debates making her do just that, but decides against it in the end. Maybe next time.

A knee on the mattress, right between her legs, and she shuffles backward toward the pillows, waiting to see how he wants her. Truth is, he doesn’t care. He wants her however she’ll have him.

Mason crawls over her, and as soon as he’s near enough, Theo draws his lips down to hers. She shifts her legs further apart as he settles between them, her heels at the back of his thighs pulling him in, and lets out the sweetest sound as he slides into her heat.

She’s wet, and tight, her muscles clenching then relaxing in turn as she adjusts to take him in further. Fuck, she feels good.

Maybe too good.

Once he’s fully sheathed inside her, hips pressed to her thighs, she holds him there with her legs, breath catching at every slight movement of his hips and every flex of his cock inside her. She is impossibly warm. Mason’s whole world could shrink down to that scorching point where they meet, if he let it.

But he can’t. He has to move. Starts slow and shallow but doesn’t stick to it, driving as harder and faster and deeper as she urges him to, while her cries get louder and less restrained.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs into her ear. “Give me another one.”

Theo nods furiously. He gathers her wrists above her head and pins them there with one hand. Then he fucks into her from a slightly different angle and she hisses out a nearly incoherent stream of “ohyesyesrighttheredothat” and soon she’s bucking her hips, riding him from below. He palms her breast, guides her nipple into his mouth to flick and suck it with his tongue and teeth, working the other with his thumb. And when she’s panting and begging, he moves his fingers back to circle her clit and mouths at the crook of her neck in imitation of the one thing she still can’t give him.

It’s more than enough to send her flying over the edge. This time she comes hard, her inner walls clenching tightly around him and dragging him to his own climax. And it grips her long after he’s done. Mason carries her through it, grinding into her while she clutches at him with desperate, shaking hands, lost to the aftershocks.

After what seems like an eternity, she stills. Her limbs go limp, her breathing evens out.

Mason untangles himself and lays down next to her, arms folded on the pillows behind his head.

“Well,” he says. “That was a good one.”

Theo stares at him like she's forgotten how to speak—an exceptionally satisfying response.

“You get your wish?” he asks.

A faint, faraway smile settles on her lips and she turns her head to look at the ceiling. Sweat gleams on her skin, pooling between her breasts and hips and in the dip at the base of her throat.

Mason’s a mess himself. “We’re going to need another bath.”

“Separately might be best.”

He snorts and agrees, but neither of them attempt to get up. Theo tucks herself in against him, and Mason drops an arm to hold her there. Her hair is damp and frigid against his ribs, but the rest of her is so, so warm. She draws swirling patterns into the skin on his chest and shoulder, lines wandering down toward his hips, then over to his ribs where he smacks her wrist and gives her a warning look before placing her hand back on his chest.

Theo huffs, but thankfully stays put. He doesn’t want to punish her for tickling right now.

This would have been uncomfortable, once. A foreign concept, associated in his mind not with pleasure but with affection, and therefore one that would never interest him. Now, he gets it. Gets why she likes it. Even likes it himself, with her.

Mason glances down to see her eyes are closed. She’s falling asleep. He could rouse her. Clean up, dry off, put her back to bed—or go for another round, if she’s up for it. But she seems content and he finds he’s inclined to leave her that way.

Besides, someone has to keep an eye on their squishy little human. And it’s not like he has anywhere better to be.