#traitor!reader

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Clear Skies

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x PLATONIC!FEM!READER PART 5 of Traitors Among Us

Traitors Among Us Masterlist

Summary: With your resignation approved, Price discovers you've resigned. You head back to begin to pack your life away from Task Force 141.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Silence rung in the Chief Officer's main office, the woman's lips set in a line as she glares down at the mortified brit facing her.

"You did what?" Price couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Having arrived at the administrative building, delivering his mission reports and making his way into Laswell's office. Captain John Price wasn't expecting to receive the surprising news so casually that the woman in front of him had signed off on your resignation, without consoling with him, your Captain.

"I gave her what she wanted, John," Laswell rolled her eyes, sitting in her seat. "I let her go. She was never about to meet with you, and I won't let a soldier like that leave, under my supervision, without some type of severance," she speaks, casually, tapping her spoon of tea along the rim of a porcelain mug. "I do apologize, I was actually preparing a better way to tell you this. Time got away from me, I suppose." Although, Laswell says so unapologetically as she takes her first sip with a hum.

Your now former captain blinks, confused. Then, angered. "Severance?" Price gritted. "She didn't lose her place on the force, Laswell. She's on temporary leave for recovery not discharged--I would've never--"

"Oh, stop it, John," Sweeping away a few locks of hair, Laswell sits back in her chair. "Even if, would it matter? The girl's petrified of you, if she saw you she might actually kill you," she can't help but release a humored hum. "Willing to turn down her pension, her insurance, just to resign in peace. She would've never come to you, and you were foolish to think she'd stay," she laughs this time at the absurdity of it. "She wanted an out," she takes another sip, shrugging. "I gave it to her." She then slides a few papers her way, preparing to continue her paperwork, interrupted for the second time today.

Slamming a hand over the stack of papers, Price can't contain the expression twisting his face, his anger, his grief. "Let her what?! You stripped her of her title, does she know that? There is no lawful resignation without my signature, what've you done?"

"Well, you are in need of a Demolition Operative now, I will say," she speaks, unbothered. "A position, it didn't look like she'd miss, Captain."

"Operative Gray is an integral part of this Task Force, it's not up to you how I handle my team anywhere outside of our missions, Laswell," Price hardly held his tone.

"I seem to remember, under my orders, you handled a particular matter that you gave no pause to," she leans back, a sly smirk barely hidden by the edge of her mug. "Just fine."

Jaw clenching, Price grits his teeth. "The worst mistake I've made on the force."

"No," Laswell interjected. "Your mistake is believing you have any type of authority on this force, that I don't already have."

With a single finger, as Price's hand loosens around her packet, Laswell slides her folders back to her. Standing from her chair, she crosses around the table to her desk, passing John Price with a brush of the shoulder. "Oh John," she spoke, humming a humored sound. "The military is engrained in each member of the force, it's in your blood. It's in hers. She'll be back," she slides the folder into her assortment of documents. "They always are, in one way or another."

"Back to you," Price seethes, silently.

"Well..." Laswell shrugs, calmly. "Just never to Task Force 141," she turns back to Captain Price, leaning against her desk, slipping a file from her desk. "Not like that wasn't the original plan before our informant came clean, was it?"

Wary eyes drift away from the Station Chief, "Well what about Gray?" he swallows. "I can't allow her to leave without everything she deserves from her service."

Laswell crosses her legs, humming. "We'll hold off on that for now," before Price can interject, she holds up a new folder, stamped classified. "You and your team have some things to discuss."

Brows furrowed, Price reluctantly takes the folder, opening it. Eyes widening at the new information, quickly running over the entire document before they close with a heavy sigh.

---

Entering the residential building again, it's nearly midnight, the mess halls still quite lively, soldiers prepping for their next mission or staying guard in the halls. You rush through the open hallways quickly, the squeak of your boots from the rain was enough of an announcement to your arrival.

The hall seems much too long suddenly, the wet squeak along marble floor, the damp cling of your clothes, the uncomfortable twist of your brace around your legs. You were ready to just lock yourself away in your room, pack and never see the silhouette of this place again.

Rushing to the elevator, ignoring the whispers, the burning eyes on the back of your head, you rub your clothes arms to warm yourself up, soaked to the bone. Stealing a jacket from one of the racks before leaving the building, it wasn't as insulated as you'd hoped but it was better than nothing.

A few heads turn while you press the buttons on the elevator one too many times, taking a breath as you continue to tap on the buttons along the panel. You didn't care as long as it'd just open. Up. Down. Up. Up. Down. Fucking somewhere, just open!

"Just fuckin open..." you grit out, attempting to keep your nerves down. For all you knew, one of them could've seen you enter the building, they could be walking up to you right now. "Open. Open, open, open!" Your fist coming up in frustration to slam into the panel, the metal creaks and bends back but it doesn't make the elevator go any faster. It does hurt your hand though.

Taking your now sore fingers into your grip, pressing into your knuckles, your nostrils flare and you take a breath. You don't dare turn around as you hear the chuckle behind you, you can feel your teeth already grinding to nubs.

"So, you're the reason this thing breaks down every week, huh?" sliding up next to you, a soldier, lieutenant by the single silver bar on the shoulder of his uniform, his kevlar unhooked and new, prepping for departure. "Ya know, you can't make it go any faster that way?" nodding to the dented panel, before flashing a charmed smile your way.

Narrowed eyes link with his. "Excuse me?"

For a moment, all he can do is stare back, words lost on his tongue as he darts between your eyes, mesmerized. His smile doesn't drop even as he clear his throat, "I just mean, you'll hurt your...hand."

"Oh, will I? I didn't know that," you wonder, sarcastically. Before, hitting the panel again, a louder bang sounds in the hallway, causing attention. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong." A screw comes loose with a cling, your jaw twitching at the sound as he only huffs a humored sound. "Can I help you, lieutenant?"

"Just a stranger, looking out for another, that's all," the lieutenant says simply.

"Ok, Stranger," you speak, this time turning your back as the elevator finally beeps as it descends to the ground floor. You direct your chin back to where he came. "You can leave now."

He feigned disappointment. "Ouch," he sported a playful grin. "I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"Well I'm sure you've got a flight to catch, don't let a stranger make you late."

"The only stranger I've met worth being late for," he says, genuinely.

"Oh!" Surprised, you glance away from him. "Uhm, I-uh," you take a subtle step back, uncomfortable with the space between the both of you now. You lean against the edge of the elevator door, it dings again, your knee brace wasn't helping your leg pain at all.

His charming smile fades, brows lifting as he quickly backs off, reading the lines. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No," you clear your throat, hearing the ding of the elevator behind you. "No, no it's fine. It's just, I-I'm uh..." your hand goes to your ring finger, you used to fidget with your engagement ring all the time, once cutting your thumb on the diamond. Your hand tensing up, balling into a fist, you'd nearly forgotten... "It's nothing."

He notices. "You're with someone."

"No," You swallow a knot in your throat. "Not anymore." Your hand falls to your side. The years you'd spent loving Simon, adoring him, fighting beside him, all that time...it was painful to know it would all just lead up to this. But, it was easier now to just feel nothing because it ended such a way.

The elevator opens and the both of you looks back towards it.

The lieutenant's eyes flicker back to you. "M' sorry," your brows lift in question. "About your...lover."

"Oh, he's not dead," you say. Before breathing out, "But, he is to me.."

His lips press together, thoughtfully, before nodding once. "Sounds like quite the guy."

"No idea," you scoff, softly.

After a moment of silence, the elevator door, with a squeak, beginning to close. The charming stranger puts his hand out before you have to, fully stopping the closing door before it can seal, taking a large step to catch it.

You froze as he unintentionally corners you, for the moment you can't help but take him in, analyzing every detail as you'd always done as a soldier. His hair and clothes damp from the rain, cheeks flushed for a reason you weren't sure of. He's tall, wide broad shoulders, a scar curved through his left brow to his temple, green eyes and he smelled...warm, was the only way you could describe it. You're sure his skin would feel as so.

You were quite cold from the rain, though you've been freezing ever since that day and you've never gotten past the phantom cold, eager to be warm again.

Your eyes flicker up, surprised to meet his staring back, seemingly taking you in the same way. His hand leaving the opening elevator door, to rest above the wall above your head. He was close enough for you to feel the leather of his kevlar against the back of your hand, for once your first thought wasn't to push someone away. His gaze lingers on the fresh scar beneath your eye, the tinted pink fading in the white of it.

And then you remember.

There's nothing good here left for you anymore.

You're no longer a soldier.

No longer apart of the Task Force, no longer apart of any of this.

And the things you'd be left with just for being here...

Bringing your hand up to your face, running over the raised, ruined skin, your jaw tightening and your lips pressing together. You shift to the side, your hand finding the handle grip along the sides of the elevator doors.

He notices, straightening, awkwardly. Swallowing thickly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..." he squeezes his fist, as if berating himself internally. "--that's quite the battle scar." Again his expression twists at his own question, fist squeezing, that was a dumb thing to ask.

"It's not."

Confused. "Not what?"

"From a battle," you admitted before pressing the button for the elevator again, it opens this time. "I appreciate the conversation, stranger. But, you should go."

He follows you to the divide of the open elevator, the both of you still facing the other.

Your stranger speaks soundly. "Wes."

His name you realized, you press your lips together, thoughtfully as he stares at you, not expecting anything in return, seeming peaceful with you just...knowing. The elevator doors slipping closed. You say nothing else, but you can't help but look at him differently, humming softly. You supposed he was no longer a stranger.

The metal doors close with a light thud.

---

Entering the room that had been your home for so many years, you pull your mattress onto the bed frame, fixing it to sit. You had broken your desk chair while trying to throw it at Johnny earlier.

Your IV pole had somehow made it here as well but you were sure putting a needle back in your arm wasn't the smartest idea.

You did notice someone had come to tidy the place up, the door having been replaced since and the lock restored. You don't hesitate to lock the door immediately, carefully looking around the room, turning on every light you could.

You wouldn't say you were afraid of the dark now, but you can't say you're fond of it either after everything.

Opening the blinds of the window, you shove them aside, letting the light of the street lamps in as well. Ok, maybe, you were afraid of the dark now. You used to hate sleeping with even the TV on, now you can hardly close your eyes without feeling like you're back in that cell.

Slipping your towel off of the side table, you walk over to your bed, sitting. It's quiet in here. Uncomfortably so. You used to have an old radio, playing soft music. Your TV blaring an old TV show as background noise. Neither of those things seemed to be present in the room, most probably taken during your time in the hole.

Running the towel over your still wet hair, you let it land in your lap, urging yourself to breathe evenly.

This time tomorrow you'd be off base, no longer a soldier but a citizen, with no one to turn to and disowned by your family...

You lean into your hands, breathing shakily, closing your eyes, it was all just so much.

Running your fingers through your hair, you lean back and look up, your upper shelf laid just above your bed. You turn, shifting over to the shelf, luckily it had remained mostly unbothered compared to everything else.

Lifting a music box from the desk, you set it beside you, opening the compartment, a soft hum of music beginning and building to a magical bell tone that continues to build until you remove a velvet box. Closing the lid, the music halting to a abrupt stop.

You stare at the velvet box in your grip, running your thumb along the material. You could never take your ring with you on missions, never wanting to risk losing it, so you always kept it where you could find it, where you'd never lose it.

Flipping the box open, you suck in a short breath as you stare at the engagement ring, sadly tracing the band. You'd be lying if you said a piece of you didn't still love Simon, of course it could never be the love it was. Now it was just a shameful attachment to the first man you'd ever loved.

It was during a mission that he proposed. Or at least the aftermath of one. Though it had been successful the team was forced to lay low for a few days in enemy territory.

The subtle light of the safe house cast shadows across the room, the usual tension of Task Force 141 momentarily replaced by an air of anticipation. Everyone knew but you. Ghost stood slightly apart from the group, his mask hiding the myriad of emotions that flickered beneath. He’d planned this moment carefully and yet being trapped in a safe house during the night of the dinner he'd planned for you both wasn't apart of it. It was still meant to be tonight.

Your lover stared at you in the reflection of the window, catching your beautiful eyes in the glass, they sparkle and his bones feel liquid and he nearly loses his grip on the velvet box. What better time could there be?

Ghost turned to you, pulling his mask away, revealing Simon Riley, garnering your attention with a surprised stare, "Si?"

His deep voice steady yet laced with a rare vulnerability. “You know I’ve fought a lot of battles, but none quite like this one.” The team fell silent, the weight of the moment sinking in. Price raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk dancing on his lips, while Johnny tried to stifle a grin, Kyle cursed quietly shifting in anticipation. "You're the only reason I keep pushing forward, I want a life with you, I wanna share it all with you."

Simon takes the closing steps to you, watching you closely, the two of you sharing the same overwhelming emotion. This was really happening. "I can't imagine taking on this life of chaos with you."

With a small, almost hesitant movement, Simon revealed the velvet box. The flicker of metal caught the light as he produced a small box, his hands surprisingly unsteady. “We’ve been through hell and back, but there’s no one I’d rather have by my side.” He dropped to one knee, the rest of the team exchanging glances, a mix of excitement and surprise evident in their expressions. "No one but you."

As Simon kneels before you, your heart races, disbelief clear on your face, brows furrowing into each other, watering as you look to him, all your feelings flooding your senses. His words echo in your mind, and the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you.

“Marry me...” His voice was firm, yet you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he waited with baited breath, his shoulders halting all movement as he wouldn't take a single breath until your answer. The room held its breath, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the team leaned in slightly, as if to witness a moment that transcended their usual world of warfare.

You felt your heart race, your vision blurred with tears. "Simon..." the world narrowing down to Simon and the hope in his gaze. The silence was palpable, a shared moment of vulnerability among seasoned soldiers. Finally, you nodded, emotions swirling as a smile broke across your face. “Yes,” you laughed with a sob, nodding as you wiped your face. "Of course, Simon. Yes!"

Simon rose, slipping the ring onto your finger as cheers erupted from the team. The laughter and joyful roars of Task Force 141, your family, fade into the background as you focus solely on Simon, the man you love. Johnny clapped Simon on the back, Price grinned widely, laughing heartily in glee, and Kyle let out a whoop of approval. In that moment, amidst the chaos of their lives, there was a rare glimpse of hope and happiness—a reminder of what they were truly fighting for.

You stare down at the scars enveloping your wrists, still raw and sensitive even now. Along your ring finger was the imprint of your engagement ring, it would fade with time, but nothing else would.

Who would've thought things would've ended this way.

Sniffling miserably, you grab at your hair violently, clawing into your skin, "Such a fucking idiot--" you grit out, breathing shakily. "Stupid. Stupid, dumb--" you hit yourself, your palm slapping into your forehead, your nails dig into your scalp. You inhale messily, unable to breathe, "It's your fault," hyperventilating, angrily. "You did this..."

You sob out, your face flushed with a horrible warmth that closes up your throat as you cry. You felt so blind, so dumb for thinking this family was ever real, that they were anymore than colleagues, soldiers of war. An idiot for believing in Ghost, believing that he was more than the soldier you'd fought beside for a decade.

Your fist wrapping around the velvet box, the side of your fist going back to his your head feverously, until it hurts. Until you're satisfied. When you stop, you scream and run your hands down your face, unable to contain your maddening grief, "FUCK!"

Hurling the box to the other side of the room it collides with the plastered wall, cracking the paint and denting the wall. It breaks, the ring spilling out somewhere along the floor, you don't look for it, instead you're shoving over your dresser, pushing everything off the side of your desk, kicking the wooden pieces of your favorite chair. You scream and cry and shout, tossing everything you could possible get your hands on in your room. "You're so fucking stupid!"

Slamming the music box down onto the floor, it crumbles, music spilling out before fading to a broken tone and then fading into silence.

You rip open memory photos you had taken of the team, their smiling faces, your content expression. With no strength to rip the book by hand, you step on the left pages, pulling the next side with a rageful sound. You continue to do so until every. last. picture is completely torn apart.

Shoving it all into the trash, crying all the while, as you shove it all inside the metal bin, your eyes squeeze shut. You drew in shaky breaths, but each inhale felt too shallow, too quick. The weight of everything—the heartbreak, the disappointments—were pressing down on your chest like a block of cement. Tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision as you fought to catch you breath.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, but the overwhelming feeling spiraled further, tightening your throat and making it harder to breathe.

A strangled sob escaped your lips, and you buried your face in your hands, collapsing back onto the floor.

Glass shattered all around you, wood splintered to pieces, the room is ruined once more and you're breaking all over again.

You sat there for hours, curled into yourself. It was moments later you'd remember you have to pack up your life here now.

Opening the door of your closet, holding your last pieces of sanity together as you pull your suitcases from the storage. Breathing heavily, you stare with blurred vision into the empty cases, this was it, you were done, so abruptly, so painfully...

Everything hurts now.

Your body, your heart, everything. And you weren't sure it would ever get better.

But despite it, you slide your suitcase over to your bolted shelves, beginning to pack. Wiping away the tears that stained your face, every piece of clothing made you feel just a bit lighter.

Ending One

[szynkaaa]

it's not like they live on a mountain with other monkey citizens running around

Or also known as Oz trying to flirt (??) but it backfires on her.

set after BMW when Oz is living on Mount Huaguo, hence the hanfu and the neater hairdo

I think I'm also slowly getting the hang of drawing Sun Wukong without having to look at 81 reference images

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[bumblehoneybee]

Idk if it counts as a request but I need DogDay snapping. Like this man deserves at least 1 (one) crashout at this point. Over Catnap, Angel, Poppy, anything. What we thinking, bee?

Crashout

WARNING: Chapter Four Ending Spoilers and some of my own flair on what happened afterwards, kinda depressing and defeated in vibe

"SHE RAN AWAY!" Dogday snarls. His hands shake, large fingers fumbling the bandages securing the splint to your leg. Pain swims through your head, bruised to hell from your fall. Dogday's yelling isn't helping the headache, but your tongue is too thick to tell him that right now. "Away from us! Away from him, sure, but from us! Leaving us behind!"

"She was scared." You murmur, rubbing at tired eyes. "She wasn't thinking straight."

"She wasn't thinking at all!" Dogday snaps at you. "She left us for dead, Angel. You, me, and Kissy!"

Kissy winces at her name, touching at the burnt patches of fur on her face. You touch her hand. She winces again and pulls it away from you.

"That whole mess with the Safe Haven was her fault too." Dogday grumbles. "We should've freed them. Should've taken them to the levels above! Got them out of there before blowing anything up."

"Dogday. . ."

He tenses, shoulders quivering, before they sink down with a slow sigh. "I know. . . None of us knew about Ollie, none of us knew the plan would fail like that, but. . . I dunno, I feel like we could've done more."

You coax him down enough to wrap an arm around his neck. Dogday sinks a little of his weight into you, careful of your battered body.

"Now we're stuck down here." He grumbles. You stroke his head, but he doesn't relax. "You're injured, I'm injured, Kissy's injured, and Huggy is out there trying to claw down a metal door with cloth hands just to sink his teeth into us."

"It's not ideal." You agree.

"It's bullshit." Dogday growls, but it dies away quickly. Silence settles over the three of you, somber, heavy, pregnant with words no one wants to say, but everyone knows. "Angel. . ."

"I know." You whisper, staring at a ceiling of earth and missing the sky. "I'm sorry."

"S'not your fault." Dogday sighs, settling down more as exhaustion sets in proper. "I think I always knew, even from the beginning, when you tore me off the wall and ran us out of the Playcare. . ."

He doesn't say anymore, he doesn't have to. As Kissy lies down beside you, the three of you settle into the reality that surrounds you on all sides.

You're going to die down here. And nobody will be able to stop it. Not when your luck ran out long ago, slipping through your fingers like wet clay and old stuffing.

[jnw1813]

Courtship

The many ways Conquest courts you, feat. Viltrumite headcanons. No warnings except mentions of violence and a dead moose.

Upon coming to the startling realisation that he saw you as mate material and wanted you that way, Conquest had been mentally reviewing all previous interactions, seeing them in a new light.

And now that he officially lived with you, he needed to take things up a notch and properly court you. How else was he supposed to get you to agree to be his mate?

… which was easier said than done. See, Viltrumite courtship rituals– back when Viltrumites still courted each other to have partners and not just to mate– are… specific and hard to do when one half of the courting pair… can't do them.

Viltrumite courtship rituals have changed throughout the ages before falling out of favour, as even the simple act of having a committed partner to rely on and be loyal to was deemed a weakness– something about how it would cause attachment, which, obviously. But before they did, however, there were a good few steps to proper courtship.

The first step was, of course, making one's intentions known. This was done bluntly and honestly.

—

"What's the term humans use when they're seeing each other romantically, again?" Conquest asks abruptly.

"Dating." You answer simply, still doing your own thing.

He hums, nods, then says, "I want to date you."

You choke on your spit.

—

Hold their opponent down for a full twenty-five minutes,

The second step was– not all that surprising, really– battle. If a Viltrumite was going to take someone as a partner, they needed to make sure who they'd potentially be mating with wasn't a complete and utter weakling. And so a duel would occur from sunrise to sunset, the two Viltrumites giving it their all. If the approaching person (the one who proposed the courtship in the first place) managed to:

Knock them unconscious,

Break all their limbs,

or

then they'll have proved their strength to the other and everyone else.

—

Which, obviously, Conquest couldn't do with you.

He looked at you as he mulled it over, eyeing your arms, your legs, eye sweeping over other parts calculatingly.

If Conquest even flicked you on the forehead, you'd die.

Yeah, battling is off the table.

It's not like he needed to prove his strength to you anyway.

—

The third step was more common and expected: acts of service, proof they could provide to their mate, and future young. Back before Viltrumites just took what they wanted from each other and only mated for offspring, this was a necessary step as, even then, it was every Viltrumite for themselves (except when it came to outside 'threats'– then the whole empire would unite). So, this show of effort and care meant a lot. Especially since, again, back then, Viltrumite couples did stay together for the agreed upon duration– which could just be until their offspring grew to adulthood or even go on indefinitely. It depended on the couple, truly.

—

And this was the step you had fulfilled immaculately since the very beginning. Caring, polite, providing for him, talking to him and hearing, listening to what he was truly saying; the food you fed him as rich as ambrosia, the moments of play and fun as fulfilling as staining his fists with the blood of a strong enemy, the simple moments of domestic bliss simply spent in one another's vicinity easing something cold in his chest.

Yes, you've fulfilled your end of this courtship ritual and have proven yourself more than worthy of him.

Now it's time Conquest proves himself worthy of you.

The thing about Conquest is that he's a quick learner. Sure, he's better at adapting to a fight and learning a new opponent's physiology and abilities than anything else, but in the end, it's all the same.

He sees. He learns. He adapts. Not always in that order, but you get the point.

So when you complain about your tap leaking? He looks up tutorials online– the human's Internet being one of the more impressive parts of their technology if he's being honest. So much stuff, and it's not even all useful!– and, once you've left the house, he gets to work.

Gentle, he reminds himself, gentle. He uses a scanner he'd retrieved from his ship (hiding on the dark side of the moon for the time being) to find exactly where the issue was and then assess it himself. A simple fix, from what he's researched.

It's fixed in less than ten minutes. He almost finds himself disappointed, for some reason having expected it to be more difficult, to require more strength, to not need such a delicate touch from him.

Hmm.

He goes in search of more things to do.

The house has a fireplace; he spends a good twenty minutes outside chopping wood for it. He finds he likes the feel of an axe in his hands, even if he can do it with his bare hands. It's oddly fun and satisfying.

You have a few bird feeders hanging around, so he tops them up. Then he checks your garden, plucking a grasshopper off of your young lemon tree. He flicks it into space. Then, almost humiliatingly, he finds himself tidying up. Even as he makes sure your home is clean and warm for your return, he wants more. This isn't enough! These are common tasks! Not fit for courtship!

But what else is there? As much as he's learned about you and humans in general so far, there is still so much he doesn't know. And how can he appropriately prove himself if he doesn't know what you lack for?

But Viltrumites are blunt. Viltrumites are straightforward. Viltrumites aren't cowards.

Conquest ain't a damn coward.

So he asks.

"C'mon, darlin'." He exhales in frustration. "There must be something you want! You've been doing all sorts of things for me. Let me do something for you now!"

You'd already rejected his offer a few times, claiming you had all you needed and that you couldn't ask him for anything.

Pah, humans and their customs! What, did you feel guilty at the thought of asking for something? At the possibility of being a burden? You were going to be his mate, ask him for stardust for all he cares! He'll get it for you, just– please, ask him to do something, anything!

Conquest hates feeling useless. And that's how he feels right now. Because despite how you thank him, despite how praises fall from your lips and make his heart ache, it's not enough. He doesn't just want to make you happy with these acts. He wants to awe you. He wants to surprise you. He wants to shock you.

He feels frustrated that he just can't. He wants to hit something, but shockingly, doesn't want you to see it, see him, as a brute. So he swallows his frustration and thinks.

What can he do for you that you can't refuse, that'll mean the world to you, that'll prove he's the perfect mate for you?

The answer comes when you make a random comment under your breath about how much everything costs. It makes something ding! in his brain and Conquest is quick to go, leaving you with a quick promise he'd be back soon and a brief kiss on your head.

Oh-ho, this was going to be perfect! He was damn near giggling with how excited he was! Flying into deep space, he shot off, eager to fix this little issue human society had forced upon all its people.

Within the human's own solar system were quite a few planets with some interesting things to be found. Such as gemstones. More specifically, diamonds.

Rare and expensive on earth, but on Neptune and Uranus?

Conquest grinned, beginning to collect some at random. Oh, you'd be so happy!

—

A few hours later, you stared at the large clump with wide eyes, stunned.

"I…"

Conquest preened.

"This enough to have you living comfortably?" He asks, like he didn't just deliver five diamonds the size of bowling balls to your house.

"... yeah." You said, feeling faint. "Yeah, this– yeah." You say, voice sounding high and pinched. God, this– you needed to be careful, lest you crash the economy!

While you were worrying, Conquest just looked proud, all puffed up and feeling satisfied he'd dealt with such a big issue for you.

—

While you figured out how to sell the diamond (only one) without crashing the economy, Conquest sought out other ways to impress his mate-to-be. 

He got his answer while checking the food supply.

Sifting through your freezer, he finds it lacking in meat. There's a bunch of pre-made meals, packets of vegetables, and way too much ice cream, but not a lot of meat.

Conquest seeks to fix that.

Which leads to you coming outside after hearing a loud thud, and nearly shrieking in surprise because there's a fucking dead moose on your doorstep.

Your eyes are wide as you look from the carcass to your… something.

"Conquest! What the actual fuck." 

He stood with his hands on his hips, looking proud. "What? Don't you like meat?" He asks, gesturing to the body and– and…

You sigh. "Yes, but… God, is this even legal? I'm not sure hunting moose is fine…" Not that there were any moose near where you lived. Just how far had he gone to hunt for you? If it wasn't so shocking, you'd be flattered.

…

No, you were definitely flattered. How could you not be, when Conquest had spent the last week doing so much for you?

Conquest watched you patiently as you clearly mulled something over. His expression softened a bit as you walked past his newest gift, coming to a stop before him.

He arched his brow, heart oddly speeding up. "Darlin'?" He asks, uncharacteristically soft. But he was getting used to it, getting used to the way he was beginning to soften his hard edges for you, make himself something more than just a weapon of conquest.

He was moulding himself into the perfect mate for you, somebody that actually deserved you, even if it was difficult for him to do so.

You break the silence, shifting your weight from foot to foot, looking up at him with those mesmerising eyes of yours.

"You said you wanted to date me. Is everything you've been doing a form of… courtship?" You ask, needing to be sure; needing it to be stated plainly.

He inclines his head. "They have been, yes."

You take a breath, feeling… unbalanced, flustered in a way you haven't been before. You've never…

"Well then." With a smile, you reach for his hand, bringing it up to your lips. Pressing a kiss to his knuckles, you give him a soft look, hoping you convey your growing affection for this alien man clearly. "I accept."

Conquest's expression becomes one of sheer joy and pride, grin wide and happy. You shouldn't be surprised when he picks you up and hugs you, but you are, yelping as he (gently) squeezes you.

Laughing, you hug him back, not expecting a display of affection like that from him, but… maybe you've had more of an effect on him than you initially thought.

"Though… please don't bring me any more dead things." You tell him with a slight grimace. "The grocery store is literally five minutes away."

Conquest practically purred when he hummed in response. "No promises."

You sigh. "I'm dating a damn cat." You mutter, idly wondering how you're going to deal with his 'gift' to you.

Hopefully Conquest knew how to field dress animals. You certainly did not.

[thecuriousbeauty]

Traitor-The Present (Harry Styles Au)

Mafia!Harry x reader (A little bit of Doctor!Harry)

Series Synopsis:- y/n is a hard working painter who lives with her sick uncle, the only person she has as family. When the desperation for money strikes, she has to make a choice. Walk away after listening to an incredible deal that would fix all her problems, or take up the deal. A top secret, risky deal, which involves meeting Harry Styles. A man once rumored to be the dangerous secret weapon of a leading mafia.

Warnings: 18+. Gang related talks, guns, blood, killings, fights, smoking, alcohol. Smut- Fingering, oral(m and f receiving), penetration, spanking, choking, spitting, degradation, praise, dirty talk. (Warnings concerning each part is mentioned at the top of the post)

Completed Series:-

*-Smut Warning

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three*

Chapter Four*

Chapter Five*

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven*

[criminalamnesia]

GOD I LOVE traitor and how strong you've made the reader. It's amazing! And I eagerly await any future parts, whether it's big proper story or drabbles. BUT, you come first and your life does so you do what you gotta and go be amazing! We can wait. Proud of you X

im so late to responding, but thank you! <3

here’s part six :) also not really proofread so I apologize for any errors! I’ll fix them later!

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor, cross-legged amongst broken glass, brittle flowers, and discarded clothes, when someone knocks on the door.

you don’t move, don’t say anything. the noise seems distant— too far off to be real.

besides, if someone is really knocking on your door, they know you’re in here.

and if they know you’re in here, it could be one of five people. your former squad mates, or the doctor.

the knock sounds again. it shakes you from your stupor, yet you still make no move to answer it. let them come in; let them see what they’ve made of you. of who you were. of who you could’ve been.

the person on the other side of the door is speaking now. you register the muffled baritone as it fights to be heard from the hall.

you clench your fists, then unclench them— stretching out your fingers as far as they go. clench them again. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it’s a tick— a calming habit. you don’t think it’s working at the present moment.

the doorknob turns. you still don’t move.

the door is being pushed in, light from the hallway aggressively slicing through the darkness you’d left yourself in. you fought the urge to curl in on yourself.

you’d been so consumed by your anger— are consumed by it— but coming into this room and seeing that damn note was earth-shaking. it was terrifying, and it was a tangible reminder of the team’s unapologetic tactics. simon’s unapologetic tactics.

the voice is speaking once more, clearer now that the door is out of the way— but you can’t make out the words over the ringing in your ears.

a hand gingerly lands on your shoulder, and that’s when you snap.

you whirl around, throwing yourself into the intruder like a cobra striking its prey. clearly caught off guard, the person lets loose a ‘oomph’ and falls backwards as you take out their legs.

everything is fuzzy. the ringing in your ears crescendos, and it brings pain with it. you’re striking your target with reckless abandon, still not registering who is flailing underneath you.

punches land and land and land. nails scrape and scratch and draw blood. all you see is red— all you hear is the sharpening of a knife or the whirring of a saw.

and then there are hands on you, yanking you away from your victim. the red slowly starts to recede, the ringing in your ears subsiding.

it’s only then do you release you’re screaming.

its only then do you see the swollen and bloodied face of your doctor, lying a foot away from you. she sputters a cough, blood leaving her lips and splattering onto the man leaning over her.

“you need to calm down,” a voice speaks into your ear.

“calm down, or they’ll sedate you,” it says, and you finally stop screaming. you take a breath.

clench your fists. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it takes you another minute to calm down enough to realize the person holding you is simon.

the doctor is being carried away now, and you notice it’s johnny and kyle carrying her. you notice john is standing to your left, eyes full of sympathy and guilt as he looks at you.

“get,” you huff, reaching down to slap at the arms circling your middle. “off me.”

simon releases you instantly. you don’t hesitate to put distance between the two of you. a few feet, at least. he just stands there, eyes watching with an expression you can’t place.

“what happened, love?” john’s voice is a soft rumble as he speaks. he moves a hand toward you, but decides against touching you— even if he only wanted to comfort you.

“I—” you start, glancing down at your hands. they’re bloody again.

“I thought it was—” you try again, but stop yourself.

you thought it was what? thought it was who?

you had heard man’s voice speaking to you. your mind had twisted things— had given you something you wanted to hear, deep down— because it gave you the chance to strike.

it gave you the opportunity to tear apart whichever man from the 141 had been there to check on you.

and you know you had wished it was simon.

john takes a cautious step forward at your silence. “let’s get you somewhere private, yeah? somewhere to cool down.”

the fire licking at your veins has subsided in favor of the chill of shame. of terror at what you’ve done— what you’ve done to the one person you had on your side. the person who was truly on your side.

you don’t fight this time. you give a nod, then solemnly follow him down the corridor. simon falls in behind you.

john takes you to his office, opening the door and ushering you inside. you move without protest, stepping into the dark room.

the two men enter behind you, john flicking on the light while simon pulls the door shut. you would’ve laughed at the scenario if you were in your right mind.

but you weren’t.

you weren’t okay. you knew that you weren’t, at least physically, but what you just did…

there was no way you were going to be transferred now. you doubted you would’ve even before you attacked the doctor.

you’re going to be discharged. you understand why.

but it hurts. this is your job, your life. years and years on the battlefield don’t prepare you for life off of it.

“love?”

john’s voice brings you back to the present. you realize you’ve been standing in the center of the room, unmoving and unblinking.

you feel simon’s hard gaze on your back. you want to cry.

how did things ever get this fucked up?

“im fine.” you say, not bothering to turn around. you didn’t trust yourself to keep it together if you faced them.

“you’re not,” john states, and you roll your eyes.

“im not talking about this with you,” you bite out, circling your arms around yourself. “either of you.”

“you should at least talk to someone, love— this isn’t healthy.”

“please, stop.” you tell him, but john was never good at taking orders. he gave them, not followed them.

“you hated the therapist, and you haven’t spoken to anyone else since… everything.” he continues.

“stop, john,” you try again.

“you need to let it out, love. we’re here—”

you spin around then, fists dropping to your sides. “for the love of god, john, shut the fuck up.”

that stuns him into silence, eyes slightly widened and mouth agape as he looks at you. simon doesn’t move from his position near the door.

“you are the last people i would ever fucking talk to! I don’t even want to be talking to you right now, but you won’t stop trying. trying to talk to me, trying to make it up, trying to wriggle your way back into my good graces.”

you pause, sucking in a breath. “johnny must’ve relayed the message, and that’s why you’ve back off a little— but one wrong fucking move and you’re swooping again! you aren’t my dad, you aren’t my lover, you aren’t my friend, and you’re sure as hell not my fucking captain anymore.”

“so please, john, leave me be. the four of you have done enough.”

the room is silent for a beat, then two. then three. and then simon takes a step forward, removes his balaclava, and looks you square in the face.

he doesn’t open his mouth to speak, so you take the chance to.

“don’t start with me, simon. just don’t.”

“the note,” he says. “you read it.”

you just look at him, a disbelieving scoff leaving your mouth as you give a nod. “yes, I read your fucking note. and I saw the stupid flowers, too, after seeing everything else you wrecked. tell me, how long did you wait after you tied me up to tear it all apart?”

he just watches you. you want to scream.

the note flashes back into your mind.

‘hope you can understand.’

“does it make you feel better, thinking what you did was right?” you ask him.

“I wouldn’t have done it differently.” simon tells you.

you clench your fists. unclench. stretch.

breathe in, breathe out.

“and if the roles were reversed,” you said, watching him. “if you were in my position, would you have expected me to do what you did?”

“yes.” he says, without hesitation.

“you’re unbelievable,” you huff. “is that how little I meant to you? all that time, wasted?”

“that’s not what I said.” he tells you, and you shake your head.

“no, but it’s what you meant.” anger is bubbling up again. you feel overwhelmed; shame and fury battling inside you. the ringing building up in your ears again, emerging from the background.

you can’t do this.

“what i meant is what i said.” he takes another step forward. “you’re just too damn stubborn to listen, always have been.”

“just go, simon.” you tell him. “both of you. go.”

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” he says again. “to protect my team, my family, I would do whatever it takes.”

you bite your tongue. you don’t want to keep arguing with him. he was an unmovable object— there was no way to reason with him.

“im not sorry it happened.” he speaks. “i did what i thought i had to do. what i had to do to make sure my team was safe.”

“and you should understand that, considering this team is all you have, too.”

you don’t respond— and even if you were going to, a knock on the door breaks the tense silence in the room.

johnny pops his head in, his eyes full of concern. “doc’s alrigh’.” he says, his gaze catching yours. “jus’ some bumps and bruises. she’ll be jus’ fine.”

“and she uh— said she’s not pressin’ charges or anythin’. says she still expects to see ya in a few days for your check-up.”

that’s what breaks you.

a tear slips from your eye, falling onto your cheek. another follows, then another, and you’re sobbing as you fall to the floor of price’s office.

the three men are staring, but no one makes any move to comfort you.

probably wise, considering what you did to the last person who tried.

you faintly register the click of the door as it shuts again. you don’t look up— your head in your hands as you cry.

cry about what you’ve done, what you’ve lost. mourn your career and your family and your love for the man who doesn’t regret what he did.

unbeknownst to you, simon is the only one still left in the room. his steps are silent as he approaches you— leaving only a foot of space between your bodies now.

he watches you as he sinks to the ground across from you, his long legs folded over each other, the fingers of his left hand twitching as he finds himself wanting to reach for you.

he still cares for you. his feelings for you were what made him do what he did in the first place.

the love he felt for you, twisting into betrayal and hurt and agony. fueling his actions, his desire to hear you admit your wrongdoings.

passion made people dangerous. passion in love, passion in rage. it was a fine line, and simon had crossed it.

he understood what this meant for you. recalls the conversation he had with price earlier— how laswell was planning for your discharge instead of your transfer.

this was the end of your time with them, and in the military. the hands of the 141, damaging one of their own beyond repair.

he finds himself mourning alongside you, then. mourning what was and what could’ve been.

what should have been.

“im sorry for what we did to you,” he says, but it comes out as a whisper that you don’t hear.

“im sorry.”

thank you all again for your patience! I plan on tying this little series up soon :)

as a reminder, I no longer do taglists. if you want to be notified when I post, follow @troiastitans and turn on notifications. I only reblog my works there.

I hope you all enjoyed :)

[dawnwriterimagines]

TRAITORS AMONG US Series

SIMON RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x PLATONIC!FEM!READER

Part One: Traitors Among Us

Part Two: Innocents Among You

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Part Five: Clear Skies

Part Five Rewrite: Clear Skies REWRITE

MULTIPLE ENDINGS

Ending One: Sunny Days (OUT NOWWW!!)

Ending Two: Sweet Surrender (COMING SOON)

Ending Three: Promises, Promises

(I know people are missing from the tags, I will be editing them gradually)

Tag List:

@shelbycillian @azxulaa @kthehoeforfictionalmen @amusling @v1x3n @nobodycanknoww @thesinsoflust @asexualbuthorny @poisonedsultana @blackhawkfanatic @character---obsessed @yunggoblin @teenagellamaangel @hanniebanggi @nym-phos @gastonlover9000 @lyssa-211 @doodle-cat16 @haven-1307 @kneelforloki @delphiakira @just-going-through-the-motions @3-opossums-in-a-ballgown @blueeweeb @goodkittyspost @ocyeanicc @allisonaceriley @enarien @sweet-chai-amore @jumpywhumpywriter @wotchhhh @waves-against-a-cliff @valkyrieunknown @cutiecusp @saintsdemise1 @prettybakerswife @bravo4iscool @li-da-savage @doublevirgogirl @reelovesfictionalmen @lazystorycollector @calicozmbie @reallyshadowycollective @kaoyamamegami @captainchrisstan @dory-98 @detodotoditl @starriestarlight @jdbxws @moonlightttfae @mstigeress37-blog @gyaruismind @mall0ww @mishaglass @whitebread-wasian @yunggoblin @natashamea18 @fruitymoonbeams-blog @pintsizedshawty @saucypeanuttt @chxosangxl @hizzielover @sigynxlokiwifelover @lampsiee @redroserabbit @redxixi @desixangel @n30n-f43 @obsessedwthdilfs @thisisew @dawnisevening @depressedriches @duszavii @spicyspicyliving @redzluvvesage @ayanovargas @napalmfairy7 @misscaller06 @woodlandgirl22-blog-blog @valv4 @kakashi-addict @magoopi @appleslicey @rainejiang @kylies-love-letter @raeyas-ghost @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron-blog @sweethheartturtle2007 @ambr4armr @poisonedsultana @tzutology @cownini @love-skyla @anielly-2010 @bibella8swan @piano-fingers @luvdollyy @naxsstuff @iytatsworld @lovefks @hoddystark @lothiriel9 @crazydeershark @eeyahhh @gallyleelol @0chemicalwaste0 @darling006 @mentallyunstablecodfan141 @1mawh0re @lostgirl219 @chibiduck @xaestheticalien @aletamistyailes @livinginkyootietown @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @chocolate-noodles @yourangel11things-blog @visionsofcarnality @kenmaforgirls @itsjustnikkixoxo @rachieandfans @faridathefairy @thelrina @literally-new-to-this @vexillum-moeru @normallyst0ff @m0chac0ffee @sargentmajorm @inneedsoffanfics @caged-birdies-blog @dopepursebasketballplaid @sinyaaa @alexandra18 @sluttyloser @raencloudsinmyeyes @ellabellabunny123 @noheadcanons-juststories

[arcadia-smith]

Note: Gonna be like 4 or 5 parts of this one. I've had this planned for so long.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Summary: I think the title speaks for itself.

TW: idk, angst, fem!reader is a traitor, Simon Riley is pissed. Mention of blood, torture. Let me know if I've missed anything.

Flashback—Two Years Ago

The campfire crackled, casting flickering orange light over the small clearing. It was one of those rare nights—no mission, no gunfire in the distance, no orders barking through comms. Just a handful of them out in the open, the cold air nipping at their skin while smoke curled into the dark sky.

Ghost sat across from you, mask off, but the skull-painted balaclava still hung around his neck. A rare sight, one not many got to see. His face was all sharp angles, tired eyes shadowed by the weight of too many sleepless nights.

“You keep staring like that, I’m gonna start thinking you’re in love with me,” you teased, poking at the fire with a stick.

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You smirked. “Maybe.”

Ghost leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. The firelight made his eyes glow, sharp and unreadable. “You always like playing games?”

Something in his voice made you pause. The teasing between you was common, but there was something different about tonight. The air was heavier. Charged.

“Depends on the game,” you murmured.

He studied you for a long moment, the quiet stretching between you. Around you, the others had already begun turning in for the night, leaving just the two of you with the fire and the dark.

Ghost’s voice was quieter when he finally spoke again.

“You ever think about leaving?”

You frowned. “Leaving what?”

“This life. The missions. The constant fightin’.” His fingers flexed, curling into loose fists. “Ever think about just... walking away?”

You exhaled slowly, considering him. “No,” you lied.

Ghost gave a short, knowing laugh. “Bullshit.”

You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. The thought had crossed your mind before—more than once. The weight of it all, the things you'd done, the blood staining your hands. There were nights you dreamed of just disappearing.

But you never thought he did.

You watched him carefully. “Why are you asking?”

His gaze flickered to the fire, jaw tight. “No reason.”

You nudged his boot with yours. “Liar.”

Something passed over his expression—something raw, something real. It made your stomach twist, made you want to reach for him, to—

“I just…” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. Then, softer, “There’s gotta be more than this. More than just killin’ and losin’ people and waiting for the next fight.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Because, in the end, that was all you knew, wasn’t it?

You forced a smile. “You planning on running off, Riley?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Not without you.”

The words hit you harder than expected.

Not without you.

You swallowed, the fire crackling between you, the world feeling too small all of a sudden.

If things had been different...

Maybe.

You nudged his boot again, this time softer. “Better be careful, Ghost. Someone might think you actually care about me.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

Instead, he just held your gaze and said, “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t have anything clever to say back.

Present

Your wrists are bound. Ankles too. The cold steel of the chair presses against your spine, the weight of your capture sinking in. But you don't beg. You don't cry. You simply watch him.

Ghost stands before you, arms crossed, the balaclava masking everything except those sharp, piercing eyes. Eyes that had once softened around you. That softness is gone now. Replaced by something colder. Something lethal.

“You gonna start talking?” His voice is rough, scraped raw from battle, from betrayal. From you.

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “About what?”

His gloved fingers curl into fists at his sides. He’s not stupid. You knows that. He’s watching, waiting, searching for the lie before it even leaves your lips.

“Don’t pretend you’re some meek, pathetic little girl,” he growls, stepping closer, the weight of him suffocating. “Not when I can see that vicious mind working behind your eyes.”

Your lips twitch—half amusement, half something else. “You always did see too much.”

“And yet, not enough,” he spits. His hands slam down on the arms of the chair, caging you in. “I trusted you.”

Something flickers in your expression, something so quick that most wouldn’t have caught it. But Ghost does. Regret? Guilt? No. It’s not that simple, is it?

“You shouldn’t have,” you murmur.

His fingers twitch like he wants to grab you, shake you, make you tell him why you did it. Why you sold them out. Why you left him picking up the bodies of men who should still be alive.

Instead, he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his mask like it might help steady him.

“You don’t get to sit there and act like this wasn’t your choice.” His voice is lower now, dangerous in a different way. “You chose this. Chose to lie. Chose to betray us. Betray me.”

Your gaze drops to his chest, the black combat vest littered with dirt, dust, blood—none of it his. You wonder how much of that blood is because of you.

When you speak again, your voice is quiet. Almost regretful.

“If you were in my position, you would have done the same.”

Ghost goes still. His entire body. Like a predator moments before the kill.

“I’d never be in your position.”

You smile then—small, sad. “That’s what you think.”

For the first time, uncertainty flickers in those dark eyes of his. And you know you're still in his head, whether he wants you there or not.

But Ghost is nothing if not relentless. And he’s going to get his answers. One way or another.

And you?

You're going to make him work for them.

It’s a standoff, a battle not fought with fists or bullets but with patience and will.

He’s waiting for you to break.

You're waiting for him to snap.

The dim light above you flickers, casting shadows that stretch and twist across the cold concrete walls. Somewhere outside this room, soldiers are cleaning up the mess you left behind. Counting bodies. Patching wounds. Cursing your name.

You wonder if any of them are still defending you. If any of them think maybe there’s an explanation.

But Ghost isn’t like them. He doesn’t deal in maybes. He deals in facts. In truths. And right now, the only truth that matters is that you put a bullet in the trust he once had for you.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Small. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it.

He’s angry.

Good.

You tilt your head, pushing against the restraints just enough to test them, to remind him that you're still here. “You gonna hit me, Simon?”

His jaw tightens.

You say his name on purpose, tasting the weight of it. Simon. Not Ghost. Not the soldier. The man.

But the man is gone, buried beneath layers of war and loss and rage.

“You’re not worth the effort,” he mutters.

You chuckle, the sound light despite the situation. “That’s not what you used to think.”

Ghost stiffens.

There it is. The crack.

You lean forward as much as the bindings allow, your voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “Tell me, do you hate me more because of what I did? Or because you didn’t see it coming?”

Ghost’s breath flares through the mask. His shoulders square, tension winding through every muscle like a wire pulled too tight.

Then, suddenly, he moves.

You barely have time to process before his gloved hand grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him. It’s not gentle. But it’s not cruel either. It’s something in between, something laced with frustration, with an anger he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

His thumb brushes against your jaw, just for a second. A ghost of something softer.

And then—

“You have no idea how close you are to finding out exactly how much I hate you,” he murmurs, voice dark.

You swallow. Not fear. Something else.

His eyes burn into yours, and you realize with certainty—

Ghost is not here for vengeance. Not yet.

No, he’s here for the truth.

And he’s going to tear you apart to get it.

Ghost steps back, a shadow falling over you as he moves to the table beside you. The clink of metal as he retrieves something—a pair of pliers, a knife, a set of instruments. Tools for precision, for control, for breaking a person in more ways than one.

You don't flinch.

Don't give him the satisfaction of reacting.

“Still playing tough?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

You don't answer. There’s nothing left to say.

Simon’s fingers linger over the pliers before he sets them down with a soft clink, his eyes still on you. “I should’ve known better. You were always good at hiding what was underneath.”

The words catch in your throat. A memory—of laughter, of something real between you, of trust that now feels like a cruel joke.

Your lips part. "I never lied to you."

Ghost’s eyes flash at the statement, like the very idea of you suggesting any innocence on your part angers him. "You didn’t need to. You betrayed me without saying a word. Without hesitation."

A beat of silence, and then he steps forward again, crouching so he’s eye level with you. The mask hides everything, but his posture speaks volumes. This isn’t just about information anymore. It’s personal.

"Tell me why," he demands, voice raw, "why the hell you did it."

You meet his gaze—cold, calculating. There’s nothing in your eyes now. Not fear, not guilt. Just silence.

The silence eats at him. You know it does.

And he knows that you know.

Simon’s hand snaps out like lightning, grabbing you by the jaw with an iron grip. Your teeth click together, the pressure of his fingers hard enough to make you see stars.

"I won't ask again," he growls.

You don't blink. Don't give him the satisfaction of even a flicker of weakness.

"Then you’ll never get an answer," you retort, voice tight but defiant.

His grip tightens.

"God, you’re stubborn." He lets out a harsh breath, more exasperated than angry now. His fingers leave your jaw, and he steps back. "Fine. You wanna play it like this? You wanna be a goddamn enigma?"

You don't respond.

For a long moment, he stands there, staring at you, calculating. You can see the storm swirling behind his eyes, and for the first time since the betrayal, you wonders if he’s considering breaking you. For good.

Then, to your surprise, he steps back even further, turning his back to you.

A loud clink echoes in the room as he picks up a chair, spinning it around before sitting down, his broad frame leaning into the backrest, arms crossed over his chest.

"Not gonna make it easy, huh?" he mutters, almost to himself. "Thought you might’ve learned something from your time with us."

You lift an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smirk curling your lips. "I’m not your puppet, Simon. Never was."

He narrows his eyes, glaring over his shoulder. "We’ll see about that."

Another long silence.

Then—

Click.

Your head snaps up at the sound of something sharp. Ghost is holding a knife now, just barely out of your line of sight, running it lightly over the edge of the table. The sound alone is enough to send a shiver through you.

"You’ve never been good at waiting, have you?" He tilts his head, his voice softening just a little. It’s the calm before the storm, and you both know it. "You always had to be in control. I gave you control. I trusted you. And now look where we are."

Simon’s eyes narrow dangerously. He leans forward slowly, placing the knife on the table with deliberate precision.

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, Simon hesitates. His eyes flicker toward the blade, then back to her.

“Answer me, and I’ll make it quick,” he says, his tone now laced with an edge you haven't heard in years. "Why. Did. You. Do. It?"

You don't answer.

Because the truth is too damn heavy.

And Simon—Ghost—isn’t ready to hear it.

[swiftyangx12]

🤖Confrontation⭐️

Transformers Animated x Captain America![Reader]

[Synopsis]: After coming back from an errand run with Bumblebee and Sari, Captain [Y/N] “Buddy” [L/N] witnesses Optimus being berated by Sentinel who came to Earth for some orders. The Leader of the Avengers didn’t like the whole ordeal they’re watching so they step in to shield Prime away from unnecessary drama.

[Gender Neutral]

[PLATONIC]

[WARNING]: Nothing much, except for a phrase involving the B-word and S-word at the end.

[Inspiration]: Credits to @in1-nutshell for their fun writing. (Hi! I was the anon who requested the Captain America![Reader] with the TFA cast.)

[(A/N)]: The author I’m basing off of their work uses “Buddy” as a placement for the readers until they come up with an official name, depends on the requests they received. So, I thought of using this aspect by making it as the reader’s nickname in this piece. Like Bucky Barnes from the Marvel franchise.

[Bumblebee, Sari and Captain [L/N] had came back to the Plant after an errand run. The three stepped inside only to witness Optimus being talked down by the most unlikable Elite Guard who just so happened to be assigned for some business on Earth.]

Captain [L/N]: That’s the jerk who you guys told me about?

Bumblebee: Yeah, that’s Sentinel Prime. He and Boss-bot had history together back in their academy days.

Sari: He sounds much harsher than last time.

Captain [L/N]: I don’t like what I’m seeing. *Marches over the two*

Bumblebee: Whoa whoa whoa! What are you doing?

Captain [L/N]: Putting this mech in his place.

[Then the captain approaches to Optimus and Sentinel.]

Captain [L/N]: Hey! *Throws their shield at Sentinel to get his attention*

Sentinel: *Gets knocked to his helm* Ow! Who threw that?!

Captain [L/N]: *Catches their shield as it bounced back* I did.

Bumblebee & Sari: *Awestruck* You have to teach us that.

Captain [L/N]: Now is not the best time, guys. Maybe later. Optimus, are you okay?

Optimus: Oh, I’m fine. You surprised us with that shield of yours.

Captain [L/N]: At least you’re good. I need to have a word with this mech. Could you do me a favor?

[Optimus lifts Buddy up to Sentinel’s optic level.]

Captain [L/N]: Thanks. *Clears their throat* Son, you need to stand down and listen.

Sentinel: Oh, I see. You’re the one organic with the shield helping this team. Why should I hear you out?

Optimus: *Looking at him with the “You better listen because they don’t mess around” type expression on his faceplate*

Sentinel: *Groans* What?

Captain [L/N]: Do you know why you’re given the Prime title? Because you believed you earned it, which you did. However, you should have used it wisely.

Sentinel: *Scoffs* Wisely? Of course I’m using it wisely. I got the title because I worked hard to earn it.

Captain [L/N]: Just because you gained it doesn’t mean you can boast it around or use your position to abuse your colleagues, your subordinates, your comrades. It damages possible connections, plus you look like an aft-hole from that behavior of yours.

Sentinel: Hey, watch it. What do you know about positions, anyway?

Captain [L/N]: I earned mine back in my world during one of the great wars and became a leader of the Avengers. I use those titles to not just save civilians from danger, but also build better communication with my team and act accordingly with one another for a brighter future. As of what I’m witnessing here is you acting like someone with poor leadership skills.

Sentinel: Can’t believe an organic is talking down on me.

Captain [L/N]: *In a stern commanding tone* What was that?

Sentinel: *Spooked a bit* Nothing! It’s just unbelievable I’m being lectured by a flesh-ridden organic. I mean, why is this happening? Why are you intruding my business with Optimus?

Captain [L/N]: Because I have the right in this situation. I’m captain since the 1940s, sacrificed myself to save my world, my home, the people I cared about and…someone I didn’t get the chance to dance with…

Sentinel: How old are you, exactly?

Captain [L/N]: “This son of a b*tch…💢” Old enough to be someone’s grandparent, but that’s not the case. You need to stop belittling Optimus and his team since they’re doing you favors by foiling the Decepticons’ plans of destruction. Where’s your sorry aft when they risked their Sparks?

Bumblebee: Wow, they’re pulling in our words.

Sari: Buddy told me they were studying your vocabs during downtime. They thought it’s easier for you guys to talk with each other.

Sentinel: That’s because…

Captain [L/N]: There is no excuse to behave like that with anyone, especially to Optimus who even I can see potential in him.

Sentinel: *Struck his already fragile ego* You’re really going for that, huh?

Captain [L/N]: Not the first time I seen people with potentials greater than they assumed.

[As some time passed while Captain [L/N] lectures at Sentinel of what truly makes someone a great leader, they let a final saying towards the end.]

Captain [L/N]: One more note: Optimus Prime is a better leader than you. He and his team had fought the enemy countless times on Earth while your Elite Guards are busy dealing with Cybertron. He even cares about them and their well-beings as well as people on Earth. Don’t ever talk down on him or anyone else. You’re dismissed.

[After the talk and Sentinel returned back to Cybertron, the young Prime approached to the captain.]

Optimus: Buddy, you didn’t have to stand up for me. I can handle him.

Captain [L/N]: Optimus, I worked with people like him and nobody else stood up for me back in my day. I had to fight my own battles when my best friend wasn’t around on time. Someone has to do what’s right by sticking together and not repeat the cycle.

Optimus: I’m sorry you went through that, Buddy.

Captain [L/N]: It’s all in the past so I’m okay. You’re a great leader, Prime. Don’t forget that. And never mind the unnecessary comments Sentinel has said.

[Buddy then walks off and returns to Bumblebee and Sari.]

Bumblebee: Wow, you really talked him down..

Captain [L/N]: I thought the guy needed some humbling. Or what my friend, Peter explained back home.

Sari: Speaking of your friends, you got any more stories to tell?

Captain [L/N]: There’s plenty to tell from my universe. One time when Bucky had to sneak out…

[Bonus Content!]

[Captain [L/N] teaching some of Team Prime how to throw a shield (or any weapon) like them.]

Sari: *Missed a target* Sh*t!

Captain [L/N]: Language!

Bumblebee: Use Slag next time.

Captain [L/N]: Again, language.

🤖[Reblogs help creators and creates more content!]⭐️

[A/N]: Make sure to check out Nutshell’s work! (@in1-nutshell)

[escespace]

Arthur: I know he might seem clumsy,disrespectful and idiotic but he is not a traitor.

Merlin: jeez... What have I done to earn such a good defense?

Arthur: Shut up Merlin, I'm trying to prove that you didn't break the law.

Merlin: Well, you certainly believe that so that's half the battle won.

[jnw1813]

Everything is a weakness, huh? That's a damn shame.

Conquest shares a bed with his partner for the first time.

The bed was big by human standards. Still, Conquest dwarfed it.

 

Giving it a weary look, he hesitates to lay down, but you had invited him to sleep with you, so he had to. Yet he can't help but feel… a bit self-conscious about it. A unique feeling for him, that's for certain. But he just worried he'd lay down and break your bed.

That would be… awkward. Yes. Awkward.

He hears you finishing up in the bathroom, and grumbles to himself about weaknesses and getting it over with, and slowly lays down on the firm yet comfortable mattress, the fluffy sheets smelling fresh, of some flowery detergent that was beyond foreign to him.

On Viltrum, they would've just smelled sterile.

He shifts a bit, overly aware of his size and, for the first time ever, is apprehensive about it. What was he even doing here? He was Conquest, a Viltrumite warrior, over five thousand years old–

“I'm done, hun!” Your voice slices through his thoughts as the bathroom door clicks and you exit, padding into your room in your ‘pyjamas’, comfortable sleepwear specifically for that. Sleep. Another foreign thing for him.

–and suddenly, as you step into view, Conquest remembers why he's here. Why he's laying in a bed laid thick with soft blankets and pillows and goddamn plushies, in a home belonging to a human, a being so far below him it's laughable–

“Comfy?” You ask, walking over to the other side– your side, his mind supplies. If this becomes a regular thing, this will be his side and that will be yours– and getting in carefully; you look him over appreciatively, taking in all his scars and thick muscles with only affection and desire.

You've got that shy smile on your face. The same one you always have when you're unsure if you're overstepping or making sense to him; wondering if you just asked a redundant, stupid question.

The time spent with you has been short, insignificant compared to the rest of his lifespan, yet he's already figured most of your tells out.

Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight a bit (and tries not to worry about the creaking springs too much), nodding as he looks at you.

“Yeah, darlin’, I'm good. Comfy.” The word is unfamiliar on his tongue. Comfort isn't always a priority to Viltrumites, perhaps only after a great battle is it considered deserved; any other time and it's considered an excess and a sign of weakness. “You?” He asks, trying to relax, wondering why this is so difficult for him. He's the second strongest Viltrumite alive, so why is he laying down with his, heh, partner so hard?

You give the much older man a nod, smiling more warmly now; you don't waste any time in snuggling up to him, resting your head on his bare shoulder. He was only wearing underwear, which was rather… eye-catching, considering his… ‘size’.

The view was appreciated.

“You're tense.” You comment, tracing a finger tip, feather light, along an old scar. You wonder what could've possibly caused it considering his regeneration abilities.

His skin flinches under your touch, an instinctive reaction. He's frozen for a moment, not breathing. All his focus goes to that single digit dancing along his skin, light as a feather. He swallows thickly, eyes falling shut as he clears his throat, hoping he doesn't seem nearly as starved as he feels.

“I'm not.” He says, but it's a lie. It is so obviously a lie he doesn't know why he even bothers. His muscles are bunched up tighter than a metal coil, skin tensed, awaiting something familiar in the face of such foreign softness.

You don't call him out on his lie, at least not verbally. You give him a look, leaning in to kiss right above his heart. He makes a choked sound.

Dammit.

“I love you,” you whisper, words tickling his skin with your hot breath.

Like fuckin’ abracadabra has been said, he relaxes, body going boneless like goddamn magic. A sigh escapes him, the tension leaving an unpleasant yet familiar ache in his flesh as he finally sinks into the pillows under his head and the mattress under his old bones.

He feels you smile, satisfied, against his chest.

What weakness… he thinks, blinking down at you. Just three little words and I am coming undone. What has happened to me?

He can't stare into your eyes too long, otherwise he gets lost in them, and then he's truly vulnerable.

You. You happened to him. And… weakness or not, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Wrapping his good arm around you, he gives your hip a squeeze as he squishes you against his side, face mushed against his pectoral. With his metal one, he turns the lights off, plunging the room into nearly pure darkness, only the faint glow of the moon shining in letting him see your beautiful features.

“I love you too, darlin’.”

[angstama]

06: traitor | l.jn

pairing: lee jeno x f!reader (ft. mark lee)

genre: angst, pure heartache, slight fluff!

synopsis — when jeno asked you to make his bride’s dress, it was more than fabric and lace—it was a reckoning. you never thought you'd be asked to create the wedding dress for the man you once loved, not after everything that had happened between the two of you. five years have passed since jeno walked out of your life, and now, he stands before you again—asking for a favour that stirs old memories and emotions you've tried to bury.

a/n: i can't believe we're finally ending the series for traitor!!!!! i have so much love for this story and i have even more love for the characters in this story. thank you so much for tuning in to traitor and loving my little story <3 traitor will have a sequel :") because our y/n deserves one. please look forward to it, and once again, thank you so much my loves!

chapter music: the winner takes it all

(p.s i had this song on replay because of how well it sits with this entire situation that y/n follows so feel free to give it a listen while reading this chapter! additionally, i made a traitor playlist if you guys are interested~)

traitor m.list | traitor's playlist | previous | sequel (coming soon!)

morning arrived like a held breath — soft light pooling through the studio windows, brushing over unfinished sketches and the glimmer of sequins that had caught the sun. the gown stood in the centre of the fitting room, a monument to everything you had stitched through: grief, grace, and a love that no longer belonged to you.

you hadn’t slept — not truly. not with the weight of today sitting squarely on your chest. today, they will come. she would wear the dress. he would be near.

your palms were clammy despite the coolness of the morning. you straightened the train for the hundredth time, brushing imaginary dust from the hem, adjusting the bodice even though it was already perfect. you were searching for something to steady you — and yet, nothing could.

from the corner, mark watched you.

he didn’t speak. he just stood for a moment, absorbing the quiet strength in your posture. the gentle rise and fall of your chest. the stillness in your gaze. you looked like someone at the edge of something — like a woman ready to let go, but not without first seeing it through.

you didn’t know he was watching, not until he took a step closer, offering the smallest smile. “breathe,” he said.

and so you did. not deep. but enough.

and then — a knock. light, then firmer.

the studio door creaked open.

jeno entered first. tall, clean-cut, the picture of composure — yet his eyes scanned the room like he was holding something back. behind him, wheein appeared, radiant and a little breathless, fingers still clasped tightly around her phone before she tucked it away.

you swallowed. the sight of them together still landed like a soft bruise — not sharp, not fresh anymore, but still tender when touched.

“good morning,” you said. your voice was steady. you were proud of that.

“morning,” wheein replied first. her smile was kind — careful, but not performative.

jeno gave a quiet nod, his gaze not lingering long on you, but long enough. “hi,” he said softly.

"wheein," your voice was soft but steady, a gentle invitation. "come on in. i hope you're as excited as i am to finally see your dress." your words carried a quiet warmth, but there was something deeper beneath, a steady pulse of nerves you couldn't quite shake.

wheein smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as walked towards you with jeno following quick behind.

mark quickly stopped jeno, a subtle but firm motion guiding him to another room. "if you'll follow me, jeno, we'll have wheein try on the dress first, and then it's your turn for the tuxedo. let's save that surprise for your wedding day yeah?" his tone was light, but there was an unspoken understanding between them that the moment was delicate.

jeno gave a slow nod, a quiet look passing between him and you. there was so much unsaid in that glance, and yet, somehow, it felt like the weight of everything you had shared was just... there. hanging in the air.

"i’ll be right here," mark said, leading jeno into the adjoining room, leaving you and wheein alone.

as they walked away, your hands trembled for a brief moment, before you steadied yourself. "ready?" you asked, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. 

with a deep breath, you curl your fingers around the edge of a heavy linen curtain, drawing it open to reveal the fitting area — a space washed in warm light, the gown already waiting on its mannequin like a sculpture come to life — already unveiled, already glowing.

no zippers, no covers, no bags to peel away. it stood in its full grace, as if waiting for wheein. the morning light kissed the beads that you had sewn one by one, tracing the curves of lace that wrapped around the bodice like vines. it was breathtaking — not just for its beauty, but for the weight it carried.

wheein took a step closer. the silence between you was no longer awkward — it was reverent. sacred, even. as if words would wrinkle the moment.

she lifted a hand, slow and unsure, and touched the sleeve — a sheer off-shoulder cascade that dripped with hand-beaded florals.

"i don't..." her voice faltered. "i don't know how to... deserve this."

you didn’t answer, not right away. you were watching her. not in resentment — not anymore. just with a quiet detachment, the kind that comes when you’ve already cried everything there is to cry.

her fingers moved lower, to the waistline, where a soft ribbon was stitched in with subtle embroidery — embroidery that she now noticed spelled something.

wheein squinted, reading the tiniest cursive threadwork. “‘to begin again...’” she read aloud, almost to herself. “you stitched that in?”

you nodded gently. “it’s yours to begin.”

wheein blinked quickly, overwhelmed. “this is…” her voice falters, too small to carry the weight of her awe. she tries again. “this is the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

“are you ready to try it on?” you ask gently, your voice soft as gauze.

wheein blinks, as if pulled from a trance. she turns to you, her eyes still wide, still drinking in every seam and silhouette. “i don’t know if i’ll ever be ready,” she says, half-laughing, half-reeling. “but yes.”

there’s a hush that follows — not silence, but reverence. and you gesture toward the fitting space, where the light falls warmer, like late afternoon sun through an old chapel window.

as she steps behind the screen, you follow with the gown draped carefully over your arms. it’s heavier than it looks, holding a history you’ve chosen to release.

wheein is quiet as you help her out of her clothes, leaving behind the world outside — the noise, the guilt, the complexity. what’s left is just her and you. no ghosts. no sharp edges. just fabric, skin, and breath.

your hands move with practiced ease. you guided the gown over her shoulders, careful with the lace, the buttons, the way the bodice hugs her ribcage. wheein doesn’t speak, but you feel the tremor in her breath as the dress settles into place.

“okay,” you whisper. “let’s see.”

she steps out, and for a moment, even she doesn’t recognise herself. the mirror catches her full reflection — not just in fabric, but in something newly awakened. the dress wraps around her like it was always meant to — not to erase the past, but to honour it. to rise from it.

your mouth went dry, feeling the ghost of a tremble in your fingers, but you press it down. this is your creation — this dress, this moment, this woman — and you will carry it with the dignity it deserves.

wheein touches her chest, just above the heart. “this… feels sacred.”

you meet her gaze in the mirror, and this time, she doesn’t look away.

you gestured for wheein to step up onto the small platform, the one framed by the tall mirrors and a soft spill of light. she hesitates for just a second, then lifts her gown and steps up, her reflection blooming all around her — a kaleidoscope of satin and lace and something else more fragile: remorse.

you began to smooth the fabric around her waist, adjusting the skirt so it falls just right. and that’s when she speaks — not looking at you, but at the woman in the mirror she’s still getting used to seeing.

“i’ve never thought i’d be the kind of woman who could take something that wasn’t mine.” her voice is small, like it’s been buried for a long time. but in this room, it echoes all the same.

you pause, your hands still against the folds of the dress. the moment holds — stretched thin and tender.

wheein swallows. “i didn’t plan on any of it. and maybe that makes me cowardly — not wanting to own the hurt i caused. but standing here, in this… it made me realise how much beauty i’m wearing that i didn’t earn.”

wheein watches you through the mirror — her gaze no longer filled with awe, but something heavier. a kind of reckoning.

“you don’t have to say anything,” you mumbled, not looking up. the silence was already loud enough.

but wheein shakes her head, her voice quiet and steady. “i do.”

you pause, and the room feels like it held its breath.

“you were always real to me,” she says, eyes fixed on her own reflection — but her words, they’re for you. “even when i was pretending you weren’t.”

you look at her now, slowly straightening.

“when we got together,” she continues, “jeno didn’t talk about you. he didn’t need to. you were everywhere. in the way he hesitated before speaking. in the way he smiled at certain things like they carried another memory. in the way he never said goodbye properly.”

a flicker of breath catches in your chest. the words settle like ash, soft and aching.

wheein turns slightly, her hand brushing against the edge of the gown.

“i don’t know how we ended up here,” she says. “but i do know this… i was the one who walked in between you and a life you were still holding onto. and i never said it before because i was afraid it would make everything feel less real. but it was real — for you. and now i see that.”

you swallow, something fragile building in your throat. not tears, not anger. just the sharp, quiet ache of being seen — fully, finally.

and then, after a long pause — you finally spoke, “so why are you here?”

her lips part, and for a second, she hesitates. then, quietly — “because i’m marrying him.”

your hands still against the fabric. wheein’s voice softens into something more raw. “and i guess... some part of me thought that maybe if you dressed me, it would make me feel less like a thief.”

you stand there, still, as the weight of that confession settles in the room like dust caught in morning light.

you finally look her in the eyes through the mirror. “no dress i make will erase what you took from me.”

the words are not cruel. they are just true.

but then your voice softens, not with forgiveness, but with clarity. “but it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve one.”

you look at her, and for the first time, you don’t see the woman who stood in the way of your happy ending.

you see a woman who, like you, is simply trying to love — and live with the consequences of it.

in the adjoining room, time trickles in uneven drips — the kind that feels like they echo too loudly. jeno paces back and forth, unable to still his nerves. he’s restless, caught between anticipation and uncertainty, each step seeming heavier than the last. mark leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing silently. he’s seen this before — the unease jeno carries, like an unspoken weight he can’t shake off.

it’s not the tuxedo he’s worried about.

it’s you.

the thought of seeing you again — not just in passing, not in a conversation heavy with unresolved years — but here, now, as the designer of the very thing he’d wear on his wedding day... it gnaws at him.

and then he sees it.

he pauses mid-step, eyes narrowing toward the corner of the room. something there catches his attention — soft white, tangled, almost like a ghost. torn fabric spilling out from the top of the bin. crushed silk and lace, uneven edges, pieces that once belonged to something whole.

mark’s eyes follow jeno’s gaze, landing on the rubbish bin where your old wedding dress has been discarded, torn apart, the fabric now a tangle of delicate remnants. the dress no longer looks like the beautiful creation it once was. it’s just fragments now, pieces waiting to be stitched into something else. mark doesn’t comment on it, knowing that jeno hasn’t fully realized what it is — not yet.

instead, mark stays quiet, waiting.

and then, jeno speaks. his voice is hesitant, almost disbelieving. "is that...?" he doesn’t say it loud. it’s barely more than a whisper, like he’s asking himself. like he doesn’t want it to be true.

but he knows. god, he knows that dress. he remembers it vividly like the first time he saw it.

the words hang in the air as his gaze continues to linger on the torn fabric. mark watches jeno’s reaction closely — he can see the recognition dawning slowly, the pieces of the past coming together in jeno’s mind. the weight of it hits him.

mark doesn’t confirm or deny it. he lets the silence stretch between them, knowing jeno has already pieced it together.

jeno wants to ask, to know, but he can’t find the right words. part of him doesn’t want to hear the answer.

finally, after a long moment, mark speaks, his voice quiet but firm. “she’s put her whole heart into this,” he says, his words slow and measured. “y/n... she’s not just making a dress. she’s pouring herself into it. into you, into this moment, into everything.”

jeno doesn’t look away from the corner immediately, but his brow furrows slightly, as if he’s sensing the shift in the room. mark steps forward, continuing, his voice softening. “every stitch, every detail — it’s her way of letting go, of making peace with what’s been. it’s everything she’s felt. every ounce of love, every moment of hurt, it’s all woven in there.”

mark doesn’t look at jeno for a response. instead, he lets his words settle, giving jeno space to process.

jeno’s eyes remain fixed on the remnants of the dress, and for a long time, neither of them speaks. the reality of the situation slowly unfurls in jeno’s mind. he doesn’t look at the fabric the same way anymore. it's not just torn pieces. it's a memory. it's everything that’s led up to this moment.

finally, jeno turns to mark, his voice quiet, almost too soft to be heard. “i didn’t mean for any of this...”

mark doesn't immediately reply. there’s a brief silence before he speaks, his voice steady and calm. “i truly hope you're happy, jeno. whatever happens next, i hope you understand that what y/n's doing here isn’t just about the dress. it’s about her. her healing. her strength. and that’s something you can't take away from her, not anymore.”

jeno absorbs the words, his gaze falling to the floor as if in search of an answer he might never find.

mark steps back a little, his tone softer now. “i’m just saying... don't forget to thank her. it'll mean the world to her.”

wheein steps down from the platform slowly, her hands brushing the fabric at her sides like she still couldn't quite believe it was real. the dress moved like a whisper around her ankles — a thing reborn, made from threads of grief and grace.

you helped her out of it with gentle, steady hands, the silence between the two of you no longer heavy but reverent, filled with something understood.

when wheein finally leaves the fitting area, offering you a small, quiet thank you — nothing more, nothing less — you're left alone again. just for a breath.

then mark enters.

he doesn't say anything at first. just notices the way your fingers are trembling slightly as you reach for the tuxedo box. he moves to your side like gravity and begins helping you to lay it out — the jacket, the shirt, the carefully folded pants.

you bit your lip, feeling the nerves clawing up your spine, feeling your heartbeat stuttering. this wasn’t just a tuxedo. this wasn’t just another fitting.

this was him.

he was coming in now.

“you okay?” mark asks quietly, hands smoothing over the lapel of the jacket.

“no,” you admit, your voice a brittle hush. “but… it’s okay.”

you step back as he finishes setting the final touches. the space is ready. but you aren’t.

you almost want to back out. you almost wish you could disappear into the folds of the velvet curtain. but you don’t.

instead, you take one small step forward — and that’s when mark nods, slipping out of the room to get jeno.

you don’t hear their footsteps at first, only your own breath. and then —

the curtain draws back — softly, carefully — and you already know it’s him.

you don’t look up right away. instead, you focused on adjusting the sleeve of the tuxedo that hangs on the mannequin, its silhouette glowing under the amber studio lights. it stands tall, composed, dignified. everything you hoped it would be.

the air shifts. heavier somehow. like memory has entered the room before the man himself.

jeno steps in beside mark.

your eyes lift. his do too.

a silent acknowledgement passes between you — not a greeting, not quite. more like a shared breath across time. five years folded into a single look.

then he finally sees it.

for a second, he just stares.

there’s something almost reverent about the way he looks at it. not like it’s clothing — but like it’s something holy. a relic of something he once lost, now reshaped into something new. his gaze traces the details: the sharp peak lapels, the hand-sewn buttons, the delicate topstitching only someone with an eye for love could’ve placed so precisely.

he knows this wasn’t just made.

it was cared into existence.

“is this it?” he finally asks, voice low, almost breathless.

you nod. “this is it. mark did it.”

he steps closer, slowly, like he’s afraid he might disturb it. and you watch him — how his expression shifts the nearer he gets. it’s the same look he wore the first time he saw you bent over your sketchbook, lost in a world he couldn’t enter but wanted so badly to understand.

a soft shuffle behind you breaks the silence — mark steps in from the side room, his voice light, but steady.

“so,” he says, clapping his hands once gently, “you ready to try it on?”

jeno tears his eyes away from the tuxedo, straightening slightly, though some part of him still seems tethered to it. he nods slowly, as if waking from a reverie. “yeah. i’m ready.”

you take a small step back, the movement instinctive — giving him space, giving yourself room to breathe. “i’ll let mark help you change,” you say, your voice polite, “i’ll be outside if—”

“wait.”

jeno’s voice isn’t sharp, but it halts you mid-step. you glanced at him, brows raised.

he looks at you — not pleading, not demanding — just… hoping.

“could you do the fitting?” he asks quietly. “please.”

the room stills. your hands curl slightly at your sides.

you hesitate. not because you’re unwilling — but because you’re not sure if you’re strong enough. to stand that close. to adjust fabric on the body you once held. to witness the man who once belonged in your future, stepping into a suit not made for you.

but you meet his gaze.

and for once, it doesn’t ache the way it used to. not entirely.

“…okay,” you breathe. “i’ll stay.”

jeno nods, a flicker of relief passing over his features. mark glances between the two of you, then gives a small smile — understanding blooming quietly behind his eyes.

“alright,” mark says, gently touching jeno’s shoulder. “this way.”

jeno follows him to the back, where a private fitting space waits behind another curtain. the soft rustle of fabric fades, leaving you alone with the tuxedo and the ghost of everything it carries.

you take a breath.

then another.

and you wait — steadying your hands, your heart — preparing yourself to fit him one last time.

it felt like hours — though only a few moments. you stand by the mannequin, hands clasped in front of you, your pulse racing. the quiet in the room presses against you, thick and tangible.

then, the sound of footsteps. soft, measured, as if to make the moment linger just a bit longer.

the curtain rustles, and you look up.

jeno steps out, and for the briefest second, you almost don’t recognize him. it’s not just the tuxedo, though it fits him like it was made to hold his form, to echo the way he once was — strong, confident, yet still a little unsure of himself. it’s the way he carries himself now. there’s something quieter, something deeper in his gaze. the weight of everything, perhaps.

you swallow, the words caught in your throat for a moment.

“it’s perfect,” you say quietly, your hands trembling slightly as you walk closer. it’s not just the tuxedo that’s perfect — it’s him, in a way. like he’s finally grown into the person he’s meant to be, even if that person isn’t standing next to you.

"come up here." you gestured towards the platform in front of you. jeno doesn’t hesitate. his movements are graceful, but you can sense the weight of the moment, the unspoken history between the two of you hanging in the air.

he steps onto the platform, his hands instinctively smoothing down the sides of the tuxedo, as if testing the fit. the room feels smaller now, the air heavier. mark watches quietly from the corner, sensing the tension but saying nothing. it’s just the two of you now, and for a moment, the world outside the studio doesn’t exist.

you stepped closer, fingers grazing along the edges of the tuxedo. the fabric feels familiar under your fingertips, and for a brief moment, you’re lost in the work, focusing on the smallest details — adjusting the hem here, a tuck of fabric there. you’re trying to bury the thoughts swirling in your mind, trying to ignore the weight of the words that linger between you and jeno.

“how does it feel?” you ask, keeping your voice even, not wanting to show just how much his presence is affecting you. you meet his gaze in the mirror, your reflection meeting his. he looks different somehow, wearing this tuxedo, like he’s stepped into something more than just a suit. there’s a quiet strength about him now, as if the tuxedo is a part of him.

“perfect,” jeno replies, his voice low, almost inaudible. “it feels... like it was made just for me.” he pauses, looking at his reflection with a bittersweet expression. “it fits me in a way i never thought a tuxedo could.”

you don’t answer him immediately. instead, you focus on the adjustments, it's hard to ignore the way he stands there, looking so different, so perfect, in something you made. made for him.

as you work, you can feel his gaze on you, but you avoid looking up. it’s easier that way. the silence stretches between you both, thick with the weight of what you once shared and what can never be again.

mark steps forward quietly, glancing at the pair of you before speaking. “it looks great, jeno. really. the fit is perfect.” he pats jeno on the shoulder, a gesture of support, before stepping back again, leaving you alone to it.

jeno shifts slightly, and you can feel the change in his energy. “you really made this, didn’t you?” he says, his voice still quiet, but now filled with a hint of understanding.

you bit your lip, trying to keep your emotions in check. your hands move to adjust the collar, but your fingers hesitate as the words catch in your throat.

“mark designed it,” you say, your voice flat, trying to deflect, trying to act as though you aren’t the one behind this — behind him standing there, looking so good in something you made. “he’s the one who oversaw everything.” you forced the words out, keeping your tone neutral, but inside, you feel like you’re breaking a little more with each passing second.

jeno looks at you in the mirror, his eyes softening as if he’s piecing it together. “no,” he says softly. “this was you. i can tell.” his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he looks back at his reflection. “it fits me perfectly. better than anything i’ve ever worn.”

you swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest, but you say nothing, pretending not to hear the unspoken weight in his words. instead, you focus on the task at hand, adjusting the cufflinks, straightening the fabric, and pretending like everything is okay when it isn’t.

“y/n... is it okay if i apologised again?” jeno’s voice was softer now, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet vulnerability.

there was something raw in his tone, as if the apology had been brewing for years, waiting for the right moment. he stepped a little closer, the space between you narrowing, but not enough to make either of you uncomfortable.

you paused, fingers still lightly brushing the fabric of the tuxedo as you processed his words. it wasn’t anger that welled up inside you, but something deeper—something akin to the years of heartache, the wounds that once hurt you as if physically.

you took a breath, exhaling slowly before responding.

“i’m not sure there’s anything left for you to apologise for.” you said quietly, your eyes meeting his in the mirror. "but... i suppose if you need to, i’ll listen."

the space between you both seemed to stretch, filled with the weight of everything that had happened and everything that still hung in the air. jeno’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you used to know—before the silence, before the distance.

he took a step closer, as if uncertain whether to reach out, but not quite daring to. his words were quieter now, almost hesitant.

“i think i owe you more than that. i owe you so much more than what i gave you. i never meant for it to end like this.”

you didn’t answer immediately, your mind swirling with the years of unspoken pain, of lost time. the dress—the tuxedo, all of it—was merely a thread, tying everything together. it had been a way to heal, to make peace with the past. but hearing him speak to you about it, it all came rushing back.

you wanted to respond, but the words felt tangled up, stuck somewhere deep in your chest.

“jeno,” you began, your tone soft but steady, “you don’t need to apologise again. i think... i think we’ve both carried enough of that for too long. what matters now is that we’re here. that we're standing in front of each other.”

your eyes met his in the mirror, and there was something almost peaceful in the way you looked at him now, despite everything. “i’ve learned to forgive, not for you, but for me. to let go of the things that held me down. that’s how i’ve been able to keep going.”

you paused, feeling the weight of your own words settle between you. “so, no. you don’t need to apologise. what’s important is that you’re here, and you’re moving forward. we both are.”

there was a quiet finality in your voice, not a dismissal, but an acknowledgment that the past, however painful, no longer had to dictate your future. jeno seemed to absorb your words, a soft sigh escaping him as he took a moment to reflect.

jeno hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering down to the tuxedo, then back to you. the words seemed to hold him back, unsure whether or not they had a place in this moment between you both.

“y/n,” he began softly, his voice tentative. “i know this might sound... strange, given everything that’s happened, but i want to ask you something.”

you stayed quiet, your hands pausing just for a second as you looked up at him, sensing the gravity of what he was about to say.

“would you... would you come to the wedding?” jeno asked, the question lingering in the air like a fragile thread. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but i thought... maybe you could be there. you’ve done so much, you’ve poured so much of yourself into this. i don’t want you to feel like you’re left out of this chapter.”

it was a simple invitation, but it carried so much weight, and the way he said it, as if hoping for something more than just your presence but a recognition of how far you both had come — it made your chest tighten.

you paused, contemplating the offer, the past and present swirling in your mind. you had already let go of so much of the hurt, but this was still jeno. still the man who had once been your world.

with a quiet breath, you finally replied, your voice gentle but firm. “thank you for asking. but... i think i’ll pass. it’s not about not wanting to see you happy. it’s just that i need to keep moving forward, in my own way. i’ll always be grateful, jeno, for everything — the good and the bad. but i think it’s time for me to step away from this chapter completely.”

there was no bitterness in your words, no anger. just acceptance, a calm realization that your role in his story had already changed.

“besides,” you added, a slight smile tugging at your lips, “i think i’ve done enough with this whole wedding thing no?”

jeno didn’t respond immediately, but the way he looked at you spoke volumes. a soft, grateful look — but there was an underlying sadness in it, something that would linger long after the fitting was over. he nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken decision between you.

“you’re right,” he said finally, voice low. “thank you, y/n. for everything. truly."

once, the thought of what you lost would've consumed you. you would have wondered what went wrong, where the love had faded, why the promises fell apart. but now, standing in this studio, surrounded by the tangible creation of your own hands — the dress, the tuxedo — you understood. you understood that in love, sometimes the one who seems to lose is the one who actually gains.

you had gained yourself.

the hurt, the longing, the desire to have what was once yours — they no longer held the same power over you. you were standing at the other side of it now, looking at the pieces you had rebuilt and the person you had become. you had taken the broken fragments of your heart and woven them into something new, something beautiful.

"thank you for choosing wildflower, i wish you both all the happiness and love in this world."

the winner takes it all. but in this room, on this day, you had already won.

// the end

taglist: @starryeyesspice @bluedbliss @undomielsql @nshitae @starryeyesspice @spicyryujin@m8rkers @haechskiss

[ourdadai]

cantora [ olivia rodrigo ] lockscreens ♡

[criminalamnesia]

Not a request but NEW TRAITOR CHAP WHEN??? prioritize urself no rush Pookie just the ppl gotta know

part 7 is here 🙏

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

it was pouring rain as you slid from the taxi, the driver attempting to yell at you to shut the door as thunder rumbled overhead.

you paid him no heed; boots splashed in murky puddles as you pushed the door closed and moved towards the yellow cab’s trunk.

you could barely hear yourself think. the rain was battering the ground as if locked in a viscous war with the cracked pavement— puddles forming as the asphalt resisted with all its might. it wasn’t enough, water seeping into the ground and muddying the grass nearby, drowning it mercilessly.

you grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before shutting the trunk. you’d barely stepped back from the car before it was speeding off, kicking up water and splashing your legs.

you didn’t mind— you were soaked through to the bone, anyways. besides, you didn’t mind the storm. it was comfort— a distraction from what lay ahead.

your new team. a small, covert operations group made up of the best of the best. two sergeants, a lieutenant, a captain— and they wanted one more soldier.

the opening couldn’t have come at a better time. you’d run your course with your old squad. they’d been fine— until they weren’t. carelessness and ignorance from teammates almost resulted in your untimely death, and laswell hadn’t questioned your transfer request after hearing the tale.

in fact, she’d recommended the one-four-one to you.

you thought you’d be meeting them on base, but the captain had requested you meet them here, instead. a run-down old diner, with its bright, neon pink sign blinking down at you through the rain.

you inhaled, then exhaled. clenched your fists, then unclenched them. it was a habit you’d had since you were a child. it forced you to slow down and think, to overcome the emotions you were lost in.

you blinked. rain ran down your face, creating false tears as it streamed from the corners of your eyes. you were sure you looked a sight.

another inhale, another exhale, and then you moved towards the diner’s door. you pushed it open, stepping inside and wiping your boots on the mat in front of the door.

“I think you’re gonna need to do more than that to dry off, sweetheart” a woman’s voice calls to you, causing you to look up towards the counter. she’s grimacing, looking you up and down. no doubt she’ll be following your path through the building with a mop in hand.

“sorry,” you tell her, trying to brush some water from your jacket. “forgot my umbrella.”

the woman gave a huff, waving her hand before turning and attending to an ancient-looking coffee maker.

you take the time to glance around the diner then, noting the substantial lack of customers. only two booths were occupied, one containing a young couple tangled in each other’s arms, and the other containing a man wearing a baseball cap with the UK flag patched on it.

he looked up from his phone as you approached, seemingly unsurprised based on the grin he gave you.

“glad to see you got here in one piece,” he says as you shrug off your bag, placing it on the floor as you slide into the seat across from him.

“one drenched piece,” you say, and he gives a small chuckle.

“im kyle,” the man tells you. “don’t know what laswell told you,” he clicks off his phone and places it on the table. “but im one of the sergeants.”

you nod. “callsign ‘gaz,’ right?”

he gives a nod of his own. his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. his eyes glance down, scan the message, then meet yours once more.

“rest of the team got held up. price is in a meeting. johnny and ghost are on assignment, but they’re due back any day now.”

“so you’re the welcome committee by default, huh?” you say, and he laughs.

“guess i am. have i scared you off yet?”

“dunno,” you tell him. “but laswell sings your praises. the captain’s, especially.”

“she sings yours, too.” kyle says.

you give a small nod, your mind racing at what laswell may have told the task force. you weren’t bad at your job— you were great at it. a great shot, a reliable solider, a tireless sentry.

your emotions got the better of you at times, that was all. attachments and bonds that formed, linking you and your fellow soldiers together in the web of warfare. tying you around the wrist and dragging you along, for better or worse. little siblings or lovers evolving from what once had been just another set of boots on the ground.

this job was all you had. you found family where you had too, and it made you all the more loyal. but when you were spurned? when the fire leapt from the pit and scorched your skin?

you weren’t quick to forgive, and you found that reasonable in this line of work. mistakes by teammates could get you killed. who could blame you for holding a grudge against an ally who had almost cost you your life?

it’s why you were here now. a new start with a new team— a team of the best, you included.

kyle’s phone buzzes again. he picks it up, the screen illuminating his face as the lights flicker overhead. the storm wasn’t letting up.

“cap’s on his way— says he’ll be here in less than 30.”

“price, right?” you recall his name. kyle nods.

“don’t tell him I told you,” he leans in, a mischievous look in his eyes, “but he’s been lookin’ forward to meeting you. maybe even more than johnny has.”

“why’s that?”

“said the one-four-one is overdue for someone else who can kick johnny’s ass. wants you to knock him down a few more pegs.”

you laugh at that, giving a small shake of your head. kyle’s lips curl into a smile. “nah, he’s just happy to have some more hands on deck. always helps to have another person that’ll watch your back.”

as kyle starts talking again, you find your nerves settling.

maybe this team could be your new family.

you looked down at your hands, noting the slight shake of them. you don’t think they’d been steady since before everything happened.

your eyes glance to the ugly, scarred stump of the finger you’d lost. simon hadn’t chopped it off prettily, and it’d been stitched up hastily. you couldn’t blame the doctor, there had been more pressing injuries to attend to.

such as the bone-deep cut to one leg, growing infected from your time spent in the chair. the scar was long, stretching from the top of your thigh to your knee. it was still pink, a sign of your body still trying to put itself back together.

your torso wasn’t much better. jagged scars and puckered knots of skin marred your image. both from before and from after.

your eyes met your own in the mirror. you barely recognized yourself. the anger within you still burned, but its flame had reduced to a simmer. exhaustion, apathy, and shame had taken its place.

perhaps that was a good thing. it saved you the energy of fighting the men you inevitably saw every day. despite your numerous pleas and demands for them to simply leave you alone, they seemed to have a hard time listening. it made you want to scream. to hurt them, digging your fingers into skin until they understood the pain behind your words.

a knock sounded at the door. you didn’t move.

a knock again. you could hear the shuffle of feet outside the door. you wished whoever it was would leave you be.

another knock, accompanied by the soft timbre of kyle’s voice.

“love, you alright in there?” he was saying. you still stood before the mirror.

things had been different since you attacked the doctor. it had only been a few days, but word spread quickly through base. if people had avoided you before, you were like the plague now.

and the shame you felt was insurmountable. the pain and regret and fury were building like a tidal wave in your stomach, rising and choking the air from your lungs.

you wanted to leave this place. get away from the men you once called family, the one you once called yours.

but leaving meant the end of your career. you just had to hold out until kate arranged your transfer, that’s all. just a few more days, right?

and then this place and these people wouldn’t be a constant reminder of what had happened to you. of what it had done to you, physically and mentally.

“go, kyle,” you called out to him, breaking from your trance as you reached for the scratchy robe johnny had gifted you one christmas.

“not until i see you breathin’, love.”

you sigh, tying the robe shut and hugging the material to your body. you moved to the door, turning the lock before inching it open.

“breathing,” you tell him, watching as his eyes flick away from yours. god, it made you want to strangle him.

to yell at him, to yell at all of them— "you did this, and you should be able to look me in the eyes and see it.”

“now go.”

he looks at you again, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “will you let me in?” he asks, and you scoff as you move to slam the door.

“fuck off, kyle.”

but he’s quick, and his hand shoots out, grasping the door’s wooden edge and keeping it from closing.

“we need to talk.”

“whatever you need to say, you can say it from there,” you tell him, and he pauses for a minute before he nods.

“doc is asking about you again. she’s up and runnin’ around. said she wants to see you.”

your lips press into a thin line. you didn’t deserve that woman’s kindness, not after what you’d done to her.

you hadn’t been in your right mind, but that didn’t excuse it. you had bloodied your fists; harmed an innocent in the war between you and your own mind.

you didn’t want to see her still worrying about you when you had assured her you were fine. you had left her supervision, and then you’d attacked her. and you hadn’t stopped until simon had pulled you away.

you would’ve killed her, you know that in your heart. you would’ve killed her, thinking she was one of the men who had wanted to kill you.

“tell her im fine,” you said, your hand tightening around the door’s knob.

“i think she’d rather see that for herself,” he says.

“im fine,” you repeat. “i’ll be out of everyone’s hair in a few days, anyways.”

kyle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “you’re leaving?”

he knew this, they all did. perhaps they just didn’t truly believe it. all of them, every single one, still thought you’d turn around and run back into their arms.

bastards.

“as soon as laswell gives the word,” you reply. “should be soon.”

kyle doesn’t speak. he’s obviously biting his tongue— you’d seen the expression that was on his face enough to know when he was holding back, but you didn’t prod like you would’ve before.

let him keep his secrets, lies, promises, and sorries. you didn’t need them anymore.

“don’t bother me again,” you said before shutting the door in his face.

you hear him sigh on the other side of the wood, then hear the retreat of his steps. you turn back to the mirror, snarl, and grab the alarm clock from your nightstand.

you throw it into the glass, shattering it to pieces. seven years of bad luck, you think.

well, it couldn’t get much worse, could it?

kyle sighs, staring at your door for a second longer before turning away. simon looks down at him from where he was leaning against the wall, hidden from your view, his muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“surprised?” simon asks as the two of them retreat down the hallway. he makes sure they’re far enough from your door before speaking, so that you won’t hear his voice.

“we knew it was happening, price said as much after that whole thing with johnny,” kyle replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “just thought this might change things.”

“change ‘em how?” simon says. “if anythin’, this speeds it up. they’re a liability now.”

“they’re hurt, ghost,” kyle retorts, his eyes meeting his superior’s. “that’s ptsd. not everyone’s as forgiving as the doc. they attack someone outside and that’s a fucking felony.”

“that’s not our problem, sergeant,” comes simon’s baritone reply, and kyle stops.

“you’re a fuckin’ case yourself, y’know that, LT?” he says, and simon stops. “we all played a part,” kyle continues. “but you? you would’ve killed ‘em if we never knew the truth. i know you would’ve. i’ve seen you do it.”

the men stare at each other. simon’s expression is hidden underneath his balaclava, but kyle knows it’s unreadable regardless.

mean, old ghost. heartless bastard, loyal to the mission only. that’s what the others around base whispered to each other.

kyle had seen proof to the contrary. yes, simon was loyal to the mission. but he was also loyal to his team, his family. you.

he was loyal to you.

“watch yourself, sergeant,” simon speaks, his voice a dangerous rumble.

kyle scoffs and walks off, shaking his head.

simon watches him go, his breath steady.

kyle didn’t understand him, not really. not the way you had begun to. and that was his own fault, he knows it. forever holding those close to him at arms length for fear of the worst.

he’d let you in— let you invade that space he enforced so ruthlessly. and the worst had happened.

kyle doesn’t know this is tearing him in half; none of the team does. they don’t understand that simon wants you to stay because you’re you, but he wants you gone because he can see how this is killing you.

even when he’s the villain in your story, he’s still trying to look out for you— in his own, twisted way.

he doesn’t regret it. that is cemented in his mind. but as he grapples with his own emotions, his mind in its own turmoil, he knows he wants you to be okay.

“im sorry,” he had spoken to deaf ears.

sorry for the ripping apart of your life, but not sorry for what he had done.

deep down, he knew you would never forgive them. he knew that leaving this team would be the best thing for you.

he knew, he knew, he knew.

knowing and accepting are two different things.

hope this was worth the wait! i think the next part will be the end, unless my idea changes 👀