warnings: im very opinionated on this man. no angst or anything, just stupid things i like to think about this freak doing. nsfw ones at the end !!
notes: i have not written in almost a year i need to lock tf in whats the matter with me. also!! dont take these too seriously, they're just stupid things id see him doing. but also keep in mind i know more than u and everything i say is correct and canon
fem aligned dni
dog teeth - nicole dollanganger
☣ northeast/west coaster fs. always thought i heard a lil something in his accent and later found out his va is from boston so this is very canon to me !!
☣ can cook*** but only *actual* cooking, like dishes thag require more prep and skill. absolutely fumbles when it comes to anything normal and simple. forgets to put water in ramen, nukes absolutely everything in his microwave, has never not burnt his toast.
☣ somewhat frugal. He doesn't exactly live bare or minimalist, just pretty picky about whatbhe choses to have in his place-- not big on meaningless clutter. he puts off buying new shoes or coats because what he has works just find. When he does splurge on himself, he ends up losing it anyways </3
☣ BIIIIIIG galaga fan. he doesn't find himself in an arcade very often, but on the off chance he is he's hogging the machine the entire time. any spare cash he had in college went straight towards galaga. spent way more than he probably should've.
☣ reddit lurker.
☣ however, an avid facebook user.
☣ loves those shitty pro-military movies. he obviously recognizes it as poorly produced propaganda, but he just can't stop watching them. his favorite is the ghost sniper series because of just how egregious they are. guilt-watches stuff like all quiet and come and see afterwards to balance it out.
☣ big movie guy in general, but he mostly only watches old school comedies. owns every Leslie Nielsen movie ever. not big on tv, but finds himself watching a lot of court room drama shows.
☣ decided to try going vegan once back in college, lasted an entire 30 minutes
☣ ofc hes a big dad rock guy, but more than that i think he'd be big into grunge. alice and chains and soundgarden were his big two. might've gone to a few house shows in hia hometown, but i doubt he'd be too involved in any local scene.
☣ SO annoying about physical media. refuses to use any modern streaming service outside of like cable. huge collection of dvd's, cassettes, vhs tapes, the works. most are crazy old and damaged beyond holding any legitimate value, but he feels wrong just tossing them out.
☣ with that thought, very insistent on how 'xyz physical media' is better than 'loser beta cuck digital media'. unfortunately, he's usual right
☣ LOVES burger king. fuck mcdonalds, fuck wendy's, get this man a whopper. (on a somewhat more grounded note, i hc him as a first gen italian-american specifically, and a huge thing with u.s immigrants is that their first ever burger or taste of american food was burger king. so maybe it's something he got from his parents :3)
☣ deftones anti
☣ doesn't know what 4chan is. doesn't want to know
☣ grew up eating whales (like the off brand goldfish) and still maintains the idea that they're superior
☣ developed a shellfish allergy in his mid 20's. he used to love crawfish :(
☣ i dont think he and ashley would keep super heavy contact with eachother after re4, given how busy im sure both their schedules are. i see them still reaching out every few months, maybe ashley hits him up with a question she could've just googled just to have an excuse to check in. lots of holiday messages and random photos back and forth.
☣ texts like he's typing out an email. properly formatted and all.
☣ alternativly, "👍."
☣ most awkward neighbor ever. cant hold a standard conversation for the life of him, please don't make this man talk about his lawn
☣ STUBBORN. SO STUBBORN. incredibly stuck in his ways, there's a way he likes to do things and he will not change it. (ex. his hair.)
☣ speaking of, he cuts it himself. thats why its so fucked up all the time.
☣ learned how to do a backflip after MONTHS of trying when he was super little. given his current job field, he doesn't really have a practical use for it anymore, sk he'll whip it out whenever he gets the chance so he doesn't feel like he's wasting his back flip abilities.
☣ never liked smoking, but tried vaping ONCE. didnt expect it to be so cold, it hurt, and he got real light headed over it.
☣ huge gun nerd. swore he wouldn't be one of those people who have a whole room full of vintage guns and ammo, just one or two real neat looking ones. he now has a whole room full of vintage guns and amo.
relationship specific headcanons !!
☣ very annoying about getting his back scratched. you might think he finally drifted off and you can stop, but the moment you do, he's doing that sassy over the shoulder glare.
☣ depending on how yall met/started dating, i think he'd be very sweet and just sorta classic boyfriend in the first few months. after, he'd definitely get way more comfortable being just a bit of an asshole. (obviously not cruel, hes my biggest 'He Would Not Fucking Do That' guy, some of yall really love creating an entirely different character out of him).
☣ i see him being pretty quiet about his love life, although not intentionally. unless it was a matter of your safety, i doubt he'd ever want to hide you, he just doesn't take it upon himself to talk about his personal life at all. that, and youre just such a big, constant part of his life that it slips his mind that a relationship is something typically announced if that makes any sense. like, ofc he has you in the same way that ofc he has an apartment, or a car. will still wear wedding bands, matching jewelry, or anything like that. casually drops "my boyfriend/husband" and thinks nothing much of it.
☣ very boring headcanon, but i dont think he'd be big on pet names or terms of endearment. just not something that comes naturally to him. if there's something specific you'd like to be called he'd be more than willing to oblige, but i doubt anything like "babe" or "doll" are in his vocabulary. stuff like baby and sweetheart maybe, but only during more intimate moments between the two of you. the closest you regularly get is a teasing "prettt boy" or other midly flirty/teasing nickname.
☣ if you have long enough hair that you'd need it out of your way and you asked him for help, he'd be GOD AWFUL. he's heavy handed, just unfamiliar with the motions of it all, and it'd come out uneven and messy. never gets it right, but since you keep asking, he took it upon himself to try an learn. found he likes braiding, it's super therapeutic for him. keeps hair ties on him incase you need them.
☣ was always kinda scared of dogs, and especially after all the freak ass zombie dogs he's encountered. the two of you do end up adopting a police/sercive dog who flunked out of training for being too friendly. initially he wanted a cat, but cats do NOT fw him
☣ really devastating, because he loves animals. loves going on fishing trips with you, but hates hunting. he can understand the importance of population control and having a sustainable food source, he'd just rather not if he can help it. on said fishing trips, he's a catch and release kinda man. likes the monotony of it more than anything, sitting with you and just watching the ocean.
☣ sheilds you from the rain with his jacket if you're ever caught out in a storm, holds you real close, if not just to mutter shitty jokes under his breath the whole time. ("it's raining cats and dogs out here. i think i just stepped in a poodle." "water our plans for tonight?" "always looking for a good raincheck")
☣ violently bisexual, but never really saw fit to put a label on his sexuality. he likes what he likes, and he just so happens to like you. thought everyone was also attracted to everyone until he was like 10
☣ tries baking with you, figuring it can't be much different than cooking. he's terrible. he'll keep trying because he knows you like it. he's not a man who looks like he knows to fluff and scoop flour, what it means to pack brown sugar, or god forbid fold batter
☣ musky body hair lover. nair and razors are products sent from the devil. open up yo pits, boy
☣ cut. 6.5", girthy. good handful. straight pubes. trimmed, NEVER bald.
☣ i dont see him having any crazy kinks, but he's open to trying just about anything. not super dominant, not super submissive, but definitely finds himself in certain moods depending on the moment. all in all, pretty spontaneous.
☣ BUT i feel like this man is a FREAK for pain. bite him, slap him, scratch him, tug on his hair ALL OF IT!! the sting is grounding, and i think it'd mean a lot for him to have someone he trusts enough to touch him like that.
☣ in terms of giving though, i think he'd just be more rough than anything. tugging on your hair, hickeys, and some light spanking here and there is the most i see him doing. can be talked into some degradation, but even thats mixed in/followed up with praise. cant help pulling your hair when your between his knees, tries his hardest not to fuck into your throat ("fuck-! fuck, m'sorry..." when he does)
☣ very vocal, but not very loud. breathy groans, hitches in his throat, stifled whines and moans. dirty talk doesn't come too naturally to him, so it's a lot of almost frantic muttering, telling you how good you make him feel, begging you to keep doing whatever it is your doing.
☣ LOVES giving head, loves pleasing you and worshipping you with his mouth in general. teeth scraping against your chest, licking up the line of your ribs, mouthing at the soft flesh of your tummy.
☣ when he finishes hes SOOOO whiney about it. bites into your neck to keep himself quiet, holds you still so he can ride it out.
warnings: sparring is like sex but for boys, slight objectification, brat taming and forcemasc if you squint and overanalyze everything the way i want u to
notes: never believe me when i tell yall im gonna start writing regularly again. also if you saw me post the rough draft on accident no u didnt
fem aligned dni
a dog with blood in its mouth - flat sound
Sweat prickled down his face, burning his eyes, catching in the corners. He blinked hard, jaw tight, the heat pressing in, oppressive, thick like a blanket, sticking to his skin and crawling along his spine. Something animal clawed at his insides. Adrenaline, hunger, whatever it was, prickled his skin and made his teeth itch. Low, wild, unsettled, a raw, nervous want. Not nervous like prey. Not tonight. He could feel it in the way his gaze kept flicking to Simon’s throat, his teeth aching, jaw clenching with the urge to close them round Simon’s throat, just to taste it. Just to prove he could. He wanted to leave a mark, something Simon couldn’t ignore. Every inhale tasted like old gym mat and fluorescent light. Two predators circling, all teeth and heat, blood warming in the dark.
The air between them was thick, almost sticky, and not just from the sweat. Something else simmered there—unspoken, dangerous, and edged with heat.
Simon, for his part, looked bored. To him, [Name] was noise. A rookie, a distraction, too slow, too sloppy, too wet behind the ears, however you wanna put it, [Name] failed to be much of a threat. He was dead weight. If no one had beat that lesson into him yet, Simon was willing to take on that responsibility. [Name] was a problem to solve, or maybe a body to break in. Simon’s eyes, cold and bottomless, slid over [Name] as if cataloging every flaw, every twitch, every secret. There was still something deeper to that glare, something he wouldn’t dare share. Not to someone who still flinched.
The sky outside was thick black, the kind you could drown in. Inside, the training room was all harsh fluorescence. Cruel, cold blue-white tubes buzz incessantly overhead, draining the color out of everything.
[Name] moved with forced calm, like if he got it wrong, he’d be proving that he was exactly what Simon made him out to be– raw, half-made, desperate to prove something. Like he was trying to convince himself and Simon alike that he belonged here. He wasn’t an idiot, no matter what Simon thought. He didn’t wind up here through sheer luck, at least not luck alone. He knew how to take a beating and grit his teeth. At least they could both recognize that much.
He kept moving. He was never still, never predictable, always searching for the gap. [Name] overthought every step, every twitch, focus fraying at the edges. But Simon wasn’t giving him shit. No tells, no slip, no gap. He was a wall, unyielding and unreadable. Simon must’ve seen it, the way he faltered, the way his eyes flickered to the line of his jaw, the thick column of his neck, the way his arms flexed even at rest. It made something low and hungry twist in [Name]’s gut.
Simon caught it and pounced. Quick, brutal, efficient. He closed the distance, fist grabbing a handful of [Name]’s sleeve, the other locking on his wrist as he raised it to counter, grip like iron. A hard yank, a twist, world tilting. His back met the thin padded mat, useless as sharp pain carved a line up the length of his back. Breath punched out of him, vision blurred, and body aching. He clenched his jaw and took the pain. He wouldn’t give Simon the satisfaction of a wince.
Not that it mattered. Simon could tell. Hopefully, the pain would serve as a reminder of exactly who was in charge.
Simon was already up, standing above him, not even winded, hands perched on his hips. “Left my back open with that toss.” [Name] could hear the sneer etched on Simon’s face, mask be damned, vowels tight and accent thick. “Could’ve had me, if you’d been paying attention. But you fucked it. Again.”
His words stung worse than the landing. [Name] forced himself upright, jaw tight, looking anywhere other than Simon. Still, the contempt in Simon’s eyes had a weight to it, palpable, sharp, assessing. “Keep that up, you’ll end up with a bullet in your skull. Get your mates killed too. That shit’s not gonna cut it, lad. Not here.”
[Name] risked a glance up, their eyes meeting for a split second. The look Simon gave him was heavy, loaded with something dangerous. It sent a shiver down [Name]’s spine, made him want to bare his teeth in response.
It wasn’t fair. He was just a man. Nothing special, not really, no matter what the medals and empty praise suggested. All those years of being told he’d be something more, now reduced to this; aching on the mat, humiliated by a man built to break people. Simon’s shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to the curve of his back and the swell of his chest, fabric stretched tight over muscle and fat. Unforgiving, solid. Built for this. Like violence was just muscle memory. Something twisted in his gut, hot and mean and desperate.
“Got something to say?” Simon’s voice cut through the haze, tight and impatient.
[Name] dropped his gaze, ears hot and red. “No, sir.” The words came out clipped, almost sarcastic.
“Didn’t think so. Get up.”
He forced himself up, joints cracking, every muscle protesting, body heavy. He rolled his shoulders, tried to shake out the tension that clung to him. The only thing that kept him upright was want. It was a live wire under his skin. It was ugly. But it was his. Not a want to win, but to feel. Feel his fist connect with the soft tissue behind that mask, the heat, and weight of him, to leave a mark that would last, to see what it took to make someone like Simon bleed, to see it smeared on his lips. There was an intimacy to it. Knowing what bruise to prod at to make a man gasp, to drag that sound out from his bared throat. He just wasn’t there yet. But he wanted it.
“Again,” Simon barked. He was already set, bruised fists raised, chin tucked, eyes flat. “Don’t piss about this time.”
Asshole.
Simon eased him back in. Slow, teasing, mockingly gentle. His mercy was a trick, one he didn’t bother to play at for long. The rhythm he’d eased [Name] into quickly turned punishing the moment [Name] got hit footing. He pressed, relentless. Breath tore at [Name]’s lungs with each calculated strike and every precise move. Simon’s fists found every bruise, every soft spot. It sent static through his nerves. His muscles strained, throat raw with heavy gasps. And he just took it. He swallowed the blood, ate every hit, braced for more.
His arms were heavy, his legs trembling, but he stayed upright, stubborn. He needed to land a hit, just one. The urge gnawed at him, louder than the pain. It was almost desperate, the need to see Simon falter, even for a second.
Simon drew his arm back, telegraphing the punch. [Name] saw the opening—split-second, barely there. He ducked the hook, letting his own fist fly. His fist caught on Simon’s nose, knuckles on cartilage. Simon staggered, hand to his mask, blood blooming, seeping into the fabric. [Name] froze, shocked. He watched Simon stagger back as his knuckles began to ache. That pain felt a bit better this time.
Still, [Name]’s lips parted, a half-assed apology stuck in his throat.
A laugh rips from Simon’s throat, low and rough, almost proud. It cuts off whatever [Name] was failing to stutter out.
“Cheeky bastard,” Simon mutters, blood staining the male skin of his hands. “That’s more like it, soldier.”
Simon didn’t hold back after that. Every dodge, every block, every feint was a challenge, a provocation. One that Simon answered with a counter, pushing harder, faster. [Name] could barely keep up, vision narrowing, breath shallow and ragged. The sound of fists on flesh echoed in the room, relentless, obscene. Simon bore down, all muscle and intent, and [Name] felt himself start to unravel, pulse skipping, nerves burning. Simon was a machine—predictable only in his brutality.
Then Simon swept his legs. All over again, [Name] dropped hard. He hit the mat once more, world spinning, and air gone. The thick taste of copper and spit coated his tongue, could feel it seep out of his gums. This time, he was too exhausted to feign indifference, a pained grunt pulling from his throat as Simon loomed above him, silhouette a sharp cut against the light.
He propped himself up, elbows digging into the mat, body trembling from the aftershock. His lips parted as shaky breaths slowly raked through his body, skin slick with sweat, hot and flushed. Simon’s frame covered his own in shadow, eyes cold, pinning him in place like a blade to his skin. It was hungry. Possessive. [Name] didn’t make a move to get up, he just held that glare. Something settled into [Name]’s gut, warm and dizzying, shameful and exciting. [Name]’s response is a curl of his lips, defiant, teeth bared, mouth bloody and cracked. Something like a grin, maybe
“That was better.” It was barely a compliment, but even that was something special out of Simon. He crouched down low, to [Name]’s level. Simon’s hand found the curve of his jaw, rough and possessive, fingers pressing into the tender flesh there. He smeared the still-wet blood from his hand across [Name]’s cheek, thumb pressing into the split he’d given his lip. “Maybe the old man was right. Might be some worth to you after all.”
“Yeah?” [Name] shot back, voice dry with sarcasm.
“Careful.” Simon’s grip tightened. A warning. “Could make a weapon out of you. But your mouth is bigger than your brain.”
“That’s not nice.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Simon’s face twisted—half a sneer, half a grin.“Stick around, and I’ll fix that. Teach you how to act like a proper man.”
[Name] stared, pulse pounding against Simon’s palm. He turned [Name]’s head in his hand with a slight twist of his wrist. The touch was rough but precise, testy like he was checking the weight of a pistol, a rifle, searching for the potential in its heavy plastic, seeing how he could modify it, to mold it to his own needs, if it was worth the trouble. Simon’s eyes lingered a moment too long on [Name]’s lips, the blood, the sensitive, exposed flesh. He made his decision.
“You broken?” Simon shoved his head away as he straightened back to his feet, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.
you told me love is to pray (i'm sorry, i dont pray that way)
- russell adler x male! reader
warnings: average mlm soviet era situationship, a wittle sexual but not straight smut, age gap, toxic yaoi, not proof read lolz
notes: posted in honor of bo6 coming out!!! i love the bo series sosososo much and cw was def a favorite. lowkey rlly hoping this years cod will have the same effects as mw22 because jesus christ the men in the black ops series r SO fine and it's criminal that they dont get the attention they deserve. give me bo requests rn. like rn.
fem aligned dni
tainted love - soft cell
CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, "DIE LANDEBAHN"
[Name][L.Name], CIA
52.6200 N. 13.4050 E. West Berlin
March 8th, 1981
The dank musk of the safehouse had long since grown stuffy and suffocating, a damp draft they could never quite figure out. The stench of tobacco was seldom better, but it was everywhere, clinging to the walls.
Adler sat at the edge of his thin, stiff matress. The sheets pulled from the corners and tangled around him, tugged over his lap in an attempt to preserve whatever dignity he thought he still had.
He keeps his elder on his knees and his eyes glued to the floor, concrete cold bent his bare feet. He tried to ignore the sleeping body behind him. A sleeping body who had no place with him, yet there he was all the same. He wasn't sure what to do with all this.
It was hardly four in the morning, but Adler had long since given up his fight for rest. His hands instead found his zippo, the weight in his hand, an old, comforting friend. He fiddles with the cap, calloused thumb rubbing against the cold metal surface, flicking the cap up, then shutting it with a 'click.'
Christ, how far he's fallen. Where did his resolve go, his self-control, his dignity? How had he made himself so easy to beckon into the hands of another man, nearly half his age, no less. He was better than this. He had to be.
He'd liked to believe his hands only ever yearned for [Name]'s skin when his brain was at its slowest, in the midst of a drunken stupor, but he'd be lying through his teeth. Even now, he fights to keep his gaze off of him, imagining how [Name]'s body looks stretched across the matress, sheets thrown askew over his bare body, the scars carved into his skin that seemed to age him decades.
With a tired sigh, Adler's hands find his coat, thrown haphazardly on the nightstand. He fiddles with the fabric, leather squeaking and rustling as his fingers search through pockets, plucking out a pack of cigarettes.
The cardboard box is wrinkled and hardly intact, falling apart in his hands. There's only a couple left, and the thought makes him nervous.
He slides one one out, and not a moment later, it's held between his lips, pack tossed aside, and his lighters flame igniting the end. The stench of smoke is quickly to fill the room, pungent. The immediate buzz brings a soothing lul to his mind, quieting his worries.
He knows the relief is temporary, it always is, but the moment he lets himself pretend he doesn't realize.
Behind him, [Name] stirs awake, mused up by the smell of tobacco. The matress shifts with his weight, the springs screach, the blankets pull.
Adler sneaks a glance over his shoulderx watching as the young man behind him turns to lay in his back inside, eyes still screwed shut. He stretches out like a cat, back arching against the matress, sheets bending within the dips of his legs as they bustle beneath the bedding. His skin is littered with evidence of Adler.
Who, in turn, is quick to avert his eyes back to the cigarette burning away in his fingers, pinched almost too tightly between his thumb and index. With a shakey hand, he lifts it back to his mouth, taking a greedy huff.
[Name]'s eyes blink in the darkness that still shrouds the room, pale moonlight filtering in through the dirtied windows, and the slight glow from Adler's cigarette.
His gaze finds purchase on Adler's back. Even in the fuzzy, dim light, he still feels like he can make out every detail. He traces up the length of his spine, brain filling in where every freckle, mole, and scar would lay. He doesn't miss how the muscles of his back roll under the weight of his eyes.
"It's rude to stare," Adler huffs out, voice abrupt and bearish as he cuts through the stillness. Smoke rolls off his tounge with every breath, disapating into the room.
"What's rude is not offering a hit," [Name] retorts, unbothered by the calloused tone of Adler's voice. He was always like this the morning after, the asshole. [Name] grown used to it quickly-- he always came back around.
The scratchy material of the matress bends under his weight as he moves to his knees, settling behind Adler. He leans in close, letting the warmth of Adler's back soothe the cold skin of his chest, pressing their bodies close.
Despite whatever naivety Adler saw in [Name], he wasn't some idiot kid. Adler was far from a good, nobel man, and anyone with half a functioning brain could see that clear as day. He saw that dark charm, that relentless ambitious, with what ease it took for his words to bend the minds of the people around him-- and maybe he's fooled himself into thinking he's ammune to it.
He wished Adler could make up his mind. There was a constant push and pull, hot and cold, soft and doting one second, then cold and dry the next. It was tiresome. He was sure Adler felt... troubled in regards to the situation they'd gotten themselves wrapped up in.
What he wasn't sure about was exactly how he fared in Adler's thoughts, what the man makes of him. Was he an asset, a tool, a teammate, a liability, a lover, something better, something worse?
There was a certainty in the back of his mind that he tried to ignore. If it came down to it, him or Adler, he doesn't think it'd take much for Adler to make that decision.
There wasn't a single word out of Adler's mouth he could trust wholeheartedly. Nonsense stories about whatever scar [Name] had proded at, every word of support, every promise, every notion of praise muttered against [Name]'s sweat soaked skin.
All the same, [Name] let's his chin rest against the junction of Adler's neck and shoulder, leaning his weight onto the older man. With a sluggish groan, his arms, still heavy with sleep, wrap around Adler's torso.
"You're a fiend," Adler huffs, sneaking a sidelong glance at the toung man drapped against him, only able to make out the blured lines of his hair from the corner of his eye. "I cut the checks around here-- I know you make enough to quit bumming off me."
All the same, he steals a quick breath before raising the cigarette up to [Name]'s lips. He feels the warmth of his breath and can imagine with ease the way his lips part just to wrap around the filter.
He takes a long, slow hit, the burning paper sizzling, burning brighter. He lets the toxicity fill his mouth, burn his throat, flood into his lungs, warm his blood. He can't help but smile around the butt.
He takes a moment to savor the flavor before letting the smoke drift from his lips, eyeing the ribbons, noting the shape it takes.
"They taste better from your packs."
"Bastard."
"Hm." He sounds far too pleased with himself.
A moment of affection breaches past Adler's will. His free hand finds a place on [Name]'s own, resting gently, pliant fingers wrapping loosely around him. His thumb finds the curve of his wrist, rubbing against the thin skin shrouding the bone.
The small gesture pulls a soft sigh from [Name]. He focuses on the feeling, letting it silent the rampant hum of his thoughts.
He leans his head against Adler's, eyelids relenting to the heft that pulled them close. He relaxes into whatever faux comfort Adler provides. It was a tricky little thing to resist, giving into this simple desire, the brief beats of calm. What was the harm in playing pretend a little while longer? They were both good at it.
"You're cold," Adler complains, despite how he leans back into [Name]'s skin, even if just slightly. Regardless, he makes half an effort to rid [Name] off his shoulders.
"It's not me, it's the room," [Name] rebuttals back with a defensive scoff, sinking deeper into the heat of Adler's body, feeling the scratch of his stubble against his cheek. He speaks low, "You're just really warm," he mutters, hot breath hitting Adler's skin.
His hands spread flat against Adler's skin, fingers sprawled, greedy for more purchase on his flesh. One hand follows the line between his abs up towards the dip in his chest, touch firm, and certain. The other is lighter, softer, teasing the nails of his fingers trace instable patterns between Adler's hipbones, brushing against the hem of the sheet.
Adler nearly allows himself to once again fall back into [Name]'s hands, giving into his touch. The smooth skin of the young man's hands gliding over the bumbs and ridges of scars carved into his skin.
But, just as he'd be trained to, he pushes through the temptation, the desire, the buzz [Name] brought to the pit in his lower stomach.
His hold on [Name]'s wrist turns firm and almost cruel, pulling a slight hiss from the youger man, hand stilling against Adler's body.
He pulls out of Adler's constraint, leaning back away from him, the air around them suddenly feeling much too frigid.
Adler finally spares a glance over his shoulder, staring straight on into [Name], breath mingling, noses brushing together.
Adler looks older than he is. The crows feet at the outer corners of his eyes are deep and only seem wose at this early of an hour. A scowl personality ghosts his features, lips pursed, a perpetual frown even when all seems good. His eyes are a hollow blue as they bore back into [Name]. They narrow just a twitch-- observing, scrutinizing.
The gaze Adler meets is like a cruel parody of his own. His gaze is tight and narrowed, but still too soft. Boyish. All that ages him are his eyes-- the dark bags heavy beneath them, and although his wide-eyed look may be green and childish, that idleness is unmistakably one in the same with his own.
Turning away, Adler shrugs him off his shoulders-- with less laze this time.
"We're both up," he states, clearing his throat as he lets his cigarette rest on the overflowing ashtray sitting on the bedside table. He bends over, bed creaking, sorting his own clothes from [Name]'s. "Might as well get a headstart."
[Name] sits back, arms fully leaving their place around Adler, resting them in his own lap. His hands come together, fingertips tobacco stained, much like Adler's own. He fiddles with his fingers, pressing one nail into the other, noting how it feels when it bends.
He watches with a vague, tired interest as Adler stands from the bed, tugging on his clothes. The sound of rustling fabric, a few popping joints, and the jingle of his belt is what fills the silence before [Name]'s voice takes its place.
"Work can wait for a few more hours, can't it?" His head cranes up, tilting to the side, lips parted and dry. "It's hardly past four."
The request wasn't even inherently lewd. He'd be lying if he said he wouldn't take whatever Adler gave him, but for once, he admitted to himself that he wasn't hoping for sex. There was a tenderness he searched for-- a glowing warmth as opposed to raging heat. Innocent touch without the assumed promise of something more.
Adler's brows pinch together, crows feet further crinkling as he looks back towards [Name]. He regards him with a strange look of disinterest-- one of the many faces of Adler that left [Name]'s mind running itself in circles all day long.
He wishes his could crack open Adler's head, look around inside, poke and prod. He imagines seeing tangible thoughts sliding along the ridges of his brain, telling him what Adler's thinking how he feels, what makes him happy, sad, angry.
Oblivious to the thoughts in [Name]'s head, Adler approaches the edge of the bed, smoothing out the wrinkes in his shirt. His lips press into a pensive purse as his knees reach the edge of the bed.
After a beat, he raises his hand to curn around the contors of [Name]'s jaw, giving it a tentative squeeze. The gesture lays halfway between affection and mocking, unsure of where it leans.
Adler mouth falls open, then closes once more. A soft sigh is shared between the too men.
Adler allows himself just a beat to feel the weight of the younger man's jaw resting in his palm. His fingers press into the flesh of his cheeks, letting it dip under the pressure of his firm touch.
Just as quickly, his hand falls back towards his side. Finally, he offers his version of an answer;
Then, just as quickly, his hand falls, then he finally answers.
unrequited love with male reader having feelings for Leon but Leon has feelings for Ada
i've hoarded your name in my mouth for months
- leon s kennedy x male! reader
warnings: yearnmaxxing, mc is awkwardly put into a pre-existing scene but its okay but the intention is for you to feel uncomfortable, i listened to a lot of kimya dawson while writing this. so.
notes: anon you single handedly found every single trigger word in my brain, i owe you all my worldly belongings
fem aligned dni
today means amen - sierra demulder
"Who was she?" His voice scratched against his throat, creating an awkward, unpleasant sound, mouth dry and weak with lack of use. At this point, [Name] was just begging to have his feelings hurt.
But he couldn't keep his focus in check. Like a thirsty hound in sweltering heat, eyeing its bowl of water, Leon sat right across from him. Their desks shoved together, wires of their respective computers entangling themselves, stuffed in the space between them.
Leon's eyes are reluctant to meet [Name]'s, his chin rising before his gaze catches up. The warmth from the desklamp and the blinding blue light from his computer meet on the planes of Leon's face like a painting. They catch in his hair, casting it in it's hues as tousled locs fall over his brow, highlight the contours of his cheeks, deepen the creases beneath his eyes while his brows pinch together. He considers the question for a moment, pen stilling mid letter. "She...?"
[Name]'s pen anxiously rolls between his fingers, palms growing clammy, making his skin feel sticky. He wanted to take the question back as soon as his eyes met Leon's. He didn't mean it, he didnt really want to know, but the question had plaqued mind for weeks now. He didn't care how badly the answer would hurt him. He just needed an answer.
"Uhm, like that woman, I mean. The, uh, the one from Spain." Dread swells in his throat. He tries to clear it with a dry cough. His hands slip beneath the table in a way he hopes is casual, palms drying themselves against his jeans.
He pretends not to remember her name, like it'd make the truth easier to bear, like the sound of her name falling of Leon's tongue hadn't been rotting in the back of his mind since.
He can't even begin to comprehend where his mind had managed to twist all of this the entire time. It made him feel sick, embarrassed to even think about. Leon was his coworker at the least and a good friend at most. How can a single man manage to be that delusional? Twisting every little meaningless moment into a sign, a glimmer of hope for whatever deluded rom-com he thought this was.
But god, he really swore sometime that he could feel it-- really feel it.
During late nights just like this, catching up on whatever boring bureaucratic paperwork their missions came with, alone in a dimly lit office, muttering to each other like every word that left their tounge was some grave secret, leaning over desks, smiling like fools, nearly nose to nose.
"Oh."
Spain wasn't a mission either regarded fondly. They never spoke on it, not to anyone, not even to each other. Grotesque bodies twisted into horrid creatures better left to the imagination had burned itself into their brains. There was a unique sort of fear it'd conjured up in the pits of his stomach. That feeling came back every so often, waking him in a cold sweat, a shriek of fear catching in his throat as he meets his empty, desolate bedroom. It was a shit show.
"I mean, you don't have to like, tell me or anything-- I'm sorry for asking, it's not my place, I was just... I don't know."
Nauseating notions of love and affection had been harbored behind [Name]'s ribs. The lines of want and need blurred indefinitely whenever his eyes settled on Leon, whether it be the lines of his back as he moved, or the small grin he tried to force back to keep up whatever dorky 'cool guy shtick' he thought people fell for.
The impulse to let his thoughts be known, to scream and shout, to hum them through through a shakey melody, to sob them out into Leon's lap, grew stronger and stronger whenever [Name] felt the heat of Leon's body against his own. Fingers brushing together in a breath of a touch, bumping against each other as they walked, crammed together into whatever impossibly inconvenient vehicle they had at their disposal; knees knocking together, shoulders squished, broad back against chest.
And he nearly did let it all out. They'd been through many near death experiences together, yet this one was the breaking point. This one was the one that scared [Name] down to his bone.
Humid air and muggy water clung thick to his skin, sweat and lake dripping down the bridge of his nose as his hands clutched at the soggy fabric of Leon's shirt. His hair was dripping wet, a few shades darker, put cold as his head fell into [Name]'s lap. Blood violently hacked out seeped into the cracks of the blond's lips.
The boat they resided in swayed and rocked despite the earrie stillness of the water. Blood floated in clouds suspended in the water, surrounding them.
He'd dragged Leon's dead weight out of the flooding boat onto the rickety wooden platforms of the boathouse. The stentch of old, rotting fish surrounded them, yet most suffocatingly, the fear of what Leon was even going through, what he'd failed to let him in on.
[Name]'s hands stayed on Leon. An innocent hand on his chest, making sure it rises and falls, a gentle touch against the thin skin of his neck, a finger hovering over his top lip, feeling the shallow breath hit his skin.
And just like that, the second Leon came to, gasping for breath as his body lurched forward, was the same second [Name]'s mind decided it wouldn't do to hoard that aching yearn that rested heavy in his chest, like it was eating him from the inside out.
"It's fine," his tone feigns indifference, waving off [Name]'s uncertain blabbering with a wave of his hand, silencing him then and there like a well trained dog. His gaze leaves [Name] and settles back on the papers, but his pen doesn't move. "She's just a merc. Met her a few years back."
[Name] hums, fingers fiddling with the folds of his jeans stretched across his lap. He nods, teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard he almost draws blood. He was better than this. He was more mature than this. He wasn't still some lovesick school boy fixing to throw a fit. Right?
"Yeah, that makes sense." He sounds smaller now. "I dunno, I guess I just thought the two of you were close. Guess I was wrong...?"
"Hm."
Whatever 'plan' he had conceived while trudging their way through that village, letting it furthe waste away behind thick forest had died shortly thereafter. When he saw her.
In a castle acquainted midway between opulence and decay. It stood out in comparison to whatever humble community used to reside on the other side of its stone walls, one built from rudimentary inventions, or brick and wood, of community, of labor. The castles corridors were filled with death, twisting labyrinths covered in marble and gold.
There was a dread that followed him like out of time footsteps as his feet hit the cracked floors beneath him. He tried desperately to ignore it, but it hung over his head like an omen.
It was one he should've paid more attention to, one he shouldn't have pushed to the back of his attention-- focusing instead of the suits of armor that towered over him, on the distant sounds of metal squeaking against itself, on Leon.
In spite of it all, of failure risked at every turn available, of the thick smell of dust and cobwebs, of creaking floorboards, his heart sunk only whe his eyes settled on her.
"You can stop right there, Leon." The lul of her voice was cold, almost bored, but there was a playful fondness settled in her throat.
She was gorgeous. He hated it.
A red knit dress hugged the curves of her form, its ridges following down the line of her body, sleaves following through the elegant length of her arm, stopping just where her hand met her gun.
The leather of her glove squeaked as he grip tightened, the cold barrel brushing against the fabric of Leon's shirt as she stepped closer-- a warning, a tease.
"Wouldn't make me use this, would you?" The heel of her boots clicked against the hardwood. Her hair laid effortlessly perfect, brushing against the base of her neck. It looked soft, framing her face, skin dewy, and flushed. The depths of her eyes, dark and brooding, held Leon in place without even having to face her. the candles, flame flickering against her form, made her glow.
[Name] was offered no more than a glance. He stood there, frozen, foolishly more perturbed by the familiarity held in her voice than the gun she wielded. He was no threat to her. Wide-eyed, dejected puppy dog look he gave her was evidence enough.
Leon's eyes fluttered at the sound of her voice, a deep breath sucked in between his teeth, like he hadn't been able to breathe before he heard her voice-- or maybe it was her perfume in the air. The corners of his lips twitch, teasing a grin. "Well, after six years, that's a hell of a greeting, Ada."
Leon hissed out her name like he'd rather be rid of it, but it was an obvious farce. [Name] had grown to know very well the same lilt of fondness and longing that very clearly had wrapped their stubborn hands around Leon's neck. It was obvious, even in the tiniest ways.
It made him feel sick. He just stood there and watched, lips parted like he'd ever had something useful to say in the first place. He watched like an idiot while these two... Hell, he didn't even know.
It was utterly loathsome how well they fit together. When they spoke, when they moved, predicting every breath with practiced eased-- No, not even practiced, but something else, something worse, like second nature, like it was thoughtless. They just knew.
Each strike was just narrowly ducked beneath, leather squeeked beneath a calloused grip, a hand closing around her thin wrist, pulling her close, and empty threat of a blade against her neck, the same way her finger hadn't once grazed the trigger.
"Try using knives next time." Something about Leon's hand on her nearly set [Name] off right where he stood. Ot was firm but far from harsh or cruel. It was savoring, reverent, relieving to have her skin against his, even just like this.
"Not a bad move." A grin ghosts her features. Try as she might to fight it off, it settles beneath her skin, eyes crinkling, and [Name]'s sure her pulse beneagh his hand quickens the same way his always did. "Very smooth."
"So who are you working for this time?" Even Leon's own voice carries the weight of desire. Desire not like how [Name] yearned day and night, but like light tease, like flirty smiles, like foreplay.
"Oh, Leon," his name drips of her tongue like a poem, pain and reluctant covertness and heat all heard in the breath she sighed out. Her head lulls to the side, blinking in his gaze like a cat. The look they shared more than made up for what they'd lost in the six years, whatever the hell that was even supposed to mean. "You know I don't work and tell."
Everything else feels fuzzy.
At that moment, he felt as though the castle walls were crumbling in on him, burying him beneagh rubble and dust, the ground ready to fall beneath his feat and swallow him into the earth. He wished it did.
Something about that woman was easy to get suck in someone's head. Her voice, ao soft, so painfully sensual, striking down the center of his brain like ear bleeding static he wished would stop.
Even his own gaze couldn't stop from following her form out the window, her eyes meeting his in a fleeting glace of pity. Fucking pitty.
Was he really that obvious? How desperate he wanted Leon? Hell, how desperately he wanted to be her, just in that very second? Maybe, just maybe, if he were a girl just half as pretty as her, if he had her confidence, her shiny black hair, that voice, if he were here, then maybe Leon would want him back.
He feels like a child as he keeps a lump stuck down in his throat. It's almost painful. He doesn't trust himself to not speak, for his voice to stay steady, for his desperation to not make Itself known.
His jaw clenches as his teeth grind together. Neither of them deserved the senseless anger that reared it's ugly head inside his gut, but anger was easier to feel that disappointed. He braves himself a glance towards Leon.
Leon, who without a word, picks up his discarded gun off the floor, like nothing had even happened. Whose gaze first settles on the empty window, its framed panes swinging in the breeze, the [Name]'s, and there's nothing when they finally lock.
Quick as that, the realization dawns on him. All those late nights they spent together, hours stretching into the early morning were just work, all glances were just eyes aimlessly wondering in a need to cure boredom, touches, fingers brushing, shoulders knocking, all just mistakes, all fleeting moments were just that. Fleeting moments, not meant to extend past that brief second. They meant nothing.
Whatever sappy speech he'd prepared was stuffed back down his throat. He'd sooner die than hurt himself by entertaining the idea of him and Leon, so he clutched at his chest, feeling everything writhe beneath his skin, desperate, yearning, wanting. They clugged up his lungs, swollowed back like thick tar as they crept up his throat. He'd either suffer or allow them to die behind his mouth, drowning to silence himself, letting it weigh his body down further into the ground.
He couldn't help but be relieved for all the wrong sorts of reasons when that damned island finally went up in flames. It warmed the cast sea surrounding them now, at just the safe distance from the destruction.
That sluggish mess in his chest swelled and bubbled and screamed as he saw Leon. His hair caught the glow of the rising sun stretching its rays out behind the horizon , the water reflecting back in the grayish hues of his eyes, the sleep that pulled heavy at his lids, the bags beneath them, that reluctant look of relief. A tired grin played at his features, crooked teeth peaking out behind a crumpled smile.
Leon similarly peered over his shoulder, right back at [Name] and just... Looked.
Morning dew clung to the windows, a hazy, young dawn hanging as a heavy blue blanket over the slowly waking city.
A still morning, just as good as any other. Silence only broken by the scuffing of shoes echoing from the other side of the break room door, the buzzing of the fridge, the slow turning of the fan, it's blades creaking.
[Name]'s nails tapped against the flimsy paper of his coffee cup, it's heat warming his palms, held snug between both hands, fingers interlocked. Coffee had stained the outside of the cup, the outline of a long drop stretching down the length. He was never great at keeping his hands still.
He had tried to whipe similar spills he'd caused on the one he'd brought in for Leon, but to little avail. He could0 only hope the fact it was free coffee would make up for its messiness. That, and the handful of a few different creamers he'd brought-- he wasn't exactly sure how Leon took his coffee.
He kept his gaze glued to his own cup, all too aware of his own body as he sat in the flimsy metal chairs, the slightest shift of his elbows causing the table to shift and wobbling-- the damn old thing-- how the fabric of his slacks clung to his legs, his shoes digging into the back of his heel.
Every thought that passed through his head neared either destructive, or delusional-- the in-between was negligible, and in the past few months, he hasn't thought of much else besides the man infront of him.
He didn't like the word *crush.* It felt childish-- immature. He was a man, not some school boy fauning on the playground. Unfortunately, there was no better word to describe what he felt, try as he might to find one.
Even worse than that was the way his own mind toyed with him because of it.
In fleeting moments, he swore those butterflies in his stomach, the rapid beating of his heart, the genuine want to come into work for more than just his paycheck, were all mutual. What else could it all mean? The lingering gazes, the routine 'good night's' and 'mornings' they exchanged, the little grazes of Leon's palm right between his shoulder blades as he moved past, knees brushing whenever they sat just a little to close to eachother at roll call. God, what else could it mean?
Then, the next minute, [Name]'s world seemed to dull around him the moment any womans name rolled off Leon's toungue. Dread would wrap its heavy hands around his throat and squeeze till every word died in mouth.
He never entertained the idea of a confession either. He'd built up something good with Leon, made himself a friend in an utterly imposing city, and a great one at that. It'd be selfish of him to throw it all out for something as trivial as this.
He often didn't trust himself enough to keep that promise most days. On late nights, especially. The two of them in the station, wasting away the night while they were supposed to be working. His teeth dug into his toungue much harsher those days.
"Hey," Leon's voice cuts through his thoughts, a rush of nerves and anxiety swiftly bunching in his gut in painful, tight knots.
[Name]'s eyes snap to Leon's, breath stilling. He worries he'd somehow given himself away. Was he thinking out loud, staring without realizing, or was there an undeniable want in his eyes he could never hide?
He takes in every inch of Leon's face, his expression, the slight twitch of his muscles beneath the skin of cheeks, the ones he were hardly aware of. A crease between his brows, bunched together, a tense pursing of his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching into a frown.
"You alright there?" Leon finally asks, head tipping to the side, blonde hair sweeping over his brow. From beneath the table, his foot nudges against [Name]'s.
"Yeah," [Name] breathes out all too quickly, the heat of embarrassment washing over his skin, his clothes feeling all the more unbearable. "Just a long night is all," he tries to laugh it off, bringing a coffee-warmed hand to the circles under his eyes, trying to rub them from his face, maybe give Leon something more pleasant to look at.
Leon's unconvinced. He usually is. This would all be much less nerve-wracking if he'd just been a smidge dumber.
"Right." Still, as he always does, he nods, face shifting into that smile of his. The overall softening of his features, lips tilting up, the edges of his top teeth peaking out as his lips part. This time around, his grin doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, you know I'm always here if you need anything."
"Yeah," [Name] pulls his gaze back down to his hands, leaning further back into his seat.
Leon was a hard man not to like, and this was just another example. Relentlessly compassionate and kind. Always there to stick his neck out for everyone and anyone. Just talking to him made everything feel so much lighter. [Name] wasn't even half the man Leon was, and it was nearly that reason alone [Name] knew Leon would always deserve much more than him.
"What was it?"
[Name]'s attention is swiftly brought back to Leon. "What was what?"
"Y'know... What was keeping you up?"
"Oh." You, god it was you-- it's always *fucking* you. A gwaing ache eating him from the inside out, cracking open his ribs and making a home in the deepest parts of his being. Arm wrapped around a pillow, face burried into the fabric, pretending he could hear a heart beating beneath the casing. Burring himself under layers of thick blankets, manufacturing a warm embrace. His own hand ran it's fingers up and down the side of his ribs, trying to imagine what it'd feel like if it wasn't his own touch for once. "Nothing really. Just uh, stayed up thinking, I guess."
"About what?
"Just, uh, paper work, and stuff... I dunno, really. You know how late nights can get," he weakly laughs. Every word that slipped from his tongue felt like an awkward caricature of what a normal person should sound like. "When I did manage to get to sleep-- it was really only for a few minutes, really. Felt more like a nap, really, but I feel like you can't really call them naps at night. I still ended up staying awake for most of the night, so. Uhm, but you were in my dream, actually."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. It was about you-- or, I guess not *about* you. It's just, you were in it, like us-- you and me, I guess. So, it was kind of about us."
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"... Well, don't leave me hanging here. What happened?"
"I mean, I don't really know how to explain it," he mutters with a soft breath. He pulls a nerves breath from the tension-thick air around them, stuffy and near suffocating. He takes a hasty sip of his coffee, burning the tip of his tongue, holding back a wince. It was all an attempt to stall, to give himself a chance to get a damn grip. "We were in my house, like, my childhood house, back in my hometown. We were in my parents' room, but the furniture was all different-- like switched around, y'know? And we were just... sitting on the bed, folding some laundry."
"Folding laundry?" he repeats with a small laugh.
"Yeah," [Name] attempted to echo the sound, voice cracking at the end. "Folding laundry. There was some song playing, but it wasn't really coming from anywhere. I didn't really recognize it, and to tell you the truth, I don't even remember what it sounded like, but we were both singing along. It wasn't all that bad."
It felt remarkably real in the moment. He woke up nearly believing he'd fallen asleep in a pile of freshly washed clothes. He'd smelt the detergent, the warm of the clothes on his hands, the dip in the bed from Leon's weight in front of him.
But, he'd woken up to the dreery ceiling of his apartment, blankets half off his bed, yet still sweating.
"Doesn't sound all that bad," Leon concedes after a tentative sip of his coffee. "Not sure how happy I'd be after dreaming about chores. Can't say I enjoy doing laundry all that much.
"Yeah, I mean, me neither." His body moves without much thought behind it, mirroring Leon's as if second nature.
Nobody liked chores, laundry least of all, but some company made it feel all the better. He'd like it, [Name] thinks, at least. Something about the thought of standing by the sink, hands scrubbed away as dried food with a flimsy sponge, even if Leon just sat by the counter, talking about anything and everything. He could do that for hours. Shoving dirty uniforms into the washing machine, filling out tax forms, picking up around the apartment, arguing over identical paint swatches. Maybe they'd have a dastardly little creature running around, wreaking havoc; maybe a cat, maybe a kid. Existing with him.
It was stupid dream, one he'd do well to forget about as soon as he could
"... Anything else?"
"... Yeah, actually. You were wearing those bright-ass white shoes. Somehow, they looked even goofier than usual. So, pretty accurate a things considered."
Heeeeyyy, never requested anything but i think i'll give it a shot because i really like the way you write! You're really talented :]
Mayhaps a simon "ghost" riley x male reader? Reader is very provocative and loves getting reactions out of people, no matter if they are amused chuckles or annoyed groans. BUT Ghost is a brick wall and reader sees it as a challenge? Im sure your beautidul mind will come up with something interesting!
May i have the "🦇" as my anon emoji? (If its not taken of course!)
Thanksss, have an amazing day/night!
you can whistle for it
- simon 'ghost' riley x male! reader
warnings: idk how spotting works im just basing it off of that one american sniper scene kinda, suggestive innuendos, stupid jokes, not proofread
notes: i love specific anons sm :3 yall r so cute :3 ofc u can have 🦇 :3 lysm :3
fem aligned dni
everyman gets his wish - lana del rey
"Y'know, Lieutenant, I've been thinking-"
"I doubt that."
"-You, me, alone under the stars... It's pretty romantic, don't'cha think?"
"No."
A heavy sigh pushes past [Name]'s lips, hia breath blooming into a faint mist of white, fading into the deep blues of the sky hanging high above them.
The snow crunches bellow his elbows with every breath, laying thick over the plantlife. Frost coated the leaves that shrouded the pair, snowfall left the branches bending under the weight, there wasn't even a peep from the local fauna.
And oh god, what he wouldn't give to be warm like them, huddled in a burrow, coat all he'd need to keep warm. Instead, he was left in thick, stiff winter gear, the cruel wind biting at the tip of his nose in spite of the fleece-lined gaiter.
Hell, he was surprised his rifle wasn't crusted in ice.
He wasn't surprised, however, to deduce that the poor weather seemed to reflect on his lieutenant's mood, as if being stuck on overwatch for hours on end wasn't bad enough.
[Name] laid with his cheek resting on the stock of his gun, index finger lazily tapping against the trigger gaurd to some unrecognized rhythm.
And Ghost was right beside him, nearly hyper focused on spotted. Each had their eyes trained on their respective scopes, and both were miserable.
Aching backs, necks swiftly growing sore, eye's dry, lips cracking, and faces all kn all feeling like they'd be ready to freeze off any moment now. And that's not even mentioning that this was the fourth time Ghost had essentially requested [Name] shut his mouth in the past thirty minutes they'd been in the field, which was frustrating enough for both of them.
And excuse him for not wanting to waste his night sulking in silence, but making the best out of a less than steller situation didn't seem to be something Ghost was capable of.
It was charming, in its own annoying little way-- the relentless chatter and constant quips and jokes, even if they sometimes boarded on ridiculously unprofessional. Whether it be an annoyed groan, a flustered chuckle, or a reluctant smile masked with a roll of their eyes, his little antics never failed to coax out some reaction.
Almost never.
And in all honesty, this self inflicted, fruitless journey to get so much as a scoff out of Ghost wasn't even the point anymore. Sure, to be met with anything other than stubborn apathy would be a breath of fresh air, not to mention satisfying after so long of any and all jokes, swipes, and thinly veiled innuendo being shut down with little remorse would be a delight. But now? [Name] just wanted something to distract himself from the cold that clung to his skin.
So, as always, to Ghost's dismay, he gives it another go.
Dispite himself, another sigh is huffed out. He glances over to Ghost, the sight of something other than his reticle feeling foreign.
"So..." He starts, situating his sights back to his scope. "You got a girlfriend or anything?"
He found the idea a little funny. The image of this big, stoic man holding hands or otherwise being sweet on some pretty little lady.
There's a stretch of silence, expectantly so, and [Name]'s already racking his brain for something-- anything, to say next.
"No."
The low rumble of Ghost's voice takes him by surprise, but it'd be foolish to dwell on it long. An answer's an answer.
"Figured," [Name] mutters out, adjusting the grip on his gun, rolling out shoulders in an attempt to ease the discomfort that's begun to festerbetweenhia shoulder blades. "Does that mean you're up for grabs then?"
Only the whistle of wind responds this time.
"I'll take that as a maybe." He might as well have been aimlessly talking to himself. Hell, that would've been more entertaining than this.
"Y'know, I'm sure deep down you do think I'm funny." Told you; relentless. Still, despite the smile hidden behind his mask and the slightly forced crinkle in his eye, [Name] couldn't quite hide the irritation growing thick in his own throat.
"I think you're a distraction," Ghost is swift to correct, his balaclava doing little to hide the annoyance in his tone. "A liability if you're not careful, so do shut up."
[Name] can't help but shake his head, a sharp huff pulling from his throat. Sure Ghost was his superior, and by no means were they supposed to be all buddy-buddy with one another. But jesus fucking christ, would it hurt to crack smile. Hell, even Price offers a pitty laugh on the rare occasion.
"It wouldn't kill you to have some damn fun one in a while." The words leave his mouth before his can think better of it, tounge sharp.
"It might," Ghost is quick to retort with just as much bite. For the first time since they settled down, his eyes leave the spotter, sending a well received warning glare [Name]'s way. "Give it a rest, yeah?"
Be it the weather, the job, a wave of bravery, or simply just [Name]'s long overdue annoyance reaching its peak, he, in fact, does not give it a rest.
"It's like you're scared of saying something interesting for once."
"Maybe I'll let you chew on some lead to shut you up. That interesting enough?"
"Christ."
Every stretch on silence is near unbearable. It feels like even the wind still in these moments. [Name] would prefer a constant flood of berating and hardly enjoyable banter from Ghost far more than this.
The tension of the moment breifly lingers before it disapates just as swiftly as it had arrived, the tension in [Name]'s chest easing. He lets out a soft breath, his grip adjusts, his elbows sink furth into the snow.
"Well-" Ghost interjects with gruff sigh, "-Soap told me you like jokes."
"Did he, now?"
"Where do generals keep their armies?"
"Up their sleevies."
"God dammit, Ghost."
[Name] purses his lips, effectively splitting it down the center, the heat from the sting made all the worse by the every present chill. He had more pressing matters to worry about. "Why do snipers aim with one eye closed?"
"Sergeant."
"Humor me-- just this once, and I swear I'll shut up for the rest of the night." An obvious lie. However, Ghost doesn't try to correct it. "...Why do snipers aim with one eye closed?"
"...Why?"
"If they closed both, they wouldn't be able to see."
Yet another discontent sigh leaves Ghost's mouth. But, [Name] could've sworn he almost heard a smile forcing its way onto Ghost's face as he spoke. "Now are you done?"
[Name]s response isn't instantaneous. His head lifts from the small of the stock, gaze leaving the scope and finding Ghost beside him.
Ghost was still, near statuesque if it weren't for the soft puffs of breath that seeped through the thick knit of his mask. [Name] knew Ghost liked being behind the trigger more than anything, but he was sure Ghost's ego swelled, even if just a tad, over being the one chosen to spot instead.
Only when Ghost's eyes meet [Name]'s does he retreat back to his scope. Still, he let's his stiff face pull into a grin. "Say whatever you want, but I think I am starting to get to you, Lieutenant."
"Oh, piss off." This time, he hears Ghost shift around in place, a tired groan accompaning the shifting of snow beneath him. "Just quiet down before I show you how to put that mouth of yours to good use for once."
warnings: angst, death, greif, implied addiction ig, smoking, drinking, gore, kinda rushed near the end, also 3rd person for some reason idk
notes: this was supposed to be a halloween fic. so. pretend this was posted a few months earlier. ALSO STARTED WRITING THIS A BIT BEFORE MW3 CAME OUT. SO.
fem aligned dni
if i saw him, id still kiss him - mccafferty
It was yet another late, aching night filled with desperate yearning for a long gone past, anger and grief boiling up all at once at the constant taunting reality that it will never be like again. There's an aching empty in his chest, a buzzing in his head, like every cell in his body knows something's wrong; a missing touch trailing his skin, a missing laugh bellowing in the air, a missing warmth from all around. It's something that can just almost be ignored most days.
But not tonight.
Tonight, all that empty is suffocating Simon. Neither the cigarette pinched, nearly crushed, between his fingers or the glass of liquor he glares into can fill it.
He's been through plenty of grief counseling in his time, probably too much to be considered normal for one man. He'd heard all about moving forward, remembering the good instead of missing what you never got the chance to have. He'd heard plenty from others who've lost people they've cared about-- another tag added around someone's neck, a child with a mother taken before she could see their middle school graduation, a father outliving his daughter. They'd all had many of the same anticdotes about seeing their loved ones everywhere they went, and the resulting peace it brought them. A beautiful sunset, a coincidental cardinal, the twinkling of fireflies swarming their favorite park. But this wasn't quite something he expected.
Simon tries desperately to ignore [Name], heart bounding in his chest despite the stone cold expression he bears, avoiding the form of his teammate, his friend, sitting weightlessly on his desk. [Name]'s eyes trail the ribbons of smoke drifting through the still air.
Simon wore his dog tags besides his own, under his shit, against his chest. There's still dried blood stuck in the stubborn cracks, scratches, engravements. They've been through far too much in what felt like such a short military career-- sweat, blood, tears, and other such bodily fluids better left unsaid for dignities sake.
He could hear nothing more than the huff of his own breath, the ticking of the clock, the slight hiss of his cigarette burning away, the buzz in the walls.
"Why are you still here?" [Name]'s the first to break the silence tonight. His voice is distant, sounding more like a faint whistle of wind manufactured by Simon's grief. That was his best guess, anyway.
Regardless, he finds the question ironic.
He responds only with silence, applying a childish logic to the situation. If he doesn't look at him, speak to him, entertain this ridiculousness, maybe it'll go away. It didn't, of course.
"It's Halloween," [Name] continues on as if this were any other conversation they might've had. "You should've gone home awhile ago... What, you don't feel like celebrating the night by giving out some candy? Maybe a horror movie?"
"Feels like im living through my own horror movie," Simon finally mutters back, washing off the words from his tongue with the overwhelming taste of tobacco, quick to chase it back with a thick gulp of whiskey.
[Name] scoffs, the sound bouncing off the walls of the office. "C'mon, now, I'm not that bad. It's not like I'm crawling through your TV or anything like that. I mean, I could if you want me to."
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Just saying."
"You think you're funny, huh?" Simon bitterly mutters, finally daring to look up at you, only for his eyes to snap back to his hands. "Piss off," he huffs, pressing the rim of his cup back to his lips.
He knew that [Niko] was dead. He watched it happen. He felt it. He'd been the one to identify his body at the morgue. He saw the waxy skin, the empty eyes, the cold. Yet, there [Name] was, sitting at the edge of Simon's desk, annoying the ever loving hell out of him like he always had.
More silently settles between them. The stillness. The empty. The ticking, the breathing, the burning, the buzzing. All sounds Simon swore were never so unpleasant was [Name] was just a few doors down.
"You've been drinking a lot lately." [Name]'s words and tone mirrors Price's to a T, with the same nervous glance between the deep, angry crease in Simon's brows and the glass that's found a home in his grip when there's not a rifle taking its place.
"I miss you," Simon's quick to admit. He's terribly nonchalant about it, shrugging it off, as if that's a reason [Name] would ever accept.
"I miss you too." [Name] doesn't take the chance to hound on Simon for the excuse. And inconsistency in his character, Simon thinks, a sign that this is all in his head, that the little cricket in his ear is spitting out whatever will make him happy. "I miss all you assholes." That's more like it.
Simons sets his glass down, the glass clinking again the wood of his desk. He stares down at the dark grain, the twisting paterns.
Simon shakes his head. "I let you down."
"Don't be stupid," [Name]'s voice cuts in, bouncing off every wall. "You're fighting a war-- war's have casualties. Shit happens."
"It was my mission. I made the call. It was my job to keep my men safe, and I failed." His voice is barely above a whisper. God, Simon hates it when he comes around. "I could've sent someone out to scout the area before we engage-- I shoulder sent someone else. It didn’t have to be you." His voice threatens the crack and break under the weight of guilt in his words. He had hundreds of scenarios he'd run over time and time again, of how he could've stopped it. He'd give anything to do it all over.
"What good would that do?" [Name] scoffs, adjusting his position on Simon's desk, not making a single sound. "Someone else would've just died. Maybe not me, but maybe you, Garrick, Price, Soap. Hell, a handful of marines. Why does my life matter anymore?"
Simons sees [Name]'s death every time he closes his eyes. Even six months later, it never ceased to haunt him. It was like a nightmare how it'd all played out. He was no stranger to death, but god, it played in his mind like he was still there, wind whipping against his, a trembling body in his hands.
[Name], choking on his own blood, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, blown wide in complete and utter terror. He'd been trying to speak, in spite of Simon's hurried shushes, never one to follow orders well, but all that sounded was a grotesque gurgle, frothy, pale blood spilling from his lips, a bullet caught in his lungs. It was agonizing to see. He was terrified. Simon didn't know he was capable of even feeling such a thing.
He was always such a smart ass, talking shit, never a glimmer of fear or hesitation. Simon had criticized him for it time and time again. Bravery doesn't equate to invincibility, and that had proven itself soon enough.
Simon felt him die. His hand, sweaty and desperate, clutching onto Simon's with all the fleeting strength from his body. It felt like hours, screaming for a medic, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, to hold him, to comfort him, to save him. He didn't stop even when [Name]'s hand went limp in his, or when he saw that blood-stained face of his, frozen in a twisted expression of childlike fear.
"Because you deserved more," he finally answers. "You were young. You deserved to live your life, not die in some godforsaken country. I could've done something. I could've stopped it."
He drops his gaze down to his desk, the glass making a loud clink as he set it down, he hand quick to come to his face. He presses the harsh, calloused pads of his fingers firmly against his skin, rubbing the flesh raw as he feels his emotions swell in his throat.
"God damn it," he hisses. "I'm sorry, [Name]. I'm so sorry."
Not a word gets to leave [Name]'s lips before a dry, pained chuckle is chocked out from Simon's throat.
"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, burrying his face in his hands. "I'm going crazy. You're not real. This isn't happening-- you're not here, you can't be here."
His breathing picks up as he desperately tries to convince himself, hammering it into his own brain until this cruel mind trick leaves him to his peace. His cigarette shakes in his trembling hand, the ash burning his skin. He doesn't seem to feel the heat.
"You're dead, [Name]. You're dead."
The next few moments are tense and quiet once more. For a moment, Simon lets himself hope that maybe it’s finally gone, that he'll have his lonesome night to mourn, but [Name]'s voice cuts through that stillness yet again.
His voice is hesitant and almost nervous, another unfamiliar sound. "What, your name's Ghost, yet you don't even believe in 'em?" He attempts a lazy joke, that teasing smirk of his trying to mask the tension. "Maybe you oughta change thay callsign of yours."
Simon sharply scoffs, the words cutting deep, teasing and joking as he could've believed the intentions were. "Maybe you're right." Simon hadn't been Ghost, not for a while now. "I'm not the man I was. At this rate, I'll just be another vet in an AA meeting," he spits, riping his hands from his face and tossing back the rest of his drink.
"Hey, that's not what I-"
"Why are you still here?" Simon doesn’t give him a chance to answer, slamming the glass back down onto the desk, grip tightening around it. "I've done my mourning, I've felt my guilt. What more do you want from me?" His brows pinch together, voice tight in his throat.
A frown tugs at [Name]'s lips. He leans over, a hand coming to place itself over Simon's as his fingers curl desperately into his cup.
But, the biting cold where a warm, dare he hope, loving touch should be sets him off.
It takes him a moment to realize, glass shattering and crumbling in his tight grip, priercing his skin. The blood comes before the pain, shards digging into his skin, his hands shaking with his own shock as he opens his palms.
He's quick to take in the damage, his mindless destruction making him feel sick.
He looks up and finds [Name] gone, if he was ever really there in the first place. The office feels just as cold as it had been, hitting the warm blood spilled from his skin.
Simon looks back at his hand, blood pattering against the desk. His curls his fingers into a fist, letting the glass dig deeper and deeper beneath his flesh, crunching in his palm, the sensation burning furious and sharp as his fist trembles.
His chest tightens, the snarl on his features turning to a pathetic from as his lips quiver.
He shakes his head with a sharp breath, his hand falling to the desk, relaxing as much as it could.
He leans back into his chair, it screaching under his weight. He whipes his hand against his pants, a few small shards of glass falling to the floor, most just pressing in deeper.
He grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck, pulling it closer.
🐇 wonderful!! In that case, if like some dysphoria hurt/ comfort (emphasis on the comfort because i don't like pure angst but I love a little sting beforehand) with Leon, preferably re2 leon if you need a specific timeline but I'm impartial honestly. Reader is a trans man who's had top surgery but is insecure because he has the "double" mastectomy scar that's one long one instead of the signature two that gets shown everywhere. Leon comforts him simply by affirming his scar aesthetically but also some form of "you dont need to look exactly like other trans men to still be one." I apperceive the fics that reaffirm the reader's manhood but i know im a man so those never really help my dysphoria at all ;w; I'm sure you can guess but this is very self-indulgent and specific lol but thank you so much! I understand this is incredibly specific so take all the time you need!
i wanna be more real than all the rest
- [re2(?)] leon s kennedy x ftm! reader
warnings: hurt/comfort, dysphoria, post shower depression type beat, could be read as either re2 or re4 leon honestly but re2 was the intention!!
notes: the song the titles from is by against me! which is one of my favorite bands and if you're sad and trans (which im sure most of you are) yall should check them out. ALSO ik the last few reqs have been re related and ik most of yall come from my cod fics but!!!! i have some (plus a cm and dbh) drafts for yall coming up maybe kinda soon :3
fem aligned dni.
delicate, petite, and other things ill never be - against me!
The water from the faucet tapped against the porcelain, uncomfortably rhythmic in the otherwise suffocatingly still bathroom, drop after drop. Water dewed the surface of the flimsy plastic shower curtain, and the oppressive steam hung sluggish and torrid in the air of the bathroom, leaving your reflection in the mirror distorted and unclear.
You stood at the sink, hands curling against the rim, a wet towel draped heavy over your bare shoulders, catching the water as it slipped from the clumped strands of your hair. The baggy sweats you changed into, freshly washed and still warm from the dryer, had nowhere near the comforting effect you had hoped for. You trusted that perhaps after a nice shower and some cozy clothes might bring you the sort of warmth you needed, but the fabric was scratchy and heavy, the humidity lingering in the bathroom doing little but aiding in the discomfort, the fabric clinging to the wetness of your skin.
You lift your hand to the mirror, your attention feeling distant, consciousness completely out of your body as you drag the palm of your hand along the glass. Your skin against the mirror, wiping away the fog and mug, elicits swift screeches. Your hand alone wasn't quiet enough, although you didn't exactly expect it to be, the remaining moisture distorting your image.
You bring your other hand to the towel, pulling it from your shoulders, blindly tossing it back, not caring much if it lands in the hamper as you intended. Instead, your eyes stayed glued to your body, your chest, your scars.
The pads of your fingers hesitantly flutter along them, barely actually touching them, as if trying your hardest to convince yourself they aren't there-- scared that touching them might make them too real.
They're risen and puffy, still a raw, fleshly shade. One long slash across your chest, jagged, bending with the contours of your anatomy. The scar itself was bitter to you, looking ill-fitting on your body, softly cringing at the sight. Thin in some areas, thick and bumpy and others, if you looked hard enough you could convince yourself they were lopsided and uneven.
Thankfully, your gaze is pulled away from yourself in the mirror, a soft knock at the door sounding from the other side.
"[Y/N]?" You hear Leon's voice call from outside the bathroom, voice sweet and light, although tight with concern. "Are you alright?"
You'd lost track of time, you think, body still and eyes blank under the pounding water on your head, or standing at the mirror, criticizing everything your eyes could reach as if ripping yourself apart by the seams to find what made you feel so wrong.
A sigh pushes past your lips as you rake your hands through your hair, pushing back the stray hairs that fall onto your forehead. "Yeah, I'm fine." You finally answer, noticing your prolonged silence probably didn't do much to quell his concern.
Regardless, your tone of voice was clear as day, it must've been. Not a beat later, the doorknob tentatively twists, the door inching open just enough for Leon's head to peak in, his hair still messy from his day at work.
You can't help but let a small smile tug at your lips as his eyes meet yours, blue hues luminous even in the poor lighting of the bathroom. You rest your hands back on the sink, leaning your weight into it as you watch his expression swiftly mirror yours, a somewhat embarrassed smile playing at his features.
"Hi," you finally greet with a small laugh, head tilted towards your shoulder, momentarily forgetting of all your strife.
"Hey," greets back, allowing the doorknob to slip from his grasp and fall opening, the air in the bathroom swiftly feeling much lighter. His eyes dart around you, your body, and your face before they lock onto yours once more.
"Everything okay?" He again asks.
You can manage out another sigh, eyes flicking away from his, chest tight and strangely hollow, although your body feels weighty and all too heavy where you stand.
You turn to properly face Leon, lower back resting against the edge of the sink, arms crossed tightly over your chest, a futile attempt to provide yourself some comfort. Your lips part to respond, but not a word slips from your tongue, mind blank. You don't know how to explain. Hell, you barely understand what you're trying to explain yourself, mind scrambling for anything that might make a semblance of sense to Leon.
In your long-winded silence, Leon takes a few steps inside, warm hands finding themselves on your shoulders, lovingly trailing down the form of your arm with an almost instinctual tenderness you've only ever found in him. His touch, firm and warm, was still so heavy and gentle as his palms warmed your skin.
"[Y/N]...?" His voice was as sincere and comforting as his touch.
Your brain finally manages a halfway coherent response, although nothing near what Leon was hoping to hear.
"It's nothing," you start with a dismissive shake of your head and a lazy wave of your hand. "It's stupid."
A small frown tugs at Leon's lips, although swiftly replaced with a comforting chuckle. "It's not stupid if it's bugging you," he states, gently squeezing your upper arms, a small display of reassurance, a reminder that you don't need to censor however you're feeling.
You purse your lips, turning back to face the mirror. "It's just..." You trail off, eyes once again settling on your scars with the same looming dread watching the aftermath of a car crash.
Leon's hands slip from your arms as you turn your back to him, instead settling on your hips, thumbs mindlessly rubbing circles against your hips bones, patiently awaiting whatever explanation you offer.
"Yeah...?" He softly breathes, following your gaze in the mirror.
"I feel like my scars look..." You can't help but once again hesitate for a second. "Ugly?" As the word leaves your mouth, you know instantly that it's not what you meant, at least not entirely.
The second Leon hears this, his expression twists into something just short of shock. His brows shoot up, pinching in confusion a breath later. His eyes lock onto yours through the reflection of the mirror. "Really?"
"Yeah." You scoff, feeling somewhat immature, almost vain.
A brief beat of silence passed between the two of you before Leon once again broke in.
"I don't think so." He admits, his voice drifting with ease and lax. "I think they're kinda pretty."
"Oh yeah?" Your voice is tight with cynicism at the notion, twisting your neck to the side to meet Leon's eyes, properly this time. "And why's that?"
You fully expect Leon to start some corny rant regarding your scars, pulling some overused quote out of his ass about how they 'tell your story,' or 'make you beautiful'. Words that might've been appreciated no doubt, but ultimately beyond unhelpful to you right now.
Instead, however, much to your surprise, Leon only shrugs.
"I dunno," he concedes, his gaze finding the mirror following the line of the incision with such ease that you could never find it in yourself to manage. He regards the ridged, the bumps, the raw pink, the thick, the thin. "I just do," he ends.
You can only manage a hum in response, not quite grasping what he is getting at, eyes following his, watching as Leon's touch drifts up from their place on your hips, calluses leaving pleasant goosebumps in their wake as his hands reach around your torso. His touch feels like nothing short of tranquility as his fingers brush over the length of your scars.
A soft breath huffs out from your nose. You allow yourself to lean into Leon's chest, melting into his warmth, his comfort.
"I think it's the shape," he pipes up again, muttering under his breath, as if only to himself. He doesn't sound all that confident in his answer, brows tipped up as if in thought. His other hand is anchored on your sternum, keeping you close to him.
He watches his own hands as he continues, thumb dipping into every ridge. "Or maybe it's the color-- or your scar, I mean, with your skin tone." He continues, sounding just as curious as you are to land on the right answer.
He finally simply cracks a smile with another shrug, somehow managing to pull you even closer to him. "Hell, maybe I just like how they look on you."
His boyish grin rubs off you with ease, slightly embarrassed, flushed from the praise and compliments. You watch almost desperately as Leon's hands continue to roam lovingly over your scars, a tender look clear as day in the blue of his eyes, trying your damnedest to see what he's seeing.
"I dunno," you murmur with an almost imperceivable shake of your head. "I know it sounds stupid, but I wish they looked like... Ya know, like a trans guy's scars."
A brief silence settles between the two of you, Leon's chin resting on your shoulder as he seems to ponder your words. His eyes don't meet yours for quite some time, finding themselves suck to a chip in the pain on the wall, eyes glistening with thought, brows pinched and lips pulled down into a small frown.
You lean your head against him in the meantime, his familiar scent enveloping your senses with familiar ribbons of fragrance. His cologne is nice and strong, although not completely overbearing and headache-inducing. Aromatic notes of cedar and citrus wash over you. You allow your eyes to flutter close, drinking in the solace.
"Why would that matter?" His voice soon enough sounds once more, feeling somewhat louder cutting through the soft silence that had filled the bathroom for those few moments.
His voice coaxes you back to the present, his gaze yet again finding yours through the reflection of the glass, holding your eyes with his own.
"I don't know," you breathe out for what must've been the hundredth time that night. "I just think it'd make it feel more real. Do you know what I mean?"
Leon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, one of his hands drifts up past your chest, collarbones, and neck, curling around the line of your jaw, gently cupping the side of your face in his palm. You push into his hand almost instinctive, nuzzling into the warmth. His thumb rubs against the supple skin of your cheek, the pad of his thumb feeling just as delicate.
"Just because you don't look like other trans guys doesn't immediately nullify the fact that you still are one," He begins, almost out of nowhere. His words feel methodical in the best way, well thought out, likely crafted to be as protected from all your doubting thoughts as he could make them.
"You could have any sort of haircut, body, scars, or hell, even no surgery at all, and it's not like that would make your identity any less real." His words slip from his tongue with such ease, as though it was glaring obvious from the very beginning, and maybe it was. "Your scars aren't what make you trans."
You allow his words to sink in, and much to Leon's credit, his words feel irrefutable. They made enough sense, and you couldn't exactly think of any meaningful way to disagree. You find your attention once again settling on your scars. Maybe they didn't look too bad.
"Yeah," you sigh, turning once more to face Leon, the image of yourself in the mirror settling more comfortably into your head. "You're right."
"Yeah I know, I usually am." Leon jokes.
Said joke only elicits an almost exhausted roll of your eyes.
Leon swiftly presses his lips into yours, a sweet, swift kiss silencing the doubtful rebuttal you were bound to shoot back. You can't find it in yourself to complain much.
All too soon, Leon pulls back, both hands now cupping your cheeks. "Now C'mon, let's get to bed-- they're playing Sex in the City tonight."
please i beg for a part 2 on your latest leon fic AUGH… grumpy old man..
perhaps cherries look violent in the sunlight (you are all honey and rage)
- [re4]leon kennedy x male! reader pt2
warnings: mc and leon bond over being haters, more not so subtle fruit imagery and symbolism, drinking, live laugh love grumpy old men, still pretty enemies to lovers but mostly enemies, could also probably be read as its own stand alone fic??
notes: me???? doing a part 2 for a fic as soon as im asked??? im a changed man yall (i swear i have a draft for a pt2 for that one angsty 141 fic) honestly i dont like how leon looks with his hair back but it felt like a must to write it in 💀 anyways eat up yall
fem aligned dni
the cynical idealist - oscar wilde
"This is stupid."
"You're stupid."
"Your face-"
"Shut up."
The tense silence between the two of you feels louder than the braindead chatter around you, both feeling like nothing less than ear-splitting static.
You, accompanied by Leon, were 'strongly advised' to attend some big event hosted by a few sponsors for the agency-- essentially a gala of sorts. You two were graciously given the opportunity via a terrible twist of fate to attend said event. Your job here was really just to kiss some rich snob's ass, and choke down as many glasses of champagne as you physically could. Truly an ideal way to spend your weekend.
You looked around the scene before you, beyond bored with this entire thing. The venue was large. Warm light from regal-looking chandeliers filtered through the room, hanging down from the ornamental ceiling, the gold paint that highlighted the ridges of the molding caught the light, shimmering like something out of a fairy tale. Large round tables were dropped in satin cloth, almost ridiculously ornate plates and utensils set down for each chair, and of course, a centerpiece to tie it all together.
The people around you proved no less imposing. A woman managed to catch your eye, and you're sure many others too. With olive skin looking all the warmer under the glistening lights, her bleach blond hair slicked back, accentuating the delicate sharpness of her features, she was stunning. The black fabric of her dress clung to her figure, grazing the marbled floor. Pearls hung from her neck, such a classic display of grudging wealth, the shimmer of the pearls shining all the brighter against her suntanned skin. Cat-eyed sunglasses sat high on the bridge of her nose, curved down and prominent on her features.
You always thought wearing sunglasses inside was a dick move, and it being well into the night didn't do much to deter the opinion, but you supposed you could wear whatever you wanted whenever you wanted if you looked that good, or had the money for that matter. And this woman? She reeked of wealth.
You shift in your seat, even the feeling of your collar brushing against your neck felt agonizing. You felt the knot of your tie against your Adam's apple as you tried to swallow back the undeniable feeling of imbalance that had swiftly begun to fester and bubble up the pit of your gut. The suit you wore was utterly confining, your movements stiff, joints and bones feeling taut as you sat nervously in your seat.
You were sure you looked ridiculous. You were no man of wealth, you never were, and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out just that. Your stance was rigid, tie crooked, and the fabric itself was creased and wrinkled after the twenty-some tries it took you to get it right, and even then it still sat askew beneath the collar of your shirt. It felt like a damn leash.
With a sigh, you bring your attention back to your plate, a barely picked at starter salad they'd served you. Even the salad looked fancy, vaguely unrecognizable vegetables that would probably take you a minute to sound out.
You pick a crouton from the midst of leaves and what you think are some kind of tomatoes. The crouton has lost its flakey crunch, soaked and sogged up with dressing. Another sigh rushes past your lips as you drop the croton back into its plate, leaning back in your seat.
"Ya know, it wouldn't kill you to at least like you're enjoying yourself." Leon's voice cuts through the buzz of conversation and the scrape of forks on plates.
His voice pulls your attention straight to him, clad in a suit much like yours, the knot of his tie centered effortlessly between the points of his collar, his demeanor cool and even-tempered. His bangs were brushed back, blond locks still managing to look tousled and uncaring, a stray strand falling over his forehead.
He pressed the rim of his champagne glass to his lips, not even bothering to spare a glance in your direction.
"It might." You mutter with a roll of your eyes. You look down at your own glass, the shimmery, golden hues of the sparking whine glittering.
You were hesitant to put your hands anywhere near the glass, a somewhat irrational qualm about somehow shattering the glass with the slightest touch.
The intricate, delicate floral designs etched into the flute made you all the more weary. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume they were crystal. Actually, you are fairly certain they are crystal.
"If we manage to snag a few of these glasses, do you think we could pawn 'em off for good money?" you murmur, pinching the stem of the glass at the base between your fingers, turning it gently.
"I'd say we better go for the centerpieces." Leon nods to the center of the table where a large candelabra sits, a dark bronze shade, tall with intricate patterns etched into every surface. It had five candle sticks, one in the center with four outstretched around them, each with slow burning candle, beads of hot wax dripping down the sconce.
It looked old and expensive, just like many of the guests here tonight, and was sure to be worth a pretty penny. But, it was also damn bulky.
"How would we sneak that thing?" You ask with a scoff, turning to look at Leon.
He meets your gaze, simply shrugging his shoulders, expression nonchalant. "If we both book it, I think we could manage."
"Yeah, I ain't getting far in this damn suit." You grumble, shifting your seat.
"In that case, maybe I'll throw you to them as a distraction."
"Very funny."
Leon rolls his eyes at you with a shake of his head, almost amused. "The suits aren't that bad, you just have to figure out how to put on a damn tie."
"Aren't that bad?" You repeat with a scoff. "I feel like I'm being strangled." With another shake of your head, you finally take the plunge, picking up the glass, and holding the stem tensely between your fingers.
Instead of the faint, yellow-tinged shades you were used to, the champagne instead held a darker, warmer hue. At the very bottom of the glass sat what you could only legitimately assume was some kind of candied cherry, its color practically pitch black. The syrup that coated the cherry floated in ribbons around the popping fizz, suspended in the golden wine.
You press the rim of the glass to your lips, tilting your head back tentatively, letting the champagne coat your tongue for just a moment. It was much sweeter than you expected, an underlying tartness biting pleasantly at your tongue.
You look back down at the glass, gently swirling it, watching as the cherry rolls around along the bottom.
"At least the booze is good." You say with a shrug, going in for another sip.
Leon shakes his head, looking down at his own glass. "Too sweet," he replies before taking another sip himself
Sometimes you genuinely think he's just constantly waiting for any opportunity he can get to oppose you, just for the hell of it.
Your brows pinch together, your irritation clear as day as you shoot him a glare. "Then why are you still drinking it?"
Leon sets his glass back down, a muffled thud sounding as it's placed on the table just a smidge harsher than needed. He turns to you, his tone somewhat condescending. "Because regardless, we're both gonna be needing a few glasses if we wanna make it through this without killing each other."
After a few beats of silence, you shrug. "Fair enough," you huff out. Again, a brief moment of silence passes before you slump back in your chair, tossing your head back. "I swear to god, I'm going insane."
"Well, If you're gonna have a breakdown, do it in front of everyone. It might give us a reason to get out here."
"Always the charmer, Kennedy. Always the charmer." You sigh, tracing the contours etched into the ceiling, the glare of the chandelier burning at your eyes, catching in your lashes as you squint.
"Yeah, whatever." For a brief moment, Leon glances over, barely even turning his head, taking in your image from the corner of his eye. The knot of your tie pressing up against your Adam's apple, the light reflecting back in your eyes, the pout that plays at your features, brows knit together, clearly restless and disinterested.
Just as quickly, he turns his attention back to his champagne. "Just when you do, make sure you don't screw up the suit they got you-- I'll end up coming out of your paycheck." He shrugs, almost to himself, adding in another mutter before he takes another sip. "And I'm pretty sure it's Prada."
"No, it's not." You scoff, sending Leon a Lazy glare.
You look down at your suit, taking in the little details you somehow managed to overlook when you first pulled it out of its garment bag. The suit was a soft black, like what most of the other men wore, almost feeling like wool if not for just something not quite feeling right. The neat pleating and the peak lapel was a rich black satin. Both the buttons holding the jacket closed, and the ones stacked on the cuff were covered with that same satin.
"Wait, is it-?"
"Shh." Leon sharply hisses, nodding to the stage at the front of the room, the rest of the guests swiftly simmer down into murmurs and
A plump, older-looking man walks across the stage, the harsh lights beaming down on him not doing him any favors. His presence alone garners an expected applause, although you doubt it's out of anything more than basic respect. You and Leon follow suit of the other guests, half-heartedly clapping along, barely actually making any sound.
As the man settles in behind the podium, he clears his throat, shuffling a few note cards in his hands, likely having whatever long-winded speech he's about to go on about written down. You cringe back slightly at the screeching feedback that rings through the venue, already finding whatever the old bastards about to say absolutely headache-inducing.
Finally, the man begins to speak, glancing around the crowd, smiling and nodding to no one in particular, really. "I'd like to start off by first of all thanking you all for attending our event tonight, and an even bigger thank you to tonight's sponsors-" Whatever else the man says is entirely lost on you, fizzling into what might as well have been endless 'blah, blah, blah'.
You're left simply staring at the man's face as he blabbers on, head leaning against your own shoulder, not even bothering to feign any interest or engagement. The man looked much like any other man here, his hair salt and pepper toned and slicked back, skin naturally tanned in a failed attempt to make him look older, brows dark and bushy. The man's face was round and full, yet somewhat oddly shaped, deep set wrinkled carved in his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were small and beady, nose just as tiny, both looking odd on his large face.
The corners of your eyes crinkle, brows knitting together, noting a foreign sense of familiarity in the man's face. A moment of brief ponderance passes before you lean over to Leon, eyes forward and tone low.
"Dude, straight up not even trying to be funny, but that guy kinda looks Augustus Maywho."
You see Leon's head snap towards you, barely making out the pinching of his brows out of the corner of your eyes.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He sneers, diverting his attention back to the speaker.
"Augustus Maywho," you repeat as if the comparison was clear as day. "From the Grinch-- the guy who bullied him."
"...Oh."
"You see it, right?"
"Oh my god."
"Like, he has the eyebrows and the snout-"
"Do you think he has a Martha?"
"Hell, if that rolls royce the valet was driving is his, I'll be his Martha."
"That's so gross."
"It's thirteen million dollar car, Leon. Thirteen million. God, I hate rich people."
"Maybe that's how he got so rich-- exploiting the residents of Whoville."
That last comment gets to you a little more than it probably should've, letting out a chuckle that was just a little too loud.
You try to swiftly bite down the rest of your laughter, but the damage is done, Leon himself cracking a smile before he's eventually fighting off his own fit of giggles, your own stifled snickers egging on his own.
The two of you fight tooth and nail against yourselves to hush down your fits, teeth sinking into lips and hands clamped over mouths. You could've sworn the two of you were almost successful, but your efforts are quickly interrupted by a not-so-subtle throat clearing.
Your attention, along with Leon's, snaps to the table beside you, meeting the glares of quite a few quests. One of which happened to be a very displeased-looking woman who, when met with an even wider, half-embarrassed grin at her glare, only further sours.
warnings: enemies to lovers type beat because i'm self indulgent, kinda short maybe idk, foul language, im really worried leon's ooc teehee, not proof read
notes: I honestly just really wanted to write a leon fic. also this is inspired by the shit load of orange based poem slideshows i keep seeing on tiktok so yea live laugh love
fem aligned dni
notebook fragments - ocean vuong
It was late at night, far too late, and rainy, and utterly miserable.
You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed over your chest, clad in a thick sweat in an attempt to keep yourself warm. Your feet were kicked up on the dash, ankles crossed as you glared out the windshield.
Leon sat besides you, arms similarly crossed over his chest, a small scowl resting on his face. His leg bounced furiously up and down, the sound of the fabric of his jeans rubbing against the seat was largely lost in the sound of the rain, pounding harsh and loud against the roof of the car, like ear splitting static.
The hostility was tangible in the air, thick with animosity.
Whoever it was that first said that first impressions matter wasn't kidding. One rocky introduction between the two of you, and you were practically destined to be at eachothers throats for so long as the two of you are forced to interact. You couldn't even recall exactly what had spurred this, or who even who started this petty feud. Regardless, it didn't matter know. The damage was done, and neither of you were exactly racing to try and mend it.
Unfortunately for both you, there was a specific mission that needed attention. It was a simply stakeout, in all honesty it was probably nothing anyways. Still, a mission is a mission, and the two of you were only ones available for the job. A cruel twist of faith, really.
Both of you had much better things to be doing at this time of the night, namely sleeping, but you were stuck here. Alone, in the middle of the night, in rain, with only each others aggravating company.
But, a job was a job, and if you were told to stare at a building all night, then that's just what you'll have to do. And that's exactly what you did.
So, the two of you sat there, more bored than you actually thought possible, watching the same still, empty building as you had for the last hour, and as you'll continue to do for the next three.
"This is stupid." You finally mutter, your lips tugging into a frown as the glare of the full moon tauntingly shone across your face. You just wanted to be in bed by now. You drop your gaze slightly to the scuffs of dirt that littered your shoes.
Leon scoffs in response, leaning his head against the headrest. He didn't want to agree with you. Infact, his initial reaction was to defend the mission, just to spite and oppose you, but he had to admit; this was stupid.
"Let's just get this over with." Leon irritatedly mutters back, not even bothering to face you.
You can only shake your head.
More silence settles between the two of you, one that makes you want to scream. It's strained, and antsy, and you can feel the tension constricting around your throat, squeezing and squeezing. You bite your lip, looking out your window in an attempt to quell the unease you feel.
Eventually, you can't bare the silence any longer, breathing out yet another complaint.
"God, this sucks." You grumbles, brining your hands to your face, rubbing at your skin till it stings.
"So does your attitude."
"So does your face."
"Really?" Leon snarls, finally turning his head just enough to face you. "Are you ten?" He shakes his head, turning to look out his window, muttering out an 'insufferable prick' under his breath, deliberately just loud enough for you to hear.
You rolls your eyes, glancing around around for something, anything, to kill your boredom.
You're surrounded by the greenery and fauna partially obstructing the car from any passerbys, or noisy onlookers. The stars were hidden beneath thick, tall layers of clouds hanging overhead. You see a striking flash of light from just past the full branches of leaves, the deep rumble of thunder following soon after.
You'd gotten bored of your phone after the first thirty minutes, and with the added fact that you'd neglected to charge it before setting off, you considered it out of the question. Afterall, you figure it might not be the best idea to drain your battery while out and in the middle of nowhere.
You take a quick peek at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the backseat. A small ice chest sits neglected in the middle, untouched by either of you.
You move your eyes away from the mirror, turning your head to glance back at the chest. You release a quiet sigh as you lift your feet off the dash.
You lean out from your seat, twisting your body as you reach past your seat, and into the back. Leon watches your movements with an annoyed expression, and you try your best to ignore his eyes beating into your back.
You pop open the lid, scanning over the boxes contents. There was a small selection of snacks-- granola, protein bars, and a variety of fruits. The bright orange color of the citrus jumps out at you, catching your eye even in the dim car-- a few clementines and oranges, pushed to the side.
You take one of each in your hands.
The clementine is nice and small, it barely fills out the palm of your hand. It'd be enough for you to enjoy with no trouble. You gently roll the clementine in your hand, squishing in gently between your fingers. You can already feel the rind pulling away from the flesh as you move it around in your hands, as if already ready to eat.
The orange is bulky and heavy, weighing in your hand like a softball. It feels strangely daunting in your palm, the skin stiff and stubborn, clutching onto the flesh. You bring the fruit up to your nose, taking a small sniff. You catch the faintest notes of sweet citrus emanate from beneath it's tough skin.
You drop the clementine back into the chest, letting the lid fall close with a soft thud.
You situate yourself properly back into your seat, tugging your legs up, and criss-crossing them over one another.
You hold the orange cupped in both your hands. This skin is still cold from the cooler, biting at the warmth of your palms.
Leon looks over at you curiously, a hint of annoyance masking the genuine curiosity in his voice. "What are you doing?" He asks.
"What does it look like?" Your annoyance matches his with your harsh response. "I'm getting a snack. I've been cooped up in this car for too damn long."
Leon was never a fan of oranges. They were messy, spitting sourly in his face and coating his hands. It was always a struggle to tear through the skin, and even when he managed, there was always too much of the bitter pith left over for him to enjoy, teeth gnashing and tearing through the stubborn membrane. It ruined the experience, and the fruit as a whole, for him anyways.
"You're insufferable."
"I'm aware."
You turn the orange in your hands for a few moments, looking over the skin; Its bright hue, the knicks and scratches, the imperfections in its shape.
You eventually hold it still, pushing your nail into the flower of the orange, pushing your thumb beneath the thick rind. You feel the membrane bending beneath your thumb as you hear the soft crask of the peel pulling from the flesh. It threatens to burst, to puncture, to spit. But it doesn't.
You tear the skin off in large pieces, ripping softly and gently, standing out from the patter of the rain hitting the roof of the car. You set the discarded peels neatly on your lap, stacked within the curve of one another.
The scent of the fruit fills the car in an instant.
You brush your thumb firmly over the thick layer of pith coating the orange. It rolls off and falls into your lap in stringy, sticky clumps. The stubborn, waxy residue sticks to your fingers, burying themselves beneath your nails.
Eventually however, the pith start to relent, falling from the orange with ease, as if coerced away from their mulishness with so little as the the pads of your thumb. Despite your efforts, some of the bitterness still remains, stuck in the more stubborn creases and crevices, as there always is.
You press your fingers into the core of the orange, letting it split at the seams, two even halves falling into the palms of your respective hands.
You look down at them for a moment, taking a moment to be still, to admire the way the flesh glistens in the light of the moon. You glance over to Leon, who looks just as bored and irritated as he did the last time you bothered to look over.
His head rests in his fist, his elbow leaned against his window. The moonlight catches in his hair, a little messy, and the bridge of his nose, a little crooked. You can't help but wonder if he'd broken it over the years, or if it'd always been that pleasantly flawed.
Leon feels a small nudge against his upper arm, taking him out of his thoughts. His brows instinctively furrow in annoyance as he turns to face you.
Your hand is extended out to him, one half of the orange waiting patiently in your hand.
His expression softens out of confusion, lifting his head from his hand. He looks down at your hand, at the fruit, then snaps back up you. His expression is unreadable, as is yours.
The two of you simply stare at each other for a few moments, silently, awkwardly, until you let an irritated sigh push past your lips.
"Jesus Christ, take the damned fruit." You roll your eyes, nudging your hand against Leon's shoulder a few more times, a little too harshly. "My arm hurts."
Leon can't help but hesitate before his finally relentless, bringing his hand to yours.
His hand curls gently around the fruit tentatively, weary that any pressure from his calloused hands would cause it to burst in an instant.
The tips of your fingers brush against each others for a brief moment as he takes the orange from your palm. The sensation lingers on your skin as you both pull your hands back to your laps.
Leon looks down at the orange, the scent wafting strongly and sweetly back up at him. He peels a segment away from the rest, holding it gently between his index and thumb. He feels the thin, finicky membrane arch under the pressure of his thumb.
Leon was never a fan of oranges. Still, he brings the slice to his mouth, pushing it past his lips. His teeth press into the sheath, the slice constantly bursting in his mouth, sweet and tangy flavors coating his tongue. It's rich, smooth, a little sour, and some of the pulp gets stuck in his teeth, but he doesn't seem to mind much. He takes another slice.
They return to their shared silence.
Regardless of how nicely and neatly you had peeled the orange, it's sent and bare essence of it's sticky juice clings to your fingers, as it does his.
When he finally returns home, he'll still smell it's remnants coating his skin, the sunshine staining his hands, and he'll be brought back to the very moment. He'll feel a sensation of sudden nausea, or panic rise in his chest as he realizes he feels almost sorrowful to have to rinse it off . He'll push the feeling away, blame it on how damn tired he is, and try his best to forget all about it.
But right now, the rain taps lovingly on the class, as the shimmer of the moon cradles his face, and he can't be bothered to bite the smile that plays at his features as he tears into the sweet flesh.
Luis from Re4 please 🥺 he’s so handsome and adorable so a maybe a modern au (or after the story au) about he and reader’s morning routine? some warming fluff like morning kisses, one wakes up before the other and cooked breakfast (or brunch) for them and gently wakes the other up when breakfast’s ready?
Of course if you have time and want to do this, I just don’t see a lot of Luis x male reader
every man gets his wish
- luis serra x male! reader
warnings: i feel like im rlly bad at writing fluff im sorry yall, pretty short
notes: i think me simping for a Spaniard is both on brand and a disgrace to my mestizo bloodline but im okay with it. that being said PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MORE RES REQUESTSS IT'S ACTUALLY ROTTING MY BRAIN FROM THE INSIDE OUT. HELP ME HE;P[ ,ME HELP ME
fem aligned dni
every man gets his wish - lana del rey
Dawn broke over the room, casting its warm glow over the messy sheets. You find yourself entangled in the warm embrace of the crumpled sheets, waking up to the soft feeling of a warm kiss on your forehead.
The familiar touch of Luis's gentle hands as they brush your hair out of your face rouses you from your slumber.
Your eyes flutter open, and you're greeted by an amused look on Luis's face. He leans in for a soft kiss, a hint of coffee lingering on his lips.
"Morning, mi amor," he whispers, his smooth accent sweet in his tone.
"Goo mrning..." You reply with a sleepy greeting, still half-asleep.
Luis chuckles, gently wiping the drool from your face. "C'mon, get up, dormilon." He speaks softly, his voice hushed and gentle, yet still tinged with amusement at the sight of you, groggy and disheveled from what looked to have been a helluva nights sleep.
You sleepily nod and untangle yourself from the blanket, swinging your legs off the side of the bed. Luis takes your arm in his, elbows linked.
You stretch out your limbs as he leads you to the door of the bedroom, gently guiding you into the kitchen.
As you step into the warmth of the room, you're immediately engulfed by a familiar, comforting scent. You enter the kitchen to the delicious aroma of cinnamon and chocolate that fills the air, drawing a small, albeit confused, smile to your face. As you glance over at Luis, all you receive is a smirk.
Luis takes his seat across from you, eagerly pushing the plate and cups towards you. As you pick up a churro, nervous anticipation filling your chest. "How long did this take?" You ask, your voice tinged with nervousness.
Luis takes the initiative, unhooking from your elbow, and pulling out a chair for you at the dining table. As you take your seat, eager to see what's in store, he places a large plate of fresh, crispy churros at the center of the table, accompanied by two small saucers filled with steaming hot chocolate. The steam rising from both dishes adds to the already mouthwatering sights before you.
Luis shakes his head, clearly dismissing your worries with a wave of his hand, his tone reassuring. "Not long at all." Without hesitation, he signals to the churros on the table, eagerly nodding for you to dig in. "Now, eat up, my prince."
"You're corny as hell." You reply, trying to fight off a laugh as you dip a churro into the rich chocolate syrup, instantly coating your fingers in a layer of brown sugar.
The delicious flavors explode in your mouth, the thick chocolate, the warm cinnamon, and a sense of nostalgia and joy wash over you. Luis quickly follows suit, dipping a churro into his chocolate before taking a bite, enjoying the festive flavors with you.
As you take a sip of the steaming liquid, the warmth of the mug spreading through your hands, you realize that this is exactly the type of moment you used to dream about: simple, mundane, yet full of love and comfort. And with Luis by your side, the world suddenly seems a little brighter, a little less scary.
As the day breaks, you savor the taste of your breakfast together, walking through your plans for the day with no pressure or rush.
The peaceful sound of birds chirping outside accompanies your casual conversation, making the moment feel even more pleasant and cozy. You feel a warm sense of contentment wash over you, and you're grateful for the company. The golden rays of the sun stream through the kitchen windows, bathing the room in the glow of a new day
Rudy x me reader where the reader is his househusband and one time he visits Las vaqueros when 141 are there,, with some homemade food and literally everybody is in love with the food.
And Rudy is just proud that his little husband came here and socialized with his people, and when they get home Rudy showers the reader with love and cuddles, because he k knows he struggles to socialize
love is a gentle thing
- rudy para x male! reader
warnings: not proof read teehee
notes: this man makes me so happy it's almost sad but his face is just so cute he has such pretty eyes oh my god brown eyes are so hot i wanna bite him (lovingly) i'd do whatever he wanted me to please i can be ur little househusband ong i make the best mf tres leches cake (family recipe too!!!!) please give me one chance its all i ask of you.
fem aligned dni
velvet ring - big thief
No matter how many times you've been to visit your husbands work, you can't help but grow nervous every time. There were a few moments were you had debated dropping the trip all together-- but you just couldn't go another moment without your Rudy.
That, and you made too much food.
You'd just heard he and Los Vaqueros had just returned the base after what sounded like a rough mission. He was due back into your arms in less than a few hours, but that was far too long for you. You wanted to give back to him, and his team, and what better way to do that than with your food?
You tried to pretend that your effort was minimal when it came to your dishes, but the care and attention you put into your cooking was blatantly obvious. The burns and cuts that always seemed to litter your hands were proof enough of your efforts-- Rudy always scolded you for you clumsiness, all the while gently wrapping a bandage around your knuckle you both knew you were more than capable of applying on your own.
It's was late, a chorus of cicadas and coyotes narrating the drive to base. The road seemed endless at times, the drive long and often barren. You didn't care. The containers of stew were stacked upon one another in your passenger seat, your eyes constantly anxiously glancing over.
After what felt like a lifetime of road, somewhat sore eyes, and a mental note that there is no way you're going behind the wheel again tonight, you're walking down the halls, Menudo stacked in your palms, and your visitors tag bouncing slightly.
In no time you found your way to the rec-room, the layout of everything more than familiar to you at this point. You hear a myriad of voices and laughter, mixed in with playfull shouts. It makes you happy just knowing your husband is happy-- he deserves to be.
For a moment you quirk a confused brow. Behind the door, you pick out a few unfamiliar voices among the chorus of banter.
Curious, you hold onto your food for dear life with one hand, using the other to push open the door. You sheepishly stick your head into the room, the noise now flooding into the hall.
You let the door fall open, eyes locking onto your target.
He's standing around with the rest of his Vaqueros. A glass of whiskey is held loosely in his hands as a small smile rests on his face. He suddenly erupts into laughter, perhaps from a joke you missed. you strain to listen intently to the sound, a giddy, boyish smile fighting it's way to your features.
Alejandro is resting an elbow on Rudy's shoulder, leaning on him as he swishes around his own glass. He's just about to sake a sip, when his eyes finally find yours. He blinks back, surprised, before his face twists into a crumpled smile.
He looks down to Rudy, giving him a small nudge. When Rudy looks up, he wordlessly gestures to the door with so little as an eyebrows raise.
Rudy himself had just taken a little sip, but when he's eyes lock onto you his eyes widen in delightful surprise.
He sets his drink down, shrugging off Alejandro's shoulder, and choking choking back his drink
"Mi amor!" There's a small laugh in his voice as he eagerly approaches, arms held out wide.
You grin back at him, walking into his arms as fast as you could. His hold on you is tight and secure. You melt into his warmth, not realizing how cold you had been since he'd left you. You missed him-- his touch, his voice, the smell of his cologne. You frown as he pulls away, bringing in his hands to cup your face, pressing a long, yearning kiss into you.
"I brought menudo!" You finally say when he breaks away. "You might have to warm it up, it got a bit cold on the road."
Rudy chuckles with a small shake of his head, grabbing the containers from your hands, giving you a parting kiss on your forehead.
You follow from behind as he walks in, immediately greeted by the rest of his team, beckoned over by Alejandro as RUdy goes to deal with the food. An unfamiliar face stands besides him-- a man around his age, face lay thick with scruff.
"It's great to see you again, chico." Alejandro greets with a smile. "Care for a drink?" He nods to the table, various liquors and classes strewn about.
"Maybe a little later." You finally look over to the man beside him. His expression reads off as friendly enough, if not a bit confused.
"Who's this?" His british accent is heavy and thick, almost a shocking comparison to the rest of the room.
Rudy walks back over seemingly just in time, snaking a hand around your waist. "This is my husband." He says with a proud smile.
Alejandro leans into the man, faking a whisper. "Surprised he waited this long to bring him up." He laughs to himself. "He's all Rudy talks about."
"¡Callate!" Rudy hisses out, face flushing red. "Pinche cabron..." is not so subtly mumbled under his breath.
"Price." He extends a hand, ignoring the bickering between Rudy and Alejandro. "Pleasure to meet you."
"You too!" You reply with a sweet grin, shaking his hand tenderly. As you do so, Rudy offers an encouraging rub of your shoulder before he walks off, followed by Alejandro, likely to help sort out the food.
You'd recognized the name, Rudy had talked about Price, as well as his team, a few times before-- most information given was obviously kept vague, but all he had to know was that they were good men.
That's why you could easily match names to faces-- or lack thereof-- when the rest of Prices team approached the two of you. The first to speak was the one you immediately recognized, tall and brooding, clad in a skull-painted balaklava. He's also, the first to speak.
"You're Rodolfo's husband, yeah?" He asks, his accent thick in his throat. You nod somewhat nervously still he speaks again, giving you a small nod. "You've married quite the man."
"Yeah," you agree with an almost dreamy laugh, "I'm lucky to have him."
Soap speaks up eagerly, peering over at the kitchenette crowded with Alejandro's men. "What did you bring?" Next to him as an equally as curious Gaz awaiting your response.
You open your mouth to reply, only to be caught off guard by Alejandro walking back over just in time, your husband in toe. "Heaven on Earth."
You shake your head with a small smile, rolling your eye playfully. "I's just menudo."
"Menudo?" Gaz echos.
"It's like a stew made with cow stomach." You nervously fiddle with the ring on you finger, worried they might be turned off by the sound of it.
To your surprise, their interest only seemed to pique, taking the bowls handed to them. It feels like an eternity as they stir around the contents of the soup, your nerves only continuing to grow, worrying they'll positively hate it.
"Oh," Just too late, a warning you'd forgotten to mention comes to mind as you glance over the men, gauging their reactions. "It might be a little spicy-"
You eyes lock onto Soap, leaving you at a loss for words. His face is red after barely half a spoonful of the broth, desperately trying to conceal his coughs.
"Oh my god, are you okay?"
"It's great-!" he manages to say, wheezing through his words. "Taste amazing!" In the end, he end's up doubled over, gripping onto Ghosts arm for support, muttering a few 'steamin' bloody jesus' in there.
You look on at the scene, brows furrowed and expression wildly concerned. You glance back to the bowl, wondering if you'd unknowingly did something to the recipe-- you've never gotten a reaction like that before.
"He's fine." Ghost sounds out again, grabbing your attention. He's against the lover half of his mask, seemingly haven taken the chance to sneak a bit for himself. "He gets like this barbeque sauce."
He comment earns a few snickers out of Alejandro and Rudy as Soap continues do hack his throat out. You send Rudy a glare, quickly shutting him up.
"Tell him yogurt helps?"
Regardless of Soaps nonexistence spice tolerance, you cooking received nothing but high praises all around. The remainder of the night was spent thoroughly enjoyed as you got to meet his new found companions. You're almost disappointed when you realize it's about time you and Rudy be heading home.
But, the stillness of your bedroom, you're grateful you'd left when you did. You're terribly exhausted, the drive back almost putting you to sleep as you snuggled up into the passenger seat.
You lazily kick of your shoes as you enter the room, battery utterly drained. You slide your jacket from your shoulders, setting it down on a chair, the air cold.
Rudy comes up from behind, wrapping his arms almost protectively around you, his body warming you right up. He presses his forehead into your shoulder, seeming to be just as tired as you are.
Your lips curl into a giddy smile, turning yourself around to face him. He pulls his face away from you with a small pout as you wrap around arms around his neck, letting him hold you close. "What is it?" You ask.
He smiles right back at you, concern ghosting his features. "Are you feeling okay?"
You eagerly nod. "They seemed really nice!" You're grin widens despite your efforts to force it down-- impossibly contagious.
He can't help but mirror your smile, laughing as he responds. "They are." He suddenly presses a deep kiss onto your lips, both of you laughing into it. Neither of your grins falter as he pulls back. Out of breath, he asks "Do you know how much I love you?"
"Hmm," you hum, faking contemplation as you stare up at the ceiling. You suck in some air through your teeth, looking back to Rudy. "No-- no, I don't think I do?"
Rudy shakes his head before grabbing your face, pressing a kiss into your lips again. "Te quiero," and again "mucho," and again "mucho, mucho, mucho, mucho!"
You laugh, playfully trying to escape his relentless, smothering of kisses.
The two of you stumble back onto the bed, designing into fits of soft, almost boyish giggles, Rudy holding you tightly in his arms. He looks down at you, warm brown eyes greedily drinking in your bright smile, all for himself.
"Mi bonito..." His voice is just barely above a whisper, pressing one last kiss in you. He buries his head into the crook of your neck, taking you in as though you're the only two people in the world.
You smile to the ceiling, running your hands through his buzzed hair. You face is red, and you just can't shake your grin. Even after all these years, he never fails to get you blushing like some school boy.
This is my first time requesting on this account hshshs- and quick question, do you use anons or not? If you do can I use the 🔭 anon? thank you!
S7 Spencer Reid x male reader, where the reader works at a cafe Spencer frequently visits because of the reader, he doesn’t know how to ask the reader out so he came to the BAU for advice. Feel free to add your own twist :3
Fluff please and thank you :)
all the strangers of whom I’ve fell quite dear
- dr spencer reid x male! barista! reader
warnings: just pure fluff, flirty reader pulling the fake confidence card, spencer has vocabulary rizz, i added yet another SMALL supernatural reference cus i love that terrible awful no good very bad show, not proof read
notes: i heart dr spencer reid sm <3 and yes i do use anons!! on my former account i had a 🪷 anon but i don't think he ever found my account :( anyways hope u enjoy 🔭 !!
fem aligned dni
philadelphia - cbmc
Spencer usually grabbed his coffee from the old, busted up machine in the coffee bar back at quantico-- never quiet hot enough, and never quite strong enough. Still, he could never justify spending five bucks on a cup of coffee until today. Granted, if that five dollar coffee reflected back on it's taste, then maybe that'd explain the lukewarm, dull FBI coffee.
He hadn't even planned on making any extra stops before work, and certainly not for his necessary dosage of caffeine into his body, but as cheesy as it sounds, something seemed to call him to the little hole-in-the-wall shop.
So, with his few extra minutes he'd accidentally given himself before he had to be at his subway stop, he stood anxiously in line.
The aroma of roasted coffee beans wafted sweetly through the air, feeling somewhat comforting. Around his was the light, hushed rumble of voices. Weather if be friends enjoying their morning coffee dates, or busy people clad in suits pinching their phones between their cheek and shoulder as they haphazardly stir in their sugar, they only added to the ambiance of the quaint little cafe.
"Next!" A voice shouted from in front of him. He'd been too busy people watching to realize he'd been next in line.
He steps forward, already mumbling a small apology, before he brought his eyes to meet the barista. His words get caught in his throat in an instant.
A small smile pulls at your lips as you observe him, his somewhat shocked expression amusing. You captivate him almost instantly in a way no one else ever quite has. Your eyes seem to gently hold him in place, only comparable to a cat with it's gaze fixated in place, keeping a mouse at bay.
When the silence between you two grows almost awkward, you snap. him from his daze. "Excuse me? Sir?"
Spencer blinks back, an embarrassed laugh catching in his throat as he averts his gaze with a shake of his head. "Sorry, uh," he beings to stumble over his words. "This is my first time here-- i'm not quite sure what to get."
He's grateful when you turn your head, eyeing the menu hanging up behind the counter, right above the prep station. "Well, some of our fan-favorites are the lattes and frappes. For our lattes, people tend to go for our salted caramel mocha, our normal caramel mocha, cinnamon dulce, vanilla-- oh, but if you're looking for a frappe the vanilla bean créme, matcha, another caramel, or roasted white chocolate are all pretty damn good." You look back to him, your explanations obviously going void as you see his puzzled expression. "Anything catch your eye?" You have an almost sarcastically coy smile.
"Uh, can i just get a..." He struggles to find the right words. "Normal coffee?" The second his words leave his mouth, he grows worried that he's coming off as some coffee-house-hating-priss, but his fears ease as you let out a small chuckle.
"Coming right up." You grab a to-go cup from the side of the register, your other hand reaching for a sharpie, its cap already stuck on the other end. You have little dots and flicks of ink on your hands that he finds somewhat curious. "What's the name for the order?"
"Uh, Spencer."
"Spencer." You repeat. He likes the way it sounds when you say it, dragging out the syllables as you scribble down his name, your quick, somewhat clumsy penmanship explaining away the marks littering your knuckles. "I'll have that right out for you, Spence." The glance you give him through the thick of your lashes is what kept him coming back day after day.
That was a few weeks ago. Whenever he could, he'd make sure to stop by, if not for the genuinely decent coffee, then for your short little interactions. Seeing you became a highlight of his long, often stressful day. However, and unexpectedly long case kept him out of state for a long week. Having to again deal with crappy police station coffee only strengthened the appreciation he had for that little coffee shop.
The first morning he could, he was quick to walk back through the doors, the scent of coffee now somewhat comforting.
When the bell above the door rings, Your eyes snap to his, greeting him with an almost relieved smile. Spencer takes his place behind the customer you're currently dealing with, who you quickly rush through his payment. When he walks off, Spencer is quick to take his place.
"Man, I thought you found a new barista to flirt with." You give him a small pout. He finds it strange you're the one accusing him of flirting.
He laughs, looking down at his hands as if with guilt. "Sorry-- none of us expected such a long case."
"Case?" You quirk a curious brow. "What are you, some kind of detective?"
"Close- I uh, I'm with the Behavioural Analysis Unit."
"Oh shit." You blink back in surprise, the look of impressment that washed over your features fills Spencer with pride. "FBI? I guess that means I gotta call you 'Agent Spencer' now, huh?"
"Dr. Reid, actually."
"Hm. Now you're just full of surprises aren't you?" When all he can shoot back is an embarrassed smile, you look back to your registers screen. "So, one coffee with half our sugar supply?"
"Actually, I was thinking about switching it up today."
"Oh? And what'd you have in mind?"
"Uh, I'll do whatever you get."
"Really?"
"Really."
Your grin widens. "Alright, one double dirty chai tea latte comin' right up." You look up at him. "That work for you, Doctor?"
"It's perfect." For whatever godforsaken reason, he simply can't keep his mouth shut, his brain immediately barfing out whatever words were racing through his brain. "Uh, did you know the word 'chai' comes from the hindi word 'tea', which means a mix of various spices steeped into a tea-like drink-- which itself comes from the chinese word for tea, 'cha'?"
"I did not." You answer truthfully, again looking rather impressed. You glance back to his order. "Well, then in that case I'll have your double dirty tea tea latte ready in a moment."
Spencer stepps aside, but still his gaze seemed glued to you-- watching as you dealt with customers, made their drinks, what looked like effortlessly perfecting a tulip of steamed milk on the surface of a latte, flinching away as the tips of your fingers brush against the hot porcelain mug, cursing under your breath,
There was something about the way you now gingerly ran the pads of your fingers over the cusp of the lid of the cup you were working on that told him now would be the right time to look away, pretending he wasn't staring you down like an eager puppy this whole time.
His gut was proven right.
"Spencer!" The way in which his name rolled off your tongue felt more like a greeting, than simply calling him forward.
He stood sheepishly from his seat, approaching the counter with a smile.
You stood resting the heels of your palms on the surface of the counter, head tilted up and to the side as you peer up at spencer with a cat-like grin. "Hope you like it." You nods to the cup. "I'd hate to make you pay for something you end up not drinking." You frown slightly, as if in hindsight.
Spencer slides his drink forward, the warmth spreading quickly to his hands. He opens his mouth to say something, but finds the words caught in his mouth.
Your brows furrow, somewhat concerned. Your uneasy, wordles gaze draws the question from Spencers throat, albeit roughly.
"Well I was, uh, I was thinking that-- well, of course only if you'd want-- that we could maybe-" He interrupts himself with a nervous cough, avoiding your increasingly confused look. "We could-"
Suddenly a deep voice bellows out from kitchen, grabbing your attention immediately. "Hey kid," an older, plump man with a deep complexion and moles littering his face peeks out from the doorway, not seeming to see Spencer at all. "I need you on the window." With his thick, dark mustache, the way he talks almost looks animated.
You give your boss a firm nod. "Yes sir!" You look back to spencer. "Sorry, you were saying?"
He hesitates bere shaking his head. "Uh, nevermind."
"Alright then. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Definitely."
You send him off with a wink.
Spencer now sat his desk in Quantico, staring down at his still warm cup. His eyes trace the black ink scribbled onto the surface. 'S-P-E-N-C-E-R', the flicks of your sharpie, the way you wrote his name, the small heart you'd scribbled beside it-- it all took his breath away. Literally. He hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing until he'd finally taken a big gulp of air.
Emily, in turn, stared him down. with a curious narrowing of her eyes, she brought her mug up to her lips as she stood at the coffee bar with her two coworkers.
Garcia, who was currently telling a story that had gone void to Emily, turns. "-And I was thinking 'that's crazy', and then she-- why aren't you paying attention?" Garcies head snapping to Emily with a somewhat offended expression in turn diverted Morgans attention onto Prentiss.
Emily only holds up a finger, shushing she two. She wordlessly nods to Reid, still looking down longingly at his cup.
In no time at all, the group's interest is piqued, and with so little as a shared glance, they're already making their way to his desk.
"Hey, Reid." Emily tries to casually call as she approaches. "Whats up?"
Her words snap reid out of his daze, quickly setting down his cup, trying to subtly turn his name away from the group. "Uh, nothing much. Why?" He knows too well 'subtle' means virtually nothing when around some of the smartest minds.
"What's with the cup?" She asks with a smirk.
"Uh. Nothing."
"Really?"
Before Spencer can reply, Morgan's already snatched the cup from his desk. By the time Spencer even thought to grab it back, Morgan's face has stretched into a wide grin, turning it wardards the girls, who in turn to look down to Reir, a surprised, almost proud look washing over their face.
Instantly, Spencer goes to hide his face in the palm of his hands, not eager to hear their teasing.
"No way-"
"Someone has a crush on our little boy wonder?"
"Are they hot?"
Emily nudges Spencer on his soldier, leading him to give her a small glance from the palm of his hand. She's quiet for a second before she speaks, her smile even evident in her voice. "Who is it?" Is all she asks.
He sits, tearing his face from his hands just to stare them down as they sit in his lap. He hesitates before speaking. "He's a barista at this coffee shop. I stop by before work every morning."
Morgans gaze snaps to Garcia, both holding a small grin. He turns his attention back to Reid. "And why haven't you asked him out yet?
"I tried to this morning!" He says almost defensively. "But I got all...nervous." His big brown eyes would've read as sad, if not for the grin he tries to force down as he mind brings images of your face to his attention. He looks at Emily, blurting out a soft whisper. "He's so pretty." You hair pushed back by your work hat, dreamy eyes holding his captive, a teasing, knowing smirk pulling at your lips. "And- and he's so flirty, and bold, and-"
"Oh, c'mon!" Garcia finally steps in, resting her hands on his shoulder, giving him an encouraging shake. "He so likes you! Just ask him out!"
He shakes his head. "What of i'm reading too much into it, and he's just like that with everyone?"
"Is he like that with everyone?" Emily asks, seemingly already knowing the answer.
After a beat, Spencer shakes his head. He easily recalls the way he'd carefully watched you interact with your other regulars-- examining your body language, trying to read your lips, the way you looked at any other familiar face. "No." He finally answers, almost defeatedly.
The rest of their 'chat' is spent trying to give Spencer pointed-- although truly it's just Emily and Morgan arguing over how it would be best to approach you-- although neither honestly knew if their advice would work on a man. The final consensus was for spencer to 'be himself' which was about as helpful as a solar panel in a cave.
That next morning, he gave himself an additional fifteen minutes to pace around his apartment running over what he was going to say to you. His pre-planned speech was re-worded over and over again in his head about ten different times before he even thinks about stepping out of his apartment.
His panic ceases to falter even during his walk to the coffee shop, and of course only grows as he finally works up the courage to even open the door to the damn place.
When he walks in he doesn't dare meet your eyes, instead pretending to answer a text on his phone. When the few people in front of him make their orders all too quickly, he's rushing through his little speech over and over, ringing through his ears. Much too soon, he's next in line.
He looks up, and just like that, his eidetic memory has failed him. Your smile greets him as he had hoped it would-- if he were an ounce more delusional, he'd say you look just as excited to see him as he is to see you.
"Hey there Doc," He's thankful that if you do see how nervous he is, you don't comment on it. "How'd you like the latte?"
He doesn't have the gall to tell you it had gotten cold before he'd gotten the chance to enjoy it fully, due to the intervention he'd unknowingly bestowed upon himself. "It was great!"
"Yeah? You wanna go with the chai again, or go back to your boring ass coffee? Are are you feeling something else today?" You wiggle your eyebrows a few times.
"Uh, surprise me." Spencer says with a small shrug, having been so nervous and caught up with what he'd say to you that he completely forgot this was, infact, a coffee shop.
"Oh, feeling adventurous! I like it." You send him a wink, making a few selections on your screen. He can only manage a smile back.
When you send him off, he takes his usual seat, this time staring down at his shoes as his heart clatters loudly against his chest. The time it takes before you finally call him up was somehow both agonizingly slow, yet too quick all at once.
He walks up, his heart ready to leep out of his throat.
"It's salted caramel" You explain, sliding the cup towards him. "I figured you like your coffee real sugary-- thought this might curb your sweet tooth for today."
Spencer lets out a breathy, clearly anxious laugh as he looks down at his drink, not saying a word.
"Is something wrong with it?" You look down at his drink somewhat anxiously yourself. "If you don't like caramel I can-"
"No, it's not that!" He shakes his head. "I just, uh." He makes the wonderful mistake of meeting your eyes once again, his gaze softening as his mouth runs dry. His eyes almost longingly stare into yours.
You again quirk a flirty smile. "Not for nothing, doc, but the last time somebody looked at me like that-"
"Would you like to go out with me?"
You grow silent. You're mouth lays agape, your eyes wide. For a moment, spencer thinks that maybe he's got you all wrong-- that maybe he'd misread you entirles. His fear dissipates as he sees your cocky grin falter into a sheepish smile. It's now obvious to him that you aren't quite used to getting flirted back with like this, at the very least not so straightforwardly. He wishes he could've manages to flirt back earlier on-- assuming you could even call this flirting-- that almost starstruck look in your eye is everything.
Your flustered, shocked state rings evident in your voice, giving Spencer his own little boost to his confidence. "Uh, no yeah, I'd love that."
Spencer smiles. "Great. I dont have work tomorrow."
"Me neither!" you purse your lips at the eagerness in your own voice. "What did you, uh, what were you thinking...?"
He did in fact not think past the initial question- he's forced to improvise. "Dinner? Around eight, maybe?"
You try to force down a giddy smile. "Sounds perfect."
"Great." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "Uh, do you mind?" He holds it out towards mc
"hm? Oh, yeah! for sure!" You grabs the phone from spencer, hands shaking as you punches in your number, then name. You hands it back to him, who swiftly slides it back into his pocket.
He grabs his drink from the counter. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
hi, I NEED ANGST, SOOOOOOO….., M!reader x Ghost mainly, but can be every1 or poly if u w
can we maybe get a scenario where m!reader first joins the 141 and the m!reader used to be a lot more active than he is now… he used to be really quippy, sarcastic, and playful in general. But as time went on and more missions were given, he slowly cracks at the seams and 141 can notice it, but it’s not full on breaking but like there are these pauses of m!reader just disassociating and not acting like he usually does. 141 slowly kinda noticing it more and more but they don’t think too much about it until later, although kinda concerned Ghost would prob be more observant and be the first to notice and maybe tell the others, currently m!reader is not in a relationship with ghost BUT has crush on each other, literally everyone sees it and they have a teeny crush on him too but like🤐🤐🤐🤐 Soap casually getting a wee bit touchy istg I see them getting jealous, Gaz is just here doing stuff with m!reader, Price? Prob just doing stuff for m!reader, having these little chit chats here and there, just admiring him like every1 else….
Overtime the m!reader is slowly losing it mentally, as he’s just breaking and shutting down mentally and emotionally, since he’s usually always with a stoic grin or smile but now it’s a blank empty slate expression with a look in his eyes that look like he witnessed something horrible that scarred him for life, but when 141 asks him the m!reader says he’s just lost in thought and busy daydreaming, but his facade is slowly breaking and he keeps insisting that he is alright. The 141 is just “??? smthing is wrong with m!reader…” they notice and try to pry but not much comes out of it, Ghost is starting to get a bit more worried as he huffs and just is around m!reader more which m!reader is less stoic and more happy, Ghost is just more relaxed as 141 eyeballs this…. Soap is questioning m!reader and tryna comfort him, Gaz is tryna do the same.. price is straightforward but he’s also tryna be nice too
Eventually the next meeting m!reader attends he vomits blood onto the table and 141 watching in horror after processing it, Ghost literally bolting to catch m!reader and they proceeds to black out cold after that going limp in Ghost’s arms as they were very quickly brought to medical care with m!reader literally barely moving, as the 141 is now panicking and anxiety skyrockets especially Ghost to which he is literally pacing around and sweating bullets they watch over him recovering after that dramatic fiasco, when m!reader recovers they have to have THE talk about his health and him in general. Ghost is beyond concerned💀💀💀💀 everyone is like WTF R U OK….
M!reader just breaks down and has this most gut wrenching, anguish-filled, broken cries from this poor m!reader- to which they haven’t really seen him cry at all and man is water falling tears as Ghost just sits down and hugs m!reader as he just releases all of that trauma out 141 now just sitting down and coddling this poor man, garnering the attention of some staff who went in like ????? who they heard was sobbing and so investigated… but anyways yah
look me in the eyes and the skeptic in me dies
- 141/ghost x male! reader
warnings: gaz gets friendzoned at one point cus i thought it'd be funny lol, blood, pneumonia??? , angst, mentions of change in appetite (not specified in terms of eating more/less), mostly ghost oriented, the metric system cus they're brits ig, also falls off in the end mostly cus i really wanted to get this done as its been sitting in my drafts for probably a month at least
notes: a bunch of my requests got deleted. teehee. im gonna scalp myself :3 i hate this app !!!! ALSO I HOPE YOU LIKE IT I REALIZE I COULDN'T QUITE FIT IN ALL OF YOUR IDEAS BUT YEAH
fem aligned dni
communist love song - soltero
Following the wake of Hassan, and his stolen missiles, both Price and Laswell though that a few additions to the team where needed. Something to keep it fresh, or rather beef up their already impressive man-power.
You were one of these many additions.
Fresh meat was what the team needed. A different area of expertise, new perspectives, and all paired up with the teams pre-existing experience. It was a seemingly perfect formula. Price knew, however, that it wouldn't be easy. And sure enough, the team was less than impressed with you.
The incident with Shadow Company, and more importantly it's commander, was still fresh in their minds. No doubt, they were less than welcoming to some some hot-shot specialist, looking like you just crawled out of basic training. They couldn't trust you, and they didn't want to.
Their walls were sky-high, built brick by brick with their preconceived notions of who you were, flash back to deceptive smiles, and the need to protect their team-- the men they considered their family.
But against all odds, you got to them. With so little as a warm smile and quippy remark, their walls fell as if they were made with fragile sticks, faced with a gentle breeze. Despite their efforts, you were practically impossible to hate.
You fit in with the team effortlessly, even with your low rank. You were skilled and smart, yet not cocky, or disrespectful. Disregarding your expansive marksmanship and hand-to-hand skills, you were simply easy to respect.
You were funny, caring, charming, a small smile always gracing your features. You were never slow to a clever quip, or sarcastic jab-- eager to ease the tension, even just a little, during the high-stress missions you were constantly thrown into. The team loved you.
And that's why they they started to notice you weren't quite there.
The bags under your eyes only seeming to grow with every passing day, your strange appetite, forlorn stares, ever growing cough, lack of energy-- everything. You were quiet. You were hiding behind a weak smile that would be disrespectful to even compare to the sweet grin that had greeted them. At first, they all assumed you were tired, or a little stressed. Everyone had their moments, either after a tough job, or just out of the blue, but yours just didn't seem to leave.
Ghost kept a close eye on you from the get go. Whether it simply be his observative nature catching on quick, or him deliberately looking out for his teammates, he took an immediate notice to the subtle shifts in your behavior. He seemed to take a special interest in you, even before he began to notice those changes. The two of you got on well, which no doubt surprised the rest of 141, especially considering Ghost was borderline hostile towards you in the beginning. As the team had welcomed you into the makeshift family they created for themselves, Ghost seemed almost protective of you. The two of you were always seen next to each other-- no matter what.
Wherever one was sitting, the spot next to him was practically reserved for the other. Nights in the common room, seats on a helicopter, even spaces standing around the table, going over strategies and plans. It was almost cute, and the team definitely their theories.
But right now you were tired. Too tired to keep smiling, to keep pretending you were doing fine. So you stopped. You stopped the forced smiles, the empty laughs, the jokes. You stopped.
The team tried their best to help you in their own odd little ways. Soap tried including you in his little antics around base, giving you something to do.
Gaz's approach was similar-- offering you an out, a distraction. He'd invite you along for a little movie night, binge watching a few classics, whether they be disney oldies, or the entire 'Austin Powers' trilogy. the one time he does try to outright ask you what's up, or tell you that he's worried, all you do is smile: "You're a good friend, Gaz."
Price, bless his heart, tried his best to confront you himself. He has this look of pity that only seems to anger you everytime he tries to talk to you. It always ends with you shutting it down the second it starts, more often than not you straight up walk out of the room before you end up saying something to him you'd ultimately regret, a stabbing pain in your chest only feeling worse the longer you tried to explain your way out of his concerns.
Despite everything, your stress seemed to ease with Ghost. He didn't try to talk you through your woes, or make any obvious effort to cheer you up, not that you didn't appreciate the others. All he did was sit with you. Weather it be from across the room, or on the cushion on the opposite side of the couch, the soft turning of the page of his books every few minutes felt soothing to your constantly buzzing brain.
Now however, sitting in the meeting room, talking over an upcoming mission, your brain felt completely clouded. Your attentions was honed in on the intense waves of nausea that washed over you every few second, and the way your hand shook as you held your pen to paper, even your shirts and jacket layered over one another couldn't seem to stop your chills. You were trying desperately to tough it out until the meeting ended but now, only halfway through, you didn't think you could do it, your head suddenly feeling as though it were filled with helium.
As if it couldn't get worse, you felt a small itch in the back of your throat. For the sake of the meeting, you tried to quietly cough it out from under your breath, but it seemed to only make it worse. That 'small itch' suddenly grew until you physically couldn't handle it any longer.
A cough tears itself through your throat. Then another, and another.
You begin to violently hack, barely having time to choke back a breath of air, successfully getting the attention of the rest of the room-- everyone can see the way you're shaking.
You push yourself away from the table, standing quickly to your feet. Your vision begins to fuzz over as you grow more and more lightheaded, feeling yourself fall onto the table, now only held up by your elbows.
You feel warm blood drip onto your hands, splattered along the one blank page of your notepad. Any attempt to choke out an apology is cut off by more blood-choked coughs.
the last thing you feel are a pair of warm hands grabbing your arms from behind, before you black out, feeling your body lose to gravity.
You're soon rushed to the hospital, the situation clearly more suited for an ER visit, rather than an on-base medic.
The following hours in the hospital are pure torture. Not a single person can sit still. Gaz's leg has been bouncing non stop, hands cupped around his face as he stares down a spot on the floor. Ghost hasn't stopped pacing the floor, sweat soaking his furrowed brow-- granted, no ones even tried to stop him. Soaps been pestering the doctors and nurses, his accent growing thick with his worry to the point where he's barely understood by the staff, a mere minute from getting thrown out all together. Price would've calmed him down, but he didn't. He sat quiet in his chair, a strange expression resting on his face.
Gaz instead takes his place, finally getting up from his seat, approaching a shouting Soap, and a young nurse nervously looking between the scott, and his clipboard. Gaz plants a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "Give it a rest, they're doing the best they can."
Soap snaps his head to Gaz, his anger suddenly redirected. "The fuck do-" He's suddenly cut off.
A lady in a lab coat walks in, her short hair pushed behind her ears, a thin coat of sweat layered over her forehead. "Excuse me?" She immediately has everyone's attention, even dragging price from his daze. "He's awake."
In no time at all they're all at your side, your eyes wincing from the stark white walls of the hospital. You look like something out of a horror movie. messy hair, warmth drained from your skin, your eye bags puffy and dark. Not a single one of them likes seeing you hooked up to all those machines.
You don't say a word to them, largely embarrassed by the fact you made them drive you to the emergency room. The doctor in tern fills the silence otherwise occupied by the mechanical beeps of all the various monitors you've got hooked up to you. "He was pneumonia." Is all she says, eyeing the group, and you. "Passed out from dehydration-- it's a good thing you boys brought him in. He should be discharged in at least a week, but it all depends on how he's recovering." She again scans the crowd, knowing the lot of you have a few serious conversation to talk out. With a small smile she makes her leave. "I'll be back to check on him in a few."
"You came in with a fever of 38." Ghosts voice effortlessly booms throughout the room, despite his seemingly calm tone.
"Simon-"
"You've had that cough for fuckin' weeks, and it took you coughing up blood for you to say something!? Are you fuckin' stupid!?"
"Hey," Soap cuts in before you can answer. "Calm down, he's alright now." His words are almost ironic considering the hell he was raising not a minute prior.
Price cuts in in Ghosts place, his hat held almost nervously in his hands. "What he's trying to day is that you've got us all worried, son."
"Well there's nothing to be worried about." You spit back. "I just got a little sick. That's all."
"A little?" Gaz looks almost appalled. "You could've died on us."
"But I didn't." You stubbornly bite back.
You suddenly feel a warm hand gently wrapping around your forearm. You tear your eyes from Gaz, looking up so a seemingly calmed down Ghost.
When you feel the gentle squeeze he gives you, you feel a lump form in your throat, biting at your lip to force back a sorrowful frown. In a gentle tone you've never quite heard from him before, he asks "What's wrong?"
In an instant you falter. You choke out a sob as stinging tears glaze over your vision. Weeping into you own hands, desperately trying to regain your long lost composure, you wheeze out a string of incoherent apologize.
When Ghost pulls you into a warm embrace, the others soon follow, awkwardly working around the plethora of wires.
When the doctor come back to the room she pauses at the door. The scene brings a small smile to her face, decided to let them have this moment just a little longer. When the soft coos of overseeing nurses peek out from over her shoulder, she has no choice but to shoo them away.
Heyyy I hope your doing good set you other account got shadowbanned
Can you do a Price x Male Reader fic where the reader randomly says he wants a tattoo and Price says no but then Mreaders like it’s going to be your name and on (any body part you want) and Price automatically agrees
cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise
- captain john price x male! reader
warnings: sort of sensual implications? also more of a short blurb than anything else lmao
notes: couldn't decide if the tat placement i went with would be like. trashy. but then decided idc its hot. anyways the things i'd give to be this mans coquette little bf (he can give ME a cigar((ette)) with HIS number on it) ALSO been thinking way too much about Alex from mw 2019 so if any of yall got a request/idea yall have with him,,,,im VERY willing to write for him lmao
fem aligned dni
cherry pie - warrant
The day was reaching its peaceful end, clouds were heavy along the skyline, and the night was sweet and quiet. You were always grateful for the nights you got to spend with Price, no matter how few and far between they were.
You were snug in your shared bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. You sank into the smell of John on the shirt you were wearing—a gag gift the rest of the team had gotten him. In large, black letters, the shirt simply said, "World's Best Dad." Despite the joke, it was surprisingly comfortable.
John finally walks out of the bathroom, scratching at his beard as his eyes seem to grow heavy at the sight of his own warm bed, and you snuggled up beneath the covers.
He crawls into bed beside you, accompanied by a series of exaggerated groans, which typically got a chuckle or at the very least a little smile out of you. Right now, however, you seemed to be a little too interested in your phone.
Some generic song seemed to be playing on repeat, and whatever video was accompanying it had your complete attention.
John was never the insecure, jealous type; he was a little overprotective at times, but never downright jealous. Still, when a lighthearted conversation with Kyle regarding 'TikTok' and 'Thirst-traps' came to mind, needless to say, he got a little concerned.
"Watch'a watching?" He finally asks, trying to sound casual.
As if somehow activating you, you set your phone down, sitting up and turning to face him, legs crossed under the blankets. "I've been thinking." You announce with an excited smile.
"Uh oh."
Your grin drops into a pout, narrowing your eyes slightly. "Fine, nevermind-- dick."
John only laughs, shaking his head slightly. "What is it, luv?"
You hesitate for a moment, pursing your lips as you debate retreating, figuring he'd immediately reject your proposition. However, you also know him well enough to know that he won't let you get away with a simple "never mind." So, you simply blurted it out. "I want to get a tattoo."
"What?" John blinks back in surprise. "Absolutely not."
"What? Why?" You immediately regret your words, knowing you've unintentionally sparked one of 'Captain John Price's' infamous lectures.
"Well, for starters, there's a number of diseases and infections you could get from the ink alone, and you don't know what kind of establishment the tattoo parlor could be running—they could be filthy! Not to mention the discrimination you could face—it could be difficult to get taken seriously in professional environments, and—"
"Jesus Christ!" You exclaim with an eye roll and a slight laugh. "Alright, I get it—it's a dumb idea." You sigh, looking up at John. "Can I at least tell you what I was planning on getting?"
Price shakes his head, letting out a sigh. "Sure, yeah, what was it?"
"Your name!"
"....My name?"
You nod with a big grin. "I was thinking it could be like," you lean back, pushing aside the blanket. You lift your shirt just above your ribs and run your hand along your lower belly, hip bone to hip bone, slightly pulling down the waistband of your boxers. "Right here-ish? Not in like that weird cursive font, but sorta like a sucu-"
"Alright."
You look up. "..What?"
"I think you should get it." He clears his throat. "The uh-- the tattoo, I mean." His face is ever so slightly dusted a rosy pink, fingers almost nervously drumming against his knees as his eye continuously bounces between your face and your soon-to-be tattoo placement.
A cocky, knowing grin tugs at your lips. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. 100%."
"That was quite the switch up there, Cap."
"Ah, what can I say? You're very persuasive—you're gonna get the tattoo, right?"
Not sure if you’re still bored out of your mind but this is my first time requesting something. Maybe something like Male Reader who joins the 141 and falls in love with Ghost and they become lovers. Male reader then betrays the 141 because they’ve been working undercover as a enemy spy and leaves out of the blue because they found out. Ghost finds Male Reader on a mission and threatens to kill him but cant because he still loves him. Male reader then sees a solider aiming for Ghost and pushes him out of the way to save him. It can end with angst or happy ending your choice! Sorry if this is too much! Have a great day
you may call me traitor but my lover called me judas
- simon 'ghost' riley x male! traitor! reader
warnings: angst, cod typical violence, betrayal, there's some easily missed (and kinda loose) biblical references because i love sacreligious homosexuality, smoking, drinking, let it be known that if i get to choose between a sad or happy ending i will almost always choose sad, not proof read lmao
notes: iysm anon 👨❤️💋👨 im a slut for traitor fics oh my god ive been dying to use this title for a fic forEVER tytytytyytytyt ALSO the end bit is like. largely taken from supernatural 5x18 because i found THAT scene both violently sad, and attractive. so. yeah. enjoy pookie 👨❤️💋👨
fem aligned dni
JUDAS - the reverent marrigold
Your addition to the team was a no brainer. You were young man, skilled, smart, fit, more than capable. Not to mention every file, application, and report under your name was meticulously crafted. All the right requirements and buzzwords-- you were spoon fed to 141, and they had no idea.
Your one and only goal was to get close to them-- the team. Gain their trusts, learn their weaknesses, secrets, anything that could possibly be used against them. You were your 'real' teams deadliest weapon. The operation would be slow. It would months, if not years, but it was most certainly doable. All you had to do was get close, and you were damn good at your job.
Maybe a little too good.
Maybe you got a little too close.
The team was easier than you'd expected. Given the Philip Graves incident, you'd thought they'd be watching your every move, putting up walls, or even ignoring you entirely, but they mostly welcomed you with open arms. Mostly.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley proved to a prick from the get go. He wasn't having any of your shit. He was suspicious, and cautious. There were times that even you suspected if you knew of your intentions from the get go. Something deep in his gut told him there was something terribly wrong with you, and in retrospect, you wish he would've listened to himself.
Still, everyone else was more than happy to have you on their team. In no time at all, you were more than just the newbie on the team. You were Price's drinking buddy, Soaps go-to for whatever stupid shit he was planning on pulling, Gaz largely thought of you as the brother he never had. Really, all of them thought of you as family, and some time along the way, you started to think of them much the same.
They made you feel good. They made you feel loved-- like you were someone capable of being loved, like you were worth something more than just a leech, a pathetic parasite whose only goal is to hurt those around you.
You tried desperately to convince yourself that they meant nothing to you-- that would tear them all down without hesitation the second it calls for it.
You can pinpoint the moment that you knew you finally realized you were fucked.
It wasn't when price first slide over a glass, the warm hues of whisky shimmering under the lamp-light. Your first mission with the team was worse than you'd thought it might be. It took a strange toll of you-- one you didn't expect it to. You thought you hid it well, but apparently not well enough for Price.
It wasn't when Gaz had been there for you the morning after a rough drinking game gone south, brushing your hair out of your face, rubbing circles on your back as you clung to the toilet. The tenderness in his voice, mumbling words of encouragement and promises you'd feel better soon enough was stark in your mind in comparison to the roar of his voice over automatic gun-fire.
It wasn't when Soap had performed his own in-field surgery on your bleeding leg, bigging a bullet out of your flesh, as his own arm suffered its own injury. He was the only reason you lived to show off the scar-- a femoral artery punctured by a 7.62×54mmR isn't something easy to walk off.
It wasn't even when Ghost had spoke more than a handful of words to you, sat outside, behind the base. You'd been there first, shivering slightly in the cool winter night, the moonlight peaking over the treeline reflecting back in your eyes. Ghost had stepped out, wanting some time alone, when he saw you. You expected him to either kick you out, using his higher rank to you disadvantage, but instead he stood besides you. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro golds and a lighter. He'd plucked a cigarette from the box, then tilted it towards you. You picked one. He lit his, then yours.
It wasn't when you'd notice the ease in the way he treated you after that. The banter he'd extended towards you, the deadpan, dry jokes he'd drop. The night behind the base, a slight shake of his cigarette box. As those nights become ever common, you'd gotten to know each other. You told stories from your childhood, some funny and cute, most suppressed and preferably long forgotten.
It should've been all of these little instances. Every concerned glance, every shared smile, every pat on the back. But you were too arrogant to realize that maybe you'd failed this mission months ago.
It wasn't when you felt that flutter in your chest was. When you'd catch Simons eyes, even in a crowd, when he'd mumble a snide remark under his breath, for your ears only, or when he'd lean down to your height just slightly, flicking his lighter on as your cigarette lay lossily between your lips, dumbly lost in his deep gaze, feeling like the woman in every outdated romance film. His lighter would linger on the end of your cigarette just a moment longer than needed, as did his gaze.
It wasn't even when you realized what that flutter ment.
It wasn't when you realized you could see yourself sharing your life with another.
It wasn't when you realized you could love.
It was when you realized you could be loved.
A few drinks too many was what really kick started your impending downfall. You arm was slung over Simons shoulder, he felt so warm, so safe, that you couldn't stop the words from stumbling out your mouth, breath rancid with the stench of whisky.
Your face was flushed, and the sidewalk you were dragged along seemed to spin. "I think I like you, Si." You managed to say through drunken laughter.
"Yeah, yeah, I like you too."
You were laughing at yourself-- at your own pathetic heart rattling against your ribcage like a rabid animal, finally cornered. "No-! No, I mean I like like you." How stupid could you be?
He was silent for a few blocks, and you thought that maybe you hadn't actually said a word, but then he responded.
"I think I like you too, Sergeant."
There were times when you could forget what you real job here was. Times you could pretend that it was some beautiful coincidence you were placed on the team, that it was fate that brought you to Simon. Mere moments just after you woke up, or in flashes laughing amongst them all in a loud, crowded bar.
Reality always came crashing down in the worst moments. Snug under Simons arm, warm and safe, as he laughs, reminiscing about how stupid he was to have thought he couldn't trust you-- how he had you next in line to be another Graves, how he's glad he was wrong. The laugh that would sound was just short of a cry. It was tragic, in a sense nothing short of shakespeare. A gut wrenching example of dramatic irony, in which you were the only audience member, stuck to your chair till the bitter end.
You still remember all your firsts.
Your first date at some italian restaurant you were both horribly underdressed for, ordering wines and dishes you could barely pronounce in futile attempt to impress the other.
Your first kiss, right outside your apartment by the end of your date. His hands were tender and warm as the held your face. His lips were slightly chapped, and you could taste the dry reds you'd both gulped back to get the most out of the atrocious price. He felt the way you smiles against his lips, a boyish, giddy chuckle escaping your lips. He couldn't help but laugh with you. Not once had he felt as alive until that moment.
You remember his first mission away from you. You couldn't sleep for days, your mind raced, thinking of only the worst. Everyday you feared Price would hand you that notification letter.
When he came back, nobody dared to try and separate the two of you.
You remember the first 'I love you'. You screamed your throat raw, Simons blood drenching your hands, tears stinging your eyes as they raced down your cheeks. You didn't stop saying it as he was rushed to evac, or even by his side as he recovered in the hospital.
You remember all your lasts.
You'd leaked immensely vital information to your superiors regarding a mission 141 was sent on. That was your job. Your real job. This information was kept strictly tight-- the moment anything went south, and it'd be clear something wasn't right amongst the team. That's why the team wasn't going to make it out of this mission. You was be presumed KIA, just like the rest of them. You'd do go back to your real job.
You understand now where you learned all that arrogance from.
The night prior you pressed into Simon so deeply, he thought he'd walk away with his lips bruised black and purple. You wanted to tell him, but you were scared. Scared of what he'd think of you-- of what he'd say to you. So you said nothing. Before you were due to turn in for the night, you spent hours running your hands through his hair, running your fingers over the stubble he said he'd shave a few days ago. You took in ever out of place curl, ever mole, the way his nose was permanently crooked with every bone breaking punch he'd taken. You nuzzled into him, breathing him in one last time.
The mission went to shit instantly. There was nothing you could do but listen to the shouts and yells of your teammates as a seemingly perfect plan turned sour at every turn. But they were strong. Stronger than you could ever hope to be. That strength was foolishly unaccounted for.
141 had miraculously pulled through, and you were stuck. The damage had been done, and it was clear that something wasn't right among the team. It'd become wordlessly apparent to Price that there was a mole among the team, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he circled back to you.
That same night, your employers ordered you to get your ass out of there. You didn't have any other choice. So you left.
You were never told what happened to 141 after that. All those years were washed away, pushed to the back of your brain like none of it even mattered in the first place. You were sent on more jobs and missions, but 141 never left your mind, you were never quite operating the same. That's probably why you didn't end up seeing it coming.
It was raining hard back at your home base, the night dark and windy as the rain patters against your back. You were on patrol, feeling empty, as if you walked aimlessly throughout the night. The only thing that finally brought you out form your thoughts was the sudden sound of gunfire.
Your head perked up, ready to run back to base to see what was going on, but you couldn't take even a step forward.
A gasp was pulled from your throat as the collar of your uniform was pulled back, choking you. Your back crashes against the forest floor not a second later. Rain clouds your vision as you try to blink away the drops. A heavy weight suddenly falls onto you, invoking another choked breath. Your gun has been kicked far out of your reach.
The hulking figure shields the rain from your face as it looms above you, your left frozen in place as you feel the unmistakable cold steel of a blade pressed against your neck.
You're eyes are practically glues shut, you expect a swift slice to your neck, and for your body to be left out in the rain as your mystery assailant joins the rest of his colleagues who, as you assume, are taking out the rest of the base. It's what you would've done-- it's what you have done. It's about damn time you were on the receiving end.
But nothing happens. You still hear the roar of chaos in the background, you still feel the cold metal hesitantly pressed against you neck, and you can still smell the dewy grass as the mud soaks up the rain, the plants and forest life not having a single care for the shit your going through.
You hear a voice sound out through your attackers coms. You can't quite make out what he's saying, but you'd recognize that voice anywhere.
Your eyes shoot open, tears immediately beginning to swell in your eyes.
Price still shouts over his walkie talkie, But his words don't seem to register in either to either of you.
You never thought you'd see him again-- you can't help but smile.
Simons eyes are full of rage and fury, like he'd been waiting a life time to be the one that watches the blood seep from your slashed throat, but you can't help but smile.
This only pisses him off more. His hand is shaking as he wields the knife, maybe from anger, maybe from fear. the other is gripping your shoulder to hard it might bruise, pushing it into the gummy dirt beneath you. He can't decide what he should say to you-- theres too much to say, yet not a single word he could utter would ever possibly describe what he's feeling. He doesn't need words-- you can see everything in his eyes alone.
He wants to kill you. Rather, he wants to want to kill you. He wants to be able to snap your neck like how he wished he had with Graves, or maybe reopen the wound in your thigh Soap had wasted his time patching up-- all for a fucking rat like you-- and watch you bleed out. But he can't.
Simon removes the knife from your neck, only to reel it back. You brace for the plunge of the knife through your skin, but instead the blade stabs through the ground, directly besides your head, catching a few strands of your hair.
He grabs the collar of your shirt, harshly tugging you to your feet. Your slammed up against a large oak tree, the back of your head knocking against the bark. "Shit-!"
"We gave you everything!" His voice is exactly the way you remembered.
"Simon-!"
He steps back, throwing you behind him, knocking into yet another tree. The impact almost sends you to the ground, but simons again grabs your shirt, keeping you face-to-face. "We let you in!"
"I'm sorry-!"
"I fucking trusted you!" His voice wavers and shakes as his voice grows louder-- angrier, sadder. In a moment of impulsivity, he reels his fist back, landing straight on your nose.
A crack of bone echoes through the forest as you cringe back in pain-- he didn't regret the punch, not in the way he would've thought he might've. So he does is again, and again, and again. Each blow is filled with more rage than the former.
Through blood spilling from your gums, you finally manage to choke out another pathetic apology. "I-- I'm so sorry, Simon." Your breathing is labored, and you find it practically impossible to breath through your noses.
"Thats it!? Thats all you have to say!?" Before you can respond, he crunches his fist into your gut. With a loud, heavy grown, you keel over, hunched over your own body as blood drips off your face. He grabs the fabric of your uniform in two tight fists, holding you up straight despite your growns. "Was any of it even fucking real!?"
"Of course it was!" You bark, your voice scratching at your throat. "I wish it wasn't, Simon! I wish-- I wish you were.. different! I wish I was different!"
Everything goes quiet. You head is bounding, and all you taste is copper as a dull pulsing of pain spreads throughout your face. Your grabbing onto his sleeves with weak fistis.
Simon has a look in his eyes you've only ever seen in your own reflection. You wish there was something you could say to make everything all better, to give him some proper closure, or better yet take everything back to the way it was before. But you can't.
From the corner of your eye, you notice a small, red dot pointed straight for Simons head. There's a slight shift in your eyes when you notice it-- one that Simon takes notice of. Following your gaze was all he needed-- but you were quicker.
You muster up all that's left of your strength. You kick Simon off you, sending him crashing into the ground.
The very next thing you see, aside from the laser level just between your eyes, is Simon's face contorting with realization. He was too slow.
