summary: with the impending breakage of your marriage, you and Javier decide to step into couple counseling.
word count: 2.9k
A/N: the concept of a struggling marriage comes from Scenes from a marriage, but I thought hey, why not explore a post-Colombia Javi trying to have a normal life with his spouse? Contains angst so beware! Also, don’t mind my psychological dialogue, I’m trying my best lol.
AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!
gif: @katronautt
series masterlist | AO3
He looks around, slightly disoriented. It’s his house, his home, he should be able to recognize the setting, right?
Wrong.
He feels like a stranger. A ghost returning from its afterlife to see the misery of the present that had doomed him. The cigarette feels almost molten between his index and middle fingers, and the nicotine that stains the fingertips and the air suddenly asphyxiating.
So many fond memories in this house, yet the most recent ones are those he’d wish to forget.
“It was a devil and an angel tattoo. It said something underneath: Serendipity. I really loved the idea of being in this quite formal priest uniform with the dog collar — and there’s this little bit of his past creeping up. That is how Father Jud is attempting to be this version of himself. He’s not denying his past, hence he still has the tattoo. But that anger is still there.” — Josh O'Connor
warnings: heavy insinuations to smut, couple dirty jokes (i couldn't help myself im sorry), canon level violence, graves is an asshole^tm but he comes back around i promise, reader gets knocked out and has to go to the hospital. i think thats it lemme know if i missed anything!
7.5k words
“Are you coming drinking with us?” Gaz questioned. He was slowly but surely starting to take off his layers of protection so that he was in street clothes once more. You were doing the same. You stretched your arms out as you shook your head gently.
“No, I’ve gotta get to bed,” you said, half yawning. It had been a long one today. It was always a long one. You were so used to not returning for days on end that you were never quite sure what day it was. Price had a good way of making it seem not as bad as it was.
“One drink?” Gaz pleaded. You shook your head. You ran your hand through your hair. You couldn’t remember the last time you had washed it. You were eager to scrub the dirt off of you. You hadn’t felt clean in so long.
“Rain check. I’ll see you guys again soon.”
“You’re missin out!” Soap called from behind the row of lockers you were standing between. You scoffed, shoving your things into your bag. He walked around the corner and leaned against the rusty row. “Gaz promised a karaoke show.” You scoffed, a hearty laugh escaping your lips.
“You gonna sing Mr. Brightside for the guys?” you questioned. Gaz was uniting his boots so you leaned down to eye level. “I would hate to miss that.”
“Well you aren’t missing out on anything,” he promised. “I’m going home before anyone reaches the karaoke machine.”
“Bummer,” you pouted. “I’ll catch you guys next time, I promise.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and gave Soap a pat on the back as you walked past him. When you turned the corner to leave the room you almost rammed into Price who was standing and waiting with his own things. He looked weird after a mission. Without the hat you swore you wouldn’t be able to recognize him in the streets.
“Who is he?” Price questioned. You rolled your eyes defensively.
“Who is who?”
“The guy you’re seeing.”
“Well currently I’m looking at you Captain.”
“Don’t play coy. We know it’s someone!” Soap called. You smiled slyly and pushed past Price. It smelled like boys in here. You had almost gotten used to the odor. You were so used to being one of the only girls in the room. But honestly, when you were with this group you hardly could tell that you were technically the odd one out. You trusted these men. That was saying a lot.
But if they found out who you were going to see they might not be as happy as you were.
“I don’t question you guys about your love lives, I expect the same treatment,” you said, putting your hand on Price’s shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I like worrying. It keeps me young,” he said, tilting his head down to look at you. “You be safe. I know you can handle a gun and I expect you will if you need to.”
“No worries Captain. I’m going to go home now okay? Have fun tonight. Don’t stay out too late!”
“Yes ma’am!” Gaz called jokingly. You rolled your eyes as you left the room and then left the building.
The night was chilly and you regretted not grabbing one of your jackets. There was a light dampness in the air, caused by the rain from earlier in the day. A black car was humming by the curb. You tightened the grip on your backpack and approached it.
You came around the corner and opened up the passenger door.
Phillip Graves leaned over the center console.
“What took you so long?” he grumbled. Despite his tone you could see the anticipation in his eyes. It was easy to think that he had the upper hand in the relationship you were sharing. But the look in his eyes gave him away. He was so used to making decisions for his team, life changing decisions, that when you held him in your hands he gave you the power.
So despite his tone, you smiled at him as you sat down. He didn’t move and waited between the seats as you turned to him. You kissed him, the small grin remaining on your face as you remembered the feeling of his lips again. They were a comfort for you now. They were familiar.
“Had to escape the guys,” you said against his lips.
“Mhm,” he hummed deeply. “Always surrounded by so many guys. You know, I have this great group you might like.” You rolled your eyes.
“Yeah I heard the Commander’s an asshole.”
“Sweet as candy though,” he promised. You could still feel his breath against your face. You squinted, teasingly.
“Tastes like cologne, I don’t know how sweet that is.” You kissed him again briefly then backed away, much to his demise. He put the car in drive with a low rumble. Graves put his hand on your knee. You could feel a soft warmth in your chest.
You never expected to have something to come home to. Someone you adored, someone you needed.
“I need an intelligence officer,” he said, voice suggestive.
“What happened to your current intelligence officer?” you asked. He glanced at you, eyes remaining on the road but catching your emotions.
“He walked onto a bomb.”
“Why was he in the fi-”
“Good question.” There was a gloom in his voice.
“Shepherd still making decisions over there?”
“I have a feeling he’s going to for a little while longer.” He glanced at you again. “Not everyone can have John Price.” You scoffed at his insinuation that you had it easy. Regardless, you pushed on his problem and not him deflecting onto you.
“What’d he do?”
He was quiet for a minute.
“Just made some shit decisions. Doesn’t matter. I still need an intelligence officer. You could see me more.”
“Just so I can get caught sleeping with my superior?”
“We can still save the fucking for home,” he promised making you laugh gently. “Though you’d look amazing at my desk. I’ve got a whole office you know.”
“Windows?”
“Blinds.” You smiled slyly. You were about to open your mouth to counter with something coy when your bag started to buzz. You reached in it, digging out your phone. It was your work phone with no Caller ID. “Who’s that?”
“The other guy I fuck when I’m in town,” you said absentmindedly. He rolled his eyes but you missed it. You put the phone to your ear. “Hello?”
“You forgot your jacket.” It was Gaz. You pursed your lips suspiciously.
“What is it Kyle?”
“You forgot it. You’ve gotta come back and get it.”
“I’m already halfway home.”
“Did you call a cab?”
“Gaz, back off. I’m fine.” There was some commotion on the other line. Philip was not so secretly trying to figure out what was being said so you put the phone on speaker. You reached your other hand up and put it over his mouth. He glanced over at you, a suggestive look in his eyes but didn’t spit your hand away.
“Soap is gonna steal your jacket.”
“I have others. Are you guys already at the bar? I just left.”
“Still here. You missed out on a stellar Price pep talk.”
“It wasn’t a pep talk!” you could hear Price call. You rolled your eyes.
“Be safe bye bye Gaz.” You hung up the phone and removed your hand from Philip’s mouth.
“You never do the mouth covering. Maybe you should try it,” he suggested.
He pulled up to his place. Graves lived in a small house. It was in a nice neighborhood. There wasn’t a hint of crime around the property and not a hint of children. This was a place for old people who retired and couldn’t go up two story stairs. You weren’t sure if Graves had picked it for the lack of families or if he just wanted somewhere no one would look for him. Despite that, you enjoyed being there. You felt sort of … special. How many coworkers and hookups had been to his house?
Graves liked it because when he watched you go inside he could almost imagine a life where he wasn’t being threatened every other day. The idea of a home and a wife…maybe a couple kids. That was appealing to him. He could picture Christmas and mornings before school and your smile in bed.
Well, he didn’t need to exactly imagine your smile in bed.
He followed you inside, locking his car and shutting the door behind him. You had used the spare key on top of his door frame.
“You do need an intelligence person. Key on top of the door? Phillip. That isn’t very intelligent.”
“Oh you’re very smart.”
You tossed the spares onto the couch and slipped off your shoes. You were going to speak again when you turned around but were quickly cut off by Philips lips against yours. You hummed, relaxing. He gripped your thighs, touching you like you were his lifeline. He hiked up your shirt so that he was touching your skin. You molded into him. His lips tasted like beer permanently. The bitter taste had started to grow on you.
“You taste so good,” he breathed. He was eager, quiet, stumbling around. You could walk backwards into his room blindfolded. You knew the feel of his bed frame against the back of your thighs. You knew the air change and the fan that was permanently turned on in the corner. He was kissing you and you were leading him and you couldn’t remember the last time you felt this good.
How long could you do this? How long could the two of you last, sleeping together in his home when you were both around. How long could you exist in the home that isn’t yours with a man that wasn’t yours either? How long could he last knowing you were always out there with guys who wanted you?
The kisses were always empty promises.
I’ll be here when you wake up.
I’ll tell you if I have to leave.
We’ll eat breakfast together. I’ll make your coffee. You can kiss me before I leave.
We’ll be back together at the end of the day.
As you started to drift off that night he put his hand on your side and pulled you closer to him. He didn’t know if he would live to see next week with Shepherd calling his shots but he could have you right now. You unconsciously nuzzled against his back. His arm slung over your waist and kissed your bare shoulder.
He was half awake. Drifting between the inbetween, not quite sure if your skin was even real. His eyes had been shut for five long minutes and they would remain shut throughout the night. His judgment was impaired. He was drunk on your sticky skin. You still smelled of him.
“‘M love you,” he whispered.
You opened your eyes but he didn’t flinch. He must not have recognized what he said.
“I love you too Phillip,” you told him back. If he heard it or not you couldn’t tell. You fell asleep with the words in the air, hanging around like large bolded letters that were painted on the walls.
-
The phone was ringing. Graves could hear it faintly. It was muffled by sleep, like it was in another room. He picked up his hand lazily, surprised to land on skin. He raised his head, squinting in the darkness. His eyes landed on your sleeping face. He allowed for a brief smile to pass his face as he remembered the feeling of your lips and the words leaving them.
Then he picked up the phone, not even looking at who it was.
“Graves,” he mumbled groggily. He laid his head back down on the pillow.
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment but he could hear breathing. His senses were keen even when he was half awake.
“Hello?” he grumbled. You turned around which caused him to groan in annoyance. He pulled the phone away from his ear and wrapped an arm around your shoulders to pull you close. You didn’t complain. “Go back to sleep,” he grumbled.
“Who is it?” you whispered against his chest.
“Dunno.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Hello?” he asked again.
“I dunno it’s some fuckin guy!” the voice over the phone complained. There was some clanging, mixed with loud music. Footsteps approached the phone.
“Who the fuck is this?” a deep, british voice asked. In his state Graves had no idea who was speaking. He genuinely thought he had picked up his own phone.
“Graves,” he repeated. He opened his eyes wider and let out a sigh. “Who is this?”
“It’s fuckin Graves,” the british voice said. There were even louder voices. Phil was about ready to hang up.
“Shadows Graves?” another British voice asked. That voice he recognized. A certain Captain of a certain girl in his arms. He moved the phone away from his face and looked at the name on the screen of your personal phone. MacTavish.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Phil mumbled.
“Hmm?” You tilted your head up to look at him.
“She’s sleeping with fuckin Phillip fuckin Graves?!” a scottish accent called in the background. The phone was snatched away. “Y/L/N.”
“Is that Price?” you asked quietly. “Why are you on the phone with Price?”
“Unintentional.” You grabbed the phone away from him.
“Captain?” You sat up, holding yourself up by your elbow. Philip grumbled sleepily and buried his head in the pillow beside you.
“Where are you?”
“Where are you? Why are you calling?”
“MacTavish called for you but you didn’t answer,” he grumbled. “Where are you?”
“Price-” Someone else grabbed the phone.
“Phillip Graves huh?” Soap asked into the phone. “Did you get him tested? The man is a walkin douchebag.” You scoffed.
“Not to mention your superior!” Price said beside him.
“He’s jealous it wasn’t him,” you grumbled jokingly. Soap laughed. He was drunk, you could tell from the giggle. “What do you need Johnny?”
“I need a drinking partner but I see you’re all tied up.”
“Not anymore,” Phillip promised beside you. You nudged him.
“Johnny,” you muttered. “I’m going to bed. I’ve had a long day-”
“Long night from the sound of it.”
“Goodnight.” You hung up the phone and tossed it aside. You fell back onto the pillow. Phil’s face was smooshed against the comforter. You brushed his hair aside and rested your hand over his waist.
“You mean what you said earlier?” he grumbled against the fabric.
“Didn think you heard that.” You paused. “Yes.”
There was a long silence.
“Me too.”
-
You were surprised to find Phil still sleeping when your alarm went off. You pressed snooze and sat up, forcing yourself to open your eyes. There were a couple of sleepy moments where you looked around in the dark, rubbing your eyes in confusion. You knew the comforter. You knew the hand resting on your lap. Usually Phil woke up leagues before you did and was gone by the time you rose. You reached over and grabbed his phone. Maybe it had died. He had a shitty habit of forgetting to charge it. It was on. He just didn’t set a time to get up.
In the uncomfortable morning air, you smiled.
He had said he loved you.
You looked down at his sleeping figure. It was cliche but it hit you like a truck. He looked so calm. He was usually so riled up. It was odd to see him silent, not mouthing off, no gun powder smeared on his face.
You felt a swell of gratification. How many people saw him like this? How many people did he allow to see him with his guard down? Vulnerable?
You leaned down and kissed his forehead because you could. You gently moved his hand off of your lap so you could get up. Phil groaned when your body heat left the bed.
“Baby?” he grumbled, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
“Still here,” you promised.
“Stay home.” Home. Was this home for you? Could it be?
“I don’t have clothes here, I need to go grab some.”
“Stay here,” he demanded. His voice was reminiscent of his Commander voice, formidable and strong. He lifted his head. His hair was sticking up at odd ends, face smushed into a sleepy gaze. He blinked a couple times in the darkness.
“I have to go to work, Phil.” His head fell back again with a loud groan. You laughed, looking up at the ceiling. Good God what have you gotten yourself into? “I have to explain last night’s midnight phone call to my team.”
He picked his head back up to look at you. He rested on his elbow, squinting. He looked so pretty you sat back down beside him.
“You gotta go in too.” You brushed his hair out of his face. “Hm?” In the moment of silence you appreciated being there. You appreciated him wanting you to stay.
God you were screwed.
He closed his eyes tightly and then opened them quickly, blinking away his sleep. He half rose propping himself up onto his palms.
“I’m comin.”
“We gonna carpool?” you asked, laughing gently. He grumbled something you couldn’t comprehend and you stood up again. “I still need clothes.” He climbed out of bed, footsteps heavy as they slid on the ground. He opened up his dresser drawers and threw some clothes at you. You scoffed, just barely being able to catch them. Still an asshole. He grabbed clothes for himself and as he walked past you he kissed your forehead. Your asshole.
-
“I can’t believe you drink black coffee,” you muttered, sipping your coffee. You were wearing a shirt with his last name across your chest. You didn’t ask if he did it on purpose but you wore it with pride. You knew what you were going into when you saw your team again. You may as well own up to it. Graves was driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his caffeine. “Actually I can.”
“You callin me bitter?” he questioned. You paused, pursing your lips. He glanced at you through the corner of his eye. “You’re supposed to say no.”
“You’re strong!” You nodded to yourself, laughing a bit. “Like black coffee.” He scoffed, shaking his head. He put his drink down and pointed at you.
“You’ve got like half a carton of cream in there. That isn’t even coffee.”
“I’m sorry I’m not a 50 year old man drinking black coffee.” He rolled his eyes.
“You’re not getting any boost from that drink. I could’ve warmed up milk for you in the microwave.”
There was a blissful kind of air in the car. A quiet, domestic ambience, something you had never expected from Phil. You wondered briefly if you were giving him too much trust. How much could you expect from him?
“You’re gonna be comfortably late,” he hummed. “Let those boys know where you were.” You scoffed softly.
“I’ll just point at the shirt,” you promised. He rested his hand on your thigh.
“You do that. Shows who you belong to.” You raised an eyebrow, playing with his fingers. His skin was rough and calloused from years of being in the field. This hand has ended people's lives and it’s the same hand holding yours.
“People don’t belong to people,” you argued gently, despite the fact that you only half believed it. “I’m not a cow. You can’t brand me.”
He lifted his hand and aimlessly reached for your collarbone. You looked at him confused until he landed on a new forming purple bruise, caused by him.
“You’re not a cow. You’re a girl who’s got a hickey I gave her.”
“You have some too. You aren’t unmarked,” you joked. He remembered the ones on his stomach, the ones you had given him as you slowly made your way down his body. He remembered it fondly.
“And I wouldn’t wanna be.” He glanced at you, an uncharacteristic look in his eyes. You couldn’t read it at first. There was a gentle confusion, a considerate vulnerability. It was silent but you read it in his eyes. He was yours.
Right now at least.
He pulled into the parking lot.
“What’re you doin today?” you questioned. The vulnerability immediately escaped his face when you asked.
“Hopefully nothin too bad,” he muttered. “You’re out in the field?”
“Kinda. I’m just going with Gaz and Price to scope a place out not too far away. I’ll be back tonight if things go well.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
You smiled shyly to yourself as the car turned off. He reached over the middle console and kissed you briefly like you had known each other for years. As he left the car you were met with the harsh winds of the morning.
You got out after him, a beep indicating that he locked it.
“Be safe,” he said absentmindedly.
“I will. You too.”
You started to part in a quick way, walking away from each other. You were halted by his footsteps coming to a slow stop. You glanced back at him.
“I love you,” he called. You started to walk backwards, a cheeky look on your face.
“I love you too Graves.”
You turned back around and kept walking, keenly listening as he remained. He watched you until he couldn’t see you anymore. The smile he gave you remained. You would go home with him tonight. You could go home with him every night if you wanted to. You walked without thinking much.
“There she is,” Gaz called, tossing your jacket at you. You caught it, barely, “Was going straight to sleep huh?”
“I did go to sleep, eventually.”
“You’re lucky Soap isn’t here. He wanted to know details.”
“You don’t? I’m hurt.”
“I have no interest in knowing how the Shadows Commander is in bed.” He pat you on the back. You opened up your locker and started to shift through things.
“Nice shirt,” Price said, coming around the corner. You glanced at him.
“Thanks Cap.”
“You told Shepherd?”
“No sir. I wasn’t even gonna tell you,” you admitted. Gaz hissed a bit, causing a look from both you and Price.
“Harsh is all!” Gaz pleaded.
“He’s your superior.”
“We’re not even in the same team. It’s not like I slept with you sir.” You shut your locker gently and leaned against it.
“Wheels up in twenty. We’re not finished talking about this.” You nodded once.
“I figured not.” You were about to walk away but paused. “Did you tell Shepherd?” He was already walking away. Gaz shook his head.
“He didn’t say anything. We had a whole conversation about it last night, some of us more drunk than others,” he promised. You threw your jacket back at him.
“What were the highlights?”
“Lots of em are protective of you. And lots of em don’t like Graves for you.”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“Well he’s a grown man with a shitty reputation.” You rolled your eyes.
“What’re we doing again today?” you questioned, keenly awning to change the subject. Gaz was shrugging on his boots, sitting on one of the benches between the lockers.
“Shepherd’s orders. There’s a supposed Hassan sighting.”
“Here?”
“Near here. Did you not get the briefing?”
“I’m sure I did but I figured I had you to fill me in. Hassan near here. He’s just sending in the three of us huh?” You shoved the morning and the eventual night out of your head to make room for the day.
“Well I’m sure we’ll have air support if we need it but I’m hoping it won’t come to that.” You hummed under your breath.
“It won’t.”
-
The confusion burned. Where had you left Price? Why couldn’t you hear him in your ear, telling you where he was, promising that it was going to be okay? There was smoke in your eyes. What had gone wrong?
You retraced your steps in your head. You followed Price and Gaz trailed behind you into a large field with a single building. It was aside from most civilization and though it was foregin, it wasn’t exactly unfamiliar. This was the kind of situation the three of you had walked into countless times before. You knew the jokes that Price would make and you knew the way Gaz would counter. You would have a close call in the narrow hallway. You would be home in time for dinner.
Not this.
You take right, let’s clear the building and search it, Price had said. Words you were used to. You nodded once, answering with a quick Yes Cap before moving along. Gaz took left and you went to the back window. You eyed the windows. It was a worn down place, windows smashed, lights half on. But someone had clearly been there. You pushed the back door open with the tip of your gun.
And then impact. Smoke. A ringing in your ear. Pain shooting in your legs. You had been near a bomb that went off before. But never this close.
As your hearing came back you could hear the gunshots echoing in the high pitched ring but no Price. Nothing in your earpiece. You blinked heavily, attempting to make your sight return to you. Having lost your senses you were now sitting on the ground, one hand loosely on your gun, unable to comprehend new information.
“Price?” you whispered aloud, hoping he could hear you. “Gaz?”
Nothing. Just more ringing. Even your own voice sounded far away. You backed into a wall and stayed there. They had taught you what to do in this situation. They had taught you to stand back up, to gain your bearings, to get out of the way. Let your soldiers finish what you couldn’t.
You stood up, wobbly.
“Price?!” you called. You raised your gun and couldn’t see anything in the smoke. There was no one, no hostiles in front of you. They must have been in the house. No response. You grabbed the corner of the door frame and used it to stand up all the way. You could catch your breath even if your brain wasn’t with you. Your thoughts weren’t needed but your muscle memory was.
Finally, a voice spoke in your ear.
“Actual we’re getting gunned down out here!” Price’s voice.
“Do not pull back soldier, clear the house for Hassan!” Shepherd's voice.
“John?” you muttered weakly. No response. They couldn’t hear you. Or maybe you just weren’t speaking loud enough.
“General there’s no way-” Gaz said deeply. He was struggling too. You had to help them. You had to.
You propelled yourself forward.
“Remain the-” Shepherd’s voice started but you didn’t get to hear the end because someone hit you on the side of the head, causing you to crumble back down to the ground. Out cold.
-
Phillip had a skip in his step as he walked into work that morning. A night well spent and a morning well received. What he had done with Shepherd seemed like a blip in his mind. Maybe it was finally swept under the rug. Maybe it could finally be gone. He could find the missiles on his own, with his team, and this could go away. He could have a wife. A family. A home he could come back to after a hard days work.
A pleasant aura followed him until he got the call from Shepherd.
He choked on his glass of water.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re needed on air support Graves.”
“When?”
“What time is it now?”
“For what?”
“Why are you still asking me questions? Get in the air.”
-
“Alpha this is Shadow Actual do you read me?” Graves said aloud, grip tightening on the bar above him as he leaned down. He looked between the men and down at the screens that should him the ground below. They were circling the building. He could see smoke and fire but no people. “Infrared,” he muttered to the man beside him. “Alpha, do you read me?”
“Shadow Actual, this is Alpha 0-8 I read you. We’re glad to see you,” Price’s voice echoed. “We’re stuck inside, do not fire on the building.”
“Copy that.” Graves was twisting his hard grip on the overhead bar. He could see bodies huddled up in the middle, dead ones littered around. “I’m going down there.”
“Commander?”
“Drop the ladder. Keep talking to me.”
“Graves stay in the air,” Shepherd said evenly.
“Shadows in the air. I’m going down.”
He wanted to stay clear. He wanted his head to be empty of clouds, of feelings, of worry. He could only do that on the ground. He could only do that if he was down there, with you, making sure you were alright. He had been in a haze all day. An emotion guided haze and he can’t say that he enjoyed it. No matter the pleasantness that rooted in his cloudy state, he wanted it gone.
Or he wanted it safe.
The fact that he hadn’t heard your voice in his ear was enough for him to lower himself to the ground. He could see himself shooting through the waves of terrorists but it felt outside of his body. He could hear himself speaking into the coms, assuring Price he was nearby, even able to give directions to his men in the air. But it was all muscle memory. He wasn’t there.
What if you were hurt? What if you were dead? What if he had finally found a home and lost it just as quickly? He set his jaw and pushed the door open with the tip of his gun.
He shot at a man coming around the corner and let out an easy breath.
The soldier fell. Behind him emerged a familiar face with an even more familiar hat. Graves didn’t put his gun down. He took a moment to gaze around the room, eyes landing on Kyle Garrick. He scanned the room quickly, eyes on the bleeding, unmoving but still warm bodies. No familiar faces.
Graves ripped the comm out of his ear.
“Where is she?”
“She went around the back,” Gaz said, admittedly as distressed about your loss. “We got ambushed-” Graves pushed between the two of them.
“The building isn’t clear,” he said, using his Commander voice.
“Alpha 0-9 how copy?” Graves could hear Price ask. “Y/N how copy?”
Graves broke in a locked door with a kick.
“Y/L/N!” he yelled into the void. He could hear the scattered searching from the other two men but his heartbeat was increasing in his ears, starting to drown it out. He anxiously scanned the dead bodies. He had lost men before. He knew he could handle it. “Answer me goddamit.”
“Upstairs clear!” Gaz called but there was a distress in his voice.
His breathing had started to become uneven. He was kicking bodies now, losing his cool. “C’mon baby. C’mon.” Suddenly Price’s voice broke through his mania.
“Here!”
Graves tore through the rooms. He could hear the echo of the voices he wasn’t listening to in his comm.
You were lying on the ground, eyes shut. Graves skid onto the ground, practically shoving Price aside.
“Need the bird for medic,” Price said. “Come on girl,” he grumbled, allowing Graves to grab your body and hold it. His hands were shaking. He had tossed his gun aside. He found your neck and pressed his fingers against it to find your pulse. It was there but it was faint. Your head was bleeding a deep red but there was no gun shot. No evidence of a stabbing. That didn’t mean a head wound couldn’t kill you.
“She wasn’t shot,” Gaz observed.
“I’m taking her in the Shadows heli. We’ll get her help faster.” He put his comm back into his ear. “Land outside the-”
“There’s already a medic bird coming,” Price argued.
“She could be internally bleeding and you wanna wait?”
“They’ll have what’s needed-”
“I’m not waiting,” he demanded. “Land on the southside of the building.”
He wrapped his hand under you and picked you up. The nooks and crannies of your body were familiar to him. Price didn’t see the need to argue with someone so set. Gaz followed suit as they left the building.
-
“How could you let this happen?!”
“She’s on my team. She can handle herself.”
“Clearly not!’
Your head was pounding. The voices in the room sounded far away but you could still make out what they were saying. You recognized the voices too. The accent honed by your Captain. The clear anger of your Phil Graves.
“If she serves any permanent damage from this, I’m coming for your head Price. I’ll have your mantel and the goddamn hat.” You groaned, an intentional diversion from the conversation. A scamper of heavy footed boots made their way closer to you.
“I’ll get a nurse,” Price said. His voice was controlled and even again. You doubted he feared any actual outcome of Phil’s words. You looked around at the bright lights, a gasp escaping your lips as the wave of pain hit you harder.
“Hey,” Phillip muttered, grabbing your hand. You looked over at him. “Don’t sit up. Price is getting someone.”
“Whatever pain meds they’re giving me, it isn’t enough,” you muttered weakly. “What happened?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he grumbled. “I’m sorting it.” You forced yourself to stare back at him. His brows were furrowed into a thick worry. His face was turned down, looking down at you with thought.
“Good morning!” Price exclaimed as he walked back into the room. “I told you she was a tough one,” he muttered to Phil. He walked to the other side of the bed and looked down at you.
“What happened Cap?” you asked quietly.
“Stunned and hit. They were trying to take you for information and didn’t quite get that far. Nurse’ll be here soon.”
“How’re you feeling?” Graves asked.
“Like shit. How long was I out?”
“Couple hours,” Price told you deeply. “Gave us quite a scare.”
The heavy silence finally caught up to you. You hadn’t caught it before but did then. The worry radiating off of the men around you. The fear you had caused. It wasn’t every day Price lost a member of his team and he clearly wasn’t taking the possibility as well as he would’ve liked. And Graves…
It was clear he had run his hands through his hair countless times with the way it was sticking up now. He had taken off his bullet proof jacket but the rest of his field clothes remained. His fear manifested as anger.
You raised your hand lazily, almost missing him. You gripped the back of his head carefully, fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. You hummed and he froze. There hadn’t been a serious display of emotion between the two of you in public. You weren’t all there anyway.
Price observed, quietly. He may not have been Graves’ biggest fan but he knew emotion when he saw it. He knew vulnerability when he saw it.
“What is taking the nurse so goddamn long?” he breathed. He turned on his toes and left the room heavily. You were alone again.
“When do I get to go home?” you questioned. “I hate hospitals.”
“Whenever they cleared you.” You paused.
“What are you doing here? Did they call you from work?”
“They called Shadows for air support.”
“You found me?”
“Price did. But I was on the ground.” You nodded slowly. The air was stagnant. It reeked of antiseptic and you were sure you still smelled of blood. You stared at the ceiling. Your hand fell slowly off of Graves’ neck. “I can’t do this.” Your eyes flashed back to him. He was staring at your hands, intertwined sweatily.
“Huh?” The whiplash made your head pound.
“I can’t live in constant fear that you’ve been hurt. If you can’t…if you can’t protect yourself out here then this needs to end.” You lifted your head and he didn't tell you to stop.
“Phil I-”
“This was a simple mission-”
“We were ambushed!” Your voice was strained as you said it. You couldn’t argue right now, you weren’t in your right mind to. But he wanted to have this argument right now so you were gonna have it. “This is the job. This is my job and it’s your job.”
He stood up, letting go of your hand. “You’re scared of the emotions you’re feeling, that’s fine. But you’ll feel this any day. Could be anyone.” He turned away from you. He was going to speak again but then you weren’t alone anymore.
“Good Lord lass,” Soap said as he walked into the room. “You had Ghost and I about ready to head out there ourselves!”
“Thanks Soap,” you murmured. He sat down beside you and he was followed closely by Gaz. You watched as Graves left as they entered, unable to do anything to stop it.
-
They let you out after two days of observation. Price wanted you in for a whole week but you left the second you were allowed to. You had been visited by all of your team, even Ghost. Graves hadn’t come back.
Which is why, when you left the hospital you got in your car and drove to his apartment instead of yours. You stood outside of his door for a moment before knocking. How could you realistically allow this to bring you down? You had thought about it before, how much power you were giving someone that might not deserve it.
You still knocked.
You were here, after all.
He shuffled over to the door and your feet remained planted, despite your very being yelling for you to let it be. Phil opened the door wearing a shirt that was too tight and gray sweatpants. He didn’t say anything when he opened the door. No ‘hello’, no ‘what are you doing here?’
“You didn’t come back.”
“I heard you were fine.”
“Can I come in?” He thought about it for too long and then moved aside. You slithered in. He shut the door behind you. “Now that I have a bit of my brain power back, I’m ready to argue.”
“Huh?”
“That’s clearly what you wanted right? You wanted to argue with me about us. I’m here to argue.”
“I don’t wanna argue-”
“I love you Phil.” It was a leap. A shitty one maybe but you had to take it, just so you knew where you stood with him. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I thought you were gonna die,” he said. Chest puffed, jaw set. You knew that look. That was his look that meant he was gonna let you in. He was on his last barrier. You had no idea what the last couple of days had been like for him. The pacing, the reeling. How could he love someone like this? How could he not? “And I don’t like feeling like that.”
“Me neither.” He scoffed.
There was a heavy silence. You could hear the walls settling, the wind moving the building, the clock on the wall ticking. You watched as his chest rose and fell.
“I can’t…I won’t sit here and let you die on my watch. I can’t.”
“You won’t.” Your eyes wandered around the room in avoidance. “Why didn’t you come and see me again?”
“Shepherd and I accidentally gave three American missiles to the enemy.”
Your mouth fell open. You closed it quickly, clearing your throat. That was absolutely not what you were expecting him to say.
“You…what?”
“She-”
“No, I heard you. What does that have to do with-”
“He called me in because I was the only one he could call. You’re looking for missiles that I lost. He wasn’t even going to send me but it was Price out there.” You sat down on the couch. “Shepherd will keep putting you and I under the hot water until those missiles are detonated or found. Your team doesn’t know and they won’t know.” He felt like the weight had just left his shoulders. There was no protecting you now. But now you knew and he didn’t have to keep it to his chest. He could play all of his cards with you again.
“You covered up a federal crime.”
“Yeah.”
He sat down beside you. He could still have this, he promised himself. He could still have you.
“Well? Still love me now?” You looked back up at him. He was close again. You liked when he was close. His face was even. He was out of his comfort zone now. He wasn’t in the field and he wasn’t in front of his men. He was just here, eyes open, with you.
“Mhm.”
“What was that?”
“Yeah. I still love you.”
His face before kissing you was always full of confidence. There was never anything he could second guess about himself when he leaned in. You always let him kiss you first. Then you leaned into him. You put your hand on his chest and you pushed him down onto the couch and you felt safe again. You felt like you were home again. He brushed your head with his hand, gripping you with his entire palm and you winced.
“Oh Jesus,” he muttered, pulling away. “How the fuck is your head anyway?”
“Don’t hear you complaining,” you muttered against his lips. He chuckled cockily, forehead falling onto your shoulder.
“You’re gonna pass out mid thrust,” he grumbled. “It can wait.”
“If I can’t?”
“You can.” He grabbed the side of your head that hadn’t been hurt and kissed your forehead, a term of endearment you were learning to adore.
“You must love me. I’ve never heard you turn down head before Graves.”
“What would your Captain ask me if I sent you back to the hospital half naked hmm?” Giggles escaped your lips.
“He’d kill you.”
“Mm he’d try.” He wrapped his arms firmly around you, putting his chin on your head. “You can’t tell him about the missiles.”
“That sounds like a problem for when I get back to work,” you grumbled against his chest. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We?”
“You and me. That’s what ‘we’ means, Phil.” He chuckled, that charm oozing through his laughter.
The night felt long with him. It felt like eternity. You eventually were forced to the bed for rest and had a short phone call with Johnny before drifting off. He made you promise that you were gonna be okay. You didn’t think about the impending war or the chunk missing from your head. You just watched as Graves brought you a glass of water without having been asked and sat beside you as he got ready for bed. You told Johnny you were home.
You would be fine.
-
“Don’t you have to go to work?” you asked quietly. The morning air was still fresh. You weren’t quite used to your eyes being open. You were ready to slip back into sleep at a moment's notice. You were rubbing Phillip’s arm as he stared at you. He looked out of it in the morning. Never quite there.
“Takin the day,” he said. He spoke it almost silently, like there was an air bubble he might break if he spoke too loudly. “Stayin with you.” You smiled gently and nuzzled into the pillow, breathing out slowly.
“I gotta call Price. He said he wanted to talk about my ‘personal problem today’.”
“Your personal problem being me?”
“Yes sir.” He smiled weakly.
“I like it when you call me sir.” You giggled softly. “What’re you gonna tell him?”
“You saved my life. I’m allowed to sleep in your bed.” He nodded lazily.
“That sounds like a fantastic plan.” You sat up, reaching for your bottle of painkillers. The head trauma wouldn’t leave you as quickly as you wanted to forget about it. He placed a hand on our thigh and squeezed. “How’s your head?”
“Fine. Tender.” He snorted. You leaned down and buried your head in the crook of his neck, giggling.
“Go back to bed,” he said, chuckling, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You were still shaking with silent laughter when he got you in his arms again. “You know I’m gonna get you back for this when you have all your wits about you yeah?” he asked, lips against your hair. You nodded.
“Looking forward to it, Commander.”
He let out a moan of annoyance mixed with desire that left you with even more giggles. You would call Price when you got up later. He would understand. He will probably give you some shit but you knew Price. He wanted what was best for you.
pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader
rating: explicit (18+ mdni)
word count: 2.6k
summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another
warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death
notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)
“Sit still.”
A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.
Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you.
He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush.
Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.
Huh– W-What’re you doing?
Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it.
Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.
You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you.
He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers.
It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene.
Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips.
“Nng-! Christ,”
“What'd I tell ya?”
“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.”
“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.”
“That’s gross.”
“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.”
But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck.
You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have.
You just found he doesn’t prefer it.
A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car.
It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.
Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper.
Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.
He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes.
God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries.
Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.
But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree.
You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth.
The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs.
It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain.
Him. Him.
He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid.
But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–
Oh.
Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat.
Fuck.
A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful.
Enticing.
You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs.
You speak before you begin to process it all.
“We’ll be here for a while.”
Stupid, silly girl.
He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess.
In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week.
“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.
Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning.
“Gotta save some for next time.”
“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”
“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift.
“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–” A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?”
You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants.
Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word.
Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip.
And it all goes to hell from there.
Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him.
It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants.
“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…”
“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.”
“Please.”
And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips.
You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon.
Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say–
Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him.
Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.
“Fuck.”
“Feart, now?”
His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up.
He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.”
Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose.
His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again:
“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”
A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary.
“Done?”
You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch.
“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.”
“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away.
“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.”
“The glow?”
“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”
“You’re mad.”
The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.
“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”
Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt.
This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons.
He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again.
The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever.
“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”
He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations.
“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.”
The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close.
You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean.
You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night.
You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone.
Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I?
You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.
Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny.
“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.”
Pairing: Will Miller x F!Reader, Benny Miller x F!Reader
Words: 1.5K
Warnings: Smut. Cheating (I guess). Death. Self-harm. Violence. Grief.
Summary: Will dies. Benny clings to you. You need the distraction.
A/N: Someone requested if I would write Will/Reader being married but Reader having an affair with Benny. I truly think this is the only way that would happen. Pearl Harbor Vibes 4 Real if yah know what I mean.
“When did it happen?”
“What was the crux?”
It’s a mistake before it starts.
You’re just so fucking sad - torn up with a grief that bobs in your chest and makes you struggle to breathe.
We never found a body but he couldn’t have survived that crash. It went right into the water.
You lie in your bed - watch the shadows stroll shapes across your ceiling - figures in the dark.
You think of your Will - lost in the sea - his gorgeous body descending into the deep - slow as falling snow. The weight of it nestling in the sand and maybe finding peace.
Soap who fucks you like you're gonna leave him if he doesn't.
He's a whore, wanting to grind his cock as deep as he can while fucking you into the mattress, making you scream and try to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure.
You feel like you're dying from how good it feels, the hard, slow thrusts driving you crazy. You can't do anything but moan, thighs useless and limp, the bed creaking and groaning under you.
Your hand fists the sheets, tears ruining your makeup, throat hoarse from screaming his name as he continuously ravages your insides.
You've cum like what, 4 times already? Your pussy is raw, aching, taking pounding after pounding, your cervix is ruined, toes curled and then you feel his rough hand shove your face into the sheets.
Which makes you clench. Such a slut he is.
You can't help but pass out after the 5th orgasm is pulled out of you.
Once Soap is done with you he holds you close, smirking as he feels you whine and twitch as his softening cock presses against your lower back.
pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader
rating: explicit (18+ mdni)
word count: 2.6k
summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another
warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death
notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)
“Sit still.”
A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.
Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you.
He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush.
Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.
Huh– W-What’re you doing?
Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it.
Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.
You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you.
He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers.
It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene.
Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips.
“Nng-! Christ,”
“What'd I tell ya?”
“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.”
“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.”
“That’s gross.”
“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.”
But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck.
You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have.
You just found he doesn’t prefer it.
A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car.
It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.
Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper.
Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.
He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes.
God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries.
Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.
But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree.
You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth.
The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs.
It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain.
Him. Him.
He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid.
But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–
Oh.
Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat.
Fuck.
A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful.
Enticing.
You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs.
You speak before you begin to process it all.
“We’ll be here for a while.”
Stupid, silly girl.
He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess.
In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week.
“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.
Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning.
“Gotta save some for next time.”
“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”
“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift.
“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–” A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?”
You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants.
Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word.
Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip.
And it all goes to hell from there.
Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him.
It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants.
“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…”
“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.”
“Please.”
And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips.
You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon.
Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say–
Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him.
Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.
“Fuck.”
“Feart, now?”
His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up.
He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.”
Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose.
His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again:
“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”
A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary.
“Done?”
You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch.
“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.”
“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away.
“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.”
“The glow?”
“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”
“You’re mad.”
The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.
“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”
Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt.
This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons.
He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again.
The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever.
“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”
He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations.
“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.”
The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close.
You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean.
You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night.
You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone.
Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I?
You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.
Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny.
“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.”
Oh, JOHNNY "SOAP" MACTAVISH would get sooo pissed hearing "Is your wife your whole personality?"
He genuinely stopped mid-bite of the roast chicken with gravy and rice, a lunch you cooked for him, from a container where you put it, sitting in his freshly-ironed clothes that you ironed this morning.
"Tha fuck that's supposed ta mean? I can't talk 'bout ma wee bonnie wife? Ye'll definitely be single foreva, wanker."
The new recruit opened his mouth, trying to find any logical explanation to his assumption (but really just a stupid question), but Johnny just gave him his middle finger (the same one that was in your pussy the same morning).
You are his whole personality. Because why the hell no?
