Coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
Let's play a game called "How Messed Up Is Your Fanfiction Taste?"
Basically, you check the boxes from [this link]. The higher the score, the more innocent you are. The lower the score, the more of a degenerate you are.
I clicked some pretty questionable things, didn't expect it to be this high lol. I was gonna redo it but to be brutally honest with myself I am quite vanilla ๐ซฃ
begging to whatever god will listen for Gaz to bite me, i am parched, thirsty, everything in between, I am an offering up the altar to be sacrificed I need his teeth in my throat STAT ๐ตโ๐ซ
ill-advised. anon. you should never say this to Gaz. don't encourage this behavior. you already stimulate the cute aggression part of his brain. he has too many reasons to bite you already:
mark you (because he likes to see it)
mark you (to remind you of him when he's not around <3)
hear you squeak
feel you wiggle
shows other people you're spoken for (so fuck off) even if you're not officially his (yet)
world hard and cold; flesh soft and warm.
and the way he catalogs all his favorite places to bite you:
your lip (cute when you're not expecting it; hot when you reciprocate; you're not getting away after that)
your ear (socially acceptable in public, but the reaction it provokes in you is not)
your neck (makes you go all docile; very submissive + breedable of you)
your shoulder (during sex when you're bouncing in his lap or when he's taking you from behind)
your fingertips (you pout about it, but it takes negative two seconds of having any part of you in his mouth to turn him on)
nsfw โฌ
your chest (if nipples weren't meant to be biteable, why are they shaped all tempting like that? why do they stand up when he starts playing with you??)
your thighs (yeah, on the inside, and you'd better not try to hide it. you're wearing shorts out <3)
your ass (flipping you over while he's eating you out? he's not even gonna try to resist a nip or two when he slides his fingers into you and your back arches up. you tease)
your clit (when he's eating you out and you have the audacity to look away; your eyes need to be on him. plus gentle closing of the teeth around your clit makes you squirm like crazy)
rest assured, if you offer your throat up to gaz, he's not gonna be responsible about it.ย
and if you offer yourself up as a sacrifice?? okay, baby, you're his forever. no take backs.
CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging
Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simonโs skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where youโve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.
Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.
The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. โOh god. Simon.โ
The way youโd slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. โOh, god, Simon, what do I do?โ
โPunctured a lung,โ he whispers, barely a breath.
โYou need a doctor,โ you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, โI donโt know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?โ
โโM okay, Precious,โ he grunts. And then he stands up, like heโs not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as youโd grappled with him. โGet the bag.โ
The bag? โWeโre not playing games anymore!โ
โโS got medical supplies in it,โ Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. โโN another gift for you. Cโmon, weโll go back to the cabin.โ
Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.โOkay. Okay, letโs go.โ
As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. Youโre so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when heโd tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? Youโd been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, heโd run at you from the side. But thatโs why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldnโt see it, so you could have the element of surprise.
โCall Price,โ Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.
You look up at him, then at the cabin thatโs barely ten meters away. โWhat?โ
โUse my phone. You know the code,โ he says again, โCall Price, tell him weโre at the empty north cabin.โ
Before you can ask โWhat?โ again, or even, โWho the hell is Price?โ, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.
The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.
Simonโs phone isnโt on him, or in his little knapsack. Itโs one of the scariest things youโve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, itโsโฆ familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that canโt possibly arrive in time.
This is different. The first time youโd stabbed a man, youโd meant to do it.
The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room youโd woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.
You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simonโs left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. Youโre jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.
By the time someone picks up, youโre back on your knees by Simonโs side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.
โPrice,โ a man answers.
โHello?โ You try not to let your voice get to frantic. โSimonโs hurt. He said to call you. Weโre at the north cabin.โ
โEmpty,โ Simon grunts, barely audible.
โThe empty one,โ you clarify. The line is silent. โHello?โ
โHeโs wounded?โ Price asks, cool and almost distracted.
โPunctured lung,โ you say. โHe passed out, but heโs kind of conscious now.โ
The man on the other end hums. โThat does sound a bit serious.โ
โPlease,โ you insist. โI donโt know where we are, please call an ambulance.โ
โIโll see what I can do.โ And then the line goes dead.
Your hands are shaking when you touch Simonโs face. โHe hung up. Simon, Iโm so sorry, he hung up. I donโt know if I can get you into the car. I donโt know if thereโs enough time for anyone to get here.โ
โโS fine, Precious,โ he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. โBeen in worse shapeโn this. Priceโll come.โ
โWe donโt need him here, we need you in a hospital!โ It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. โShould I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?โ You grab the backpack and tear it open. Thereโs gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.
โSplash of alcohol first,โ Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. โOi.โ
โDonโt fall asleep on me!โ
โโM noโ. Just restinโ mโeyes.โ
โNot that either!โ The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. โStay awake.โ
โBloody fuckinโ โell,โ Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. โOkay. Fuck. Gauze next, youโll have to hold it down. Donโt have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.โ
The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. โIโm sorry, Iโm sorry,โ you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. โSimon, Iโm so sorry. Iโm so sorry, Simon.โ
โโS fine,โ he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. โShouldnโa come at you from the left. Better tโ stay low and come at you from the right.โ
โI still might have stabbed you,โ you protest. โI shouldnโt have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-โ
โYou couldnโa known.โ
โI should have,โ you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. โI didnโt need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that youโd start chasing me any moment.โ
โโS part of the game,โ Simon sighs with a lazy grin. โWerenโ supposed tโ stab me in the chest, but thaโs on me.โ
โI wasnโt supposed to stab you at all, Simon,โ you sob. โI never wantedโฆ! I donโtโฆ!โ Simonโs eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. โSimon, please, stay awake. Iโm sorry. Please, Simon. I donโt hate you, Iโm sorry.โ
You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoeverโs come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.
โSimon,โ the man says. โYou broken?โ
โNo, sir,โ Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.
โShe said you punctured a lung,โ the man you can only assume is Price points out.
โAffirmative.โ
โJohn Price,โ he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where youโre keeping pressure on Simonโs wound, he chuckles. โLetโs get this drama queen inside, shall we?โ Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.
โHowโs the hobby search going?โ
You canโt stop yourself from bursting into tears.
John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, thereโs another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simonโs clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. Heโd complimented you on a clean strike, once heโd gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if youโd really wanted to.
The sucking sound from Simonโs chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.
โYou meet my girl, Skipper?โ Simon eventually wheezes. Thereโs a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him thatโs really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. Itโs still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.
โI have,โ John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. โYou havenโt been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure youโd be okay.โ
It strikes your ears asโฆ absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that thereโs no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when youโre stressed. MREs wouldnโt cut it for long.
And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.
โSheโs had Riley here on a leash for half a year,โ Kyle informs him. He pats Simonโs cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. โPoor bastardโd been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soapโs been locked up.โ
โEight months,โ you whisper. Youโre sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simonโs good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. โWe met eight months ago.โ
โChrist,โ Price says, rolling his eyes. โI told you to keep a low profile.โ
โโave been,โ Simon grunts.
โAnd, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?โ
Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. โHad to make sure our first date was memorable.โ
You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since youโve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.
โHope it was worth it,โ Price says. โYou going to get rid of her, or am I?โ
Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you canโt see. You take one look at Kyleโs startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.
When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. Itโs been a long time since youโve seen Simonโs face this frigid. Heโs completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesnโt even spare you a glance.
For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. โTouched a nerve, have I?โ
โSheโs good people,โ Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. โHasnโt made no trouble yet.โ
John doesnโt look away from Simon. โThat so?โ
You reach out for Simonโs hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. โSimon?โ
โSheโs talked to the police, you know,โ John says. โAfter your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.โ
That startles you. โI never-โ
โHush, now,โ John says.
Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. โExcuse me?โ You take a step forward into Johnโs space. โMaybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, heโd have been arrested.โ
โPrecious-โ
โNo, Simon.โ you interrupt him, staring into Johnโs eyes. โHe practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandonโs skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. Iโve been at the scene of two mass murders and now Iโve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think Iโm an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?โ
The man doesnโt react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.
โIf you ever have him arrested, heโll be out in a day,โ John finally says. โYouโll be dead before then.โ
โOh gee,โ you mock. โI wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.โ
Simonโs hand gently touches one of your wrists. โEasy, Precious. Price โs just lookinโ out.โ
You let him take your hand. โHe can do less of that, thank you very much.โ
Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. โDonโt think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.โ
โWell heโs my man, now,โ you grit out. โSo you can fuck right off, John.โ
For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
โKyle told me you were a little off,โ John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. โSimonโs been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.โ
Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come toโฆ!
Simonโs hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. โSheโs helping me find new hobbies.โ
John just shakes his head. โI donโt want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?โ
โThree weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,โ Kyle answers.
Simon hums. โโM gonna aggravate it.โ
โGoddammit,โ John swipes a hand down his beard. โSoapโs supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.โ
The murderous stalker isnโt the problem child? You snort behind Simonโs hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.
โFun as all of this is, Iโm on shift in four hours,โ Kyle says, looking at his watch. โNeed to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drainโs gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.โ He looks at you. โMake sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.โ
โNo they wonโt,โ you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, โFuck off, Garrick.โ
โTake the damn antibiotics,โ John says, standing from his seat. โBe ready for a call in three weeks.โ
โAffirmative.โ
โAnd you,โ John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. โLet me know if you get tired of him hanginโ all over you.โ
โSo you can kill me.โ
He gives you an amused grin. โIโm not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.โ
โIโm sure you meant that in a way thatโs not offensive,โ you answer. โIโll do my best to never call you again.โ
โSmart girl.โ He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.
The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you donโt feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.
Thereโs a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simonโs armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. Itโs pink with blood and other fluids. It doesnโt seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.
โFuck,โ you canโt help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case heโs losing his balance. โWhatโs wrong?โ
He doesnโt answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure itโs still set.
Thatโs why you donโt realize what heโs done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You canโt really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.
He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where heโs getting hard.
When he speaks, itโs little more than a whisper. โYou were supposed to slash my arm, you know.โ
โWha-โ
Heโs not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you canโt force his hand away with both of yours. Itโs all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.
โKnew youโd like the gifts,โ he growls down at you. โBut you were sโpossed to slash, hm? Thatโs what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.โ He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. โWhereโs a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.โ
Had you? You hadnโt felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You canโt answer, canโt even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.
โYou could have killed me, today.โ He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing itโs only because he let you.
And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.
I fully let my intrusive thoughts win and started a new series despite my chronic level of WIP. Dark, angsty, brooding cbf Kyle with a slow moody build up. Itโs been in my brain endlessly. Heโs your best friend, but how well can you ever truly know someone?
Summertime is your favourite season. The smell of dew smattered lawns and people cooking outside, fresh in your lungs. An odd shimmer rests over the pink sky above you, a haze created by the lingering heat of August.
The gathering is in full swing, even as the welcoming cool of dusk starts to creep over the garden. Itโs rare in England, to have an evening so balmy you donโt require at least a light cardigan, the promise of a chill is always lingering in the air.
Idly, you collect empty glasses in one hand, bare feet padding over the warmed paving slabs wrapping around the house. You just want a quick break from the leaving party your parents are hosting. A small slice of quiet to collect the thoughts circling inside your brain.
Your older brother and his best friend are leaving for basic training tomorrow, this is an opportunity for a quick knees up to see them off. Still you have a tiny sense of dread at the prospect of them going.
No more time spent in the living room, watching them game as you eat cereal. They wonโt be able to pick you up off the curb either, after you down one too many shots pre-drinking in your mates bedroom.
The mixture of gentle bullying you receive from them both makes you laugh. Theyโre easy company, safe and reliable, like a trusty film you put on that you know will cheer up any dour mood.
Kyle and your brother have been attached at the hip since primary school, so naturally when you were old enough to join in with them, you did.
You slip into the dim, humid kitchen, depositing the glasses next to the sink ready for washing up later. Thereโs half a cake still sat on the counter, so you lean over and pull a piece of sweet icing free, popping it into your mouth.
โCaught you.โ
The deep voice to your immediate left makes you jump. Itโs Kyle, caramel coloured eyes glinting in the soft light, spilling through the window from the sunset outside. He paces across the tiles to your side and helps himself to the cake too.
โCanโt help it, Iโve got a vice for Victoria sponge.โ
He laughs, flashing his teeth at you briefly.
โI know you have Kit.โ
Kit is the nickname he gave you when you were eight. Kyle had come on a family holiday, spending the long days racing up and down the caravan site and attempting to build campfires in the woods.
During a trip out exploring, you all visited a local seaside town, wanting to take in the salt laced breeze and crunch pebbles underfoot.
The glittering lights of a grab machine caught your youthful attention. Desperately youโd spent all of your pocket money trying to win a fluorescent pink cat with a sparkly collar.
Sobbing, while your brother laughed, your pleading eyes turned to Kyle, asking him to use his last fifty pence.
He won it for you, unnaturally skilled with getting the job done even at that age. You were so thrilled with it, clutching the soft fur close to you for the rest of the holiday, meowing at every passerby.
Because of that, he started calling you Kitty, which got shortened to Kit and the name just stuck. Every now and then, when youโre frustrated, Kyle will still place a hand on your head and pet you until you shout at him.
Both Kyle and your brother, think itโs hilarious that you still have that pink cat toy on the end of your bed.
He makes all your friends giddy. They endlessly ask you to come round and hang out, hoping that heโll be there to ogle at. Heโs handsome, lean body moving with the swagger of knowing that too. All full lips and the occasional wolfish smile that brings your pals out in a fever.
But to you, heโs like family. The first person you call if your brother isnโt picking up, someone youโve watched grow from a boy into a lanky adolescent with each passing year.
โShouldnโt you be outside? Basking in glory?!โ
Kyle grins, looking down at you almost bashfully until he recovers his charm.
โBasked in about enough of it for one night I think.โ
Gently you nudge your shoulder into his. He feels so warm, white t-shirt sticking slightly to his chest with the heat of the room.
โIโll miss you both. Make sure you look after each other.โ
Kyle wraps one arm around your shoulders, as you rest your head against him.
โWeโll miss you too. Iโll text you though when I can and he will too.โ
Casually, his long fingers stroke the back of your bare arm. Someone has turned the music up. You can hear your brother using his outside voice, most likely feeling the effects of an afternoon spent drinking stella in the sunshine.
โYou look fit tonight Kit.โ
Itโs said with the barest trace of teasing, like he actually means it. But thatโs lost on you.
You inhale the scent of his cheap body spray, mixing with the vanilla extract from the cake in front of you.
โDonโt take the piss Ky.โ You snort, elbowing his ribs. Very quickly it descends into a vicious battle, which he wins through brute force. Elbows and knees are used to bring you to a surrender.
Youโre panting, back pressed against the fridge, heaving with sweat from the effort of wrestling with him in the humidity.
โPathetic!โ Kyle leans forward and goads you. His breath tickles, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, briefly touching the surface of your skin.
Almost nose to nose his gaze moves from your eyes, down to your mouth, dragging his full bottom lip between his teeth.
โYou gonna give me a kiss? For luck yeah?โ
Something in his face is different, thereโs a smoulder there that youโve never seen before, like Kyle is weighing up whether he should plunge head first into territory unknown.
Heโs on the brink of a decision so uncertain. Standing on the cliffside above the waterline, waiting for you to push him over the ledge.
Your lashes flutter at him, then you lick your lips nervously. Thatโs the signal Kyle didnโt know he needed.
His stubble brushes your chin when he places his mouth to yours, itโs gentle at first, so hesitant. But the minute you respond Kyle parts your lips with his tongue.
It flicks against the roof of your mouth, dancing with your own. He tastes like beer and the fruit jam of the sponge. Kyle traps your kiss, sucking it slightly while his hands rest at your waist.
Dutch courage with the addition of knowing he wonโt see you for months. Thatโs what now has you flush against him, the litheness of your body close to his own.
A glass smashes outside, followed by cheers and boos. You both break apart, breathing heavily and flushing. Kyleโs signature cool has slipped, his eyes are no longer their usual molten honey. They have a dark edge, sweetness tainted by something raw.
โWe shouldnโt have done that.โ
Your voice causes his head to tip back, his chest puffing as he lets out a gruff noise youโve never heard before.
He looks bitterly over his shoulder at the ruckus in the garden.
โI donโt regret it Kit. You shouldnโt either.โ
Kyle watches you scurry off to clean up the mess outside, all puffy lips and glazed eyes. The memory of your stolen moment inches itโs way under his skin like a sickness.
Falling in love with you wasnโt a choice. It was his right. Kyleโs known that since you were both kids.
You belong to him, now and forever, since the first moment you met playing twister together in your brothers upstairs bedroom.
But life never pans out in ways you expect. If Kyle had known then, what fate was scheming behind closed doors, he would never have let you go that night.
Whatever it takes, however high the price. Kyle will make you understand, that he is the only man for you.
can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?
Harvest Storms
PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader
SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.
WORD COUNT: 4.8k
WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.
A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasnโt only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.
His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned.ย
Heโd known having that one-night stand wasnโt rightโhe should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream.ย
And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment.ย
โSheโs yours.โ His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter.ย
It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panicโbone-deep worry and hatred. He couldnโt be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasnโt a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didnโt feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didnโt want.ย
But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.
Yes, it could have been easy.ย
Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories heโd heardโฆ
Simonโs gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.
โFuckinโ โell.โ A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holsterโslipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal.ย
These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb.ย
Itโs one hour later that heโs done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before heโs exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the baseโs hallway.
All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.
โLt.โ The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, โoff to go hide in back-alleys, then?โ
โJesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.โ Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated.ย
โCopy and check, Sir!โ Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.
The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pocketsโfinding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition.ย
Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it looselyโhis opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.
There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.
It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive homeโa tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simonโs initial purchase of it. But it wasnโt his only properly, not by a long shot.ย
Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.
He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder.ย
Veins tighten under his flesh.
โKid!โ Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty.ย
He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floorโno groan or sly comment.
You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester manโs lips thin.
โChrist, donโt go and tell me sheโs fuckinโ gone againโฆโ Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when heโs gone was sitting with its delicate font.
Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.
โShe got into a fight out of school againโblack eye and bruised knuckles. Iโm sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldnโt get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, Iโll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. Iโm sorry. Iโll be at my home if you need me.โ
Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.
This would make the fifth fight this year.ย
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for youโsome of which he would never be able to properly express.ย
Heโs not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. Heโs in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair.ย
Simon was never meant for this.
The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
But wasnโt he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you inโprovided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong?ย
Simonโs brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.
Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack.ย
Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadnโt had the kind of childhood people would wantโwas never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights?ย
Heโd heard some things about teenagers.ย
Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you donโt want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly.ย
Simon wasnโt letting you catch a bug.
He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen.ย
You hear him coming when heโs three-fourths of the way there.ย
Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father.ย
The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap.ย
โPut it on,โ he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours.ย
You turn away with a growl. โDonโt want to.โ
โBloody โell, just put it on,โ thereโs no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. โAsking to get fuckinโ sick at this rate, are you? Iโm not cleaninโ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.โย
Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periodsโright eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers.ย
Youโre acutely aware of your fatherโs presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy heโs back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all.ย
The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else.ย
โWhat did I tell you when I went away, eh?โ The man asks you lowly when youโve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. โKid.โ
โDonโt get into any more fights.โ Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts.ย
โAffirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?โ
โGot into another fight.โ An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. โI didnโt mean toโโ
โThatโs not an excuse.โ Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. โWhen I tell you something, you listen, yeah?โ
โ...Yeah,โ you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. โSure.โย
A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.
โNo more fighting,โ Simon grits out, โnow show me.โย
โItโs not that badโโ
โShow me it.โ Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your fatherโs gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head.ย
โHappy?โ You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket.ย
Itโs a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.
โWhy?โ The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.
โWhy?โ You glare at him, โWhy the hell do you care?โย
Simonโs eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and youโre suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.
โYouโre never fucking here, whatโs the point in telling you anything about me?โ Your fatherโs face is covered, but the mask is more than just physicalโitโs a part of him in every sense. You donโt know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. โIt wouldnโt even make a difference if you never came back! Even when youโre here it barely even matters beyond whoโs dishes are in the sink.โ
Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you donโt care enough right now to think about what youโre saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. โYou donโt even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?โย
Simon watches and listens, stone still. Itโs as if he doesnโt even breathe; his pulse doesnโt move, doesnโt blink. If you would have been able to see it, youโd have noticed the way the large manโs lips were slightly parted.ย
He wasnโt averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his fatherโit was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way.ย
What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didnโt know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals.ย
He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didnโt know what you bought.ย
Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, butโฆhe didnโt know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
How could he be a father to you?
Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard.ย
With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door.ย
Simon doesnโt tell you to stop.ย
Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. Heโd never felt like this before.
Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.
โFuckinโ Christ.โ Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time heโs standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. Itโs the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise.ย
Give Simon a gun and heโd be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and heโd have it sharp in seconds.ย
Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and heโs suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He canโt end up like his own father.
The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.
Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand.ย
Just as heโs about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.
Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.
Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didnโt know what to sayโฆbutโฆ
God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.
Simonโs knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. Thereโs a shuffling of sheets and a dull, โGod, just go away!โย
Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands.ย
โOpen up for me, yeah?โ He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. โNeed โta talk to you.โ
A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. โYou? Talk?โ
Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly.ย
โPlease.โ A pin could drop.ย
Itโs a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before itโs twisted back with a firm hand.ย
Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your fatherโs bare visageโonly the black face paint stuck to his skinโbut even more so at his plea. There were only a few times youโd actually seen him and even fewer when youโd hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver.ย
He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properlyโwhat to do and what not to do.ย
It had been the first time that Simon could really say heโd been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldnโt do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadnโt cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should haveโฆyouโd done something worse.
You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simonโs gaze never left you for hours after youโd done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else.ย
Tiny. Weak. Innocent.
How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when youโd begin crying for a bottle.ย
In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.ย
โWhat?โ Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries.ย
โCan I come in?โย
โI donโt knowโare you going to give a lecture?โ You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.
โNegative, Moppet, no lecture.โ He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. โJusโ need โtaโฆโ Words fail him. What did he need to do?ย
Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.
โYou land a hit, then?โ You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.
โIโฆโ your feet shuffle, face burning, โwhat?โ
One of your fatherโs large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing.ย
Butโฆhe was trying.
โA hit,โ he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. โDid you get โem back?โย
Itโs a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.
โMore than one person,โ you admit hesitantly. Your fatherโs gaze darkens but you quickly continue. โT-they look worse than me right now.โ
Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. โThatโll do,โ a pause, โ...โcause I canโt beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckinโ heap โo shit.โย
Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesnโt know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made himโฆcontent, you could say.
โWho said they were teenagers?โ you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in.ย
โThatโs not funny.โ
โItโs a little funny.โ
โNo, it isnโt. Shut your bloody trap.โ The air lightens to a degree you hadnโt experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears.ย
โ...How long are you staying?โ The man hums, licking his lips.ย
I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.
โIโm off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?โ Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle.ย
โChange of heart?โ You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins.ย
Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing upโletting your fatherโs large frame enter.ย
He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didnโt know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.
Heโd really fucked up.
โCโmere,โ Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, โlemme take a proper look at it.โ His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly.ย
Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns.ย
Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.
โWonโt die,โ is all he can say, voice hard and strained. โLucky you, eh?โ You scoff and his hands leaveโthere wasnโt much he could do. โMoppet.โ
Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. Youโre momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence.ย
โGive me your word.โ Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. โNo more of this. Youโre gonna end up gettinโ hurtโbadlyโyou got that?โย
โThey were calling soldiers cannon fodder.โ You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. โThat they werenโt even good enough for bullets.โย
Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles.ย
Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calmโthe side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly.ย
It was you. His daughter. Innocent.
The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen.ย
Simon canโt even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did knowโit was that he didnโt want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. Youโre placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.
You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, โGo to sleep. Itโs late out,โ and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.
Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lipsโgenuine and warm like a weighted blanket.ย
โHow long are you gonna be there?โ You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.
He doesnโt turn around.ย
โAll night. Need โta get this shite done for my boss.โ You donโt know why, but you feel like heโs lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. โSleep, Kid. Weโll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.โย
Of course, heโd noticed that, too.ย
โDad?โ You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. Itโs a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest youโve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely.ย
โWhat is it?โย
โGoodnight.โ Simonโs hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesnโt say anything until youโre fast asleep behind himโwhen he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin.ย
Into your skin, he whispers, โ...Goodnight, my little Moppet.โ
Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.
I love platonic 141 x kid!reader fics so much๐ญ begging the tumblr gods (cod writers) to send them all my way
You should be happy heโs back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all.ย
Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.
โDad?โ You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. Itโs a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest youโve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely.ย
Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.
But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.
And most importantly:
finders keepers.
โHow's this,โ he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. โI'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.โย
โOut of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,โ you sneer, edging backwards. โAs if I'm dumb enough to believe that.โ
โCan't leave a maidenโโ your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; โโall on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.โ
โAnd what's that worth?โย
He dips his chin. โFar more than you could imagine, love.โย
You swallow. โI don't know. I don't trust youโโ
โSmart,โ he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. โBut I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.โ
โWell, in that caseโโ
โBut," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?โ
โYou scoundrelโ! You dirty, rottenโโ
โIt's business, love.โ
โI don't have any money to even pay you toโโ
His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege.ย You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.
Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.
The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. โYou're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.โ
โIโโ
โI'll leave it to you, then, mm?โ He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs.ย
More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped.ย
He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows.ย A massive mountain of a man.ย
His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyleโpure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and boozeโruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.
He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy.ย
And yetโ
The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he neednโt run or rush anywhere.ย
It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to.ย
Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something elseโ
He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.
None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.
His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the runโhard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.
There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predatorsโnot move closer.
He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculineโloam, humusโand yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder.ย
The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark,ย
โand I do expect to be paid back in full, love,โ his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. โOr you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?โ
The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighterโย
Still.ย
Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlinโ, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); orโย
Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only thatโthis man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil.ย
Rock, hard place. No escape.ย
You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod.ย
He heaves a breath in response. โGood choice, love.โ
It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even.ย
In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask,ย
The main reason for the decline of shoujo anime for me really is that girls/women will still consume shounen while boys/men will not consume shoujo as much, so for producers if you have to choose between a shoujo or a shounen you will go for the shounen because you know you will be able to get both audiences while with shoujo the audience will really be majorly female and you will be losing money from half your audience. And that is also why shounen these days incorporate a lot of shoujo tropes into their stories (ikemen, romcoms, etc.) but still do it in a way that is mostly targeted for boys (male protag, big boobs and heavy sexualization of female characters that is not as present in actual shoujo stories), they do it to make sure they will grab both audiences. That is not to say that seinen and shounen can't do great animes like these (just look at horimiya and skip to loafer), but it also means we get a lot of anime that is trying to do the same but in a very harmful and sexist way (just look at shows like rent-a-girlfriend and the millions of bad isekai that come out every season). So, shounen is stealing shoujo tropes and making them worse (most of the time), and we're eating that shit up simply because there is no actual shoujo coming out as often as it did before.
recently started watching more shoujo anime and holy fuck, the difference was so startling, it made me sad that i wasn't exposed to it more when i was younger. because all that was made available to me at the time on tv was dbz, naruto and bleach and as much as i liked the fight scenes and plots, i just wanted something more suited to the taste of us girlies.
and yeah, i will encourage my male friends (who aren't lost causes anyway) to watch shoujo anime.
~1.2k words. Price x gn!Reader.
CW: controlling behavior, stalking/location tracking, brief sexual content
After your abrupt โengagementโ, you argue. Refusing to unpack your things at Johnโs placeโyour place, nowโyou explain itโs normal for couples to discuss things like living together and marriage before they happen. John disagrees.
Itโs supposed to be a surprise, sweetheart. And isnโt my place better? Bigger?
He watches you pace around his flat, a little smug when you finally set out your toiletries. Isnโt this much simpler, he whispers, rubbing your shoulders as you tearfully list your couch for sale. No more back and forth. Significantly lower bills and rent, as he insists on paying for more than half. His furniture is newer, too, though the place could use some color. Heโs happy to take you shopping and let you pick new decor.ย
Itโs not the couch youโre upset about. Itโs the loss of your own space. Again, you attempt to explain. John shushes and comforts you in his favorite way, on your back, buried deep in a slow grind. He holds you at the knife point of pleasure, at the very edge, and asks if you really hate his place so much or miss your lumpy, old furniture. Guilts it out of you, withholding, until you concede you donโt hate it and please please pleaseโ
The first week runs long. He bends you over in the kitchen, joins you in the shower, and pushes you against the door when you get home from work. Where you once complained of not having enough of his attention, you find yourself barraged. You stop by a new bookstore at lunch on a Friday, and he calls, voice tight, the jingling of his keys louder than any bullet. Where are you? Who are you with? A bookstore? Lovely, send a selfie. You nearly die of embarrassment when an employee catches you awkwardly holding up your phone in the romance section and scuttle out.
It happens whenever you go somewhere without him. A coworkerโs birthday happy hour. A short visit to meet a friendโs new puppy. A long walk at the park. Even when he is occupied, John finds time to badger you. After he hounds you at a work dinner, demanding a photo with your boss, you decide enough is enough. The mystery app needs to go.
Through careful fishing and research, you learn your coworker's girlfriend's best friend knows a tech guy. You set up a dummy email, exchange a few messages, and agree to meet at the coffee shop across the street from the office. It's not the most brilliant location, but it's believable enough when you mention to John that you're treating a coworker to lattes that afternoon. He squeezes your thigh when he drops you off and wishes you a good day.
The manโno names, for everyone's safetyโis overcharging you, but it's worth it if it works. You don't want to think about what will happen if it doesn't. He meets you at a table with a small toolkit. He's fidgety and quiet, but polite and more interested in the puzzle of the app than the circumstances. The fewer questions, the better. He asks you to order drinks while he gets to work. You order, pay, chat with the barista about their handmade earrings, and when you turn to check his progress...He's gone. Phone and all.
You panic.ย
John.ย
John will know. He will call and text. Your mind leapfrogs to the worst scenarioโwhat if he follows the thief, thinking it's you? How could you be so stupid. You abandon the coffee, barely hold off the waterworks, and sprint back to your office. Shoving into your manager's office, you beg to use their landline. It's an emergency.
For the first time in weeks, John doesn't pick up the phone. You try twice before your boss's worried side eye forces you back to your desk, tail tucked between your legs; so much for an emergency. You think of borrowing a coworker's phone to at least call the police and report the theft, but you know it'll make things worse with John. Your only option is to wait until five o'clock.
Like always, John waits out front. You force a smile and slip into the passenger seat with a knot in place of your heart. Your chest has never felt tighter.
He's on the phone and shoots you an apologetic smile, then points at the digital display. Laswell. Work. You suppose it gives you more time to find the words to explain what happened.
John misses the first turn on the usual route home. Then another. Your eyes dart to him, but he's absorbed in the drive and his phone call. They're talking about Urzikstan, his words clipped and terse as they typically are on calls when you're present. You grip the edges of your seat, your stomach turning over when he gets on the road leading out of town and into the hills. You rake your memory, thinking of where he could possibly be taking you.
Eventually, forty-five minutes into the drive, the town far behind you, he ends the call. He drops his phone into the console and pats your knee. The jolt from his palm prompts you to blurt out the lie you concocted, not wanting to give him a chance to become upset over your errant location.
You tell him: It all happened so fast, John. At the cafe with your coworker and set your phone down on the corner of the table. As a man left the shop, he grabbed it on the way out and ran off. You tried calling, upset he didn't answer, and you didn't know what to do.
John hums, his expression unreadable in the dimming light of day. He answers your frantic confession by pulling off the road onto an overlook and telling you you've arrived with a small smile.
It's a little chilly, but he tucks you into his side and marvels at the view of the valley. He still hasn't addressed the 'theft'. It worries you, thinking of his festering anger. He glides his hand down your back, squeezes your waist, and then quietly tells you to quit your job.
I donโt think that place is good for you.
You look up and find John staring, smiling, but youโve seen those eyes before.
Those people are a bad influence. Youโve never been careless like that. I make more than enough for the both of us, anyway.
Before you think of a response, he drops to one knee, and pulls a ring from his jacket. In front of the sunset, he professes his love for you in a real proposal.
Make me the happiest man in the world, and I will do everything in my power to keep you happy.
You're unsure if you imagine the emphasis on 'keep', but you are suddenly quite aware of how far away you are from civilization, without a phone, with a man trained to kill. Tears slip down your cheeks, and when you accept, the words shudder out of you on the exhale. He kisses the rest of the air out of your lungs. Despite the open sky above you, it's suffocating.
See? You like surprises, sweetheart.
Deep breaths. Smile and nod.
Will you get the champagne out of the boot?
The weight of the engagement ring on your finger feels like an anchor. You stare at it, glinting in the fading sunlight, and wordlessly open the rear door to find a picnic basket. Champagne, chocolates, flowersโand nestled in the center, your phone.
You're Soap's enemy. One of Graves' Shadows. You just betrayed him, and now he's seeing his name tattooed across your skin. The Las Almas night nearly eclipses the soulmark's inky color. But it's there, clear as day. He can't wrap his adrenaline-addled mind around it.
He ghosts up behind where you're posted--pacing, patrolling, on the lookout for him--and wraps his hand around your mouth. You react in surprise, grabbing his wrist. But before you can twist out of his grasp, he slides the blade of your fallen Shadow's knife against your back.
If you're his soulmate, it changes nothing. He'll still be one man against dozens, chances slim to none that he'll make it out of this alive. But he has to know.
"You," he growls. "What's your name?"
You still. You're trained to keep a cool head under far more extreme circumstances than this.
"Your name," Soap repeats, voice like gravel.
He loosens his grip just enough to let you speak.
You release a slow breath out. "Classified."
He increases the pressure of his knife against your back. "That bastard Graves trusts you, aye? Not many others posted this way. Nobody'll find you for awhile." He presses the tip of the knife back into the fabric of your uniform. He'll keep the pressure there until he gets what he wants. "Your full name."
You say nothing for a long moment. But then, you see no reason to die overlooking these twisting Las Almas alleyways. You tell him your full name.
It confirms what he already knows. It's the name printed on his own skin, the name he's repeated to himself thousands of times over. The knife disappears from your back.
"Look at me," he tells you.
You push his arm away and turn on him, drawing your sidearm and training it at his chest. You step back, looking him up and down. "You're the one we're looking for. Aren't you? Capture or kill--" Your voice falters when you see he pulls his shirtsleeve up, revealing his own soulmate. He doesn't give you one goddamn second to try to deny it or turn your eyes away the way you've been trained. Your name. Tattooed on your target's arm.
Seeing you eye to eye, Soap's breath catches in his throat. His own name on the side of your neck is clear as day to him now.
"You're her," he says, still not quite believing it.
You take another step back. What are you supposed to do? You should shoot him, yes, but could you even make your finger pull the fucking trigger now? You lower your gun, but you don't put it away.
"You should go," you tell him, voice low. "Now."
But he doesn't move. He wants to take this moment in, study your face, memorize every detail. You're the real thing. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, and a myriad of scenarios play through his mind, just like yours. What happens if he leaves? Will he be able to find you again?
He takes a step toward you.
"Don't do that," you warn him, sliding back a step to keep the same distance between you. "Don't make me hurt you."
"You wouldn't." He moves for you now with the confidence of a man who believes that, too. He wants to touch you again. Just to make sure you're really here. His voice is rough and thick. "I need to look at you."
You bite down on a gasp when your heel knocks against the wall. He's getting too close. You can't let your control on the situation slip. You can't forget why you're here or what will happen if Graves finds out about this.
"Back off," you warn him again. You still have your sidearm in hand, but you're terrified he's right--pointing it at him is an empty threat.
"Can't."
He moves in close to you, his breath hot on your neck. You swear you can feel his body heat through the layers of both your uniforms. Your nerves are on fire. His scent is everywhere. This can't be happening. Not now. It should be a dream, meeting your soulmate, but it's a nightmare.
"Listen to me," you force out. "They'll find you and kill you. Leave. Now."
"Can't." Soap is close enough to whisper it into your ear. His hands close around your arms. "Can't think straight with you in front of me." His gaze darkens as he pushes forward, pressing you into the wall and pinning you there. If he's not going to live to see morning, he's going to kiss you. He has to taste you.
You hear another Shadow under you, boots thudding against the metal stairs, scaling up to your lookout perch.
You try to fight the panic welling up in your throat. You could both be shot for this. Killed for it. Worse.
You can't let them see him. If you give him what he wants, he'll go, right?
You grab his collar and pull him forward, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. His lips feel like stubble and taste like blood. He shudders, feeling your body suddenly pressed against his. He deepens the kiss. He's starving, but it's not enough. Just the taste and feel of you isn't enough. His fingers weave into your hair and he pulls you close, pressing even harder against your body.
You forget yourself for a moment. Your brain chemistry shifts hard, heat and want burning in your veins.
Then you hear voices from below and reality washes over you again. With a strangled groan, you push him away. "God damn you. Hide."
Soap has to force himself to let you go. It takes every ounce of control to keep from reaching for you again. But the look in your eyes when you push him away... he knows you've crossed a line.
He disappears the moment two more Shadows crest the top of the iron staircase.
You avoid rousing suspicion as you lie to your allies' faces, reporting no sightings of either target. By the time you're forced to leave your post and follow the others back to the nearest rendezvous point, you're resigned to never seeing him again. It's better not to wonder.
All you can think about are his fingers weaving into your hair, his lips on yours, the burning grip of his hands around your wrists. You tell yourself not to think about it... but then your mind goes back to it, over and over. No matter how much you tell yourself it's better not to fantasize.
Even when you learn he evaded capture, he's a wanted man. A dead man walking. You're better off pretending you never saw your name tattooed on his skin.
...
There is no other thought on Soap's mind but you long after he slips away into the Las Almas night.ย The sight of you leaving with the other Shadows haunts him when he closes his eyes. He wakes up adrenalized, thinking about you in his hands, his heart pounding like it could punch through his rib cage.
His soulmate got away, and the weight of regret is setting in.
sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself
featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping
Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.
He's usually wary of public transport โ would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube โ but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.
He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts โ mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.
The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly โ it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds โ but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.
You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.
You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.
With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.
The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.
Yeah. He stays on so long as you do โ which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.
The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.
You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work โ amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.
You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.
He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith โ so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.
Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.
Kyle halts right in his tracks.
What is he doing?
You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.
His Captainโs voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.
Outside, a gentle breeze stirred the curtains, sending them fluttering softly against the window.
It was a peaceful night, the kind of night where time seemed to stand still, where the world faded away and all that mattered was the warmth of Kyle's body beside you, the softness of his lips against your skin.
As you laid in bed, naked beside Kyle, you could feel the warmth of his body seeping into yours. He had just returned from another mission and now he was finally home, safe in your arms.
The weight of his presence beside you felt comforting, reassuring, like a lifeline in the darkness.
Sergeant Garrick was gone and Kyle, your Kyle, was safe beside you.
The room was cast in a soft glow, illuminated by the gentle light of the moon filtering through the window. Its silver beams danced across Kyle's features, highlighting the delicate contours of his face, the chiseled lines of his jaw.
You traced your fingertips lightly over the scars that crisscrossed his arms, each one a testament to what he went through.
They seemed to catch the moonlight, gleaming faintly in the darkness. Perhaps it was just your imagination playing tricks but to your tired eyes it almost seemed like he was glowing.
Some marks were faint, like wisps of memories barely clinging to his flesh while others stood out boldly, jagged and deep, stark reminders of the pain he endured away from home, from you.
In the moon's soft embrace, they seemed to dance with a ghostly luminescence, painting intricate shadows across his skin. Despite the horrors they symbolized, you found them strangely captivating.
It was impossible not to when they adorned the body of a man whose very presence was like poetry in motion.
It was as though the divine had spent centuries perfecting every curve, every line, every spot. You marveled at how someone could look so breathtakingly beautiful, even after returning from hell itself.
You cursed them in silence, cursing the world for what it had done to him, for the terrors it inflicted upon his soul despite it being his choice.
And though you wished you could hurt them back, you never doubted, even for a second, that he had already taken matters into his own hands, eliminating those who wanted to harm him before they could inflict any more pain.
"What about this one?" You whispered, your voice barely breaking the silence of the night.
Your fingertip delicately trailed the deep, large scar on Kyle's shoulder that almost reached his collarbone, tracing its path with a tender curiosity, as if mapping out the constellations in the night sky.
For a moment, Kyle remained silent, his breathing steady and measured, as though he was caught between being awake and dreaming.
His touch remained on your back, caressing your spine so softly that it was a surprising how you didn't fall sleep.
"Attacked from behind." He murmured, his tone eerily calm despite the gravity of what he said.
Wrapped in his embrace, you couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of fragility that enveloped him whenever he returned from a mission.
Kyle hated it, of course. He would reassure you, his voice soothing, telling you that he was okay, that he was back in one piece and that no one was going to take him away from you, at least not in that moment.
Despite his words, your fears lingered like shadows in the corners of your mind.
You feared the phone ringing in the middle of the night, dreaded the thought of waking up to find the bed empty and his uniform missing from the closet. You feared those fears becoming permanent, nightmares creeping into reality.
And so, for the first few days after his return, you treated him like porcelain, as if the slightest touch might shatter him into a million pieces.
With a trembling breath, you whispered against his scar, a kiss so tender it barely brushed against his skin,
"I'm sorry."
It was a futile apology, you knew. It wasn't your fault, couldn't be your fault. Yet, the weight of helplessness pressed down upon you, a suffocating burden you couldn't shake.
It felt like you were apologizing for not being there, for not being able to protect him from the dangers that lurked in every corner. Irrational, perhaps, but the feeling lingered nonetheless.
His job was a choice he made. He had chosen this path, this life of danger and sacrifice and found his peace with it in a way that you couldn't comprehend. While he accepted the risks as part of his duty, for you, the worry, the fear, it gnawed at your heart like a relentless tide.
Those who preached about gender roles, about the man being the protector and the woman needing protection, seemed like nothing more than empty rhetoric to you.
Love knew no boundaries, no predefined roles.
When you loved someone as deeply as you loved Kyle, you would willingly face any danger, endure any hardship, just to keep him safe.
But reality was far less forgiving.
And so, the weight of that realization bore down upon you, consuming you whole as you sat in the darkness, waiting. Waiting for the door to open, for his footsteps to echo through the silent house, for the confirmation that the monsters he faced were put to rest, at least for the time being.
Not permanently, though. That was his choice to make.
"S'not your fault, baby. Never your fault." Kyle murmured and despite the weariness etched in his tone, he fought against the pull of sleep.
He refused to succumb, his determination evident in the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He didn't want to leave you alone with your fears, not for a moment.
That was your man, determined to fight and protect you, even from the invisible dangers that only existed within the confines of your mind.
But eventually, exhaustion won out, and you saw the struggle fade from his features as he finally yielded to the embrace of sleep.
You glanced up at his beautiful face, softened by the gentle glow of the moonlight, it was clear that he was lost in a dreamland.
All you wished for in that moment was that his dreams were kind to him, that they offered him the peace he deserved.
In that moment, you promised to protect him as best you could. You vowed to guard his heart, to love him as he deserved. Through all of life's ups and downs, in sickness and un health, you swore to stand by his side, no matter what. You'd wait for him patiently, never losing faith.
Your pledge went beyond just keeping him safe physically. It was about preserving his kindness, his humor, his ability to love fully and honestly.
Kyle Garrick loved with a sincerity that felt like springtime warmth, like the innocence of a child. It was a love that knew no bounds, overcoming barriers with its purity and sincerity.
Even if you couldn't shield him from every danger, you knew you could at least protect what truly mattered. His essence, his spirit, his heart.
Stills from this animation. One thing about my art is that it's gonna be sketchy and messy ๐ค I am obsessed with drawing this man, please give me any and every excuse to draw him
Hereโs a fireball induced drabble before I fall asleep. Iโll make edits in the morning as needed.
535 words
Not sure where this was/is going. I wrote it on the car ride home
โHang on,โ came Priceโs voice from the side of the room he was on as the lights cut. โProbably blew a fuse,โ he muttered as he shifted to stand.
โI think the whole street is out,โ you reply as you gaze out your window. He had been logging information on his computer while you kept watch. It was a simple enough stakeout and the group you had been tailing had been inside all evening. The cold weather usually kept everyone inside, including criminals.
You hear him walk up behind you and his hand gently rests between your shoulder blades as he bends down to look. Itโs a good thing itโs dark because the smell of his cologne, however faint after being applied days ago, makes your heart kick up a beat to flush your cheeks. Did he have to wear cologne on a mission? Mixed with his expensive cigars that left musky scent hours later, it sent your hormones in overdrive. It should be illegal to smell that good.
โMust be a brownout,โ Price muses as he places his other hand on the windowsill to lean forward even more to look further down the street. His one hand doesnโt leave your back and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting any more.
โYeah, must be that,โ you answer looking up at him. His face is impossibly close and when he twists to look down at you, you know he knows what heโs doing. Your poker face is a disaster. Thereโs a reason the guys always fleece you when you play.
โYou alright, dove?โ Price asks, grinning because he knows the nickname flusters you. It had been a dance you two had been doing for weeks, months, now. โNo need to be nervous, Iโll save you from the dark.โ
โNot afraid of the dark, Sir,โ you answer. You see his eyes flare a bit at the formality and his fingers clench on your back a bit. Two can play at this game
โThen why are you so tense?โ He asks, lifting his hand from the windowsill to cup your chin. His thumb gently pulls your bottom lip out from where you have been worrying it with your teeth. โSomething is clearly bothering you,โ he says, his eyes flicking down to your lip that he gently pushes to the side to smear the faint pink lipstick you had put on.
โNot bothered,โ you state and dare to nip at the pad of his thumb with your teeth. If the cover of darkness made him bold, then you could match him. Based on the hiss he emits at that action you know youโre both willing to push the envelope. โNow whoโs tense?โ You ask with a smirk before he pushes his thumb into your mouth, prompting you to suck lightly.
Price doesnโt miss a beat as he hits the mic on his comms to tell Soap to take over the watch. His eyes never leave yours as he presses his thumb down on your tongue causing you to salivate a bit while waiting for the Sergeant to answer.
Soap responds with a ten-four, sounding slightly confused, before Price drags you into the dark of the room.
