ram-bam-writes

[ram-bam-writes]

1. Holy shit, thank you: I actually wanted to read it, but assumed you wouldn't drop the essay. Lovely piece of work, especially the poem. Kind of gives me insight on how you view him.

2. Even if you are over it--sending you love and healing. I was also a medically neglected kid, and it's a feeling to hear other's experiences. Not sure what to name it yet still.

3. Bio bitch, as a term made me laugh. It was unexpected and apt! A new one.

4. I love your humour--your writing belies your personality, which very faceted (this is a compliment, idk if it comes across the way I intend) and a mix of humour, weathered-hey-so-it-happened-and-I-survive, and reason.

5. "I blame circumstance for it all" gasping at the brevity and impact.

6. The way you weaved in mental health with this? Immaculate. It's a perspective I haven't even thought of before, and thank you for sharing that, genuinely. It was lovely, and one of the nicest I've came across this year.

7. Thank you for tagging me! I might have missed it, I wasn't checking my notifs. Very kind of you :)

8. Ps-- "I need this man to fuck me through the mattress " and subsequent notes? I hope both sides of your pillow remain cold.

1. Ehehehe, I'm not shy about posting my work. I like sharing things I've written, especially like that one, because there's more to it that I think is important. And thank you! I think I've written over 8 pieces of poetry for/about him, now. I truly am obsessed.

2. I think that's the biggest part of why I wanted to share it. So much happens to people as a kid, and sometimes it's easy to self-blame or even believe you to be the only one. I like sharing experiences so people know they ain't alone, even if that's not necessarily a good thing (if that makes sense, given we shouldn't have gone through it I'm the first place). I think one reason I'm happy I'm comfortable talking about it is for that reason. I want people to feel safe around me, and I reckon they can do it easier if they know I've been through hardships similar to theirs. Might make them more comfy talking to be when they need help

3. One of my personal fav's :>

4. Writing was actually what helped me get through it all (I suppose over-it might be the incorrect word, since it's less about getting 'over' what happened, rather getting through/past it and accepting what happened was bad and continuing to thrive in the face of hardship). I'm in love with that analysis; I hadn't noticed I had such a style, but the more I think about it, a lot of my work flows that way (I've done an informational one on explaining what watercolors are and the tools involved, while slipping in a few narrative paragraphs about how it brought be out of my SH and depression.

5. :>

6. As someone who was actually tested for DID and Schizophrenia because of how *badly* I'd dissociate to these worlds of characters, I figured it was something to point out, especially with how it started and what it turned into. Once my therapist made the connection after ripping open my childhood with such precision, I felt like it was something that needed to be expressed. I think there can be guilt to loving a character (especially if the Fandom has bad people in it), and I don't want there to be. I think the characters you like may reflect what you didn't have as a child, or the exact opposite, and sometimes is needed to have a sense of... completion within yourself. Characters you love can be a big part of your identity, I reckon, too.

7. I figured you might wanna see it :>

8. I've never heard this turn of phrase so I pray this is a good thing... ehehehe

~~~~~~

Much love 🩶🪽

~Hermes

#ram bam #ask ram bam

[ram-bam-writes]

*Cracks Knuckles*

Since people actually... wanted this? ... here :>

Sliiiight CW because we get into some ~trauma mentions~ (brief brief brief, single sentence mentions of the following: SA, verbal abuse, hospital trauma, family with narcissism).

But! The Final was supposed to be any kind of creative writing piece, so I chose non-fiction 2nd person and went into, well, as I originally stated, how having intense loves of characters and constantly daydreaming about them (to the point of becoming incredibly antisocial) is a form of coping derived from childhood trauma.

“An Addiction to Graves"

Alright, alright, I reckon I know what yer thinking. Graves? Like the gravestones in cemeteries? Well, somewhat, I suppose. I do often enjoy the history and the life that’s carved in stone. I often find myself wondering what kind of stories lie beneath the dirt, the secrets and the gossip. Beautiful mossy stone with thick engravings that hold what once was precious life is something I take photos of pretty regularly.

But that’s not what I’m talking about.

No, I’m talking about a man by the name of Graves. Phillip Graves, to be specific. A few of my teachers know him, whether they know it or not. I often talk about him, given that he’s my boyfriend and all. I’ve even written class assignments about my boyfriend, especially for my English courses. Most of my poems for my Creative Writing class are about him, actually. Umbra Catervae is my favorite that I’ve written:

I want the powder blue fibers

I want the old indigo thread

I want the olive green kevlar

I want the blue-grey wool

Woven oh so neatly

With faded grass stains

Strapped oh so securely

With fractured loose ends

A tight fitted Button-Up

A loose crumpled Jean

A firm rigid TacVest

A damaged stitched Spade

A picture of Stability

A picture of Integrity

A picture of Protection

A picture of Ambiguity

If you’re clever enough, you might gather that he’s in the military. That poem is written about him, mostly focusing on what his uniform consists of. Some of you may even know him, as well, from online media. He’s not very well known, he's from a bit of a niche, and quite frankly, most people aren’t very fond of him if they do know him. Some think he should have died in that incident a few years ago involving a tank, but I’m quite happy that he didn’t. Not that it’d matter, in the end.

If you haven’t caught on, the man I write my poetry, my fiction, and now my non-fiction about oh so often is none other than a blond-haired, blue-eyed Texan from the admittedly okay game of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, and he’s also in the third Modern Warfare. That’s right, my boyfriend is a fictional character from a video game.

Kinda weird, right?

Perhaps the immediate reaction is to think of me as some kind of fan-it (given I abide by very few genders other than ‘no’). And, that might be right, to some extent. I do adore the man, and I do write about him a lot. I even draw him, over and over. I have his every design memorized, even down to each patch on his tac-vest. And it’s not uncommon for feminine-presenting individuals to have crushes on fictional men over real men.

So maybe I’m a self-designated Fan-It, but… it’s a little deeper than that.

See, I didn’t have the best childhood as a kid. Not to say it was terrible, but I’ve had a lot happen. Sexual abuse between ages 6-11, a verbally abusive father who is very manipulative, a mother that is lovely most of the time but does struggle with the whole ‘apologizing when she’s wrong’ thing, a lot of different families, and even more internal struggles with both mental and physical health.

And it’s kind of important to this story, but I don’t need to go into more detail than that. I’ll save you the sob story, given I’m thriving pretty well right now and most of my past doesn’t bother me. It’s also just a long and complex story that can’t be understood from a single paragraph.

But it did start from the hospital incident as a kiddo.

And, ‘it’ refers to something known as an addiction. But not to drugs, or alcohol or sex or gambling (given that I was nine), but rather to my own imagination. I didn’t exactly have a protective parental figure in my life when I was paralyzed with meningitis. My mother wasn’t allowed to stay with me because of her own physical health (the stress was increasing her Chiari symptoms), and the bio bitch (also known as: biological father) made several attempts to deprive me of care (hiding the remote to call for a nurse was his favorite). I was pretty much alone at this point, even if I was asleep a third of it.

And I was terrified.

But the human brain is a wonderful thing, ain’t it? It keeps people safe, gives them their personalities, splinters them into pieces, and even remembers the most random of things at the strangest of times! It’s such a crazy, wonderful, horrible, unique thing, really, how the brain works to keep people safe from the dangers of everyday life.

I blame circumstance for it all.

Because I was a young 9 year old with very little trustworthy adult figure in my life, I developed a very skilled imagination. At the time, I’d call it a DaydreaM. Yes, with a capital M, because it wasn’t a normal daydream. It was much more than spacing out when I was bored in the car. It took over my mind, to the point of being incapable of sleep. I even started to isolate myself in my cozy little room, bundled up in blankets and living a completely different life.

Before I knew it, I was lost in a world of imagination, something like Alice’s time in Wonderland. So many times that I started to get confused on what was reality and what was DaydreaMs. But in order to feel safe, I created characters in my head that would protect me and love on me. When my parents yelled at me, an imaginary older brother would keep me safe, offer a hug, and talk me down from my anxiety. When I was bored, or alone, or doing a boring task, those characters existed.

They often were based on media that I had recently consumed, too. Star Wars characters in Clone Uniforms, Star Trek characters in Science Blue, Rainbow Six characters with Fancy Uniforms, book characters in Military Get-Up, etc. Sometimes they were canon characters from the actual media like Bones and Fives, and other times they were entirely made up like Nathan and Oliver, simply inspired by those respective medias. But no matter what, they truly existed to me.

Because of the media that I enjoy, there was lots of war or battles going on. Scenes would be playing out in the field, gun in my hands, watching those characters as they die. I’d be heartbroken, so undeniably heartbroken. I remember frequently crying when a character died in my head, hiding away in my room for hours as I tried to process their loss. I couldn’t control it. If they died, they died and I could never bring them back. I never stood a chance. It was like I wasn’t in control, even of my own mind.

My therapist in high school took an interest in it. Mostly because even at the age of 15, it never went away. In fact, it got even more intense. I’d space out during class and even during our therapy sessions. He was patient, waiting for me to finish my conversations before asking about them. Soon, he told me he was worried about some kind of dissociative disorder, and honestly had every right to be. Because the characters didn’t stop existing with age, even when I didn’t mean to think about them. They were always there, and even as a 20 year old they exist to me still now.

It leads to awkward conversations, because those characters interact with the conversations of other people, too. I’ll be standing out at dinner, talking to my friends, and they'll tell me their stories about the state of the world. And my partner would be sitting nearby, only visible to me but listening so intently. They’ll add their two cents in, and sometimes I’ll verbally respond to them as if they were there. As if my friends can hear them.

…

You can imagine how awkward that is.

What originally was a simple coping mechanism in my childhood became a codependency in my adulthood. I started getting jittery when I wasn’t interacting with them. I’d get antsy and frustrated, eagerly waiting for conversations and human interactions to end so I could hide away and think of them. And when I was introduced to the Morally Grey Texan known as Phillip Graves, it got worse. So much worse.

In fact, to this day it is still really bad. Most of my friends know of my obsession with him, and my heart rate monitor will even beep at me when I’m lost in thought about him (admittedly really funny). But he’s only in my head. My imagination, having almost 12 years to develop and expand to its full potential, is so vivid, so real, that I can’t help but believe he’s actually there.

He’s my boyfriend. We laugh, and joke, and talk, and relax. I watch movies and listen to his comments (he’s very opinionated). I eat food and wonder if he wants some (he’s never hungry). I’ll lay down on the bed and ask if he wants to cuddle (he usually does).

The unfortunate part of all of this is that there is no real ‘happy’ ending. It’s not like I’ve gotten over him.

I still struggle with conversations at times, spacing out and wondering what Graves thinks. When I’m upset, I curl up in bed and crave him. He’s become my world. He’s the blood pumping through my veins and the air flowing through my lungs. He listens, he reacts, he has emotions and apologizes when he’s mean or wrong. He cares more than anyone I ever know, and is always there. Without a doubt. Someone I can trust to take care of me, someone who can handle my chaotic brain and my bipolar depression.

And I can’t help it. But that’s okay.

So what if I’m a Fan-It for Graves. Maybe I am obsessed with him like a teenage girl is for a token boyband. But… it’s a little different. It’s chronic. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s ADHD and Bipolar Depression. It’s dissociation. It’s a form of a split brain to protect me. It’s from something I had no control over.

I didn’t have a solid father figure. I was sexually abused. I can’t stand romance. I don’t want a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or a partner. I was medically traumatized. I was hurt. I was broken. I needed someone. My brain needs someone so it feels safe.

I don’t tell this story for attention. I don’t even tell this story as a cry for help. I’m actually pretty content with my boyfriend, imaginary and all.

I tell this story because for awareness of mental illnesses and coping mechanisms.

This comes from the brain of a terrified child in need of comfort. This comes from a little girl shaking in a hospital bed, unable to move her arms or her legs because of a swollen brain, desperate for any parental figure to protect her, tell her it’s gonna be okay.

This comes from a teen struggling with his gender identity and his past sexual abuse. This comes from a teenage boy, eyes wide in fear as he breaks down and sobs because of the loss of friends and parents simply for being who he really is on the inside.

Truth be told, I’m not sure if there’s an actual medical term for it.

I can see him, I can feel him, I can hear him. I can even smell the gunpowder when he comes home from the range. I get excited thinking one day I’ll have an apartment with him. My brain needs to know he’s there, and he is, he’s always there. I talk with him everyday.

Because I’m mentally ill. And that’s okay.

I hope that if there’s only one thing you take away from this, it’s that it’s okay to be disabled and have tools to help. I hope you understand that some things stem from trauma as a kid. That coping mechanisms are used to feel better -- to feel okay. Know that some things aren’t in people’s control; that it’s not a just world.

If you meet someone who’s attached to a character (like Graves), or an object (like a baby blanket), or a song (like a lullaby), or a movement (like flapping hands), please treat them with care. With gentleness. With an open heart and mind. Because there might be a broken mind beneath those. There might be a terrified child in their heads and hearts that needs care and love and protection.

My love for Graves isn’t bad. Maybe you can classify it as an addiction, but in all honesty, it doesn’t harm me or others.

It’s just coping.

~~~~

And just for you:

@the-con-she-called-conscience

Not important to the fics but I wrote my college final for my creative writing class about being addicted to Phillip Graves and got top marks

#its a lot less about graves than you might have hoped #i apologixe for that #but i felt like itd be interesting to write an essay about how... #the brain works #sadly i had to edit most of the 'i need this man to fuck me through the mattress' #but we vibe #literally a non fiction piece about attachments to fictional charcters derived from childhood trauma

[ram-bam-writes]

Not important to the fics but I wrote my college final for my creative writing class about being addicted to Phillip Graves and got top marks

#ram bam #im cackling #literally a non-fiction piece about attachments to fictional charcters derived from childhood trauma #and about how badly i wanna bang him #and i got a 96/100 #phillip graves cod

[ram-bam-writes]

*Cracks knuckles*

I feel like some people really underestimate how wealthy Graves is.

like…. that man is worth a billion dollars (or at least close to it)

#Average median income for the highest compensated for (ceo in this case) in a PMC is around #518k #annually #that doesn't include the money this man would get in bonuses #Graves is filthy fucking rich #the man used a fucking tank at one point #it just spawned #of course he's got money #and if he won that court case #shadow co got an even bigger raise #that man #is #filthy #fucking #rich

[ram-bam-writes]

Reluctancy pt. 2 [Kyle Garrick x NB Reader]

A/N: A bit shorter than last time, but we get to the good stuffs next chapter ehehe >:3

Summary: Deciding to trust the strange Captain for now, Garrick decides to take things to the rest of his team. After a thorough interrogation, he and the 141 learn of the Adders’ mishap and what it means for the state of innocent people. And they need to act fast… even if it means fighting alongside the percieved enemy.

CW: Mentions of blood/injuries/scars (non-explicit), mentions of biochemical warfare, some cursing, interrogation (light), no beta we die like soap, etc

Word Count: 2182

[Pt.1] [Pt.2]

It’s a strange thing, you think, to need his help. You’ve been the Captain for the Adders for years now, something of a family business, and you’d never needed anybody’s help before. The Adders worked as a pack of themselves, but hardly engaged with anyone else. You were in and out with your operations, stealing intel when you could and planning attacks as needed.

And for years, you’d been on the radar of most anti-terrorist organizations. With the state of the world, and the fact that your team is comprised of just about every demographic known to man and held no loyalty to any region, you’d been blacklisted by most countries. 

And you accepted that.

Mostly because no one could find the Adders. Your team had been careful. It was easy, too. With no matching demographics, you and a group of your soldiers could be near each other with little to no suspicion. And it was easy to talk politics when none of you looked the same. To the untrained eyes, it seemed like you were discussing cultural differences. There was no connections.

The only identifier was you. 

You knew everyone on your team by heart. You loved each and every one of them, ensuring the best care was given. And when one was injured just a little too much for your liking, you gave them a quick out and a place to go. How could you not? The Adders weren’t bad. They just weren’t… legal. You were… vigilantes. When world leaders said no, you said why not. 

If only you could persuade the 141 of that. 

“So let me get this straight,” Ghost growls, eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Your team went rogue and you want our help to get ‘em back?”

You purse your lips. Why did they insist that your team went rogue? You didn’t say that, even if it was the truth. Why was Garrick so adamant about that being the truth? And why did he need to tell everyone?

“No. They got taken,” you argue, voice firm.

But you’re met with silence. Garrick, after collecting the photos from a secure file on your USB, had taken you to an interrogation room beneath the barracks. After getting everyone else involved — irritating you to no end — you’d been strapped to the chair and left at their mercy.

“Y’know, I really don’t trust that.” Was Soap always so passive aggressive? Or was Ghost rubbing off on him… “Gaz, why’d you bring ‘em, brother? You know the Adders ain’t a friendly group.”

Gas, currently leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed and signature blue hat covering his eyes, offers a low rumble of a hum. “Did I not tie them to this chair?”

“That’s not the point, mate, and you know it,” Ghost growls. “You should’ve killed this snake when you got the chance.”

At this point, you are content to glare at the empty space on the wall. Part of the reason you never wanted them involved was their backgrounds. Having to figure out a way to get each of them to trust you was a hassle you aren’t looking forward to. 

“Can we focus?” You seethe, finally glaring at the Captain of the 141. “My team is gettin’ their asses sold by the Cartel and none of y’all wanna fix this? I know where they are. This can’t be that hard to take!”

Price, keeping an eye from afar, takes a drag from his cigar. He stares at you for a long moment. “Why are you in such a rush? Does your little team not have the capacity to handle themselves?”

“That’s the look of-a irritated leader, Captain,” Garrick comments, eyes flickering from under his hat. He looks… angry? “Their team is goin’ against ‘em.”

May the gods above help your patience. “Will you shut up about the Adders? Of course I’m irritated. None of you are taking this seriously!”

“Y’could always just tell us, lad.” Soap leans closer, his eyes dangerously dark. “Tell us why the rush.”

…

…

…

You sigh. They needed to know, it seemed.

“They got themselves access to a biochemical weapon known as the CMACC. Chemically Modified Arsenic-Cadmium Compound. The CMACC was designed by a military facility in Northern France.”

All four of the men sit up a little, eyeing each other cautiously.

“The operation the Adders went on was to retrieve the CMACC, abduct the scientist responsible, and destroy any and all trace of scientific notes about it.” Garrick’s tone is low. “That didn’t go to plan, did it?”

“I lost all contact with the Adders shortly after receiving the notification that they’d collected it. Five hours later, Mexican news outlets had their hands on a mysterious outbreak in a remote city. Arsenic and Cadmium contact.” 

Your eyes lower. You hadn’t meant for this to happen. You wanted the weapon destroyed, not used. Not mass produced. So when one of your retired soldiers gave you insight to their plans of straight up terrorism, you knew you needed to react. The 141 is your only hope at this point. If you aren’t careful, you won’t be able to protect anybody. 

“So why now?” You blink up at Price’s voice. “Why come to us now?”

“The Adders want to use the CMACC as way to… threaten the people. If they don’t give up information on the Cartel…” Soap finishes for you. “They’ll set ‘em off… Fuckin’ hell… It’s Shadow all over again.”

You bite your lips at that. You’d worked with Shadow Co really closely in the past, up until a recent mishap had you questioning your f— your coworker. Had you really become another Shadow Co? No… Maybe your Adders did. But you hadn’t.

“I don’t know why my Adders turned,” You admit. “I don’t know why they went rogue. They’re better than that, I know it.”

Price leans forward tone quieting as he asks, “Then why do you think it’s them?”

“An old friend sent me intel. And if that wasn’t enough, I woke up on the streets with nothing but a snake-shaped brand in the middle of my arm,” you bitterly say, teeth gritting. “Bruises on every inch of my skin and blood in my mouth…”

Garrick takes several quick steps over, lifting up your sleeves and removing the bandage he’d put on. Sure enough, the 141 earns the sight of sickly skin, and a set of knife carvings in the shape of an adder. And right along the center was a large, deep X. 

They left the Adders.

Garrick hadn’t said anything at the time. But he’d seen it, and he tried not to let it get in his head. He doesn’t trust it. But the bitter tone you hold and the gloss in your eyes tugs at his heartstrings more than he’ll ever admit.

“They aren’t lying, either,” Garrick says to the team. “Couldn’t even walk on their own.”

“Thanks,” you mutter bitterly. But, in all fairness, you don’t see the way his deep brown eyes glimmer. You miss the subtle glance he gives you, and then Price, the moment you lower your gaze.

Price nods slowly and brings his hands up to his beard. At this point, a new danger has appeared. It’s not just the classic Cartel crash or an arms deal. This is a weapon that can cause far too much damage for anyone’s liking. 

“Alright,” Price’s gruff voice rings out, adjusting his position to fold his arms across his chest. “We’ll head out. On two conditions, Captain.”

You nod quietly from your seat. At this point, you’re desperate for help. You’ve got no where else to go, and no one else who will listen. It doesn’t help that Soap and Ghost are talking amongst themselves, eyes unamused and filled with a deep and unwarranted look of displeasure. 

Price takes a dangerous step closer. One of his large hands rests firmly against your shoulders, his hat covering the tops of his eyes in a threatening way.

“A: You’re attached at the hip to Sergeant Garrick.” Though he tries, Price silence Garrick with a firm look. “And B: You turn yourself in the moment this all is over.”

You swallow. None of what your team did was bad. Not until now. But… you lead them. You’re the common denominator, as unfortunate and unfair as it is. 

You have no choice. “Yes, Sir.”

“Aye, “But don’t expect me to go easy on them.” Garrick says, taking in a deep breath and looking around at the rest of the 141.

“Kill them if they get outta hand,” Price seethes, walking out the door. “No sweat off my back.”

With that, the rest trail out behind the Captain. And you’re left in the dark room with your thoughts while they, presumably, gear up.

———

“Move.”

You might actually explode. 

After a lot of convincing, Price had eventually given you access to the armory to suit up. It wasn’t fancy, nor was it organized, but it’d work. Gaz delivered your uniform back to you, which had still been in his room. You promptly discarded the Adder patch, and Ghost fitted you with a bulletproof tac vest and a thigh holster. 

They didn’t let you fill it.

Gaz had kept an eye on you, just as Price has ordered. His dark gaze always stayed on your hands, watching for the slightest hint of movement that you might try to sabotage them. After, your bicep was held by the annoyed Sergeant, dragging you to the helicopter that Nik had prepared. 

Which is what lead you to this moment. Being squished up against the Sergeant, who has his eyes locked firmly on you. He pushes at your legs, attempting to scoot you away further. Instead, you get pinned to the metal wall of the helo, which elicits a low growl out of you. 

There’s a moment of regret when Gaz’ hand comes out to pin you against the edge of the airborne vehicle, grip all too tight. 

“I said move,” he seethes, eyes searching your entire body. For what, you aren’t sure, but you’re aware that they drag up and down your entire form before releasing you. “Snake…”

Maybe if the bitter taste your old team left in your mouth wasn’t so fresh, that insult wouldn’t have stung so much. What would it take for them to realize you’re trying to fix this. You didn’t want this! You never did. But there’s not much to do. Nothing but sit and take the insults. Lords know they’re all waiting for any excuse to end your life they can get their hands on. 

You keep yourself crimped up against the wall, not daring to make the Sergeant any more irritated than he already is. So you resort to just… watching the scene. The way that Garrick fiddles with a patch in his hands, one you can’t quite make out but assume is his 141 patch, and the way his eyes seem lost in thought.

He looks conflicted, in a way. He prolly doesn’t want to do this. In a way, you don’t blame him — Any of them. After what happened with Shadow Company, you almost expected to be shot on sight. And if they knew, they might think the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. But that apple had rolled far, far away, right?

At least, you thought.

Shadow Company had been good at one point. Maybe morally ambiguous, but… they meant to protect people. 

So did the Adders.

And look where that lead to.

Maybe the apple was still attached to the tree...

“We’re ‘ere…” Soap’s voice echos through the comms device around your neck. “Get ‘em ready, lad.” Gaz nods, grasping your arm with a vice grip. “You think I’m lettin’ them go?”

A loud roar of a laugh leaves the Scotsman, his eyes shimmering as he punches the Sergeant’s shoulder. It’s an endearing sight to you, if a bit painful. It reminds you of some of your own soldiers, the ways they’d tease and taunt and just… exist. Like normal people. Not soldiers, not bloody fields, not knocking on deaths door at every corner. Just… people.

You miss them.

If it weren’t for Gaz shaking you up and yanking you out of the helicopter in front of everyone else, you probably would have cried. But Gaz doesn’t waste any time, dragging your body roughly through the golden fields of Tecate, Mexico and towards the safe house on a nearby hill. 

The warehouse is nothing fancy, but that’s sort of the point. It’s meant to be secluded, dark, and unnoticeable. And the inside isn’t any better. Dingy furniture, processed and canned rations, dust and grime on every inch of the wall, and the foul scent of mold fills the environment. The Sergeant doesn’t ease his grip on you when you sniffle, blinking back tears that threaten to spill at his roughness.

You’re tossed to the floor of a secluded room and locked inside. For now, it seems this is how you’ll be. Not even the pain in your wrists from the all too tight zip-ties can distract you from it all. Tied up and left to think of your old team, the parallels to your father, and the way Gaz or the rest of the 141 didn’t even pay you any mind. You really don’t exist to them outside of the label ‘Terrorist,’ no matter what you do.

What a bitter pill to swallow.

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz x reader #gaz garrick

[ram-bam-writes]

Hangman x PAO/MC!Reader, anyone?

Thinkin' of startin' a new series for Hangy with a reader who does public affairs work and is assigned to Dagger Squad to document things like training and stories and history for positive Navy rep to the public...

Hangy slowly dying as he realizes that the sassy and bold PAO/MC, callsign 'Spam,' has a deal with the rest of the team to have his arrogant ass knocked off that high horse in their writing...

And that's really hot of them...

#ram bam #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun hangman

[ram-bam-writes]

Reluctancy Pt.2 will be posted later tomorrow!

Then a new Hangman fic if I'm feeling it...

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader

[ram-bam-writes]

Me: *Watches 1st ep of Outer Range*

Me, sighing and pulling out my laptop: "...Fuck"

#ram bam #quess im writing for rhett now too #*sigh*

[ram-bam-writes]

The Highlight and The Shadow pt. 3 [Graves x NB Reader]

A/N: Yayyy Big Brother Henley is back! Ehehe. This chapter is a little self indulgent for my own love of watercolors, sorry lol. As always, lemme know if y’all wanna be tagged since I update so sporadically :>

Summary: Phillip spends his time with you at the cafe learning about your hobby, as well as entertaining some of his urges to tease. And with your own growing crush, you try to dodge all the increasingly protective questions your older brother has about you and your older Landlord. But how can you think about that when Phillip looks like that.

CW: None really. Flirting, Overprotective brother, mentions of knives and threats but mostly teasing, references to smutty thoughts (not explicit), language, no beta we die like soap, etc

Word Count: 3403

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3]

The date. Oh boy, the date. No, no no no. Not a date. Just… coffee. That’s it. Just coffee in the local cafe. The local cafe that you love so much because it’s got chairs right next to giant glass windows that light up your paintings so beautifully. The local cafe that always slowed your mind and your heart, easing you into a calm lull where you could breathe your stresses away. 

Here, with your painting supplies set up and the bright sun illuminating your workspace, you can work in peace.

It’s not like Phillip strolled in with his tightest black athletics shirt or his tightest dark blue jeans or anything. And definitely not like he put on a belt buckle the size of Texas itself, which you’re currently trying not to compare it to another large thing you find yourself thinking all too much about. No, no. Nor are his arms bulging right out of the sleeve nor is his waist oh so narrow and slutty with that tucked-in shirt. 

It’s fine. You don’t can focus on the blank paper in front of you. You have to. Or maybe focus on the people around you, instead? You already told Phillip you were gonna be busy, so he’d just leave you alone. He had to. He’s not gonna torment you. It’s okay. 

It’s fine.

Then, you hear that familiar, teasing tone. “Hey, Darlin’?” 

Fuck.

You glance up from your painting, eyes large and round and far too innocent for where his mind immediately takes him. He’s got this easy going grin on his face, eyes sparkling more than they probably have any right to that just makes him so... annoyingly hot. He sets down his iced tea — which, objectively, made no sense in the current weather conditions — and points at the palette next to you.

“I think yer paint is dry.” Was it the grin that made your belly flutter or the genuine concern in his eyes like he might get up and buy you brand new paint if you show the slightest hint of disappointment.

“O-oh, no,” you murmur, picking up the palette and setting it a little closer to him. “It’s watercolors. They, um… well, they don’t dry out. I mean— they do, but…”

Why was it suddenly so hard to talk to him? You never had this issue before. Not since… well… that one night after that one dream…

“You just… add more water,” your lips part to take in a shaky breath of air. “And there it is.”

Phillip’s eyes flicker with interest and he offers a smile. His face light sup when he makes that internal connection between his Chief Finance Officer and the arts.

“Oh, like go-… gowa-somethin’.” He shakes his head dismissively. “I’ve a teammate who uses somethin’ like thick ol’ watercolors in ‘is free time. He’s real good.”

You squint at the man before you as your brain spins to decipher his words. “G-Gawa…? Oh — Gouache?” 

“That’s it!” He snaps his fingers, nodding. “Gouache.”

“Heh, well, sort of… Gouache isn’t meant to dry out if it’s Himi gouache. It’s meant to be like… oil paint consistency. My brother uses Himi gouache all the time, too.” You offer a small smile, picking up a small pipette. “But they do interact really well with watercolors! But watercolors are meant for water, and gouache is meant for… well, still water, but they’re opaque and usually used for backgrounds or touch-ups.”

Phillip leans a little closer as you drip water into a few of the watercolor cakes, the pigments immediately beginning to lift up. The Commander glances up at you with a soft sort of fondness in his eyes before watching your nimble fingers pick up a brush and drag it through the watery paint. 

“See? Just a lil’ water and they’re fine…”

“So… watercolors need… water. Got it.” He smirks up at you, leaning back and sipping his tea. When he sets the drink in his laps, his  legs spread a little and his arm drapes the empty seat next to him. “Tell me about it. I don’t know a lot.”

You can feel your cheeks burning at the casual tone of his voice. He sounds genuinely interested, like his full attention is on you. He truly wants to learn about watercolors. 

Maybe he just wants to hear your voice, but you don’t need to know that.

“Well… what do you want to know?” You inquire softly, pulling your palette back in place and adjusting your paper block.

“Like… what’s the best thing t’ paint? Or what’re yer favorite colors to paint with? Or, no, better yet — why the hell’re the colors starting with white and yellow and not, y’know, red?”

You laugh at that, his tone sounding all too inconvenienced for a 41 year old military commander talking about watercolors.

“Y’know… I don’t know.” You stare blankly for a few moments, trying to process it. “I think it’s just how the colors flow. But, there’s lots of the same colors because of warm and cold tones.”

He nods at you, urging you to continue.

You take a breath.

“If you’ve ever tried mixing red and blue to get purple, it prolly didn’t go well, did it? It’s likely because you used a warm red and a cool blue, or vice versa. Colors have temperatures that make them go a little better with each other.”

As you continue to explain, you try not to focus on the way his eyes drift over your form, focusing between your body, your lips, and your eyes.

“So, to make a nice lookin’ green, y’gotta use somethin’ like a warm blue and a warm yellow?”

“Yes!” You beam up at him, and the action urges him to sit up a little more intently. 

“So, why have so many colors on your palette? Wouldn’t you only need, what, six or seven?”

“Well, you can…” You gesture to the palette, a metal tin with 24 half-pans in various colors. “But it’s also nice to have some premade colors. Especially for vibrant purples.” He glances at the palette. “Seems like you really only use this one yellow.”

“Cadmium.”

“And this red.”

“…Cadmium.”

He tilts his head at you, eyelids falling half-way to offer a look as if you’re fucking with him. “Really, now? An’, this blue?”

You break out into a big grin. “Cadmium— NO Phillip put that down!”

But it’s too late. He snatches up the palette, quickly standing and walking towards the cafe’s trash can. Phillip laughs as you push and smack him playfully, trying to reach around his larger frame in order to get your beloved palette back. But he keeps walking, holding the tin palette by the thumb ring on the bottom to dangle it over the trash.

“It was Phthalo!” You shout with a laugh. “Phthalo blue.

He narrows his eyes at you with a slight upturn to his lips. Then, he relents. “Fine. But if I find out there’s another Cadeema in there, Imma throw this damn palette outta my truck.”

“Cadmium—“ He grips your shoulders, pulling you real close.

“Do you think. I’m playin’?

Lords.

You bite your lip, eyes glittering. “Maybe.”

If it weren’t for the random customer to walk in, Phillip might have actually thrown you out of the window. Instead, he ushers you back to the table, hand barely brushing your lower back.

“So… what else ’s there?”

You exhale a little, but laugh. “Honestly? Prolly too much to explain. I think you should just watch and then learn.”

“Aw, not gonna be a teach for me, darlin’?” He gives you a pretty little pout. “Not even a little?”

You simply smile at the man. Something about this was easier than you expected it to be. Yeah, the butterflies are still there, and yes, you’re still very much aware of his eyes trailing up and down over you, but… it’s easy. He’s not pushy, he’s listening, and he’s asking questions. He’s engaged in the conversation. He wants to learn.

But as much as you want to teach him, you like coming out to the cafe to simply… breathe in the calm. The ambient sounds of the people around you lost in their own conversations, the smell of freshly bakes pastries and newly roasted coffee… you lived for it. It was easy to paint in public. Not because people would give you the occasional compliment, but because the cafe was always a breeding ground for easy focus. You could just… get as lost in your work as everyone else around you was lost in there. It’s… easy.

Lost in your own thoughts, you miss the way that Phillip’s head quirks to the side, and the way he observes your eyes and your calm smile. So he settles back in his chair, and after a sip of his coffee and a self-soothing breath, his tone of voice changes immediately.

“How about you show me how you paint a warm summer sky?”

———

The drive back was more calming and quiet than it ever had been. You’d discovered that Phillip loved to talk, and he loved when others did, too. He never much liked silence. It made him antsy and nervous. So to have a near-silent ride back was… new.

And you enjoyed it. 

The entire time inside the cafe while you painted, Phillip silently observed you. And the entire time he watched, his eyes sparkled with wonder. You knew he wanted to ask, but there was something in him that drove him to stay silent. He even suppressed those random little sighs he’d make when bored.

“Thank you,” you start meekly. “I… I had fun.”

He glances away from the road to smile at you, eyes crinkling in the corners. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel of his Chevy truck, tapping along to the beat of some old rock song he’d chosen.

“I did, too,” he begins. “Yer a good painter.”

You bite your lip a little. “Y’know… maybe one day I can teach you more actively.”

That get’s Phillip to raise his brow. “What, like we paint togetha or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” you nod, grinning up at him. “Think you got what it takes?”

He nods slowly, pursing his lips in thought. The way his brows twitch when he thinks is something you can’t help but find cute, especially when his eyes drift seamlessly over to you.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” his tone is easy, but his smile falters. “But it’s gotta be sometime nex’ week.”

You sit up a little. Was he going on a deployment of some kind? How long would he be gone? Were you gonna be alone for a while? Meals, you needed to prep meals. And you need make sure to set an alarm to lock the doors. And check the stove—

“Hun… Relax,” Phillip purrs. “It’s just a few late nights. I’ll be back ‘round midnight to 0100, and have t’leave around 0400. Nothin’ serious.”

It’s your turn to purse your lips in thought. 

“Nothing serious, he says…” You murmur. “Just three hours of sleep each night for a week…”

He laughs, slowing his car as he reaches the driveway of his house. Of y’alls house. “Tell you what. I’ll make sure t’get plenty o’ rest once I get done. Y’can bore me to sleep with yer painting lessons or whatever.”

Even despite this being the same teasing your siblings might give you, you know full well that Phillip doesn’t mean it. That look in his eyes is one of a gentle kind of fondness. Like a seedling that you desperately want him to foster and care for so it can grow into something… true.

You grin confidently. “We’ll see about that, hotshot.”

———

“So, Pint…” the voice on the other end of your phone is one you cherish. “How’s the landlord?”

You set up the phone on the desk in your room, adjusting everything before relaxing. You call Austin every few weeks to catch up. After leaving for the Marines, you never heard much of him. But you heard even less when he joined some fancy team a year or so back. 

“He’s fine, Aus. I’m well taken care of.” You smile as your older brother pours himself a glass of bourbon. “He’s really sweet. I feel like I should be paying him more.”

Austin’s eyes roll as he takes a seat, leaning on his arm. “Don’t even. Take advantage of the system until yer out of college. Get that degree and get yourself out of there.”

Your brother worked hard to take care of you after he left, usually by sending some extra cash when you needed it for school. He’s always been the protective type, which is why he worked hard to find you a landlord he knew was gonna be good to you and keep you with a full belly, even on days that you weren’t making enough.

“Hey, Aus?” His expression turns into a curious yet serious look. “You never did tell me how you found this place for me.”

“I work with money, Pint. I know how to find shit. Don’t worry about it.” He sips his bourbon, eyes narrowing slightly. “But you tell me if that landlord of yours gets too snippy. You said military, yeah? Thems can get dickish at times.”

You deadpan your brother. “Thinking I can’t handle myself?”

“You can, I know that, Half-Pint. I just want to join in on the fun.”

Austin brandishes a knife of his, one that has a black ace on the handle. It’s a beautiful knife, all things considered. 

“Please don’t hurt my landlord. Phillip’s actually really sweet. Not to mention the first man that’s actually listened to my rambles.”

“Am I just lean meat to you?”

“I distinctly remember you telling me to shut up several times as kids, bitch.” 

Truth be told, your brother listened to you a lot. You just… never shut up about your hobbies. And while he loved listening to his younger sibling, the man had other issues on his mind. Like a sibling to take care of with two practically deadbeat parents.

He laughs at you, the sound echoing in the receiver.

You missed him, you did. He never really came by to visit. But you’d never tell him that. He’s happy with his super secret job, and as long as he kept calling, you’d cherish every moment with your brother. Something about OPSEC, he said, was the reason he couldn’t talk. 

“Hey, hun?” Phillip’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You slide your chair back a bit, leaning closer to the closed door. “Yeah?”

“Pulled pork or sausage?”

“Uhh…” You ponder for a moment. Pulled pork means barbecue sandwiches, and sausage means dirty rice, both of which sounded heavenly. “Sausage.”

“’Kay.”

You slide back to your desk, being immediately met with the sight of your brother picking at the tip of his blade. “Hun?”

“It’s not like that! He’s Texan, breathe.” You take a sip of your own water, trying to suppress the blush.

“Really.”

“Listen to me, Aus, it’s not like that.” It’s like that. “He even calls little Tulip that!”

The snake in question hisses, evidently knowing his own name. And you smile fondly at the snake, your mind immediately going back to when Phillip gave the three snakes a bath for the first time. How easily he dealt with Fetti’s terrified little tantrum and spasms. How natural it was for him to love on Tiki as he wound himself around Phillip, genuinely trying to constrict and eat him. But Phillip didn’t give a care. He loved every single one of your babies. 

Hell, Phillip had Tiki around his neck right now because the damn corn snake couldn’t handle being away from him for more than three minutes.

A snapping noise brings you out of your blissed out thoughts.

“Earth to Pint,” Austin says, eyes dark. “Don’t tell me I need to take this guy out…”

“No!” You flush a little, shrugging. “He’s too old for me, you know that. And you know I’d tell you. I told you when I dated that kid in high school, didn’t I?” He raises a brow. “The one who laid his hands on you? The only reason I found out you were dating? For only three days before the fucker tried something?”

The sound of your exhale is loud. “Aus, pleas don’t worry about my landlord, or me. You’ve taught me enough to handle myself.”

“Okay, but the moment he tries anything—“

“I will tell you. I promise.”

“Good.” He smiles. “By the way, Tulip’s eating your plant.” 

With that, your older brother hangs up, leaving you to whip around and glare at the snake, his mouth wide as he attempts to swallow your little fern. 

“TULIP!”

———

You smile when Phillip sets down a bowl of dirty rice in front of you, his eyes so fond. After successfully dislodging the plant from your snake’s mouth, you’d gone out to watch Phillip cook, something you often find yourself doing. He’s just good at it, genuinely. And it’s not just the classic American Dad kinds of food, like steaks and burgers. This man has made all kinds of food for you, from fancy Michelin style meals to easy and lazy food. 

You yourself did some cooking. After all, you’d taken care of your younger siblings for years now. Dinners are second nature. And that makes Phillip cooking for you that much more… endearing.

Especially when it’s the last dinner you and Phillip will be sharing for a few days. It makes you sad, even if you don’t want to admit it. You love eating with him. He’d talk endlessly about his day, usually in vague terms or an exponentially growing amount of abbreviations and slang. But he seemed so excited to talk to you about it! He might as well be a golden retriever. 

“If you don’t min’ me askin’, hun, who were ya talkin’ to just a bit ago?” Phillip asks, sitting down next to you at the kitchen bar. “You sounded like they were under ya feather’s at times. ’S it someone I needa take care of?”

Stop being hot. Please.

“No, no. Just my brother. Don’t worry.” You wave your hand dismissively. “The usual sibling relationship.”

Phillip chuckles, his eyes twinkling with understanding. He grew up on a field with many, many older and younger siblings he helped wrangle. He knows the deal. “Makes sense, hun. But what about my precious Tulip, hm? Why’d you yell at the baby.”

Turning away to cross your arms and pout, you regard the question with mock irritation. “He ate. My plant.”

“Ate your plant?” He sits up in interest, taking a bite of his food. 

“Yeah! And the little fucker also thought it was a good idea to eat the pot, too!” A huff falls from your lips. He tries not to stare. “I got it out, but he wasn’t happy. I don’t even know why.”

He purses his lips, brows twitching. “Do they eat plants?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p. “Not unless it smells like food.”

Phillip pales a little, setting down his fork. “Aw hell…”

“What?”

“I reckon that’s my fault.” Phillip really has the audacity to avoid your judgmental glare. “After feedin’ the little angel I went to adjust your little plant leaf. Flower boy musta been able to smell the mice.”

You slowly work your fingers around the fork, eyes staring intently at your roommate. “Come again?”

“With pleasu-“ But Phillip stops once his eyes meet your death grip on the fork. He leans back a little. “Don’t do that… do not… do that…”

“Give me one good reason,” you begin, eyes narrowed, “not to stab you in the hand with this fork.”

Phillip inhales slowly. “Because… you… like me?”

“Try again.”

The man stares at you for a few grueling seconds, your eyes fighting to stay in line with his. But they dip down just a bit too low.

And he notices.

His hands instantly clasp around both of your wrist to pin them to the table, his grip firm and true. He gets real close to your face — real close — breath fanning across your lips. “Because you don’t want to mess with the Commander of a fuckin’ PMC.”

Oh, Austin is gonna kill you for the thoughts in your head…

~~~~~~

Tag List~

@unicorngirly1

#phillip graves x reader #graves x reader #graves looks like a judgmental shoelace in that last photo #phillip graves cod #phillip graves

[ram-bam-writes]

The Highlight and The Shadow Pt.3 is coming out later tonight~~

And Reluctancy Pt.2 is up next for the posting schedule!

#ram bam #phillip graves x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader

[ram-bam-writes]

Oh you are gonna have a blast with pt. 2

Reluctancy pt. 1 [Kyle Garrick x NB Reader]

A/N: An idea I had for an Enemies to Lovers medium-slow-burn fit series with my precious cheeky Sergeant. As always, updates are sporadic, so lemme know if you wanna be tagged. Not a lot of Gaz love out there and I plan to change that. 

Summary: Gaz finds himself in an interesting position when the Captain of a troublesome organization ends up on his front door with surprising injuries and promises of intel he doesn’t trust.

CW: Mentions of injuries (not explicit), some cursing, Gaz being a moody bastard, mentions of blood, etc. [As always, CWs will change with each chapter accordingly]

Word Count: 2466

This whole thing was stupid. It’s bad enough that your team essentially overthrew and exiled you. But what was worse was who you had to confront for help.

You’d been dancing around TF141 for a while now. They aren’t very fond of you and your team’s style, thinking you to be too much at times. But those interrogations needed to be done — you needed the intel. And you got the intel. So what was the problem? You’d studied them for ages, sneaking around them at any given chance. They’d done much worse than you and your team.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters is you find a certain Sergeant to help you with your current situation. The Captain would never hear you out, and the Skull and Mohawk duo looked all too terrifying to deal with. So the next best thing? The Sergeant they all seemed to trust. If you can gain his, you can gain theirs and fix this stupid ordeal.

You wince as you take a step towards the barracks at the 141’s current base. They were currently stationed with a few other SAS operatives after doing a couple inside jobs with their help. Your head spins a little when you climb the stairs, using your previous intel to figure out the Sergeant’s room.

Knock knock knock…

You’re greeted with the sight of the younger, more spritely member of the 141. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of that soft, lazy smile he offers. But those dark brown eyes can only grow darker, a low growl coming from his lips.

“Got a lot of nerve coming around here, mate,” comes his low tone, and he pulls a small blade from his belt. “Gimme one good reason not t’finish ya where you stand…” A threat and a half if you’ve ever heard one. This will be a bit more difficult…

You grip your side again, a throb of pain rippling through your body. It punches the wind out of you, something you try to ignore. You’re a bloody Captain, for crying out loud! You can take a few kicks to the ribs, and even more knicks from a blade.

“I’ve got intel. You’ve got shelter.” You state cooly, trying to save face by gritting your teeth and offering a scowl. “I think a deal is set.”

Garrick raises his brow and he takes a single step closer. “Come again? I’ve got a criminal here an’ you ‘spect me to help ya?”

A low growl resonates from your own throat this time. 

“Listen. I don’t want this any more than you do, but I’ve got somethin’ you want, and I don’t reckon either of us want the current situation with the Cartel to get any further out of hand, hm?”

He opens his mouth to argue, brows furrowing in the process. But he stops the moment you cough, arms coming up to cover your chapped lips. You both look to find blood on your arm.

“Fuck…” you murmur, eyes fluttering as you collapse forward.

Garrick doesn’t catch you, and you find yourself crumpled on your knees in front of the Sergeant.

“32 point 26 degrees North, 116 point 18 degrees West.” You manage to choke out, just as he begins pushing the door closed.

That gets him to pause.

“Tecate, Mexico.” He doesn’t move, simply staring at you as you speak with blood in your mouth. “There’s a major Cartel system there.”

He exhales through his nose, turning to look both ways outside of his door before grabbing you by the bicep and dragging you inside. You’re plopped onto the floor, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. Garrick paces, eyes flicking you over.

“Why should I trust those coordinates, mate?” He inquires with disdain in his voice. “I’m not lookin’ to get my team ambushed for the second time.”

“Third” You correct his words before you can stop it, earning a glare from the Sergeant. “… and you can trust me because it’s true. Any drone footage can prove that. Big trucks go in…”

You cough up more blood, eyes shot and body trembling.

“Lots of small cars go out. Shipments.”

The Sergeant stares you down for a good, long while. His gaze flicks from your blood-soaked lips to your injured waist, arm protective around the sensitive area. He analyzes you, figuring every little detail out. He’s always been the observing type.

“So you want a place to shelter in return, then?” He cocks his head to the side. “Or perhaps some medicinal aid.”

You scowl. “I’m fine. I need that Cartel Camp destroyed before they smuggle anything else in or out.” “Or before your team gets to them.”

You suck in a breath. Had you been that obvious? No, he’s trying to show power over you. “No. Before they hurt my team.” He makes a sound of understanding, one that’s laced with sarcasm. “Tell me then, mate. How’d they get captured?”

This man knows how to press all of your buttons, and knows how to interrogate. You know that’s what he’s doing. He’s breaking you down, flooding you with questions that he knows you’ll struggle to answer as time goes on. You can only keep this lie up for so long. 

But you can bite one bullet and save yourself from another.

“I was careless.” That gets him to look at you more directly. “They got my team, and now I’m here. I want them back before they’re smuggled for money.”

He inhales through his nose, looking rather irritated by the situation. No, not quite irritated. More… inconvenienced by it. He raises his foot and pushes you down by the shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“If I fix up these scuffs to find you were lying to me…” he purrs, eyes darkening with every second. “You’ll never get yourself sorted when I’m done with ya…”

You let out a grunt as your back hits the ground. The action causes your torso to stretch, your ribs pressing uncomfortably against the surrounding muscles. 

“I don’t need—“

“You say that one more time and I’m gonna drop you out o’ my window.” His eyes bore into yours. “Take yer gear off. Let me get you right as rain. And then get me the bloody photos from your intel.”

You don’t argue when his foot presses your shoulder more, lips parting to yell out in pain. He releases his foot after a moment, allowing you a chance to breathe. “Fuck…”

Impatiently, he reaches out and grabs your tac vest, tearing at the velcro straps and throwing it elsewhere in his barrack. His hands grip the black tac shirt you have on, unzipping the half-zipper before yanking it over your head. You cry out again from the sudden jerk to your arm but he pays no mind. 

Somewhere deep down, you want to abandon this whole thing. Get away and start all over. But your men spoke of unspeakable means to end the Cartel, and you can’t let them get their hands on that base in Tecate. Not when a list of every Cartel base from here to New York is laid out in plain text. Not while your men have the means to some terrible bio weapons.

The bloody traitors.

“Bloody hell…” Garrick murmurs, taking a look at the bruising along your right-hand side. A good majority of the lower ribs were covered in deep yellow, purple, and red bruising, not to mention the cuts and scars along the rest of your torso and arms. “Right… first things on the list: cold pack, gauze, and anti-bac. Give me a moment.”

You cower a little when he stands at his full height. You weren’t intimidated by him, not necessarily. But the thought of him treating your wounds was a blow to your ego you weren’t interested in taking. Not by a long shot.

“Just get me the supplies and I’ll fix it myself.” You bite back another groan as blood seeps past your teeth. “Then you can take care of the intel.”

“No.”

You glare at the Sergeant’s back as he stretches up to grasp the med-kit on the top of the fridge. 

“No?”

He turns to face you. “There’s sharp things inside this kit. I’m not takin’ my chances, Chav.”

You exhale your frustrations. “Why do I get the feeling that’s an insult…”

“Because it bloody well is.”

His hands grasp your biceps, splaying you out on the floor beneath him as he rips a pack of gauze open. “Don’t move or I might make this hurt on purpose…” 

You hold your breath as Garrick’s hands work the gauze around your waist. After a few wraps, he places a cold pack on your side, wrapping it a few times with gauze. Peeling off the seal with his teeth, he pulls open the pack of anti-bacterial wipes and eases the wet fabric over your wounds. Your body tenses at the burning sensation, eyes squeezing shut as you fight through your own pained sounds to keep some semblance of dignity in this situation. 

A few minutes pass before he hauls you up again, setting you down a bit more gently on the couch in the living space of his barrack. He crouches down in front of you, pulling on his tan gloves.

“I’m going to get photos of that base from you, and if you want to stay unbroken, I suggest you waste no time getting those to me, Chav.”

#ram bam #ehehehe #sorry not sorry

[ram-bam-writes]

Wisdom Teeth [Jake Seresin x NB Reader]

A/N: Per my parents recounting, when I got my wisdom teeth removed a few days ago, I cried in my bed because they couldn’t get paramount to play on my tv in my room. I wanted to see Glen Powell so badly that my parents had to dig around to find a charger for my computer so they could put it on… Twenty minutes later I have my laptop flat on my face while humming along to the soundtrack as the TGM plays… Ehehe :>

Summary: Jake’s partner gets all four wisdom teeth removed… Chaos ensues…  Based on personal experiences and made up ones. You guess which are which :>

CW: Wisdom teeth extraction, mentions of medical fears, mentions of blood, reader is suffering, Jake is being a little shit, hurt/comfort, no beta we die like goose, etc [The first part is the actual incident, which goes over fears and hinted past medical trauma, but the rest is lovely (irritating) banter between Jake and his lover. Blue will be everything to do with the angst if you wanna skip past it]

Word Count: 3206

“Honey…” Jake purrs, gently patting your arm in the middle of the waiting room. “Take a breath.”

It’d been several grueling minutes of staring at the clock on the pale wall of the oral surgeon’s office, foot tapping impatiently on the floor as you wait in fear for the extraction. You didn’t want your wisdom teeth out — you’d heard horror stories online. But they caused plenty of migraines and ear pain, and you absolutely needed them out when the bottom teeth grew in with cavities.

That, you decided, wasn’t fair to you at all.

But, alas, it pushed you to get them out. And the dentists advised to get all four out at once, since the top ones were also impacted. So it only made sense to get it all done in one fast sweep.

“Honey.” Jake says a little more firmly, gently grasping your hands. You blink up at him, eyes widened. “Sorry…” “Talk to me, hun. What’s up? They’ve done this a thousand times.” He points at the office wall. “And this is where I got my teeth out. You’re gonna be okay. They’re amazing.” As you tap your feet on the floor, you try not to think of the story your older brother had told you. He’d gotten his ripped out in the Navy, and they had him on not enough local anesthetics and, unfortunately, felt them ripping out his teeth one by one. Your biggest fear became feeling the pain or waking up in the middle of the surgery. 

“I know, I know…” Your hand squeezes his. You didn’t want to be afraid, but you’d woken up before, and your brother certainly didn’t help. He’d tried to — that’s why he told you his story. He was trying to express that he only went through that because, well, Navy. You wouldn’t deal with it. But that didn’t help.

“I’ll be right here every step of the way…” He promises, offering a reassuring smile.

The door besides the office opens, a blond haired dental assistant leaning out of it. “Seresin?”

You inhale shakily, standing up. Your partner quickly follows you, ushering you inside. They both get you situated into the white room, a set of crazy equipment set up in the middle of the room. The dental assistant sits you in a chair, then proceeds to hook you up to an EKG.

“Mmm…” Jake lets out a low purr as your shirt is lifted to attach the stickers. “You look good…”

As much as you want to glare or blush, your nerves take over. The EKG begins to read your heart beat, following the pulses and patterns effortlessly. But that sound…

Warmth blooms on your thigh as Jake runs a hand across your skin. His green eyes swirl with concern, smiling weakly at you. “Breathe.”

After signing a few too many agreements to acknowledge that you’re aware that tons of shit can go wrong in the healing process and that it won’t be the dental office’s fault, you’re situated more comfortably in the chair.

More comfortably? Maybe less so, given they escort your partner out all too quickly. Jake gives you one last kiss to the forehead, just between your brows, and slips out of the room reluctantly. 

The actual oral surgeon walks into the room, his smile friendly. He begins to talk to you about what you do. School, work, both? As you answer each question, he sets up the IV, admittedly a little rough on your right arm. He apologizes, unable to get the IV set up properly, resulting in him going to the left arm. 

As you attempt to keep your wits about yourself, the room swirls around you. “It’s… fine… I’ve had it in my-my hand once…”

When you attempt to explain the story of your hand IV incident, several pairs of hands begin touching your body. One around your neck, two around your legs, and two on each arm. Something is pressed against your nose, something choking your throat. The EKG is loud as it beeps, signaling your tachycardic state.

So you thrash. You thrash and thrash — they wanted to hurt you. With wild eyes, you frantically search around the room for anyone you can recognize, but it’s just several masked medical personnel. It isn’t until the oral surgeon pulls down his blue mask that you see a slightly familiar face, finally easing your breathing.

“That’s it…” The oral surgeon praises. “You passed out on us for a second… but it’s okay… you’re doing fine… you’re okay now…”

“I’m-I’m sor-so-sorry…” Tears slip down your cheeks as the oral surgeon rubs your arm to ease your mind. You can feel the soft hands of a sweet, younger dental assistant running through your hair, smiling gently down at you behind her mask.

“Don’t be… you’re doing just fine. We’re gonna give you the anesthetics, and it’ll be over before you know it…”

A sob shakes your body. “Please don’t let me wake up.”

“I won’t let you. It’ll be the best nap of your life…”

———

“The denshist was sho cute…”

A soft laugh resonates around you, but you can’t quite make out where you’re at or who you’re with.

“Yeah?”

“Yeash... the denshist was shuper cute…”

“Okay, hun..."

"Sho cute."

"Hun."

———

“Javy, can you help me bring them in the house?”

You knew that name. You knew that voice! People!

“That’s my boyfrieeeend!” You suddenly shout, leaning against Javy, incapable of standing on your own. You beam a bloody smile at the blond pilot standing across you, his arms held out in case you tumble. “That’s myyyyy boyfriend!”

“Jayyyy thasss my boyfrienddd!”

“I know.”

“My boyfrieeeend!”

“Y-yes!” Javy holds you tight, attempting to not drop you while he cackles.

“Boyfriend!”

———

You blink up at your boyfriend in a daze, Jake’s sweet smile staring down at you. He hands you a black table bell, one you had gotten him a few months prior. It reads: “If you hear this bell, bring me a beer.”

“Here, hun. Ring this when you need something from Javy, okay?” He pats your head lovingly. “I need to pick up your meds from the Pharmacy.”

He should have known better. Objectively, he should have known. You’re drugged! How can you not ring the bell seventy-million times in a row the moment you’re handed it?

“Hun.” A bright grin spreads across his face, his laugh warm as it swirls around you. “Don’t make me take it away, darlin’.”

The ringing stops. 

“Thank you.” He kisses your forehead as you set the bell next to your bed, eyes glimmering as you stare at the oh-so-tempting piece of metal. 

———

There’s a warm glow from the curtains as the sun slowly lowers behind the horizon line. Wind blows from the open window, the breeze comforting against your cold, sore body. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was a normal morning after a good night with your partner.

And then the pain strikes. A thin set of lines in the four corners of your jaw are stinging. Jake, always a master of knowing your pain, rounds the corner to the open bedroom door.

“Ow…” You groan out, gauze stuffed in your cheeks. “Why…”

His calloused hands reach out and caress your neck. He doesn’t dare to touch your jaw, not in your current state. That’s a recipe for disaster he isn’t keen on making, actually. “Take it easy… you’re still pretty high on narcotics…”

“Ugh…” For some reason, your whole body aches something bad. It’s like you got hit by a truck. “Drugs…”

“Yes,” he laughs sweetly at you as he helps you sit up properly. “Yes, drugs. Good ones, too. Red caps, orange bottles. Good stuff.”

“Opioids…”

“Don’t talk much… the clots are still healing.” Jake gently wipes at the corner of your mouth with a wet cloth, removing the excess blood from your skin.

Is that why there’s so much gauze in your mouth?

“Let’s get you some new gauze, okay?” His strong arms help you stand upright as you lean most of your weight against him. An arm snakes around your waist, his lips pressing against the side of your head. “I’ve got ya…”

He leads you to the roomy kitchen, setting you onto the countertop. You instinctively spit out the gauze, something he laughs at. 

“Hun… unsanitary.” He earns himself a glare from you as he wanders to the sink. “I’ve got new gauze right here. Throw these ones in the trash, copy?”

“Floor.”

“Trash.”

“Floor.”

“Trash.“

“Floo-“He decides to interrupt you by pressing a rolled pad of gauze against your lips. Not hard, not at all. But enough to shut your drug-addled self up.

“Now bite down and quit bein’ a brat.”

You do as you’re told, mostly because your jaw is actually beginning to hurt from speaking so much. And when he hands you the good pills, the ones you know are gonna help fix most of those pains, you eagerly attempt to swallow them down with water.

“Babe-“ Jake inhales, immediately bursting out into laughter when the pill dissolves on your tongue, your mouth not quite working properly.

When your face twists in disgust as you try to swallow the dissolving pill, your partner’s fingers quickly grab the pill. He holds it in his palm, saving you from the horrendous taste. Down the length of your chin and neck is a long stream of wetness, none of the water that you had taken a sip of making it down the inside of your throat. 

“Alright, messy little thing, let’s try that again, hm?” He hands you a fresh pill this time, hand manually tilting your head back. “Once more, baby…”

———

Food.

You crave food.

Sustenance.

A soft knock echos on the door to your shared bedroom, Jake stepping inside with a paper bag. “I’ve got food!”

The speed at which you sit up is concurrent with the pure hunger your body feels. Jake can only laugh when your eyes, large and focused, stare at the bag of food, your nose working to figure out what food he has for you. Jake sits down on the bed next to you, gently pulling out small round containers of food. One large one, one small one.

“Doc says you can have mashed potatoes and gr-“ Maybe he should have expected you to snatch the container eagerly, drool slipping past your lips.

You were finally allowed to take out the bloody gauze pads, the clots beginning to heal. Not enough to eat normal foods again, but fuck if these potatoes didn’t smell like heaven.

“Just go slow, darlin’.” Jake helps pour the gravy into the mashed potato container and hands you a spoon. “Don’t want you poppin’ a stitch just yet.”

As you eagerly scoop up the first bite of savory mashed potatoes, you run into your first problem. 

You can’t open your mouth wide enough. To fit. The spoon.

The spoon clatters against your teeth, and Jake silently thanks the gods it was just a plastic spoon. And when you pout, letting out a strangled whine, he laughs so sweetly as he cups your jaw. 

“Struggling to fit that, darlin’?” He teases, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Here, let’s get you somethin’… smaller.”

He digs around the paper bag, this time pulling out a plastic fork. After scooping up some room-temperature mashed potatoes, he gently feeds it through the small gap between your jaws that you can manage. 

“Fuck…” You groan, the taste on your tongue pure bliss. Had mashed potatoes always tasted this good?

Jake laughs at your sounds. The way your eyes flutter and weakened smile forms has his heart thrumming right out of his chest. You’re his baby, and he loves every second of it.

“That’s it, hun. There’s plenty more where that came from.” He feeds you another spoonful. “Nice and easy. Swallow all of it, darlin’. No spitting.”

… Did he really just…?

You deadpan your lover, a bit of mashed taters still coating your lips which slightly dulls the intended effect.

Oh, the laugh he lets out is a boisterous one. Grabbing you a tissue and gently wiping your lips, he offers a cheeky smile. “Can’t help it darlin’. This is who you chose.”

“You’re so lucky you’re spoon feeding me.”

“Fork feeding.”

———

Day two of the recovery period goes a bit better. Since the mashed potatoes yesterday, you’ve been able to have really really mashed egg salad, cold ramen with cut up noodles, more mashed potatoes, and even room-temperature tofu. With the opioids you’re on, you can’t quite get the average hunger cues, which is probably in your best interest given the nutrients you’ve been living off of consist only of mashed potatoes, yogurt, and chicken broth.

Javy has come to visit, since Jake had a few errands to run and was never gonna let you stay by yourself. You’d known Javy probably longer than you knew Jake. He’s a close friend of yours, especially given that he’s the reason you and Jake got together. 

“Javy…” You whine out, leaning dramatically on his lap. “Will you please get me more food…? Jake’s killing me!”

The man in question pats your head, his eyes never leaving the TV in front of him. “Nope. Jake has you on the diet you need to be on.”

If it weren’t for him being your friend, you’d have smacked him a lot harder. But maybe, just maybe, you could complain long enough and get some pancakes out of him. The sweetness of syrup and carbs sounds so damn appealing that your stomach growls in need.

“I can’t take it anymore! Please! I just want pancakes!”

“Sorry, love.” Javy points over to the bowl of yogurt on the coffee table. “Not yet. You can have pancakes on day four.”

“Did he leave you a list?” “Of course he left me a list.” Javy offers you his phone, seeing the frantic, detailed texts from your partner. “Several.”

As mad as you want to be, your heart warms with how much your boyfriend does to keep you healthy and well. Without him, you’d probably have already popped several stitches.

“Oh, and, out of curiosity.” Javy tilts his head to look down at you, gently placing the bag of frozen corn on your cheek once more. “Do you remember anything about the oral surgeon?”

You blink.

“What?”

Javy grins. “The dentist that took out your teeth. Do you remember anything about him?”

“Um… he calmed me down when I freaked out.” You wrack your brain trying to think of anything else. “But… not really.”

“How cute is he?”

“WHAT?” You wince from the sudden shout, your stitches not very happy with you. “How-how what is he?”

Javy’s smirk turns into a full blown grin, his laugh echoing in the small living room. “You don’t remember? You wouldn’t shut up on the drive home how cute the dentist was! I think you told Jake like, eight times in ten minutes!”

Your cheeks burn, eyes wide as you swallow thickly. Had you really? 

“Jake was having a blast. You were so head over heels for the dentist you actually cried when we left. And then, as if the dentist never existed, the moment I pulled you out of Jake’s truck, you refused to shut up about him being your boyfriend.”

He pats your head affectionately. “You were hanging off of me and makin’ grabby hands at him. I’d never seen Jake so in love.”

Javy laughs when you hide your face with your hands, whining with embarrassment at the story.

“And that’s before the photo incident.”

“The w h a t?”

Maybe you shouldn’t ask.

“The photo incident, darlin’.” Jake’s voice carries across the room, shutting the screen door behind him with several bags in his hand. “I came back from the Pharmacy that day to find you layin’ flat on yer back with a photo of me n’ rooster stuck on yer face. Javy say’s you cried when I left, but a photo sufficed.”

He sets down the bags in the kitchen, leaning against the door to the living room with a lazy grin. “You okay there, sugartits?”

“No!” You hide your face once again. 

“Oh, don’t be that way.” Javy waves his hands. “Jakey here cried himself sick when he got his teeth out because his cat walked away to go eat.”

It’s your partner’s turn to becomes flustered, his golden cheeks tinting red. Jake points at his best friend, eyes narrowed. “To the grave. That was. To the grave.”

Your hands quickly fly up to press against your mouth, less to suppress you hysterical giggles and more to keep your mouth from stretching too much. Javy stands and gently moves you aside on the couch, grinning all to mischievously. 

“That’s my cue to leave-“ Javy gives the two of you finger guns, walking towards the door. “I’ll have the missus bring some shakes over later tonight, ‘kay?”

You sight, flopping back down onto the couch.

“Pancakes?”

Jake’s lips press right up against your forehead, his tone loving and affectionate. “No, little chipmunk.”

“I’m not that swollen!”

———

With day three rolling around all too slowly, Jake takes the time to cuddle you endlessly on the couch. He did his morning run, workout, and shower routine early, wanting to give you as much attention for the day as he can. 

While you pain is bearable, every few words you’d speak would be met with a sudden jolt of pain to your gums, right where the stitches had been. 

Thankfully, you had Jake to nuzzle into, his breathing light and easy as random movies play on the TV. His hands stroke your scalp, lovingly giving your waist squeezes every now and again. He’d gotten pretty good at recognizing your pain cues, especially the sudden sharp ones.

“Need some ice cream, hun?” Jake begins to sit up, but you tug him down.

“Mac. And. Cheese.”

He blinks. “W-what?”

“Macaroni. And cheese.”

“It’s… It’s not even ten…” 

Instead of responding, you let your eyes bore into his, the intensity and need for Mac and cheese shining through. 

“You’re like pregnant lady…” Jake shakes his head with a laugh, standing up and walking to the pantry. “You want the weirdest things…”

You flop against the couch once more when you hear the box of dried macaroni rattle in his hands, happy hums slipping past your lips. 

And then you hear it.

Crunch.

Your body immediately perks up, eyes narrowing in on the culprit and the crime. “What are you eating?”

“Chips.” Jake makes a show of shoving a large tortilla chip in his mouth, crunching on it loudly. “Wan’ some?”

You could punch the motherfucker for that.

He smirks as you stand up and round the kitchen counter. “Aw, wait, I just ‘membered…”

“You asshat!” You shout, giving him a good shove as you take the box of pasta out of his hands. “Go eat your chips in the garage.”

“Hun-“

“Nope! You’re being exiled! Exiled.” Jake laughs as you swat at him, raising his arms in mock defense. “Go! Get!”

This is gonna be one hell of a long, annoying, irritating recovery.

And you’re gonna hate love every second of it.

A/N pt2: Lemme know if you want another part as time goes along with my healing and how I imagine Jakey would deal with it as time goes on :>

#hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #top gun x reader #top gun hangman #jake seresin x you

[ram-bam-writes]

Thank you! I got all four out at the same time, hence the intense jaw restriction. I also have a few disabilities which I'm sure add to the intensity of my experience :>

Good luck with yours! It's prolly so much easier only getting one out. Currently most of my pain isn't existing, but I can actively feel the string in my mouth which is driving my little adhd ass insane ehehe

Little snippets that will be in the fic based on my personal experiences for you to hold out on until then (CW: Wisdom teeth and fears, plus fluffy)

-Reader accidentally hitting the oral surgeon and dental assistants in a panic

-Some general fears and mentions of the extraction (special guest Reader's brother edition)

-Reader being high and drugged af and entertaining Jake

-Even more entertaining times trying to fucking drink chicken broth with a numb tongue

-Jake being a little shit with jokes (mostly sex jokes) and eating all the popcorn he can ar8und you

-Lots of cuddles and sleep

-Special visit from Javy, the one and only

-Reader struggling to stifle their laughs to not open their jaws wide and pop a stitch (a/n: sigh)

-And, or course, lots and lots more teasing from our beloved Jakey

Most of the fic is based on my story, so if you're scared to get wisdom teeth removed because of what I've been through or anyone else, know that it's routine and likely won't be anything as bad. In fact, mine went even smoother than I was imagining, and I reckon yours will too :>

Thanks for enjoying my fic!

I hate to be the bearer of bad news on your tags, but that's not even half of what I went through :> That blurb is based on my extraction that happened 4 days ago :>

Full fic coming out later today that will be both angsty at the front but way more cutesy at the end if you wanna keep an eye out for it :>

~Hermes

Oh, hi!

That's awful!!! I hope you feel better!

I had two of them taken out but it was more of an inconvenience (with the bleeding and diet restrictions) than anything.

I'm going to get rid of the third one in a few days and I just saw the prompt and couldn't pass. I think I'll need the full fic later this week though bc I'll be starving and will be in need of some distractions 😅

#ram bam #y'all... have no idea #the pain isnt bad but the uncomfy you feel when you can actively feel the stitches at all times #it gets way better with time but damn #thankfully im not my brother 👀 #foreshadow whaaat? #maybe I have a few other jake fics in the work this week too... 👀

[ram-bam-writes]

Jake Seresin and Wisdom Teeth Recovery

A little blurb :>

Full fic

I can't help but feel the unabashed hysterics that Jake would be if he had a partner who got their wisdom teeth out.

All the jokes that man would make when you couldn't open your jaw wider than a few centimeters, being forced to eat jello and yogurt and ice cream with a fork because the spoon is too curvy to fit in your mouth.

How much he'd baby you and call you his little messy thing because you keep spilling the chicken broth all over yourself when you're mouth decides it's not gonna fucking work

The teasing that this man would do, calling you a little chipmunk because your cheeks are swollen, giggling at the angry little face you have when you try not to smile because damnit that hurts, Jake.

And don't forget the delicate kisses and soft cuddles he'd offer. He'd lay a fluffy blanket on his chest to give your jaw something plush to lay against, kissing the spot between your brows so you don't feel any additional pain from his touch. He'd dab away your red saliva as you drool against him in your sleep, taking the time to keep you cleaned up despite the pain.

And yes, he absolutely would eat the crunchiest, saltiest, most acidic and hard foods around you and brag about it while you whimper over your applesauce and fork combo.

#jake seresin x reader #this absolutely is because I just got mine ripped out of my head #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun hangman #Prolly will make this a full fic

[ram-bam-writes]

Ram Bam's Masterlist

Howdy! Hermes here to plop the fics and series I've written in an easy to find format. Feel free to use this as a space to request tagging for future fics or a place to drop requests if you'd like! These will be continuously updated as I post more.

As always, all fics are gender neutral readers unless otherwise specified!

🔥-- Smut 📄-- Single ✏️-- Blurb 🖇️-- Series 💔-- Angst 💖-- Comfort

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Reluctancy Pt.1 🖇️💔(💖)

Reluctancy Pt.2 🖇️💔(💖)

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

RHO (Ridin' Him Out) Pt.1 ✏️🔥

RHO (Ridin' Him Out) Pt.2 📄🔥

Wisdom Teeth Pt.1 ✏️

Wisdom Teeth Pt.2 📄💔💖

Phillip Graves

The Highlight and The Shadow Pt.1 🖇️

The Highlight and The Shadow Pt.2 🖇️

The Highlight and The Shadow Pt.3 🖇️

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #phillip graves x reader #jake seresin x reader #ram bam #masterlist

[ram-bam-writes]

Reluctancy pt. 1 [Kyle Garrick x NB Reader]

A/N: An idea I had for an Enemies to Lovers medium-slow-burn fit series with my precious cheeky Sergeant. As always, updates are sporadic, so lemme know if you wanna be tagged. Not a lot of Gaz love out there and I plan to change that. 

Summary: Gaz finds himself in an interesting position when the Captain of a troublesome organization ends up on his front door with surprising injuries and promises of intel he doesn’t trust.

CW: Mentions of injuries (not explicit), some cursing, Gaz being a moody bastard, mentions of blood, etc. [As always, CWs will change with each chapter accordingly]

Word Count: 2466

[Pt.1] [Pt.2]

This whole thing was stupid. It’s bad enough that your team essentially overthrew and exiled you. But what was worse was who you had to confront for help.

You’d been dancing around TF141 for a while now. They aren’t very fond of you and your team’s style, thinking you to be too much at times. But those interrogations needed to be done — you needed the intel. And you got the intel. So what was the problem? You’d studied them for ages, sneaking around them at any given chance. They’d done much worse than you and your team.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters is you find a certain Sergeant to help you with your current situation. The Captain would never hear you out, and the Skull and Mohawk duo looked all too terrifying to deal with. So the next best thing? The Sergeant they all seemed to trust. If you can gain his, you can gain theirs and fix this stupid ordeal.

You wince as you take a step towards the barracks at the 141’s current base. They were currently stationed with a few other SAS operatives after doing a couple inside jobs with their help. Your head spins a little when you climb the stairs, using your previous intel to figure out the Sergeant’s room.

Knock knock knock…

You’re greeted with the sight of the younger, more spritely member of the 141. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of that soft, lazy smile he offers. But those dark brown eyes can only grow darker, a low growl coming from his lips.

“Got a lot of nerve coming around here, mate,” comes his low tone, and he pulls a small blade from his belt. “Gimme one good reason not t’finish ya where you stand…” A threat and a half if you’ve ever heard one. This will be a bit more difficult…

You grip your side again, a throb of pain rippling through your body. It punches the wind out of you, something you try to ignore. You’re a bloody Captain, for crying out loud! You can take a few kicks to the ribs, and even more knicks from a blade.

“I’ve got intel. You’ve got shelter.” You state cooly, trying to save face by gritting your teeth and offering a scowl. “I think a deal is set.”

Garrick raises his brow and he takes a single step closer. “Come again? I’ve got a criminal here an’ you ‘spect me to help ya?”

A low growl resonates from your own throat this time. 

“Listen. I don’t want this any more than you do, but I’ve got somethin’ you want, and I don’t reckon either of us want the current situation with the Cartel to get any further out of hand, hm?”

He opens his mouth to argue, brows furrowing in the process. But he stops the moment you cough, arms coming up to cover your chapped lips. You both look to find blood on your arm.

“Fuck…” you murmur, eyes fluttering as you collapse forward.

Garrick doesn’t catch you, and you find yourself crumpled on your knees in front of the Sergeant.

“32 point 26 degrees North, 116 point 18 degrees West.” You manage to choke out, just as he begins pushing the door closed.

That gets him to pause.

“Tecate, Mexico.” He doesn’t move, simply staring at you as you speak with blood in your mouth. “There’s a major Cartel system there.”

He exhales through his nose, turning to look both ways outside of his door before grabbing you by the bicep and dragging you inside. You’re plopped onto the floor, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. Garrick paces, eyes flicking you over.

“Why should I trust those coordinates, mate?” He inquires with disdain in his voice. “I’m not lookin’ to get my team ambushed for the second time.”

“Third” You correct his words before you can stop it, earning a glare from the Sergeant. “… and you can trust me because it’s true. Any drone footage can prove that. Big trucks go in…”

You cough up more blood, eyes shot and body trembling.

“Lots of small cars go out. Shipments.”

The Sergeant stares you down for a good, long while. His gaze flicks from your blood-soaked lips to your injured waist, arm protective around the sensitive area. He analyzes you, figuring every little detail out. He’s always been the observing type.

“So you want a place to shelter in return, then?” He cocks his head to the side. “Or perhaps some medicinal aid.”

You scowl. “I’m fine. I need that Cartel Camp destroyed before they smuggle anything else in or out.” “Or before your team gets to them.”

You suck in a breath. Had you been that obvious? No, he’s trying to show power over you. “No. Before they hurt my team.” He makes a sound of understanding, one that’s laced with sarcasm. “Tell me then, mate. How’d they get captured?”

This man knows how to press all of your buttons, and knows how to interrogate. You know that’s what he’s doing. He’s breaking you down, flooding you with questions that he knows you’ll struggle to answer as time goes on. You can only keep this lie up for so long. 

But you can bite one bullet and save yourself from another.

“I was careless.” That gets him to look at you more directly. “They got my team, and now I’m here. I want them back before they’re smuggled for money.”

He inhales through his nose, looking rather irritated by the situation. No, not quite irritated. More… inconvenienced by it. He raises his foot and pushes you down by the shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“If I fix up these scuffs to find you were lying to me…” he purrs, eyes darkening with every second. “You’ll never get yourself sorted when I’m done with ya…”

You let out a grunt as your back hits the ground. The action causes your torso to stretch, your ribs pressing uncomfortably against the surrounding muscles. 

“I don’t need—“

“You say that one more time and I’m gonna drop you out o’ my window.” His eyes bore into yours. “Take yer gear off. Let me get you right as rain. And then get me the bloody photos from your intel.”

You don’t argue when his foot presses your shoulder more, lips parting to yell out in pain. He releases his foot after a moment, allowing you a chance to breathe. “Fuck…”

Impatiently, he reaches out and grabs your tac vest, tearing at the velcro straps and throwing it elsewhere in his barrack. His hands grip the black tac shirt you have on, unzipping the half-zipper before yanking it over your head. You cry out again from the sudden jerk to your arm but he pays no mind. 

Somewhere deep down, you want to abandon this whole thing. Get away and start all over. But your men spoke of unspeakable means to end the Cartel, and you can’t let them get their hands on that base in Tecate. Not when a list of every Cartel base from here to New York is laid out in plain text. Not while your men have the means to some terrible bio weapons.

The bloody traitors.

“Bloody hell…” Garrick murmurs, taking a look at the bruising along your right-hand side. A good majority of the lower ribs were covered in deep yellow, purple, and red bruising, not to mention the cuts and scars along the rest of your torso and arms. “Right… first things on the list: cold pack, gauze, and anti-bac. Give me a moment.”

You cower a little when he stands at his full height. You weren’t intimidated by him, not necessarily. But the thought of him treating your wounds was a blow to your ego you weren’t interested in taking. Not by a long shot.

“Just get me the supplies and I’ll fix it myself.” You bite back another groan as blood seeps past your teeth. “Then you can take care of the intel.”

“No.”

You glare at the Sergeant’s back as he stretches up to grasp the med-kit on the top of the fridge. 

“No?”

He turns to face you. “There’s sharp things inside this kit. I’m not takin’ my chances, Chav.”

You exhale your frustrations. “Why do I get the feeling that’s an insult…”

“Because it bloody well is.”

His hands grasp your biceps, splaying you out on the floor beneath him as he rips a pack of gauze open. “Don’t move or I might make this hurt on purpose…” 

You hold your breath as Garrick’s hands work the gauze around your waist. After a few wraps, he places a cold pack on your side, wrapping it a few times with gauze. Peeling off the seal with his teeth, he pulls open the pack of anti-bacterial wipes and eases the wet fabric over your wounds. Your body tenses at the burning sensation, eyes squeezing shut as you fight through your own pained sounds to keep some semblance of dignity in this situation. 

A few minutes pass before he hauls you up again, setting you down a bit more gently on the couch in the living space of his barrack. He crouches down in front of you, pulling on his tan gloves.

“I’m going to get photos of that base from you, and if you want to stay unbroken, I suggest you waste no time getting those to me, Chav.”

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz x reader #kyle garrick #gaz x reader #kyle gaz x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick cod #gaz garrick #gaz cod

[ram-bam-writes]

And not the good kind of getting hit by a truck like the RHO

They don't warn you of the full body aches that have you feeling like you got hit by a truck when you get bones ripped out of your face

#ram bam #even in pain i still simp for that fucking commerical