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mlmxreader · 1 year

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As Sun Tzu Said | Kyle Gaz Garrick x m!reader

Anonymous asked: I was choosing so hard to Pick between, Alejandro, Rudy Gaz, and Price (Soap, Ghost, and König are getting A LOTTA LOVE) for this but I'm loving the Gaz love, especially with his hubby so, I might stay with that for a bit…

Anyway…

"Show them no mercy, baby”

SAS!Male Reader X Gaz where 141 is in DEEP DEEP TROUBLE and Male Reader is like..."I ain't having this bullshit anymore," and just becomes a fucking TANK of a being and goes APESHIT on enemies when Gaz says that to him

It just flips a goddamn switch in his head lol

Like TERMINATOR style

Also if you could kinda continue from the same Male Reader from the recent Gaz fic I requested that would be AMAZING!!!

Also, just everything everything everything you do means a A LOT as someone who LIVES for X Male Reader and again I just cannot thank you enough…

summary: if you know your enemy, and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles - something that you and Gaz know all too well, and when shit hits the fan, it becomes apparent exactly what that means.

tws: canon-typical violence, gun violence, knives, blood, death, war, swearing

(somewhat part 1) Right Man For The Job

Time had run out. The enemy had opened fire on the base, thick American accents followed by a tidal wave of bullets as the task force, Alejandro and Rodolfo, and the SAS took what cover they could; your first instinct was to grab Gaz, to push him against the nearest car, pressing his back into the tyre as you kept him down and shook your head. You could handle it. You could protect him. You told him exactly that between barking and growling orders at your men, take cover, open fire, don’t show the bastards any fucking mercy and don’t let them see any fucking weaknesses either; maybe high command would regret sending you out to your husband now, as you kept him pressed against the car tyre and furrowed your brows, hands clumsily roaming his body.

“You okay, baby? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No,” Gaz breathed out, relief in his eyes as he sighed heavily. “Not a scratch this time.”

“So not like Bastogne,” you joked weakly, daring to press a kiss to his forehead. “You stay here, let me handle this, alright?”

“Before you go,” he grabbed the shirt of your collar, pulled you down for a sweet kiss that made you smile and nearly relax into it. “Lucky charm, remember?”

You nodded, daring to smile at him before you grabbed the knife from your belt and took a look at it; the handle, a dark grey, had been engraved with half of your team’s patch, and half of his. You kept saying it was lucky, although now you weren’t so sure; still, you ducked down between the cars, and took one last look at Gaz. “Not like Bastogne… fuck, I ain’t having this bullshit anymore - why have they gotta fuck everything up?”

He grinned, nodding as he threw you his cap. “Show them no mercy, baby.”

Just like how you had switched from Batman to Bane when the hostage had spoken in an American accent, you pulled the switch again; running between the cars and the various little stacks of boxes and equipment as if there weren’t any bullets with your name on heading right your way. You didn’t give a shit, Gaz’s words echoing in your head as you grabbed one guy by the throat, dragging him down before dragging the blade right through his skull through his eye. Blood already smeared across your face as you moved onto the next target. You grabbed his gun, and although you weren’t exactly the best with firearms - they were far too uncivilised for your tastes, if you were honest - you took up a position beside the body, aimed, and opened fire; three of the bastards fell, and you heard Price’s voice call out over the Comms.

“This is Bravo Six,” he sounded breathless. “Carolus Rex, if you can hear me - do not stand down. There’s six yanks heading your way, and they look like they’re ready for a scrap.”

“Roger that, Bravo Six,” you replied, hoping that the gunfire didn’t muffle your voice too much, “I got ‘em in sight… say - anyone know what happens when you bring a knife to a gunfight?”

“Not sure, Carolus Rex,” Price chuckled. “Care to show us?”

“Fuck it,” you laughed. “Why not? Stupid cunts shouldn’t have shot at my husband… Carolus Rex out.”

The others stopped in their tracks when they saw you step out into the open, brandishing that knife as you grinned and allowed the six enemies to encircle you; they looked fucking pissed, and that meant that they were weak. As Sun Tzu said, “Hence the skilful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible, and does not miss the moment for defeating the enemy.”

“Now, lads,” you laughed, looking around at them all. “Don’t you remember?”

The enemies looked amongst one another, one told you to shut up, but you held your hand up.

“Carolus Rex, what the fuck are you doing?” Price’s voice growled in your ear.

You chose to ignore it, speaking loudly as you held your knife above your head for a moment. “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win… and you fucking pricks seemed to go to war first.”

They didn’t even see you when you threw your knife at the first one, managing to take him down with ease before you grabbed the next, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him into the man beside him; they were sloppy, didn’t calculate anything, and didn’t know what they were up against. As the knife went in, cutting across their skin, you ignored their dying pleas, their cries of agony and begs for mercy that would never come. If you had had the time, you would have told them how shit they were, not just as soldiers, but as a team; easily, you slit their throats and drove your knife into their eyes, pulling it out and letting the blood trickle down from the blade for a moment before moving onto the next. Six of them, one of you, and you managed to slaughter the lot without even thinking twice about it. Breathing heavily when they were all down, bodies surrounding you, a wild look in your eyes as you took a quick glance around; you heard Soap and Alejandro confirm that, on their sides, the enemy had retreated. Yet, you were SAS; you were trained to compete, you could never suffer a defeat. But then Gaz slowly approached, making sure that no other enemies were around before he let his gun rest on his shoulder, and he pulled you into a tight hug.

“I’m dirty,” you murmured.

“I don’t care,” he whispered. “You’re my husband, and watching you take on six of them… it was kinda hot.”

You chuckled, hugging him tightly as you sniffled and shook your head. “I told you this was nothing like Bastogne.”

Gaz smiled, shaking his head. “Nothing’s gonna be like Bastogne… you okay, baby? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Nah,” you swallowed thickly. “Maybe a couple bruises, a few scrapes here and there, but… nothing much else.”

He nodded, clearing his throat as he dared to speak over the Comms, “I’ve secured my husband - he’s fine. No injuries.”

“Good, we’ll be there soon,” Price promised. “Just gotta make sure we got the other bastards and no one’s playing dead.”

Pulling away, Gaz dared to look into your eyes as he tilted his head to the side, licking his lips. “You’ve got that wild look again.”

“Can you blame me?” You chuckled. “I don’t think any of those fuckers have ever read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.”

“But you have,” he pointed out. “And look what happened… no one fucks with my husband and lives to see another day.”

“Unless it’s you,” you joked softly. “You’re allowed to fuck with me as much as you like.”

“I know,” Gaz chuckled, breaking away and leaning into your side when you wrapped your arm around his waist. “Who dares wins, right, baby?”

“That’s right,” you agreed with a grin. “What’d you think? Was that Christian Bale Batman, or Tom Hardy Bane?”

Pretending to think about it for a moment, he easily fell into step beside you as he marched with you back towards where the others were, planning to meet in the middle. “Definitely Tom Hardy Bane - I wouldn’t wanna meet you in a dark alley… wouldn’t wanna meet you in the smoking area of a pub, either… but are you sure they didn’t hurt you? You sure you’re all good?”

“I’m not broken,” you said reassuringly. “Are you?”

“I’m good as new,” Gaz smiled as he nodded. “Thanks to you.”

“Well, maybe we can make it even,” you mused. “Next time some shit kicks off, you can protect me instead.”

“Like Bastogne?”

“Not like that,” you grumbled playfully, shaking your head. “We ain’t doing that again.”

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

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kireivz · 4 months

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kyle “gaz” garrick masterlist

━━━━━━☆━━━━━━

coming soon!

(kireivz, 2024)

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #gaz cod mw2 #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x y/n #kyle garrick fanfic #kyle garrick fic #kyle garrick fanfiction #gaz fanfic #gaz fic #gaz x y/n #gaz x reader #gaz fanfiction

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criminalamnesia · 3 months

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Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

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swordsandholly · 3 days

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Thinking about a mechanic!AU where the 141 boys run a garage and need a new receptionist. They hire you because you’re just so cute (great tits) and have a decent resume but it becomes a slight problem when they realize you’re a bit… dense.

Total ditz to be precise.

But they can’t really get mad when you get the keys for clients mixed up and look at them with those big eyes all teary and a little pout pushing out your lower lip.

Price is the most patient, perfectly content to walk you through how to file paperwork and fill out forms. Instructing you in a low voice while his breath brushes the shell of your ear. It’s really their fault for having such a terrible system, you know? Don’t worry about it too much, dove. He’ll settle his big hands on your shoulders and gently trace up and down your arms. See? You’re getting it. Just needed some more practice, hm?

Johnny is more than happy to show you around the garage, rattling off everything he knows about all those nitty gritty details that go right over your pretty little head. He’ll pop open the hood of some sports car and point to the engine to show it off. No, bonnie, you’ve got tae get in close. Closer.

Until you’re bent entirely over in one of those too-short skirts you wear everyday. It takes all his willpower not to yank you into the supply closet.

Gaz is just so sweet to you. Always bringing you little treats and candies to suck on. To help you concentrate, of course. Always greeting you with a soft ‘baby girl’ at the beginning of your shift. Whenever you’re standing around be it at the printer or counter - wherever really - he’ll slip a hand on your waist. It always trails a little lower, his pinky just edging on the hem of your too tight jeans.

Ghost gets frustrated with you to the point of causing tears to well up in the corners of your eyes. He’s feels guilty, sure, but bloody hell just print the damn receipt. He avoids you for the most part. Until one evening when it’s pouring down. You forgot your rain coat of course, silly girl. He offers you a ride which you take happily.

After that he can’t get rid of you. You bring him coffees (how you remember his order word for word but not where you last left your own cup is beyond him) and giggle at his jokes. When a client gets too snappy or too loud he’s the first to step in - standing behind you glaring at them with his huge arms crossed over his chest until they back down.

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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YOU MATCH THE 141 ON TINDER 💓

Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?

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I was only going to post these when I finished writing and everything but I'm just... SO FUCKING EXCITED 😭😭

spoiler: Johnny and Kyle are the ones managing Price's account (took covert pics of the captain) but they ask Ghost how to answer the questions and DMs in order to have "the right tone of voice" LMAO

I'll post the actual drabbles soon!!! 🙏

If you'd like to be tagged when this comes out, lmk! (via dm, question or even here) THE TAGLIST IS OFFICIALLY CLOSED, not accepting any more requests! (I'm sorry, there's just too many people on it)

[Read the FIC]

#ikea writes 💚#it's a match! fic #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #text story #cod x reader #call of duty x reader

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smutstationchoochoo · 9 months

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Desperate

COD Men x FemReader

Hear me out: a sex pollen fic where reader isn’t affected but he is and he is gone.

Word count: ~3.6k

A/N: It’s just the poorly written sex pollen drabble of my dreams, it’s fuck or die lads. Insert your favorite COD man here. Please forgive me for any spelling/grammar mistakes and my complete lack of knowledge regarding military things, all I know is that these men are hot and I love them.

Warnings: sex pollen, unprotected PIV (wrap it up), overstimulation, dubious consent (consent is sexy folks)

Banner credit: @cafekitsune

You all had been briefed at 0200. The flight to Berlin left at 0300 where the team would be infiltrating a terrorist hideout, a suspected manufacturing site for a new chemical agent. You were told that as long as you didn’t ingest it, you would be fine.

The fact that it had been made airborne was not in the fucking briefing.

The team had been split into pairs, you and he took the North side of the suspected warehouse. The size of it should have tipped you all off. Everything was running smoothly until 3 combatants had come from the door at the end of the corridor. He called for cover and ran ahead. You dropped two before he even got a stride in. The other he disarmed in seconds and then with a deafening crack, both men slammed through a door and into the resulting room. A brief struggle then silence. You heard him start to call the ok, his voice in the comm sounding clearer than earlier, then a noise, a pop, and the sound of air. You froze, watching a gas spill from the open door and dissipate immediately. Just when you started moving again, a growling, “Don’t,” tore through the comm. Then, the sound of ripping Velcro and something hard (his helmet you realized with a sickening drop) hitting the concrete floor echoed out to you. Soft murmurs that grew into angry outbursts of fuck fuck fuck transformed into one that became a groan of what sounded like complete and utter pain. You didn’t even have to think, the severity of the situation settled in. “It’s a gas,” you barked into the comms, “Northside hit, need medevac in 30, going dark.” You waited for confirmation, seconds after getting it and receiving news that the warehouse was almost cleared, you went to find him.

You knew what it did, you all did. Jokes had been made, smirks shared, but you all knew how bad it was. You weren’t even close to prepared. He was sitting against the far wall or rather pressed into it using it to keep his now shaking frame upright, gear strewn around the room, combatant on your immediate left with a mask (his mask, the masks you all were wearing just in fucking case) gripped in a dead hand, an empty canister mockingly sitting in the middle of the room.

You gripped the combatant by his legs and dragged him to the hall, before slamming the door shut upon reentry and grabbing a near chair to jam the door. You immediately began stripping yourself of your outer tactical gear until you both matched in only your boots, pants, and base shirts and then you turned your attention to him. Now kneeling by his side you took him in, looking for any other injuries noting nothing serious. That almost made you laugh with relief until you saw the front of his pants and him frantically palming the growing outline. You swallowed and quickly looked at his face shocked back to the reality of the current situation. The usually stoic, always larger than life, incredibly strong man in front of you was reduced to tears dripping from his now blown and hazy eyes, falling down flushed cheeks and landing on the front of his shirt that clung to his hyperventilating chest. You knew he had been shot, stabbed often, and left for dead a time or two, but this…

Shiny and new neurotoxin, you remembered the brief, attacks the nervous system, causing the mark to feel intense arousal and as if they have been lit on fire, specially formulated not only to cause pain but a complete and utter breakdown of will as victims often experience hallucinations and loss of self. If left in the system, it raises the core temperature until convulsions set in, and then heart attack occurs. Do not touch it.

No one had to ask how it was worked out of the system. Then again, they all believed they were too smart to touch the shit. Couldn’t do much about breathing it in when your mask was ripped from your face though.

Your hand pressed to his slick forehead now radiating heat, and feeling as if it could burn you like an open flame. At the touch of your blessedly cool hand, he hissed a low fuck through his gritted teeth, keening into your touch. You swallowed, hand tilting his cheek to look up at you when you asked, “Can I help?” His hair was sticking up at all angles from the helmet being hastily pulled from his head, and he looked up at you and gave one weak nod, “Please.”

Upon looking at the desperation pooling in those dark eyes (those eyes you often were caught staring at) any small reservations evaporated from your body under his burning gaze. You swiftly reached out, mercifully helping him escape from the now too-tight pants, the bite of his zipper. The moment your skin brushed against the head of him he was bucking up against it. You had to reach the other hand out to steady yourself against his shoulder, another touch that jutted his hips and had him twitching into your grip.

“Is- is this helping?” you croaked out, struggling to swallow, struggling to contain the wave of arousal that was threatening to course through you. He nodded, chin slack against his chest as he watched your hand work against him, moving up and down against the veins seemingly trying to break through his skin. No thoughts went through his mind other than the knowledge that you were jerking him off and that it felt so good that he could cry in relief. But then something shuddered within him, something loud and fast like a wildfire, burning just as much, and hot thick ropes of cum spilled over your hand. He couldn’t even cry out, it happened so fast. His breath was coming out in loud pants, when a new thought, the thought that he had just come in maybe thirty seconds flashed through his mind but it was quickly replaced with the horrible realization that the feeling of being on fire wasn’t going away. It was getting worse, out of control, containment measures failed. At this, he let out a sob as his hips moved of their own volition into your still soothing grip. It wasn’t enough, he knew, you knew, it wasn’t enough.

You stood, and he whimpered at the loss of your touch but all sound stopped in his throat when he watched you decisively unzip your pants and pull them down to your ankles underwear included, kicking off a boot, and one pant leg. When you straddled his lap he desperately pulled you down onto him, your exposed core grinding down where he wanted you, where he fucking needed you, that’s when he began to talk. Begging you to help him, saying that he’s sorry over and over, that he needs your help, incoherent babbling from a breaking mind, please it hurts so bad, I-I don’t, I can’t- fuck, I need you... All cool, calm, collectedness burnt to fucking ash. Just a man reduced to pure longing and want. A longing and want that might be what was threatening to kill him, not the toxin, just the build up over the days, weeks, months he had been around you threatening to crush him. He almost wants to die, this was never how it was supposed to be. He wanted it to be good for you, you deserve that, you deserve better, he could have given you better-

But now what was he? A heaving chest under a sweat soaked shirt beneath eyes that watch you like some feral animal. Hands wanting to claw at the clothing now so heavy, hot, and itchy against his burning skin, but instead were gripping onto your hips like it’s going to save him from burning to a crisp. The broken moans tearing their way from his throat when you line up his painfully hard cock to your entrance makes you throb, and then his choking cry as you slide down on him punches the air from your chest.

“Does this feel ok?” you panted out after a moment, struggling, trying not to drown in the pleasure of him stretching you, filling you. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t even nod. His forehead falling to your shoulder in utter relief, mouth dropped open as he repeats your name over and over like an apology, a thanks, a goddamned prayer. How all he can do is sit there on the floor of some warehouse, back against a wall, the only thing resembling his usual strength is that ironclad hold he has on your hips as he helps you drag yourself up, then, accompanied by the tortuously obscene sounds of your wetness, back down. Brokenly pleading with you not to stop, don’t stop, fuck p-please don’t stop. You feel like molten heaven against his cock, your moans like angels (or devils, he’s too far gone to care at this point) singing through the blood rushing in his ears. One of your hands again steadies yourself on his shoulder, the other steadying him, an anchor point, with your achingly gentle hold on the nape of his damp neck (so gentle that it breaks his fucking heart, he wanted to give you more, you deserved more) as you ride him. Your hips rock once more, twice more, before his body seizes up with electricity that ricochets up his spinal cord and reverberates through his skull. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips, teeth grinding and eyes slamming shut, as he releases inside of you with a shattered cry. The sound of you gasping, now clutching, raking your fingers into him, has his hips continuing their rutting up into you, pushing his cum as deep as he can within your walls.

He stills for 10 seconds at most, panting breaths thunderous between you two, before pulling you into his chest, his hips slamming up into you, hard and hot as if he didn’t just fuck you until he could see every neuron firing behind his eyes. His hot open mouth finds your shocked one in a perfectly surprised “o,” more apologies pushing from his lungs and into yours between loud wet kisses as he listens (is blessed with thank you God) to you beginning to come apart. You couldn’t help it, as you ground down into his thrusts, even though you knew the threatening climax was going to be terrifying. Your breathing was ragged now as well, the air becoming harder and harder to drag into your lungs in between you cursing and moaning, and then- fucking hell- you’re at the precipice. Before you can even utter a syllable you are being flung over the edge. The pleasure rips through you, waves breaking against the rocky shore, with such intensity that it hurts, causing you to dig your nails into his skin, and bright spots to dance behind your closed eyes while the distant feeling of wetness registers from between you two. He explodes again with a gasp, feels you clench around him like a vice, his name, his real name, forcing its way from inside you and into his mouth with every pulse and it tastes so so good that he can’t stop, he never wants to stop, just filling you up until it drips from you, filling you with him because you’re his, his. Even when you both whimper and shudder with overstimulation, his arms shaking in their grip around you, he can only press his forehead to yours, rolling it desperately, as he begs for your forgiveness. I can’t stop, it won’t stop, I’ll make it good, please next time I’ll make it good.

“It is good,” you whisper to him with hitched breath from each thrust, trying to reassure him, “It’s ok, it’s ok.” You don’t know if he can hear you, his eyes are wild and don’t seem to even register that you are actually on top of him, that he’s inside of you, that he has made you yell out his name over and over and over. You don’t think he even knows what he is saying. Next time.

His own voice comes to him from somewhere far away, through the flames licking at his mind, please- fuckin’ hell please, just a little more- I just need one more, I need you, please don’t stop, I don’t want to stop nearly unrecognizable as he comes inside you again and again and again.

It isn’t until the medevac came and he was sedated that what just happened began to sink in. For a week, a fucking week, he’s in critical condition. No one talks about it, at least not in the way you all did before this. You saved him, you’re told. You don’t want to think about it, if you think about it then you think about how good it felt, how fucked it is that it felt good, and how everything is gone. If you think about all he said, you’d overthink, give meaning where there was none. He probably won’t be able to look at you anymore. You went to see him that first day. You sat next to him for mere minutes before bolting, the fear of him waking up and looking at you with disgust, telling you to get out in that icy voice you knew so well, sent you running straight to the mats to train until you wanted to scream. That’s all you did now, and that was where you decided you would stay until you died. That is until someone came and found you, told you he was awake, and that he had asked for you. The whole walk to the infirmary had adrenaline coursing through you, you wanted to run, to fight, to freeze right there in the hall and never move another fucking muscle. The thought of losing him, him being there but not wanting to be near you anymore made you feel sick. It had been so long, so long of repressing those feelings that flared in your chest when he smiled at you during sparring, the feeling of him seated next to you on a flight, his eyes catching yours just so you could stay with him. Well, you thought with dripping ire, that had literally and figuratively been fucked now hadn’t it?

You knocked, heard his gruff voice, and entered. You stopped dead in your tracks three steps into the room after mistakenly looking up and finding him staring at you from where he sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed, looking like he was about to head out on another call. You were desperately trying not to shake but your hands gave you away. You could take on a man twice your size without batting an eye but this?- you were terrified.

The moment you walked into the room, all his time that morning when he first woke thinking about what he would say to you, how he could face you, was knocked from his mind. You had saved his life. He never wanted that. He wanted to give it to you, it was yours after all. He didn’t know when it had become yours, every single part of him, but if he had to wager a guess it was the moment he found you in his life. And it might all be ruined.

The memories had started coming to him immediately after waking up, almost more clear and real now than in the moment. It jolted him awake so hard that the attending ran into the room for fear that his hammering heart had in fact given out. Once his breathing had calmed a little, he tried to sift through the fog. His recall of the smell of you, the arousal dripping from between your legs, mixed with your sweat and the familiar scent of your grapefruit and ginger shampoo, nearly pulled a groan from his chest. The soft touch of your hands, cool and strong against the fire that spread through his blood, had brought him back. The feeling of you breaking, the soft whines, the way you said his name… the things he had said, he couldn’t just shut the fuck up could he?

He had to bring his hands up to cover his eyes, willing the images to go away, just for a moment, please, he just needed some time, if only he had time- next time. Next time, he had told you. A desperate promise, a reassurance, trying to tell you that it wasn’t just the chemical coursing through him, it wasn’t just his hijacked nervous system. Did she know? Did she understand? That’s when he asked for you, without thinking, just wanting to see you, to explain. He had never been good with words unless it was biting sarcasm across comms or coolly delivering ultimatums in an interrogation. Then he remembered, the thing that sent his heart barreling through his chest for the second time, the machine next to him screaming. It is good, you had said, it’s ok, it’s ok, you had whispered.

He ripped the monitors off his chest, ignoring the doctor's protestations, found the clothes that had been brought in for him and got dressed. Now that you were standing here before him he was unsure. You looked scared, and he could count on one hand all the times he had seen you in such a state.

His staring was unnerving, more unnerving than if he had shouted, yelled, grabbed you, anything but this, this was fucking torture. You had to leave, just get off base, go somewhere, anywhere but here- the sudden sound of your name shook you from the reverie. The tone had your eyes finding his immediately.

He stayed seated, scared that if he stood, if he made his way to you, you would run, and you both knew that you were much quicker than him. If you ran, if you left, he would never catch up. Only when his knuckles began to ache did he realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the mattress in an effort to keep himself there. It was hard to look at you and not remember the way you had looked when you pressed your hand to his forehead, when you had thrown your head back in pleasure, when you had grabbed his face when he was too exhausted to continue but thankfully no longer felt like he was burning alive. It was hard to remember and not stride across the room and hold you. He took a breath and forced his shoulders to relax in a way that he had done so many times before.

“I-,” he started, his voice cutting through the room, his normal voice, the one you recognized as him and it set you slightly at ease from sheer familiarity, “I’m so sorry.” Now he had to turn his eyes downcast.

“What?” Your response, the shock in your voice, forced him to look at you again. Your hands itched at your sides, confusion rippling across your face.

His eyes narrowed, he knew you so well. Always blaming yourself. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m sorry that happened, I’m sorry you were put in that position,” the word choice made him nearly cringe. He continued, “I never-I didn’t want it to happen that way.”

Your brain jolted, standing there in shocked silence, his words thundering through your ears accompanied by the pleading of next time.

He pressed on, desperately trying, “I know you, you’re going to think this was your fault. It wasn’t. There was nothing either of us could do, thank you for your, uh, help. Just- fuck, please just say some-,”

Shock still swept through you, the words escaped your mouth before you could think, “Did you mean it?” You figured by the way he leaned back that he knew what you were talking about. Then he held out a hand, palm up, an offering. Before you knew it, you had crossed the room, putting your hand in his and letting it gently pull you between his legs. His giant frame meant even sitting on the gurney that his gaze was level with yours, and those eyes searched your own when one word sounded through the room.

“Yes.”

This word broke you. One fucking word, one word that answered every glance between you two, every smile shared, a word you brokenly whispered into the night when you had a hand between your legs thinking about him knowing you shouldn’t. You hadn’t cried all week, but now the giant tears rolling down your cheeks felt like a release. When his free hand, warm and rough, swiped them away you couldn’t help leaning into it, just as he had done. All tension, all fear, dissipated from the room. That hand continued to just below your ear, cupping your neck, and gently pulling you forward to press his head against yours, eyes shutting, just resting there against each other in the moment.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” you sighed.

You could feel the smirk that you knew was slipping across his mouth.

“Well, I did say next time.”

This time when you rode him with the small bed creaking beneath the movements, he stopped you any time you tried to speed up (it was your turn to beg and plead), keeping you at a languid torturous pace. That way the bastard had all the time in the world to whisper into your mouth, letting you taste each word, all the things he would do to you next time and all the times after that.

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think! :)

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soaps-mohawk · 28 days

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 15: Bonnie

Summary: Your heat is over and your pack has moved on with their lives, settling back into the familiar routine. Except, some things have begun to change, and you're not entirely sure if its for the better.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7456 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, oral, handjobs, overstimulation, P in V sex, unprotected sex, creampie, hair pulling, switch Johnny, Johnny's lingerie kink, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, mention of nightmares, brief talk about killing and violence, insomnia, fluff, and of course a bit of angst

A/N: This chapter was an absolute bitch to write. I'm not kidding this was a nightmare. I'm happy with the changes I've made though, and how things are progressing. We've made a little bit of a time jump here, but not much. I think I'm getting sick so, posting the chapter before I inevitably pass out again. Oh, and Happy Easter everyone that celebrates.

Want early access to chapters, as well as other bonus content? Consider supporting me on Patreon.

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Your eyes fly open as the alarm blares. They burn as you squint against the bright phone light. An arm reaches over you, the warm skin sliding against your back as he fumbles to turn off the offending noise.

You let out a quiet groan as you catch the numbers dictating the time on the screen before the phone is placed back on the nightstand. “‘S too early.” You grumble, rubbing at your crusty eyes.

“Go back to sleep.” John murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he shifts, climbing over you to get out of the bed. He tucks the blankets back around you before slipping into the bathroom.

You won't go back to sleep. The last time you'd glanced at the time on your phone had been two hours ago, at 2 A.M. You’ve been awake most of the night, as you have been the last couple nights. You haven't been sleeping well. It was like your heat opened a floodgate and now every time you close your eyes, you're transported back into the past, back when you were a child. Back when things weren't fine.

You've started trying to avoid sleep, waking constantly during the night from nightmares or from your brain’s own fear of them starting back up. It’s only been a week since your heat ended, and yet you feel no more rested than you did coming out of it. Nothing you’ve tried has worked, not even staying awake until you inevitably pass out prevents your subconscious mind from pulling up the horrible memories of your past.

Even sleeping next to your alpha hasn’t provided any comfort for your mind. His presence isn’t enough to quell the fear in your mind that the nightmares might come back, that the memories might surface.

Even he can’t protect you from this.

You close your eyes as the bathroom door opens again, pretending to sleep as John dresses for his morning workout. He’s quiet, near silent as he moves about the room. It’s almost terrifying how quiet they can be. Though, you suppose, if your survival depends on it, it’s a skill you’d spend plenty of time honing.

John grabs his phone from the nightstand, running a gentle hand over your head before he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. You lay there for a few minutes, trying not to let the guilt eat you alive. You should tell them you’re struggling to sleep, that your mind is plaguing you with memories from your past, but you’re afraid of what they might think of you. You’re not the perfect omega, you’re not as whole as you might seem.

You’re held together with duct tape on the inside. They already have enough to worry about now, they don’t need the weight of your misery thrown on top of the loads they all carry.

You let out a long breath, turning over in John’s bed. You press your face into the pillow, inhaling the imprint of his scent on the fabric. It’s still warm where he was laying, and you shuffle over into that spot, letting your body go lax as you imagine him still there with you, arms still wrapped around your body. You want to bury yourself in his arms, press against his chest until you sink into him and become one.

Only then, perhaps you can feel safe enough to sleep.

You press your face further into the pillow, every inhale filled with John’s scent. It lulls you into a daze, the hypnagogic stage between sleep and wakefulness.

You jolt as a hand touches your arm, calluses smoothing over the bare skin. You blink your eyes open, letting out a quiet groan. It’s light outside now, the room bathed in white light instead of the yellow tinge of the nightlight John had bought for his room for you.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” John says, gently squeezing your arm. He’s already dressed for the day, hair still damp from the shower. You hadn’t even noticed he’d returned.

You roll over, rubbing your eyes. “‘S fine. Didn’t even know I was asleep. Breakfast time?”

John hums, leaning over you. “Almost. You’ve got time to get ready.”

You blink up at him blearily, your mind still trying to wake up completely after your short nap. You stare up into his eyes, getting lost in their blue depths. You feel like you could swim in them, his deep earthy scent drawing forward memories of camping and swimming in the lake. Memories you could pretend were happy, memories not tainted by fear and grief.

“Christ,” He breathes, pressing his lips to yours. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, your lips moving against his as you kiss. You trail a hand up his arm, sliding it to his back. His shirt is soft, thin enough that you can feel the muscles in his back as you smooth your hand across his shoulder blades.

“Wish I could stay here all day.” He murmurs, his face pressing into your throat. You tilt your head for him, a quiet groan rumbling through his chest at your sign of submission. He sighs, pressing his nose against your scent gland for a moment before he straightens back up. “Got a job to do.”

You let out a groan as you stretch, arching your back. “Fuck your job.”

“I’d much rather be fucking you.” He says, leaning down to nip at your bottom lip before he stands up, grabbing the shirt you’d worn to slip into his room last night off the floor. It’s one of his, one you’d stolen from his laundry hamper while he was in the shower. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

You grin, pushing the sheets down before sitting up on the edge of the bed. You rub your eyes tiredly, stretching again before pulling on his shirt, slipping your slippers on. You pad back to your room, changing into more appropriate clothes for breakfast. You’ll be left to your own devices again afterward as the guys return to their normal training schedule. You won’t be napping this time, though, you fear. Instead you’ll be looking for ways to keep yourself awake.

You and John walk hand in hand to the mess. It’s been a while since you’ve been inside of it, and you find you’ve grown to miss it a bit. You don’t miss the stares, the looks that pass over you and your entwined hands as John leads you to the line to get food. It’s like they know, like they all somehow witnessed what had transpired over the last couple weeks, like they had all been spectators to it.

John makes your tray for you again, carrying it to the table where the others are already seated. You take your normal spot next to Kyle, both him and John sitting closer to you than before. Perhaps they were picking up on your nervous energy, but even Johnny and Ghost seemed to be sitting closer. You cast a glance between them before digging into your tray. Something had transpired, but you’re not quite sure what.

You might never get to know.

It’s quiet as you eat, the coffee bitter and watery, but you don’t care. You’ll suffer anything that might give you a boost of energy to make it to lunch without falling asleep.

Johnny walks you back to the barracks after breakfast is over, his arm around your waist as you take your time crossing the courtyard. He’s oddly quiet compared to how energetic he usually is this early in the morning. Something must have happened to make him silent.

“Johnny?” You ask after a group of soldiers jog past behind you.

He hums, looking down at you. His eyes are still bright, but his brows are slightly furrowed.

“Is everything alright?” You ask carefully, not wanting to risk pushing any buttons.

“Aye.” He answers after letting out a sigh. “Jus’ an incident in the gym this mornin’. Nothing ye need tae worry about.”

You raise your brows at him, silently conveying your desire for more information, if he can give you any.

“Just some alphas talkin’ shite, like they do. Callin’ ye the 141’s whore. Askin’ if we all take turns or if ye let us all go at once.” He says, his tone practically seething as he leads you into the barracks. “Simon reminded them of their place.”

You can only imagine how that went.

Despite their obvious tension at the jabs made at you by the other alphas, you don't feel as angry as you probably should. Being called a whore was a bit demeaning, but part of what was said wasn't entirely wrong. Perhaps it's just some leftover hormones surging from your heat, or maybe being claimed has shifted your feelings towards your packmates, but the idea of being shared by them has warmth spreading through you. The mental images piecing together in your mind of taking them all at once would probably make the alphas that made that jab at you blush furiously.

“Johnny?” You ask, turning to him when you reach your door.

“Aye?” He stares down at you, his blue eyes soft as they gaze down into your own.

“I, uh, I wouldn’t mind if at least part of what they said was true...” You sink your teeth into your lip. “You...uh...you’ve been waiting for a while...for your turn.”

He gulps, shifting slightly on his feet. You can’t tell if he’s nervous or excited or something in between.

“Well, I’ve been officially cleared to partake in more...strenuous activities..”

“Christ.” He breathes, crowding you against the door. For a moment you’re worried he might just do it right here, right now, but instead he leans in, close enough you can smell the coffee he had with his breakfast. “I’d love that, kitten.” He bites his own lip as he stares down at yours. “Let me know, and I’ll be ready for you.” He leans down, closing the short distance between you as he kisses you.

You lean into him, kissing him back. It feels like the first time you kissed him, except you can feel the hunger, the restraint behind this kiss. You can feel how much he’s been holding back, how long he’s waited to finally have this moment. To think of anyone desiring you in such a way makes your head spin. He wants you for you, not what you can do for him, not what you can give to him. Not even just for what’s between your legs, even if that’s what you’re going to do.

He wants to be with you because you’re you. He doesn’t have to, he could choose not to, but he does.

He pulls away, staring down at you. His eyes are darker now, speaking promises of what’s to come. “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

“You're tired.”

You blink, your gaze snapping to his face. You had been drifting thoughtlessly, quite enamored with a single spot on the floor. You're not sure how long he let you stand there, empty-headed and practically dozing upright.

You rub your eyes, trying to force your brain back to awareness. “It's early.” You give the excuse, toeing off your shoes. “Been a while since we've done this.”

“You're going to have to work extra hard to gain it all back.” Ghost says, pulling off his sweatshirt.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to his arms, the strength in them, the tattoos on his skin. You bite back the desire to move closer, to get just a glimpse at one close up. You want to sit and trace them, hear the story of every single one. You want to push his sleeve up, watch the way his muscles bulge and flex, see how far his tattoo goes up his arm.

You snap yourself out of your thoughts, moving onto the mat before you do something embarrassing like starting to drool. You watch him as he stands at the edge of the mat, brown eyes taking you in as you stand there. Something tickles in the back of your mind, a hint of fear, the sense of sudden danger prevalent. What would you do if he suddenly ran at you? Try to dodge and make it to the door? Where would you go? The med center again?

“Easy.” He grumbles, sensing your obvious tension.

Your gaze snaps back to him, his posture relaxed as he stays still. “I'm putting a lot of trust in you.”

“I know.” He says, standing almost as still as a statue. You wonder how he can possibly be so still, but you suppose it's something he learned to do. “I should never have broken that trust in the first place.”

Your eyes widen, brows lifting as you stare at him. You didn't expect such a straightforward apology from him. You haven't really gotten one, until now. You hesitate as you stand there in silence, Ghost obviously waiting for your response.

“I don't know if I can forgive you.” You finally say.

“You shouldn't.” He shrugs, his gaze shifting to the wall behind you. “Even if you weren't really in danger, it was still a dick move.”

Your eyebrows raise even higher. “An apology and admitting you were a dick? Should I be worried?”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “Consider it an offering of amicability, for Johnny. I know you two are getting close, so inevitably we're going to find ourselves around each other more often than we have previously.”

“Well, I suppose I could accept that.” You say, shifting on your feet. “I don't think you could convince Johnny otherwise.”

“Hardly. He wouldn't listen anyway.” He finally moves, shifting on his feet. “You gonna put your hackles down so I can approach?”

You take a deep breath, relaxing the tension in your body. You don't really have a reason to fear him, despite what he did. He hasn't given you a reason to fear him since then, and he's even gone so far as to apologize in his own way. John wouldn't have allowed this to start again if he didn't trust Ghost not to do something that might put you in danger.

John trusts him, so you should be able to as well.

Ghost slowly approaches, your eyes watching him carefully until he's directly in front of you. You stare up at him, holding his gaze. You wish you could see the rest of his face on the off chance it might give you a hint at what he's thinking and feeling. You wonder if that's partially why he wears the mask.

Ghost holds out his hand and you place your own in his. It's so much bigger than yours, his long fingers engulfing your wrist as he wraps your hand. You could probably do it yourself by this point, but you like making him do it. You like the way his hands hold yours, the roughness of his skin against your own.

He starts out reviewing things you already know. Punches, kicks, dodging. It doesn't take long for you to get back into the groove of things, moving like it hasn't been nearly a month since your last training session. You notice the fatigue faster than you had during your last session, but you expected that after almost a month, paired with your heat two weeks ago.

“Now, punching and kicking will only get you so far in a fight.” He says, giving you a moment to breathe. “Almost all fights are going to end up on the ground. Even if your goal is disarming enough to escape, the chances of you and your opponent ending up on the ground is highly likely.”

He swipes your feet out from under you before you can even blink, nearly knocking the wind from you as you land on the mat on your back. He’s on you quickly, dropping to his hands and knees over you. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him above you, his hulking form seeming even larger from this angle. Your mind begins to run wild, imagining all the things that could happen in this position.

“Focus.” He grumbles, arms flexing as he presses his hands into the mat where they rest on either side of your head. “You don’t want to be in this position in a fight. You’re too vulnerable.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words. You are vulnerable like this. Even with him, someone who doesn’t want to hurt you, it would be so easy. Your head begins to turn, your gaze leaving his as instinct begins to take over.

“No.” He snaps, gripping your chin to turn your head back so he’s looking in your eyes. “You do that in a fight, you’re not going to see the other side.”

You gulp, trying to ignore the warmth of his fingers on your face, the firmness of his grip as he keeps you from showing submission to him. That’s not why you’re here. He’s right. If you do that in a fight, it’ll be over before you even have a chance to run.

“Your legs are far stronger than your arms. Use them to your advantage.” He says, showing you how to get him into the right position to flip him.

You know he’s helping you as you flip him onto his back. If he really was fighting you, you’re not sure you could have done it, even if you managed to land enough of a hit to disarm him. You wind up on top of him, sitting on his stomach. The position doesn’t help your racing thoughts, and you pray you can keep enough control over yourself so you don’t make it obvious.

“Use your legs to pin my hands.” He directs you. You shift your knees slightly, trapping his hands against the mat. “Good.” He says, laying still under you. “You can’t hold a bigger opponent down here for long, but that’s not the point. This gives you a moment of opportunity to go for the face or the neck. Stun them and that gives you a headstart. If you have a weapon available, then you have one less person to worry about chasing you.”

You gulp at his words. It hadn’t even crossed your mind during your training. He had said it so simply, so easily. You suppose it is to him, after years of doing it, after countless moments where it’s his life or theirs. Is that what he tells himself? Is that how he rationalizes it? Is there so much blood on his hands now that killing is as easy as breathing?

You wonder how they all rationalize it. They all have blood on their hands, they all have killed, and will kill again. Every time they leave and come back, it’s with more blood, more nameless faces on the list of lives they've taken, all in the name of the greater good.

Is violence and death really the path to the greater good?

“What?” He asks, sensing your inner turmoil.

You sit back on his stomach, your body rising and falling with his even breaths. “I don’t know if I could do it.”

He tugs his hands from beneath your knees easily, resting them on the mat next to your legs. You can feel his fingers twitch as the blood rushes back into them. “You might not have much of a choice.” He says, holding your gaze. There’s a softness in his gaze you have never seen before. “Sometimes it’s the only choice. If they’re attacking you, they’re better off dead. Even if their goal is to take you alive, the things they’ll do to you.” He shakes his head.

He’s speaking from experience. You know he’s seen things, witnessed the brutality omegas are subjected to at the hands of the worst kinds of alphas and betas. He’s watched omegas die in front of him while he’s sat helpless.

His hand lifts, cupping the back of your head to pull you down closer to his face. You catch yourself with your hands on either side of his head, fighting the urge to tense your shoulders. His hand doesn’t move from the back of your head, his fingers not even twitching as he holds you steady.

“If they’re willing to do it to you, how many others have been on the receiving end? If you’re not willing to be the last, how many others will come after you?” He says, his gaze intense as he stares at you. “I hope you never have to, but you always have to prepare for the worst.”

He holds you there for a breath, staring up into your eyes before he releases you, flipping you off of him and onto your back on the mat. He pushes himself up to stand, staring down at you as you lay there, catching your breath and thinking over the last few moments that transpired.

“Come on. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

It’s quiet in the rec room. The TV is off for once, only the hum of electricity and the occasional turning of a page the only sound breaking the silence. You and Ghost are the only two in the rec room, both of you relaxing silently as you read. He’s in the chair as usual, and you��re stretched out on the couch.

You’re only halfway paying attention to your book, still thinking over your conversation with Johnny earlier, and what transpired in the gym during your training session yesterday. You know how much Johnny wants to be with you, and you're more than willing to go that far with him. You like Johnny, more than just as a packmate. It's hard not to fall for him with his confidence and his playful demeanor. You know he's been desperate to take things to the next level too.

All he's waiting on is you saying the word.

He will never force you into it. He'll impatiently wait for you to go to him, to tell him that you want it. All jokes and teasing aside, you know he'd never make you feel like you were being forced into something.

The thought makes you want to cry.

“Pull his hair.” Ghost’s voice cuts through the silence, nearly making you jump.

You lower your book so you can see him, eyebrows raising in surprise at his words. “What?”

“When you finally fuck Johnny, grab him by the mohawk. He likes it.” Ghost says, not even looking up from his own book.

You stare at him wide-eyed, wondering for a moment if he can read minds, or if you’re just not quite as subtle as you think you’re being.

“I'll, uh, keep that in mind.” You say, lifting your book again to hide your blushing face.

The room descends into silence once more, the two of you continuing to read as if nothing had happened, as if that conversation hadn’t transpired. You wish it felt that way in your mind, though. The mental images Ghost’s words have drawn up drowning out the words on the pages that you’re trying to read. You’re trying not to get worked up further, but you can’t help it. After your training session and the thoughts that had come to mind with Ghost, and now these new images of Johnny, you’re sure your scent has begun to sweeten with arousal.

You need to rectify this, and fast.

You knock on the door, shifting nervously on your feet. Your hands have disappeared in your sleeves, the weight of your phone in your pocket the only thing keeping you from floating to the ceiling and dissipating into the air from the anxiety.

Your stomach nearly drops from your body as the door swings open, Gaz standing there in his full glory.

“Everything alright?” He asks, staring down at you with those big brown eyes. “You look nervous.”

You swallow the nerves, nodding in response. “Yeah, I just...wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

He steps away from the door, brows still pinched in worry and confusion as he motions for you to enter. You brush past him as you step into his room, taking a look around. You haven't been in his room before. It's slightly smaller than yours and John's, and it doesn't have a private bathroom. There's artwork up on the walls, and a couple of plants on his desk, along with a few personal belongings. It's neat and tidy, not that you expected anything less.

“What did you want to talk about?” He asks, turning to face you after closing the door.

You take a deep breath, calming the nervous twist in your stomach. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s a natural thing to bring up to packmates. You blame it on the fatigue from your lack of sleep putting you on edge.

“I wanted to ask you something.” You start, staring into his big brown eyes. They’re so beautiful, so expressive as they stare down at you. “Johnny and I...we’re going to...sleep together soon and...I just wanted to make sure that was okay? In case maybe you wanted to go first?”

Kyle’s lips slowly lift up into a smile as you stare at him nervously, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “He’s been an absolute tosser since before your heat, and he’d only become utterly unbearable if he didn’t get to go first.” He steps up closer to you, grinning down at you. “For the sake of everyone’s sanity, I don’t mind being patient. Besides,” He leans down, his breath fanning your ear. “I at least know what you look like naked, so I can occupy myself while I wait.”

Your face burns with warmth at his words, a shiver running down your spine. He’s not wrong. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, lost to your heat, naked and stuffed with John’s knot. Your brain flashes back to the start of your heat, the feel of his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. You swallow thickly, meeting his gaze as he pulls back.

“Enjoy your time with Johnny, love.” He slips his hand into yours, lifting it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. “I’ll be here waiting for you when you’re ready.”

You feel a bit out of breath as you leave Kyle’s room, and you’re sure your scent has sweetened with arousal and excitement. You might have been tempted to just jump Kyle’s bones right now, had it not been for your desire for Johnny, and your commitment to letting him be first again. You know Kyle’s right. You’d never hear the end of it if Johnny didn’t get the chance to be next in line.

Now you just have to find him and tell him the good news.

“Ye look nervous. Are ye nervous?”

“I mean, this is a big step...” You say, wrapping your arms around Johnny’s neck as he shifts you into his lap. You try not to think about how strong he is, how easily he moves you.

“Ye don’t have tae do this, if ye don’ want to.” He says, looking down into your eyes.

“It’s not that...” You say, shifting in his lap. “It’s more...there’s no going back after this.”

He wraps his arms tighter around you. “If I didnae want it, I wouldnae offer. Yer a fucking stunnin’ omega, kitten. Would be crazy not tae want ye.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, your gaze dropping from the intensity of his own. His stubble tickles your fingers as you trace the line of his jaw, working your way towards his lips. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as your fingers trace the jagged scar on his chin.

“Just...go easy on me? At least this first time?” You say, tracing his lips with your fingers.

“‘Course, kitten.” He says, pressing a kiss to your fingertips. “Wouldnae want to scare ye away.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the implications of his words, your stomach fluttering with excitement and a hint of fear at what he could possibly be alluding to. His hand lifts, gently grasping your chin, tilting your face slightly. He closes the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours.

“Don’ worry.” He murmurs against your lips. “Take good care of ye.”

You hum against his lips, tasting the chocolate he’d been snacking on when you sought him out as his tongue slips into your mouth. His hand leaves your chin, sliding down your throat to rest right at the base of your throat, fingers splayed across your clavicle. His thumb rests right on the edge of your mating mark, the pressure making you shiver.

Johnny pulls you tighter against his chest, your arms wrapping around his neck. He moans against your lips as you shift against him, the bulge in his pants pressing against your ass. It’s not the first time you’ve felt it, but this time it’s different. This time you’re going to do something about it.

“Fucking christ, take ye right here on this couch, if I’m not careful.” Johnny groans, nipping at your bottom lip.

“Then best take me to bed, Sergeant.” You say, pulling back slightly to give him what you hope is a sultry look.

The groan that’s pulled from his lips is downright salacious, something flashing in his eyes as you call him by his rank. He curses, tightening his hold around you before he stands, maneuvering you so you’re tossed over his shoulder. You let out a squeak of surprise that’s quickly replaced by giggles as he packs you down the hall to his room.

He sets you on your feet once you're inside, closing the door. You look around his room, surprised to see it full of art supplies with drawings and paintings all over the walls. You stare open mouthed, taking it all in. It's messier than John and Kyle's rooms, though there's still a sense of order to it. A chaotic order, but you suppose that explains Johnny perfectly.

“You draw?” You say, studying the art on the walls.

“Aye,” Johnny says, coming up behind you. “In my free time.”

“I didn't know that.” A small smile tugs at your lips. “They're beautiful.”

“Thank ye, kitten.” He wraps his arms around you from behind, reminding you of why you came in here in the first place. “Not quite as beautiful as you.”

Your face warms at his compliment and you tilt your head back, staring up at him. “You're such a charmer.”

“Try my best.” He grins, leaning down and kissing your forehead. “Promise I'll show ye my drawings later.”

You turn in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck. “I know. You're desperate.”

“Been waitin’ weeks for this, kitten.” He groans, grinding against you.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours. You tighten your grip around his neck, jumping into his arms. He manages to catch you, stumbling half a step back as his hands grip your thighs. You wrap your legs around his waist, lifting yourself so you’re face to face with him.

“Christ.” He groans against your lips, walking forward until he reaches his bed.

He drops you on your back, your body bouncing on the mattress as he settles on his knees over you. His eyes have darkened as he stares down at you, your stomach twisting in excitement. Warmth has started to pool between your legs, your scent sweetening with arousal.

Johnny’s hands are rough as they slip under your shirt, tugging it up over your head. He groans, eyes fluttering as he realizes you’re without a bra underneath. He curses quietly, something you can’t quite understand as his hands immediately close around your breasts. Your lips part as he squeezes the flesh in his hands, leaning down to take a nipple in his mouth. You gasp at the sensation as his lips close around the sensitive bud, suckling at it like he’s a man starved.

Well, you suppose he is.

He has been waiting for quite a while for this opportunity. Something about it makes your brain tingle, arousal pooling in your stomach at the thought of someone desiring you that much.

It’s not just him, though. Three of the four members of your pack have expressed their desire for you in such a way. The thought makes your head spin. You’re just a simple omega, and yet, here they are going half crazy over you.

Johnny releases your nipple with a pop, shifting so he can give the same attention to the other one. Arousal continues to pool between your legs, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. You drag your fingernails across the back of his neck, a shiver wracking through his body, his hips grinding down against your thigh.

“Fuck,” He gasps, releasing your nipple to stare up at you.

You repeat the motion, dragging your fingers slower. His eyes roll back, hips grinding harder against your thigh. He’s so sensitive, you think, pushing your thigh up against him. He lets out what can only be described as almost a whine, rutting his hips against your leg.

“Fuck,” He curses again, pushing himself back up onto his knees. “Tonight is about you, kitten.” He takes a deep breath before slipping his fingers under the waistband of your pants, tugging them down quickly and tossing them on the floor next to your shirt.

He sinks his teeth into his lip as he stares down at your panties, one of the pairs he got you on your shopping trip before your date with John. You had changed into them specifically for Johnny, remembering how excited he’d looked when he bought you five pairs of the lacy garments. He groans quietly as he runs his fingers over your lace covered skin, slowly lowering his fingers between your thighs. He glances up at you, meeting his gaze and you give him a nod before his fingers dip lower, trailing the wet spot on the lacy fabric.

You part your legs more for him as he rubs you through your panties, quiet moans leaving your lips at the feeling of the friction from the fabric. His eyes are still on you, glued to your face as the pleasure begins to build just from his touch. You buck your hips against his hand, searching out more. More pleasure, more of his touch, more of him.

“Look at ye, needy little thing.” He groans, his thumb dragging up your slit until he finds your clit, slowly circling it through the fabric. “Barely touched ye an’ yer cunt’s already soakin’ yer skids. Fucking sweet little thing, so needy for me, aren’t ye?”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, staring down at him. “Are you going to sit there and run your mouth all night, or are you going to fuck me?”

He grins wickedly at you. “I’m just gettin’ started, kitten.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee before trailing kisses up your inner thigh. His thumb continues to stroke you through your panties, applying more and more pressure as he gets closer and closer to your center. He whispers out a curse as he shoves your panties to the side, revealing your glistening folds to him. He leans forward, warm breath fanning your slit before he closes his mouth around you.

You gasp at the sensation, dropping back onto your back on the bed as he drags his tongue through your folds, flicking it across your clit before he closes his lips around the sensitive bud, suckling at it like he did your nipples earlier. Pleasure shoots through you as he eats you like a man starved, slurping away at your pussy obscenely.

“Fuck, Johnny!” You gasp, legs trying to close around his head, but he holds your inner thighs, keeping them spread.

You’re not going to last very long, not with him alternating between sucking at your clit and swirling his tongue around it like that. He’s done this before, and you can’t help the momentary spike of jealousy at the thought of him between any other omega’s thighs now that he has you.

“Gonna cum!” You whine, hips bucking against his face.

“Yeah? Gonna make a mess all over my face?” He groans.

You curse, your back arching as he continues to work you up, hands fisting his sheets.

“That’s it.” He groans against your clit, dragging his teeth over the sensitive bud. “Be a good omega for me.”

You cum with a cry, soaking his chin as he continues to tease you. He laps at your juices, not slowing any as he works you through your orgasm, even as you begin to shake with overstimulation.

“I-I can’t.” You gasp, the burning feeling starting to pulse through you as he continues to suck at your clit. It’s quickly becoming too much, the feeling overwhelming you.

Ghost’s words flash through your mind at that moment, his suggestion yesterday while you both spent time in the rec room reading. You reach down, sinking your fingers into Johnny’s mohawk, gripping the short strands. He lets out a groan as you tug, pulling his face from your pussy finally. His chin is glistening with your release, his tongue darting out to lick your juices from his lips.

He follows as you tug upwards, drawing him away from your pussy. He crawls up your body until you’re almost face to face, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

“I said that’s enough.” You say, slightly breathless from your orgasm, but you put as much authority in your tone as you can manage.

“Yes ma’am.” He practically whines, the muscles in his arms flexing as he sinks his own fingers into the sheets around you.

The sudden shift in control has something buzzing in your brain, the back of your neck tingling. You’re an omega. You’re not supposed to be in control, and yet, here Johnny is, practically folding in front of you. A thrill shoots through your veins at the thought of what you could make him do, what lengths he’d go to for you simply because you have him in this position.

“Take your clothes off.” You say, releasing his mohawk.

He sits back without complaint, tugging his shirt over his head. You take him in, the hard lines of his muscles, the dark hair on his chest, the line disappearing under the waistband of his pants. You lick your lips as he undoes the button on his pants, undoing the zipper before tugging them down with his boxers.

His cock is hard and practically standing at attention as he kicks his pants off. He’s slightly smaller than John, but not by much. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him inside you, but you’re not ready for that quite yet. You guide Johnny back up to your face, pressing your lips against his. You can taste yourself on him, making him groan as you lick into his mouth.

You guide him onto his back, trading places with him. He settles beneath you, his hands lifting to your hips, but you push them back as you pull away. You smirk down at him for a moment before you move, changing your position so you’re facing away from him. You trap his hands against the bed with your legs like Ghost showed you, sitting yourself on his taut stomach. He has a clear view of your ass still sporting your lacy panties, your wet folds pressed against his skin.

“Simon show ye that one?” He asks, flexing his hands under you. He could easily overpower you and free himself, but he doesn’t.

“Uh huh.” You say, wrapping your hand around his cock.

“Hells bells, what are you two gettin’ into during trainin’?” He groans, obviously starting to picture the lewd things you and Ghost might be doing. You wonder how he’d react to seeing you on top of Ghost like you were yesterday.

“He’s just teaching me how to defend myself.” You say, slowly pumping his cock. “I’m finding there’s not much of a difference between fucking and fighting.”

Johnny lets out another groan, but you’re not sure if it’s because of your words, or your hand on his cock. You continue to pump his length, feeling the softness of him in your hand, squeezing gently to feel the vein running along the bottom side. Johnny lets out a choked groan, hands twitching again under your legs.

“Fuck, I cannae last much longer.” He gasps desperately, his length twitching in your hand.

Pearly white beads of precum have begun to slip from his tip, and you can’t help but lean down and drag your tongue across his head, gathering some in your mouth. He lets out a whine that rivals ones of your own, his hips bucking as he gets closer and closer to his own orgasm.

“Please, kitten, let me cum inside ye.” He begs, pulling his hands free from underneath you so he can grip your hips.

You pull away from his cock, sitting up on his stomach. He’s panting, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips. You shift yourself again, turning back around to face him. His eyes are hooded as he stares at you, pupils blown with lust. His lips are parted as he pants, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of holding himself back. You push yourself back until you’re hovering over his cock, pulling your panties to the side with one hand, grabbing his length with the other.

You groan as you sink down onto him, bracing yourself with a hand on his stomach as he stretches you open. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing your hips as you work yourself down his length.

“Fuck,” You breathe, pressing your hands against his abs as you sink down completely onto his cock, your hips flush with his.

“So fucking tight and warm,” He groans, his grip near bruising around your hips. “Fucking feel fantastic, kitten.”

You slowly begin rocking your hips, using your hands on his stomach for leverage. Your toes are curling already from this angle, the tip of his cock brushing that spot deep inside you with every rock of your hips. Small whines and whimpers leave your lips as you fuck yourself on his cock, squeezing your legs around his hips. They’re shaking already, and you know you won’t last long in this position.

Johnny seems to notice that as well, his grip on your hips tightening as he starts to guide your movements. You’re starting to sweat from the effort, your thighs burning, but it feels too good to stop. You’re getting close again, the stretch of him inside you paired with the high of having such control over him just a few moments ago driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Johnny pushes himself up as your movements begin to slow, wrapping his arms around you to shift you in his lap, laying you down on the bed facing the footboard as he slots himself over you. He takes over, thrusting into you, setting a frantic pace. Your head falls back as he pounds into you, your back arching as he folds his body over yours, pressing his face into your neck.

“Gonna cum for me? Need tae feel ye squeezing ‘round my cock.” He grunts, nipping at the skin of your throat.

You let out a whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Just like that.” You pant, squeezing your legs around his hips. “Don’t stop!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He groans, continuing to rut into you like your pussy is the only thing that can save his life.

You practically see stars as you cum, squeezing around his cock as pleasure jolts through your body like electricity. Your hips buck against his, grinding together like some sort of forbidden dance as he’s forced into his own orgasm by your walls squeezing around him. His hips stutter before he stills, warmth spurting into you as he cums. You hold him there, his body trembling with yours as he groans into your throat.

“Fucking hell.” He moans, starting to shallowly thrust into you. He’s still hard, his cock dragging through your sensitive walls as he continues to fuck you despite having just orgasmed. “Never gonnae tire of this sweet cunt.”

He probably won’t, you think as he continues to slowly thrust into you again.

You’re in for a long night.

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse #john price x reader #captain price x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gax x reader

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boowritess · 1 year

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Tough Nights

kyle gaz garrick x reader

a/n: i just want to hold him and comfort him tbh so have this- this been sitting in my drafts forr weeks sooo whoops- hope ya'll have a good christmas♡

gaz feels his whole body drop, causing him to jerk up, eyes flying open, grabbing onto anything closest to him. his hearts pounding, he feels like he can't breathe- it's dark. why is it dark? it's quiet. why is it quiet?

but every time he closes his eyes and tries to breathe in, all he can see is the world upside down, the rush of cars flying past him, the smell of gunpowder and dust. it's all a blur. gaz can hear the muffled words of nikolai, the distant sound of gunfire and holy fuck he was falling- there was a truck coming at him-

"kyle?" a sweet clear voice calls to him, and when he opens his eyes, there's a soft warm light. "babe?"

"y/n?" he rasps, still trying to catch his breath. he realizes where he is. what he's doing. one of his hands was clenched onto the headboard, while the other was fisted into a pillow next to him.

you shift next to him, gently reaching out to touch his arm that was closest, the one that was grasping the wooden headboard. unbeknownst to you, it dumps kyle with a wave of relief. that he isn't hanging from the damn helicopter. that he isn't alone.

but he can't get out've it. "i- i can't- i don't know-" he gasps breathless. he knows he's home. with you. he can feel your gentle touch, he can smell you, see you look at him with such softness it floods him with love- but he just can't escape that moment.

"shh, that's alright baby, breathe." you hush, carefully removing the pillow behind him, you take it's place and lean your body against him. resting your cheek against his shoulder, wrapping one arm around his front, placing your hand over his heart, letting the other slip between you both to rub his back. your legs locked on either side of him "take your time, baby. m'right here." you murmer against his heated skin. gently breathing in and out, holding him.

your body is cool against his heated clammmy skin, steady breaths a stark contrast to his shaky ones. but everytime you smooth your palm up his back and back down, he finds himself falling into a rythem of breathing in and out in sync. letting the rise and fall of your chest guide him. the weight of your body against him wraps around him like a safety net.

when you can start to feel the tension in his body relax, his arms now limp at his side, slowly, you start to lean back, slipping your other arm to his front, holding him close all the while whispering, "i gotchu baby. i got you." you relax against the headboard, his hand reaching up to cover yours that had been over his heart.

you're nuzzling the side of his head, as his other hand reaches up to cup the back of your head. his head turns, seeing you resting yours on his shoulder. he's not just looking at you, but he's absorbing every detail of your face. it's not one that's judging or calculated, not one that makes you feel like you're being picked apart. the way he looks at you makes you feel like it's just you two in the whole world.

he stares at you like you're his saving grace. the answer to his prayers. an angel sent down to protect him. brown eyes soaking you in like it's his first time seeing you. it's a comfort to him as he looks at you, allowing you to fill his senses, to ground him, to remind him that he's with you and not falling.

yet guilt knaws at him. he feels selfish. greedy. a burden. that he's sure you'd be better off without him.

"kyle." your voice is sterner and your face is tense, fuck he know he's messed up- then you're cupping his face, leaning forward to brush away his tears, shit. he had been crying? "kyle. talk to me, love." you murmer, lips brushing his cheek, hands holding him. "kyle, my love-"

"you don't deserve this. i don't deserve you-" he chokes out, when he tries to turn away, you hold still, turning him to look at you but his eyes are cast down, tears falling from his lashes, "i-i don't-"

"kyle stop. look at me. please, kyle look at me." when he does he's met with a soft smile on your face, "why do you say this? hm? tell me."

"you shouldn't have to be with someone that's riddled with- whatever the fuck is wrong with me. someone who's home to hold you every night. who isn't gone for weeks and months." it all comes out. insecurities that had been burrowed deep down, that come out all because of a stupid memory. he's alive- he knows he's alive, yet there was a slim chance that he could've been coming home to you in a wooden box and he tells you.

he doesn't know what he expected you to do. to cuss him out? yell at him? claim that he's right and leave? now that thought had his heart hammering. but you do none of that. you listen to him. hold him like he's your lifeline. and to you he is. you catch his tears with tip of your fingers. stare at him with no judgement but a softness and gentleness that has him trembling.

"i could die on the feild and leave you-"

"leave me? kyle you would die but you would never leave me." your word have his brows furrowing, "you'ld be with me every second, every breath i take, you'ld be with me. you could die, yes. i know that. but the memory of you could never go. each and every one so important to me, from the way you like your tea, to the way you laugh at the dumbest jokes,"

"i would never trade you for someone simply because there are days you aren't here. every moment we spend together is so fulfilling that i know i could never experience the same with another person." before he could turn away to hide the flush of his skin, you're capturing his chin, looking at him with a steady gaze.

"there is nothing wrong with you. do you understand? what you go through my love, i could never fault you for how you react to it now." you murmer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

all the while he stares at you with such softness and vulnerability that you knew you could never find in another. as if you needed any other when all you needed was here in your arms.

"i love you." he says, voice tender. "fuck. i love you. will always love you."

"always?" there's a slight tease in your tone.

he nods. "always."

"i love you kyle." you say, wiping away the last of his tears. "will always love you."

"always?" he whispers as you drape your arms over him, holding, touching, while he does his best to do it back.

as you nuzzle into his shoulder, you respond, "unfortunately." he feels your smile against his skin, while he turns to nip your exposed ear, smiling at the small squeal that releases from you. he's quick to kiss where he nipped. trailing a line of kisses till your turning to look at him. "always." you confirm, a grin falling on his face before your lips meet.

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month

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Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (1 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, brief discussion of verbal and emotional injury, protective Kyle, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

With no one to turn to, you contact Gaz, knowing that he'll listen. But old instincts are hard to ignore, and Gaz comes to you because your current boyfriend isn't worth your love. He needs you to understand that.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend masterlist

It’s late. The colors on the television are bright in the dark room. Sound is off but Kyle isn’t watching. It’s more for the background. A distraction. All the muscles in his body ache. That’s how it always is when he returns from another deployment.

Everything is fine until he arrives home and plops onto the sofa. Like a slumbering bear emerging from winter hibernation, his body reacts to the sudden silence of rest as if peace isn’t something Kyle deserves. It’s why he’s always gone, and because of his continuous absences, you left.

Lonely. You were always lonely with him, and it’s because Kyle made it so. It’s a constant regret that sits in the back of his throat like spice buildup. It burns. Rages. Simmers.

When Kyle’s phone starts buzzing, he doesn’t notice at first. The screen is bright like the television, but it isn’t until its rattling boxy body shifts that Kyle’s gaze glances downward. He considers leaving it, allowing the caller to fall to voicemail, but something stirs in his stomach. It hooks his attention.

Perhaps it’s the late hour or the sudden tightness in his chest. Something is bothering him like stubborn sticky spots on the kitchen floor.

Kyle sits up, reaching for the vibrating phone on the tabletop.

Your name scrolls across the screen.

At first, Kyle’s mind cannot comprehend it. The letters that make up your name move over the screen of the phone in a blur, almost like they’re moving too quickly. But that isn’t possible. Kyle’s mind simply cannot comprehend why the hell you’re calling him this late at night.

You are no longer his. The two of you aren’t together. You moved on and rightfully so. Kyle has seen all the social media posts, and sometimes the blokes at work might bring you up, usually to provoke him. But the fucking joke is on them. The separation was mutual. It was kind and calm and fine.

But that doesn’t mean Kyle hasn’t thought about you. There is no box inside his head to put you in. There is no hole or lock or key or barren wasteland where he could simply toss your memory into and forget.

Kyle didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t want to let you go.

But you weren’t happy. He was always gone, and still is. Kyle never figured out how to be a partner to you when he was a partner to his work.

He regrets not fighting for you. He regrets not speaking up instead of gently bowing out.

And it’s late. It’s fucking late. Why are you calling him?

Hope—or a sliver of it—blooms in his chest, twisting around inside his body like ribbons around bone. When the feeling pulls taut, that excitement slides into worry.

The two of you are not together.

You rarely call him.

But his phone is buzzing.

And you are waiting on the other end.

Kyle’s slides his thumb across his phone’s screen, answering the call. He brings it up his ear, and that is when he hears it—a choked inhalation. It is one he recognizes. You’re crying, and trying to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kyle automatically, the instinct to take care of you rising to the surface.

There is a soft sniffle before you speak. “It’s—fuck. I’m sorry for calling you this late. I didn’t think you’d even pick up. Or be home. Are you home? Shit. I—”

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, because there has to be something wrong. You’re calling him, not your boyfriend. “Are you hurt?”

The idea of someone putting hands on you builds in his mind. It is followed by so many other possibilities. A wrecked car. Someone following you home. Everything.

“No—I mean.” You pause, sighing. The difficulty to communicate doesn’t sit right with him. You’re clearly in distress and the need to fix it is unbearable.

“Are you at home?” This time Kyle lowers his voice. Makes it soft. Gentle.

“Yes,” you answer.

He nods as if you can see him. “I’m coming over.” Kyle is already pushing off the couch, shrugging on his coat, and reaching for his keys.

“Kyle.” You say his name—just his name—and it says so much.

The ribbon between his bones loosens. Tightens. Ties his emotions and memory of you all together until your face is all he can picture.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kyle makes it in fifteen.

When you answer the door, Kyle shatters like glass hurled against the wall. Your eyes are red and puffy from crying. The look on your face dances between anger, sadness, and relief. He has no idea where on the spectrum he currently sits but this vision of you only puts him back to those days when he’d come home for a few days, taking off again, leaving you with nothing for stretches at a time.

There are no awkward greetings. No embarrassed flushes. Kyle does not hesitate, and you open for him. He reaches for you, and you answer in kind, embracing Kyle so hard you might squeeze the air from his lungs.

That would be fine. Kyle would happily suffocate.

Kyle stands and holds you, breathing in your familiar scent, pressing his face into your hair. His eyes close, and it’s just like before. Like you never left him. The sensation of you this close ignites every possessive part of him. It tells him to not let go and to keep you close.

But you are not his woman. Not anymore. And yet you should be.

He does not pull away until you do. But you don’t retreat into your flat, or slip out of reach. You stay right where you are, the two of you hovering just inside the doorway. On instinct, Kyle is touching you, one hand cupping the side of your face, your tears staining his skin where he touches your flesh. His other hand is on your upper arm, thumb rubbing across the bare skin there in gentle strokes.

You begin to melt, the muscles in your body relaxing. What Kyle wants to do is to take you to the couch or the bed, to drape you over his body, to place you in his lap. That is the intimacy he craves. It’s what he would do if you were still his.

Those gorgeous lips of your part, mouth opening as if you wish to speak, but whatever you want to say is lodged in your throat. In their place come fresh tears and sudden shifts of emotions that range from frustration to despair.

You’re hurting. You’re hurting so much, and Kyle only wants to fix things.

“Look at me,” murmurs Kyle, both hands now cradling your face. “Let’s get you settled. Yeah?” You nod, your small smile forced. “Come with me,” he coaxes.

He draws away and gently reaches out to take your hand, guiding you over to the sofa. He instructs you to recline, grabbing a few more pillows and a blanket. Once you’re all tucked in, Kyle digs around in your kitchen searching for snacks while the kettle boils for tea.

The need to take care of you is overwhelming. Kyle’s head throbs from the incessant voice that tells him to get you calm, to make you comfortable, to listen when you’re ready. The routine is easy, and Kyle provides, executing what you need without prompting or even second guessing it.

And you open up for him. Thank him. Reach out with your hand to hold his as he sits next to you on the couch. You’re calmer now with your tears wiped away and your face no longer puffy.

“Ready to talk about it?”

Your thumb runs along the edge of your mug. “Still want to hear it?”

“You can tell me anything,” he replies automatically.

You lick your lips and inhale. “He yelled at me.” By the defeat in your tone, Kyle can immediately tell that this isn’t the first time.

Kyle stays quiet, allowing you to take the lead, to tell it however you need to.

“This time it happened after we met up with some of his friends. I called him ‘boyfriend’ and got a few odd looks. In the car he told me not to call him that. I didn’t understand so I pushed.” You glance down at your tea. “He screamed the whole ride home. Dropped me off here and wouldn’t even look at me.”

Kyle goes cold all over. You’ve been with this guy for almost six months and he’s upset that you referred to him as your ‘boyfriend?’ No. Fuck him. That’s fuck boy behavior. That’s a man who wants all the benefits without any of the commitment. You don’t deserve that. And this fucker doesn’t deserve you.

Sighing, you reach for your phone and unlock it, turning it around to present it. Kyle takes it, staring at the screen. There are texts upon texts from the guy, all of which you’ve left unanswered. It starts as an apology and quickly becomes angrier as he scrolls.

But you did answer him. It’s the very last message. You sent it just before you called Kyle.

We’re done, it reads.

And there is no answering reply. There are no pulsing bubbles to even indicate that he’s formulating a response.

Good. Fucking good.

Kyle extends his arm, returning the phone. You don’t lock it. You shut it down, tossing it onto the table. Placing the mug of tea down, you sit up, staring intensely into Kyle’s eyes. There is so much he sees there, but he won’t move first even though he wants to, even though he wants you to return to his arms so he can remind you just how perfect the two of you are for each other.

But sometimes memory and the movement of it are just the length of a singular breath.

Maybe it is Kyle that moves first. Maybe it is you. In moments—seconds—you are straddling Kyle’s lap, arms laced around the back of his neck, your mouths pressed together in perfectly wanton need, a reunion that shakes every bone in his body.

You are fresh air. Cold ice cream on a hot summer day. Strawberries with sugar and cream. Sweet. Perfect. And only for his consumption. That is always how it should be.

Kyle’s hands slide up your body, over every curve.

“I miss you. I miss you all the time,” you confess, fingers digging into the front of his shirt.

Your admission is validation.

“I’d never tell you to not call me ‘boyfriend,’” murmurs Kyle against your mouth before going in for another kiss. “I’d want to hear you say it all the time.”

His words are a promise. An invitation.

Take me back. Please. Choose me.

Your lips part and Kyle slides his tongue inside, relearning your flavor. It is heaven dissolving on his tongue. He chases it, chases you, until you’re tugging at his clothes, wanting them gone.

It doesn’t matter that this is your sofa. If you want him, Kyle will lay himself bare, let you have whatever the fuck you want. There isn’t much to remove from you, but once the two of you are bare and you are straddling his lap, Kyle gives all his love and attention to these next moments.

Your body briefly resists, and then it melts, allowing him entrance. Kyle wraps one arm around your waist, hand splayed over your lower back to support your weight as you roll your hips up and down his cock. His other hand holds onto the side of your throat, keeping your gaze on him as you fuck yourself on him.

It’s glorious. Perfect. You are so slick and warm around him. He never forgot, but the real thing is better than memory. Better than his hand in the shower or the dark. You are moaning, light and wavering and only for him.

Your fingers dig in, nails clawing but not tearing. On the next rock of your hips, Kyle slides deep, and the sound you make nearly snaps his control. He holds fast, hand sliding to squeeze your ass as your movements become frantic and with no purposeful rhythm. You’re seeking your end, and Kyle wants you to have it. He needs you to have it.

“Come on my cock, love. For me. Yes. Like that.” You squeeze and Kyle groans loudly. “That’s it. Fucking hell, love.

You turn your face into his neck to stifle the cry that erupts from your throat as your orgasm hits you. Kyle nearly finishes himself, your pussy a vice around him, claiming him. A shudder runs through your limbs, and then you’re nipping at Kyle’s neck and jaw.

“Finish inside me,” you whimper, drawing back enough to gaze into his eyes.

Kyle doesn’t need you to say it twice.

Changing position, Kyle slides both hands to the curve of your ass. Lifting, he shifts you until he’s propped up on his knees. Your legs drape over his arms, completely open for him. You cling to him and Kyle brings your bodies together over and over again.

He will finish—he will, but Kyle needs to hear that word first.

“Are you mine?” he asks between clenched teeth. It’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s ready to snap, ready to release.

You nod and it isn’t enough.

“Say it.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

Kyle grinds his pelvis against you, rubbing perfectly across your already sensitive clit. You cry out, clench around him again, but still, he needs to hear you say it.

“What am I to you?”

“Kyle,” you moan, and he laughs.

“Not that.” A little spasm runs through you and Kyle feels it reverberate all the way to his brain. “Won’t give you what you want until you say it.”

You gasp as the next thrust punches the air from your lungs. “Boyfriend,” you manage to whimper. “You’re my boyfriend.”

Fucking right.

Kyle immediately takes you to your back on the couch, thrusting a few more times before pressing taut, sealing your bodies together as his own release overcomes him.

His mouth meets yours and Kyle’s body is singing, pulsing, and bright.

You are his.

You are his again.

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mlmxreader · 27 days

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Late Night Homecoming | Kyle Gaz Garrick x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "Hold me close, don't ever let me go" with Gaz please?

Just a happy fluffy reunion ❞

: ̗̀➛ Gaz comes home late at night, but he knows he's home, and that's what matters

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking

↳ DNI if you interact with rape porn/noncon, proship, profic, DDNE/dead dove, etc. stay the fuck away from me <3

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Gaz stretched lazily as he stepped out of the taxi, his bags in his hands as he took a look around at the street he had come to call home; it was a quarter to two in the morning, so he was rather surprised when he noticed the lights were on at home.

But the street itself was almost unrecognisable after being gone for so long; it didn't feel like home anymore.

The old couple who lived across the road, their house seemed so unfamiliar, like it came from a dream or a false memory.

It didn't seem right at all, and when he noticed that their fluffy Alsatian dog was sleeping in the porch - his usual spot - Gaz could only furrow his brows.

The dog raised his head, his greying muzzle shining in the bleak light, and Gaz noticed the thump of his tail before he headed home for good.

He was quick to dump his bags in the porch, but he was nearly knocked over by the thundering dogs the second he stepped inside.

The smallest of the three, with a dark brown coat and a greying muzzle, as well as a few white spots on her feet, attacked him with a wagging tail and excited barking; Gaz laughed as he tried, in vain, to get back up.

The largest of the three, with a dark blue coat and a white spot on his chest as well as yellow eyes, kept pouncing on him and barking in his face, trying to get him to play. Gaz could only laugh harder as he struggled to move and get to his feet.

The final dog, with a black coat, white paws, white markings on his head reminiscent of a cow, and a white tip on his tail, merely stood by and kept smacking Gaz with his paws, begging for attention.

But then a long, loud whistle sounded out, and the dogs retreated; with some reprieve, Gaz stood up as he let out a few short laughs and shook his head, following the dogs into the kitchen.

The three of them were stood behind you, and when Gaz noticed what you were wearing, he grinned brightly. He finally felt like he was home, seeing you wear his Cymru national rugby team shirt. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a long sigh of relief as he crossed the room to you, hugging you tightly the second that he was close enough to grab you.

You immediately hugged him back, letting him bury his face against the side of your neck as you put one hand between his shoulders, the other lower down on the middle of his back.

For a while, you just stayed like that.

Drowning in the fact that he was home, and even better, he was alive.

He was home.

Gaz sniffed your neck, smiling to himself when he realised that you were wearing his cologne; you always did when he was gone, you would wear his Cymru shirt and his cologne like you didn't want to forget him. It always made him smile.

But then you pulled away, opening the back door and letting the excited sight hounds bolt outside before you turned to Gaz with a laugh and started to roll two cigarettes.

"You alright?"

He nodded, sitting at the breakfast bar and spreading his legs, expecting you to stand between them like you usually did. "Yeah, not bad - nearly threw me tea on Soap, though."

You furrowed your brows. "He didn't say anything dodge, did he?"

"Dodge and then some," Gaz huffed with a roll of his eyes. "He kept saying you'd've probably settled down with someone else. Left me behind."

You scoffed as you shook your head, coming to stand between his legs with the two lit cigarettes. You gently placed one between his lips as you smiled. "Soap's a cunt. You know I'd never."

"I know," Gaz whispered, putting one arm around you so that his fingers splayed out at the middle of your lower back. "Won't stop him from being a cunt, though. I swear, I don't know why Price bothers."

"What'd you mean?" You asked softly.

"We got a new recruit in," Gaz started, "still in training at the moment, but he's good. Name's Gary or some shit, I dunno. But he's good, he's got promise."

You hummed, putting your arm on his shoulder and leaning against him. "Good as you?"

Gaz shrugged. "Might be."

"Think he'll be the second to evade capture during training?" You asked, and when he shook his head, you grinned. "See? So he ain't as good as you."

"He's got the mental," he told you. "That's what I'd prefer. Soap might be physically fit, but he's a hot head and he's rash. I keep telling Price, we need someone with the mental. Someone tolerant and aware."

"Like you," you pointed out. "I'm not saying you're wrong, but I am saying that nobody's gonna compare to you, Kyle."

He smiled as he shook his head. "You're only saying that because I'm your husband."

"So?" You hummed. "Am I not allowed to big up my husband all of a sudden?"

"No, but I do like the praise," he admitted with a laugh. "And fuck, am I glad to be home."

"I'm glad, too," you whispered, moving to sit on his lap. "But no more work talk for tonight, just hold me close and don't ever let me go."

Gaz hummed, licking his lips as he nodded perhaps a bit too eagerly. "I can do that."

The second you were in his arms again, your back against his chest and his arm slung around you to keep your body close to his, he knew that he never wanted to leave again. He knew that tomorrow he would wake up to the sound of you singing Sabaton songs in the kitchen, and he would stay in bed for just a few extra minutes to listen to you. He always did.

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iifishizzleii · 19 days

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“you’re just so small :(“ “he doesn’t want to hurt ur tiny body” “his fist is bigger than your womb” “his hand is the size of your entire stomach” “:( small baby no hurt by big man soldier”-

eeughhhaa🤨

brotha eeughhhaa🤢🤢🤢👹👹🤕🤒🤒🤮🤧

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criminalamnesia · 2 months

Note

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john’s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

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