THE_Ellie

22 y. o. who loves to sleep, eat, watch movies and tv shows, listen to music and write fanfictions.

[pucksandpower]

Line Change

✰ Part One

Sidney Crosby x Quinn Hughes’ Ex!Reader

Summary: you don’t realize how much you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s life until you’re forced to look at the pieces. It starts with an Olympic gold medal and a boyfriend who laughs when your entire sport is treated like a political punchline. But it shifts with Sidney Crosby in the Milan cold, pointing out the devastating difference between a boy you have to make excuses for and a man who actually respects you. Sometimes, moving on isn’t just a breakup … it’s an absolute upgrade

Divided into five parts because this is 56k words long and tumblr text box limits hate me: read part two here

→ Masterlist

You never thought you’d be the kind of person who made excuses for someone you loved. But here you are.

It starts three years earlier, in a way that feels almost too perfect to be real. You’re twenty-one, tearing up the NCAA with Boston University, putting up numbers that have scouts whispering about generational talent. The PWHL is in its second year, and everyone knows you’re going first overall in the 2024 draft. You’re focused, driven, living and breathing hockey in a way that leaves little room for anything else.

Then Ellen Weinberg-Hughes walks into the rink.

She’s just taken a position as a player development consultant for the US Women’s National Team, and you’re on the roster for an upcoming tournament. You’ve heard the stories — legendary player, hockey royalty, mother of three NHL players. You expect her to be intimidating, but she’s warm and sharp and funny in a way that immediately puts you at ease.

“You remind me of someone,” she says after practice one day, watching you work through shooting drills with a precision that borders on obsessive.

You glance over, breathing hard. “Yeah? Who?”

“My son Quinn.” She grins. “Same work ethic. Same intensity about getting things right.”

You laugh, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Is that a compliment?”

“From me? Always.” She pauses, and there’s something calculating in her expression that you can’t quite read. “He’s in Vancouver right now. Plays for the Canucks. Captain, actually.”

“I know who he is.” Everyone in hockey knows who the Hughes brothers are.

“He’s coming home for a few days next month,” Ellen says, casual but deliberate. “You should meet him.”

You’re about to deflect — you don’t really date, don’t have time for it — but something in her expression stops you. She’s not just making conversation. She’s matchmaking.

“Mrs. Hughes-”

“Ellen,” she corrects.

“Ellen. I don’t really … I mean, I’m pretty focused on hockey right now.”

“So is he.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s exactly why it would work.”

***

You meet Quinn Hughes on a random Tuesday in March 2023, at a coffee shop in Ann Arbor. Ellen has somehow convinced both of you that this is a casual, no-pressure thing. It is not casual. It is terrifying.

He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in the corner with a baseball cap pulled low, scrolling through his phone. When you approach, he looks up and smiles, and it’s shy and genuine in a way that immediately disarms you.

“Hey,” he says, standing up. “You must be-”

“Yeah.” You shake his hand, feeling awkward. “Your mom is not subtle.”

He laughs, and it’s a good laugh, easy and self-deprecating. “No, she’s really not. I’m sorry if this is weird.”

“It’s definitely weird,” you admit, sitting down across from him. “But I’ve done weirder things.”

“Like what?”

“Like agree to this?”

He grins. “Fair point.”

The thing is, it’s not weird for long. Quinn is quiet at first, but once he starts talking, really talking, you realize why Ellen thought you’d click. He gets it — the pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of being exceptional at something before you’re old enough to know what that means. He asks about your game, and not in the patronizing way some guys do, but like he genuinely wants to understand how you see the ice, how you think through plays.

“My mom won’t shut up about you,” he says at one point, and there’s pride in his voice. “She says you’re going to change the game.”

You feel your cheeks heat. “She’s biased.”

“She’s not wrong though.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I watched some of your highlights. That goal against Minnesota last month? The one where you went backhand, top shelf, with like two defensemen draped all over you?”

“You watched my highlights?”

“My mom made me,” he says quickly, then grins. “But also, yeah. I wanted to.”

You talk for three hours. About hockey, about pressure, about what it’s like to have your every move dissected. He tells you about captaining the Canucks at twenty-four, about the weight of expectations in Vancouver. You tell him about being the future of women’s hockey before you’ve even been drafted professionally, about the constant comparisons to players who came before you.

“It’s lonely sometimes,” you admit. “Being the person everyone expects everything from.”

Quinn nods, and something passes between you — recognition, understanding. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really is.”

When you leave, he asks if he can text you. You say yes.

***

The draft comes in June 2024. New York selects you first overall, and you cry on national television because you’ve worked your entire life for this moment. Your phone explodes with messages, and buried in there, between congratulations from teammates and coaches and family, is one from Quinn.

Knew it. Congratulations. You’re going to be incredible.

You start dating officially that summer. It’s long distance and complicated — he’s in Vancouver, you’re in New York — but somehow it works. He flies in when he can, you visit during breaks. You FaceTime at weird hours, falling asleep with your phone propped on the pillow so you can see each other.

In November 2024, you score your first professional goal, and Quinn is there. He flew in without telling you, and when you see him in the stands after the game, you almost cry again.

“You came,” you say, still in your gear, sweaty and exhausted and so stupidly happy.

“Of course I came.” He pulls you into a hug, not caring that you’re disgusting. “I wouldn’t have missed this.”

Ellen is there too, beaming, and you realize that this — this strange, unexpected thing — is becoming real.

***

Your rookie season is everything you hoped for and more. The Sirens are building something special, and you’re at the center of it. The media attention is intense, but you handle it the way you handle everything: head down, work hard, let your game speak for itself.

Quinn’s season is harder. The Canucks are struggling, and the pressure in Vancouver is suffocating. You talk him through bad games, through media scrums that feel like interrogations, through the weight of wearing the C on a team that can’t quite find its footing.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough for this,” he admits one night, voice small through the phone.

“You are,” you say firmly. “Quinn, you are. This isn’t on you.”

“Feels like it is.”

“I know.” You wish you were there, wish you could hold him. “But it’s not.”

In December 2025, the Canucks trade him to Minnesota. He calls you first, before it’s announced, and you can hear the devastation in his voice.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes teams are just stupid.”

“I was supposed to—I wanted to-” He breaks off, and you think he might be crying. “I wanted to win there.”

“You’ll win somewhere else,” you tell him. “Minnesota’s lucky to have you.”

The trade is brutal for him, but there’s a silver lining: he’s closer now. Minnesota to New York is a much easier trip than Vancouver to New York. You let yourself imagine weekends together, lazy mornings, a life that feels less like a constant negotiation of flights and time zones.

***

Then January comes, and everything shifts.

You’re scrolling through Twitter when you first see the videos. ICE raids in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Families torn apart. People dragged from their homes, their workplaces, their schools. The videos are horrifying — agents in tactical gear, people screaming, children crying.

You can’t look away.

Quinn is living in Minneapolis now. Playing there. This is his community, even if he’s only been there a month.

You start posting immediately. Resources for people who need help. Donation links. Threads explaining what’s happening, why it matters, why people should care. Your agent calls, nervous, warning you that this is controversial, that you might lose sponsors.

“I don’t care,” you tell her. “This is people’s lives.”

Your teammates support you. The Sirens organization releases a statement. You donate a significant portion of your salary to immigrant advocacy organizations.

And Quinn … doesn’t say anything.

You notice it slowly, then all at once. He doesn’t like your posts. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t share any resources. When you bring it up on FaceTime, he’s vague.

“I just think I need to be careful,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes even through the screen. “You know how it is in hockey. I can’t … I don’t want to alienate anyone.”

“Alienate anyone?” You stare at him. “Quinn, people are being deported. Families are being destroyed. This is happening in your city.”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “I know it’s bad. But I also have to think about the team, about-”

“About what? Your image?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

The conversation ends badly, tension thick between you. You tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s just being cautious, that hockey culture is different for men, more conservative, less forgiving of players who speak out. You’ve seen it your whole career — how men’s hockey stays silent on everything that matters.

You tell yourself Quinn is a good person. That he cares. That he’s just scared.

But then you’re scrolling Instagram one day and you see it: Quinn liked a post from Matthew Tkachuk from last summer. A pro-Trump post. Something about making America great again, with an American flag and a caption about strong leadership.

Your stomach drops.

You stare at the like, at the timestamp. July 2025. You’d been dating for nearly a year when he liked that.

“The Tkachuks are childhood friends,” you say out loud, to your empty apartment. “He probably just liked it without thinking. He probably-”

But the excuses feel hollow now.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t know how to. Every time you start to type out a message, you delete it. Every time you’re on FaceTime and the words are on the tip of your tongue, you swallow them down.

You tell yourself you’re being understanding. That relationships require compromise. That you can’t expect him to be as outspoken as you are.

You tell yourself he’s still a good person.

You almost believe it.

***

February arrives with the Olympics.

You’ve been preparing for this your entire life. Team USA. The gold medal game. Everything you’ve worked for culminating in Milan.

Quinn is there too, on the men’s team. It should feel romantic, both of you chasing gold together, but there’s a distance between you now that wasn’t there before. You feel it in the way he kisses you goodbye before games, in the way conversations feel more careful, more curated.

Ellen is part of the women’s team staff, and she watches you with knowing eyes. You wonder what she sees, if she can sense the hairline fractures spreading through something she helped build.

The women’s tournament is everything you dreamed. You dominate, racking up points, playing with a fire that borders on reckless. In the semifinals against Sweden, you score twice and add three assists. People start talking about you the way they talk about legends.

The gold medal game is against Canada. Of course it is. It’s always Canada.

You’re tied 1-1 with two minutes left in regulation. The game is brutal, physical, everything a gold medal game should be. You can feel history pressing down on you, can feel the weight of every woman who played before you, who fought for this moment to exist.

Overtime.

The puck finds your stick at center ice. You’re moving before you can think, before you can doubt. Two Canadian defenders converge on you, and time slows down. You see the angle, see the microscopic window between the goalie’s glove and the post.

You deke left, then right, so fast it looks like the puck is on a string. The goalie bites, her glove drops, and you go backhand, top shelf, bar down.

Goal.

Gold.

The arena explodes. Your teammates mob you, everyone screaming, crying, disbelieving. You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Can’t-

When you finally surface from the celebration, when the medals are around your necks and the anthem is playing, you’re crying so hard you can barely see.

Quinn finds you after. He’s in the stands with Ellen, and when you see them, still in your gear, gold medal heavy against your chest, he’s smiling so wide it almost hurts to look at.

“That was incredible,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “Oh my god, that goal. Everyone’s calling it the goal of the decade. You’re unbelievable.”

Ellen hugs you next, and she’s crying too. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. “So, so proud.”

You’re surrounded by people — teammates, media, coaches — but in this moment, with Quinn’s arms around you and Ellen beaming, you let yourself feel it. The joy. The accomplishment. The sheer impossible reality that you’re an Olympic gold medalist.

“I love you,” Quinn says into your hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too,” you say automatically.

And you do. You think you do.

But standing there, gold medal around your neck, cameras flashing, the weight of everything you’ve achieved settling into your bones, you feel something else too. Something uncomfortable and undeniable.

You feel the distance. The unspoken. The things he won’t say and the posts he won’t like and the silence that speaks louder than any words.

You feel the fracture widening.

But not tonight. Tonight, you’re golden. Tonight, you’re everything you’ve worked your entire life to become.

Tonight, you let yourself have this.

Tomorrow can wait.

***

Three days after your gold medal game, you’re back in the arena. This time, you’re in the stands with your teammates, wearing your Team USA gear, faces still flushed with the glow of victory that hasn’t quite faded.

“Think they can pull it off?” Kendall asks, leaning over. She’s got her gold medal tucked under her jacket — all of you do, wearing them like talismans.

“Against Canada?” You grin. “God, I hope so. Would be poetic, wouldn’t it?”

“Your boyfriend’s on the ice,” Hannah says, nudging you. “No pressure or anything.”

You watch Quinn during warmups, the way he moves with that effortless precision you’ve always loved. Jack is out there too, talking to someone, gesturing wildly the way he always does. The Hughes brothers, both chasing gold on the same team.

“Luke must be losing his mind back in Jersey,” you say.

“Are you kidding? He’s probably throwing a watch party.” Kendall grins. “Did you talk to Quinn this morning?”

“Briefly.” You met up for breakfast at 6 AM, both of you too nervous to sleep. “He was trying to pretend he wasn’t freaking out.”

“And you?”

“I told him to go win me another gold medal to match mine.”

The game is everything a gold medal game should be. Physical, intense, back and forth. Canada scores first, and your stomach drops. Then Matt Boldy ties it up, and the arena shakes with the noise.

In the second period, you watch Sam Bennett’s stick come up high, catching Jack directly in the mouth. There’s blood on the ice immediately.

“Oh shit,” Hannah breathes.

Jack goes to the bench, comes back minutes later with gauze stuffed in his mouth. You can see from here that he’s missing teeth.

“That’s going to be a great story,” Kendall says, wincing.

“That’s going to be an expensive dental bill,” you correct.

The game stays tied through regulation. 1-1. Everything coming down to overtime, just like your game did.

You’re gripping Kendall’s hand so hard your knuckles are white. Every time Quinn touches the puck, your heart stops. Every time Jack skates, you think about those missing teeth and the fact that he’s still out there, still playing through it.

Three minutes into overtime, Jack Hughes gets the puck just outside the crease.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, come on-”

He dekes past one defender, then another. The whole arena is on its feet. He’s got a shooting lane, and he takes it — a wrist shot that beats Binnington blocker side, top corner.

Goal.

Gold.

The arena erupts. You’re screaming, jumping, hugging everyone around you. Your teammates are crying, and you realize you are too. Team USA men’s hockey hasn’t won gold since the Miracle on Ice in 1980. Forty-six years.

And Quinn is part of it.

You watch him on the ice, watch the team mob Jack, watch them pile on top of each other in pure, unfiltered joy. When they finally separate, Quinn finds Jack first, grabbing his face, saying something you can’t hear but can read in his expression. You did it. You actually did it.

“Your boyfriend’s an Olympic gold medalist,” Hannah says, grinning through tears.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, he is.”

The medal ceremony is beautiful. You watch Quinn stand on that podium, gold medal around his neck, American flag draped over his shoulders, and something swells in your chest that’s almost painful. Pride, yes, but something more. Something like hope that maybe, maybe, everything is going to be okay.

He’s glowing. They all are. Jack keeps touching his mouth, probably checking if more teeth fell out, but he’s smiling so wide it doesn’t matter. Quinn catches your eye in the stands and points at you, mouthing something that looks like we did it.

You blow him a kiss.

“God, you two are disgustingly cute,” Kendall says, but she’s smiling.

***

The celebration is immediate and chaotic. The men’s team takes forever in the locker room — press obligations, drug testing, the usual post-gold-medal circus. You wait with the WAGs and family members in a designated area, energy fizzing through all of you.

“I can’t believe they pulled it off,” you say to Ellen, who’s practically vibrating with joy.

“Both my boys with gold medals,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You created them,” you point out. “That’s a pretty good start.”

When the men finally emerge, they’re already drunk. Someone had champagne in the locker room, and they’re passing bottles back and forth, cheering every time someone takes a swig.

Quinn finds you immediately, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like champagne and victory.

“Olympic champion,” you murmur against his mouth.

“You too.” He’s grinning so wide his face must hurt. “We’re both Olympic champions. How insane is that?”

“Pretty insane.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I scored the game winner!” Jack appears, shoving himself between you two, medal swinging. “Did you see that? Did you see it?”

“We saw it, Jack.” You laugh, hugging him. “That was incredible. Also, your mouth-”

“I know!” He opens wide, showing the gaps where teeth used to be. “How badass is this?”

“So badass,” you assure him. “Your dentist is going to love you.”

The team has arranged a celebration at a venue near the Olympic Village. As you all make your way through the Milan streets, the energy is electric. People are cheering, taking photos, chanting “U-S-A!” The men are at the center of it all, arms linked, singing off-key, completely wasted.

You walk with the other women, with Ellen and the other mothers and girlfriends and wives, on the periphery of it all. It’s fine. It’s their moment. They deserve this.

But something feels off.

“They’re going hard,” Kendall observes, watching as Matthews nearly trips over his own feet.

“Can you blame them?” Hannah shrugs. “They just won Olympic gold.”

“No, I know.” You’re watching Quinn, the way he’s laughing at something one of the guys said, the way he’s completely in his element. “It’s just …”

“Just what?”

You don’t know how to explain it. That you feel outside of this, somehow. That when you won gold, Quinn was there, but the celebration felt different. Smaller, maybe. Less explosive.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just tired.”

The venue is packed with Team USA staff, coaches, families. Someone sets up a speaker, and music blasts through the space. The men are dancing — if you can call it that — spraying champagne like they’re in a nightclub.

You find a quieter corner with your teammates. Ellen joins you, and you’re swapping stories about your respective gold medal games when Quinn appears, clearly several drinks past coherent.

“There she is!” He drapes himself over you. “My gold medalist girlfriend.”

“Hey, champion.” You steady him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Amazing.” He kisses your neck. “Best day of my life. And all it took was Jack sacrificing some teeth.”

“Hey!” Jack appears again, because apparently he’s omnipresent tonight. “My teeth got us a double minor.”

“That we didn’t score on,” Quinn counters.

“Who’s fault is that?”

You laugh, letting them bicker, letting yourself enjoy this moment. Quinn with gold around his neck, happy and loose and proud. This is good. This is what you wanted.

Isn’t it?

The night wears on. It’s past two AM when you check your phone, scrolling through the hundreds of notifications. Congratulations messages for both you and Quinn, articles about both gold medal games, photos of you both with your medals.

You’re about to put your phone away when Kendall appears at your elbow, her face pale.

“Have you seen this?”

“Seen what?”

She shows you her phone. It’s a video, clearly taken from inside a locker room. The quality is shaky, like someone filmed it on their phone trying to be discreet.

“What is this?”

“Just watch.”

You press play.

The men’s locker room. You can see Jack in the frame, still bleeding from the mouth, medal around his neck. Other players are celebrating, champagne everywhere.

Then you hear the voice. Unmistakable, even through a phone speaker.

Trump.

Your stomach turns to ice.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” Trump’s voice crackles through someone’s speakerphone. “Congratulations, gentlemen! What a game! What a victory!”

Someone is holding the phone up. “Mr. President, the team is here. They’re excited to talk to you.”

“Fantastic, fantastic. This is incredible. The first gold since 1980! You’ve made history, gentlemen. Made America proud.”

The players are cheering, raising their bottles. You can see Quinn in the background, smiling.

“Now, I want to invite you all to the White House,” Trump continues. “We’re going to have a proper celebration. The State of the Union is in two days — perfect timing! You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Absolutely, sir!” Someone shouts. You think it’s Matthews.

Then Trump’s voice shifts, that particular tone he gets when he thinks he’s being funny. “I must tell you, we’re going to have to bring the women’s team, you do know that.”

Your breath catches.

“If I didn’t invite the women’s team,” Trump continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “I do believe I probably would be impeached.”

The locker room erupts in laughter.

The men — all of them, every single one — laugh.

Quinn laughs.

You watch his face in the video, watch him throw his head back, watch him think this is funny.

“What do you say, gentlemen?” Trump asks. “White House? State of the Union? Make America proud?”

“Hell yeah!” Multiple voices, overlapping, enthusiastic.

The video cuts off.

You’re frozen, phone still in your hand, Kendall’s face swimming in your peripheral vision.

“I’m going to be sick,” you whisper.

“There’s a bathroom-”

You’re moving before she finishes, shoving through the crowd, past celebrating players and oblivious family members. You make it to the bathroom just in time, barely getting the stall door closed before you’re throwing up everything in your stomach.

You won’t cry. You won’t.

(You do.)

There’s a knock on the stall door. “Hey, you okay in there?” It’s Hannah’s voice.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Can I come in?”

You unlock the door. Hannah squeezes into the stall with you, which would be funny in any other circumstance.

“I saw the video,” she says quietly.

“Everyone saw the video.” You laugh, and it sounds hysterical even to your own ears. “It’s probably everywhere by now.”

“It’s trending on Twitter.”

Of course it is.

“They laughed, Hannah. They all laughed.” You press your palms against your eyes. “He said we’re only being invited so he won’t be impeached, and they thought that was hilarious.”

“I know.”

“We won gold three days ago. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored a golden goal too, and we’re an afterthought. A political obligation. A punchline.”

“I know,” Hannah says again, and she sounds as angry as you feel.

“And Quinn-” Your voice breaks. “Quinn laughed. He laughed and then he accepted. He’s going to go to the White House for Trump.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand what Trump was saying. Maybe-”

“Don’t.” You look at her. “Don’t make excuses for him. I’ve been making excuses for weeks. The Minneapolis thing, the Tkachuk post, all of it. I kept telling myself he was just being careful, that hockey culture was different, that he was still a good person underneath.” You laugh again, bitter. “But good people don’t laugh at that joke. Good people don’t accept invitations from someone who’s literally in the Epstein files and probably a pedophile himself.”

Hannah is quiet for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

But you do know. You’ve known since you saw Quinn’s face in that video, since you heard him laugh at your expense, at your team’s expense.

You just don’t want to admit it yet.

There’s another knock on the bathroom door, then Kendall’s voice. “Quinn is looking for you.”

Your stomach lurches again. “Tell him I’m sick.”

“I don’t think he’s going to accept that.”

“Then tell him I went back to my room.”

“Did you?”

“I will.” You stand up, legs shaky, and move to the sink to rinse your mouth. Your reflection in the mirror looks wrong — gold medal still around your neck, mascara smudged, face pale.

You look like someone whose world just shattered.

When you emerge from the bathroom, Quinn is right there, concern cutting through his drunken haze.

“Hey, are you okay? Kendall said you were sick.”

You can’t look at him. Can’t look at his face without seeing him in that video, laughing.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going back to my room.”

“I’ll come with you-”

“No.” It comes out sharper than you intended. “No, you should stay. Celebrate. This is your night.”

“But-”

“Quinn, I’m fine. Really.” You force yourself to meet his eyes. “Congratulations again. You were amazing out there.”

You kiss his cheek — muscle memory, automatic — and leave before he can argue.

Your teammates follow you out. No one says anything as you walk through the Milan streets back to the Olympic Village. The celebration continues behind you, music and laughter fading with distance.

In your room, you pull out your phone. The video has been shared thousands of times already. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — some defending the men, some outraged on the women’s behalf, some making jokes about how “woke” women’s sports are.

You think about Quinn, probably still celebrating, probably still drunk, probably with no idea that this video exists or what it means.

You think about Minneapolis, about the posts you made that he wouldn’t engage with, about the Tkachuk like you pretended didn’t matter.

You think about all the times you told yourself he was good underneath, that he just needed to be careful, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.

You think about his laugh in that video.

You’re tired of making excuses.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Quinn.

Are you sure you’re ok? I can leave if you need me

You stare at the message for a long time. Part of you wants to tell him to come over, wants to hear his explanation, wants him to somehow make this okay.

But the larger part — the part that scored the game-winning goal, that won Olympic gold, that refuses to be anyone’s afterthought — knows that there’s no explanation that will be good enough.

I’m fine. Go celebrate with your team. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Then you turn off your phone, take off your gold medal, and finally let yourself fall apart.

***

You can’t sleep.

The tears stopped around four AM, leaving you hollow and headachy, but sleep won’t come. You’ve tried everything — lying on your back, your side, your stomach. Counting backwards from a thousand. Deep breathing exercises your sports psychologist taught you. Nothing works.

Every time you close your eyes, you see that video. Quinn’s face. His laugh.

Your roommate is snoring softly in the other bed. At least one of you should get some rest.

At 4:53 AM, you give up. You pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, slide your feet into sneakers, and slip out of the room as quietly as possible.

The Olympic Village is eerily quiet. The closing ceremony was earlier tonight — last night, technically — and most athletes have already cleared out. The ones remaining are probably passed out from celebrating or commiserating, depending on how their events went. You wander past the USA buildings, not looking where you’re going, not really caring.

Your feet carry you on autopilot. Left, then right, then straight. You’re not trying to go anywhere. You just need to move, need to be somewhere that isn’t that room with its walls pressing in.

You end up against the side of another building — you don’t even look to see which country’s — and let your body weight fall against it. The concrete is cold through your hoodie, but you don’t move. You tip your head back, staring up at the dark sky.

You wish you were a smoker. That’s stupid, you know it’s stupid, but at least then you’d have something to do with your hands, some excuse for standing out here in the cold at nearly five in the morning looking like your life just fell apart.

Which it did.

The cold is starting to seep through your clothes now, making you shiver. It’s winter in Milan, and in your turmoil, you completely forgot to grab a coat. Just a hoodie against February air.

Perfect. You can’t even fall apart properly.

“Excuse me, are you okay?”

The voice makes you jump. It’s male, concerned, and unmistakably Canadian to your hockey-trained ears. That particular accent you’ve heard a thousand times across the ice, in media scrums, in arenas across North America.

You look up.

Sidney Crosby is standing about ten feet away, looking at you with the kind of concern usually reserved for injured players or lost children.

For a moment, you can’t process it. Sidney fucking Crosby. Three Stanley Cups. Two Olympic golds. Multiple scoring titles. The face of hockey for the last two decades. The Sidney Crosby is standing in front of you at five in the morning in the Olympic Village.

And you look like absolute shit.

You try to wipe at your face, knowing full well your eyes are red and swollen, that your hair is a disaster, that you probably have dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say, voice rough from crying. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t look convinced. He’s wearing a Team Canada jacket and walking with a noticeable limp — the knee injury from the quarterfinals against Czechia. It kept him out of the semifinals and the gold medal game. These were probably his last Olympics, Canada lost, and he didn’t even get to play in the deciding games.

And yet he’s here, at five AM, checking on you.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t-” You gesture vaguely. “I was just walking. I’ll go.”

“No, it’s-” He takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I couldn’t sleep either. Knee’s bothering me.” He pauses. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re out here.”

The pity in his eyes makes it clear. He knows. He knows what happened with the US men’s team.

If Sidney Crosby, who’s notoriously offline, who barely uses social media, who once admitted he didn’t know what TikTok was — if he knows, then everyone knows.

“I’m really fine,” you try again, but your voice cracks on the last word.

Sidney is quiet for a moment. Then he moves closer, still limping, and leans against the wall next to you. Not too close, respecting your space, but close enough that you’re not alone anymore.

“I saw the video,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, and it sounds bitter even to your own ears. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything. Your team didn’t do anything. It was my-” You stop. “It was our men.”

“Still.” He’s looking straight ahead, not at you, and somehow that makes it easier. “It’s not right. What they did. What he said.”

“Trump, you mean.”

“Yeah. And-” Sidney pauses. “The laughing. That part was worse, I think.”

You close your eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Everyone’s angry about it,” he corrects. “A lot of us, anyway. You guys-” He shakes his head. “That was some of the best hockey I’ve seen. Not just at these Olympics. Ever.”

You look at him sharply. “You watched?”

“Of course I watched.” He sounds almost offended. “The gold medal game especially. That goal you scored-” He lets out a low whistle. “That was incredible. The hands, the patience, the finish. That was world-class.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t tell Marie-Philip I said that, though.” There’s the ghost of a smile on his face. “She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Despite everything, you almost laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sidney is quiet for a moment. “You deserved better than that. Your whole team did. The disrespect-” He stops, and you can hear the anger in his voice, carefully controlled. “You’re Olympic champions. You won gold. And they made you into a punchline.”

“We’re used to it,” you say, and god, how sad is that? “Women’s hockey, we’re always an afterthought. We’re always fighting for ice time, for funding, for people to take us seriously. This is just-” You gesture helplessly. “This is just more of the same.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“No,” you agree. “It shouldn’t be.”

You’re shivering now, really shivering, your teeth starting to chatter. Sidney notices.

“Jesus, you’re freezing. Where’s your coat?”

“I forgot it.”

“You forgot-” He’s already shrugging out of his jacket, a clearly Team Canada-branded Lululemon Sherpa thing that probably costs more than your monthly grocery budget. “Here.”

“I can’t—that’s yours-”

“Take it.” He holds it out. “Please. You’re shaking.”

You take the jacket, wrapping it around yourself. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like expensive detergent and faintly of the medicated cream athletes use for sore muscles. The Canadian flag and logo are prominent on the chest and sleeves.

“Won’t you be cold?” You ask.

“I’m from Nova Scotia. This is shorts weather.” He’s definitely lying — you can see the goosebumps on his arms — but you’re too cold to argue.

“Thank you,” you say. “For the jacket. And for-” You gesture vaguely. “This. Talking to me. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you look at him properly. He’s older than you expected up close — thirty-eight now, you think — with lines around his eyes and that particular weariness that comes from carrying a sport on your shoulders for two decades. His knee is clearly bothering him, he keeps shifting his weight off it.

“I’m sorry about your injury,” you say. “And the gold medal game. That you couldn’t play.”

He shrugs. “It happens. Part of the game.”

“Still sucks though.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, it really does.”

You stand there in silence, two Olympic athletes who just had very different but equally shitty experiences, watching the sky start to lighten at the edges.

“Can I ask you something?” Sidney says eventually.

“Sure.”

“Why are you out here alone? Where’s-” He stops, seeming to think better of it.

“My boyfriend?” You laugh humorlessly. “Probably still celebrating. Or passed out drunk somewhere. I don’t know. I turned off my phone.”

Sidney nods slowly, like this confirms something he was thinking.

“The thing is,” you continue, not sure why you’re telling him this but unable to stop, “I knew. Not about the video, obviously, but other things. Red flags. Things I made excuses for because I wanted to believe he was better than that.”

“What kind of things?”

You tell him about Minneapolis. About the ICE raids and the deportations and how Quinn wouldn’t engage with any of it. About the Tkachuk post from last summer that you convinced yourself meant nothing. About how you kept telling yourself that hockey culture was different for men, more conservative, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.

“I told myself I was being understanding,” you say. “That relationships require compromise. But I think I was just scared. Of being alone. Of losing him. Of admitting that maybe he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

Sidney listens without interrupting. When you finish, he’s quiet for a long moment.

“My parents have been married for forty years,” he says finally. “You know what my dad told me once? He said a real partner lifts you up. They’re proud of you. They defend you. They’d never let anyone — especially themselves — make you feel small.”

You feel tears prickling at your eyes again.

“That video,” Sidney continues, voice gentle but firm. “That wasn’t just Trump being Trump. That was your boyfriend and his teammates laughing at the expense of your accomplishment. Your gold medal. Your team. And then accepting an invitation from someone-” He stops, jaw tight. “From someone who represents everything wrong with how women are treated.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“You deserved better than that.” He’s looking at you now, direct and serious. “Not just from Trump or the media or hockey culture. From him. From your boyfriend.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, because he’s right. God, he’s so right, and you’ve known it for hours but hearing someone else say it makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

“You deserve someone who would never do that to you,” Sidney says. “Someone who would fight any man who tried to put you down like that, not join in on the laughter. Someone who’s proud to be with you, not just when it’s convenient or when you’re winning, but always. Especially when it’s hard.”

You’re crying again, silently, tears running down your face. Sidney notices and looks away, giving you privacy in the way you process this.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “That was probably overstepping. It’s none of my business.”

“No.” You wipe at your face with the sleeve of his jacket. “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I just-” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to believe that he was good underneath all the silence and the excuses. That he loved me enough to be better.”

“Love isn’t enough if there’s no respect,” Sidney says quietly. “And respect means standing up for your partner. Defending them. Being proud of them publicly, not just privately. If he can’t do that — if he won’t do that — then it doesn’t matter how much he says he loves you.”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

Sidney pushes off the wall, wincing slightly as his knee protests. “I should let you go. Get some sleep. Or try to, anyway.”

“Wait, your jacket-”

“Keep it. Return it later if you want, but-” He shrugs. “You need it more than I do right now.”

“Sidney-”

“Congratulations,” he says, and his smile is genuine and warm. “On the gold medal. On that goal. On everything. You earned it. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”

He starts to limp away, back toward what you assume is the Canadian building. Then he stops and turns around.

“One more thing,” he says. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re going to be okay. You’re tough. You scored the goal of the decade with two defenders draped all over you. You can handle this too.”

“How do you know?” Your voice is small.

“Because you’re out here at five in the morning, in the freezing cold, processing it instead of pretending it didn’t happen. That takes courage. And courage like that?” He smiles. “That doesn’t go away just because your heart’s broken.”

Then he’s limping away into the early morning darkness, leaving you wrapped in his Team Canada jacket with tears on your face and something that feels almost like hope flickering in your chest.

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, watching the sky lighten, feeling the cold seep through even with the jacket. Your phone is still off. Quinn is probably awake by now, probably looking for you, probably worried.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still celebrating. Maybe he hasn’t even seen the video yet. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he did, what it meant, how it broke something fundamental between you.

You pull Sidney’s jacket tighter around yourself. The Canadian flag on the sleeve catches the early morning light.

You think about what he said. About deserving better. About real partners lifting you up, defending you, being proud of you publicly. About how love isn’t enough without respect.

You think about Quinn laughing in that locker room. About Trump’s joke and the invitation to the White House. About Minneapolis and the Tkachuk post and all the times you made excuses.

You think about your gold medal, sitting in your room, and how for one perfect moment you were the best in the world at what you do, and that should have been enough. That should have been everything.

It still is everything.

Quinn’s laughter doesn’t diminish your gold medal. Trump’s joke doesn’t make your goal less spectacular. The men’s team accepting that invitation doesn’t erase the fact that you won.

You’re an Olympic champion. You scored the golden goal. You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, male or female.

And you deserve someone who sees that. Who celebrates it. Who would never, ever laugh at your expense.

Sidney Crosby, of all people, saw that. A rival player from a rival country who had every reason to be drowning in his own disappointment tonight saw that and took the time to tell you.

Quinn should have seen it first.

The sky is fully light now, pink and gold at the edges. You’re exhausted but awake, heartbroken but somehow clearer than you’ve been in weeks.

You turn your phone back on.

Seventeen missed calls from Quinn. Twenty-three texts. The most recent one from six minutes ago. 

Where are you? I’m really worried. Please just let me know you’re okay.

You stare at the message for a long time.

We need to talk.

And finally, finally, you head back inside.

***

You get maybe two hours of sleep before your alarm goes off at eight. The dining hall opens at eight-thirty, and you need to eat before the long travel day ahead. Commercial flights back to the States for the women’s team. The NHL players get a charter, naturally.

You shower, trying to wash away the exhaustion and the residue of last night. Sidney’s Team Canada jacket is folded carefully in your suitcase — you’ll figure out how to return it later. Right now, you need to get through breakfast, get through seeing Quinn, get through whatever conversation is waiting for you.

Your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal. The redness is gone from your eyes. Your gold medal hangs around your neck — you haven’t taken it off except to shower since the ceremony. Armor, maybe. A reminder.

The dining hall is already packed when you arrive. Athletes loading up on carbs before travel, coaches reviewing schedules, families saying goodbye. You spot your teammates at a table in the corner and make your way over with a tray of eggs, toast, and fruit you’re not sure you can actually eat.

“Hey,” Kendall says softly as you sit down. “How are you?”

“Tired.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.” You pick at your eggs. “Have you guys seen-”

“The video’s everywhere,” Hannah interrupts quietly. “People are pissed. Like, really pissed. There’s a whole movement on Twitter about the women’s team refusing the White House invitation.”

“Good,” you say.

“Have you talked to Quinn?” Kendall asks.

“Not yet. He texted like twenty times last night, but I-” You shrug. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Are you ready now?”

You’re about to answer when you feel someone sit down in the empty chair next to you. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You can smell his cologne, feel the familiar presence.

Quinn.

He’s clearly hungover — hair messy, eyes slightly bloodshot, moving carefully like his head hurts. But he sits down like it’s any other day. Like nothing happened. Like the world didn’t shift on its axis last night.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”

You keep eating. Don’t look at him. Fork to mouth, chew, swallow. Mechanical.

“Babe?” He touches your arm. “You okay?”

You move your arm away, still not looking at him.

Across the table, you see Kendall and Hannah exchange glances. Other teammates are watching now too.

“Why are you being weird?” Quinn asks, and there’s confusion in his voice. Genuine confusion, like he has no idea why you might be upset.

You set down your fork very carefully. Take a breath. Then another.

“Why am I being weird,” you repeat, still not looking at him.

“Yeah. You left last night without saying goodbye, you’ve been ignoring my texts, and now you won’t even look at me-”

You turn to face him then, and something in your expression makes him stop talking.

“Have you checked your phone this morning?” Your voice is level, controlled.

“I mean, yeah, but-”

“So you’ve seen the video.”

Quinn’s face does something complicated. “What video?”

“Don’t.” You shake your head. “Don’t play dumb. The video from your locker room. Trump on speakerphone. The invitation to the White House. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Oh.” He has the grace to look uncomfortable. “That. Yeah, I saw something about that this morning. People are kind of overreacting-”

“Overreacting,” you repeat flatly.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. He was just congratulating us-”

“Stop.” You hold up a hand. “Stop talking.”

Quinn blinks. “What?”

“I need you to stop talking for a second because if you keep going, I’m going to lose it.” You take another breath. Your teammates are fully watching now. You can feel other people at nearby tables starting to pay attention too. “Do you know what Trump said in that video?”

“He congratulated us on winning gold-”

“He said-” Your voice is rising now, you can’t help it. “He said that he’d have to invite the women’s team or he’d probably be impeached. And then he laughed. And you know what you did, Quinn? What you and every single one of your teammates did?”

Quinn is starting to look defensive. “It was just-”

“You laughed.” Your voice cracks. “You laughed at the idea that the my team is such an afterthought, such a political obligation, that not inviting us would be an impeachable offense. You thought that was funny.”

“It was just a joke-”

“It wasn’t a joke!” You’re standing now, you don’t remember standing. “We won gold three days before you did. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored what people are calling the goal of the decade. We made history. And to him we’re nothing. We’re a punchline. An obligation. And you laughed.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you-”

“Yes, you were!” Tears are threatening now but you push them back. “Maybe not consciously, maybe you didn’t think about it that way, but that’s exactly what you were doing. You were laughing at the idea that women’s hockey matters so little that inviting us is just a political move. That we’re not worth celebrating on our own merit.”

Quinn’s face is flushing. “You’re twisting this-”

“Am I?” You laugh, and it’s not a kind sound. “Then explain to me, Quinn, why you accepted that invitation.”

“What?”

“You heard Trump invite you to the White House. To the State of the Union. And what did you say? What did you and your teammates say?”

“We said yes, but-”

“You said yes.” You shake your head. “You said yes to an invitation from a man who just disrespected your girlfriend and her entire team. From a man who’s forcing the DOJ to cover up his connections to Jeffrey Epstein. From a man who’s probably a pedophile. From a man whose administration is terrorizing Minneapolis — your city now — deporting people, separating families, killing innocents. And you said yes.”

“It’s not-” Quinn stands too now, defensive. “You’re making this political-”

“It IS political!” Your voice echoes through the dining hall. You’re dimly aware that everyone is staring now, that conversations have stopped, but you can’t stop. “You think you can just stay neutral, just focus on hockey, just not rock the boat? That’s a luxury, Quinn. That’s privilege. But silence is a choice. Inaction is a choice. And you’ve made your choice.”

“I just don’t think hockey should be political-”

“Everything is political!” You’re almost shouting now. “The fact that you get to fly charter back to the States while we fly commercial is political. The fact that your minimum salary is higher than our maximum is political. The fact that you get national TV coverage and we have to fight for streaming is political. The fact that Trump felt comfortable making that joke in the first place is political. You don’t get to opt out just because it’s convenient.”

“I just think-”

“And Minneapolis!” You cut him off. “You’re living in Minneapolis now. You’re playing there. And ICE is terrorizing that city. People are being dragged from their homes. Families are being destroyed. And I posted about it. I shared resources. I donated. I used my platform to try to help. And you know what you did?”

Quinn is quiet.

“Nothing,” you answer for him. “You did nothing. You didn’t like a single post. Didn’t share a single resource. Didn’t say a single word. But you did like Matthew Tkachuk’s pro-Trump post last summer. You liked that just fine.”

“The Tkachuks are family friends-”

“I don’t care!” The tears are coming now and you don’t try to stop them. “I don’t care if they’re your family friends. I don’t care if it’s awkward. I don’t care if hockey culture tells you to stay quiet. I care that you’re willing to laugh at my team’s expense. I care that you’re willing to accept invitations from fascists. I care that you stayed silent while people in your city were being terrorized. I care that you claimed to love me but you couldn’t be bothered to support the things I care about.”

“That’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair is that I made excuses for you!” Your voice breaks. “For weeks, Quinn. Weeks. I told myself you were just being careful. That hockey culture was different for men. That you were still a good person underneath. I told myself that the Tkachuk like didn’t mean anything. That your silence on Minneapolis was just you being cautious. I made excuse after excuse because I wanted to believe you were better than this.”

“I am better than this-”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, you’re not. Because someone who was better than this wouldn’t have laughed at that joke. Wouldn’t have accepted that invitation. Wouldn’t have stayed silent while people suffered. Someone who was better than this would have defended me. Would have defended my team. Would have been proud of us publicly, not just privately when it was convenient.”

“I am proud of you-”

“Then where was that pride when Trump made us into a punchline?” You’re crying fully now, but your voice is steady. “Where was that pride when he said inviting us was just political? Where was it, Quinn?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

“You know what the worst part is?” You wipe at your face. “I really believed you loved me. I really thought that underneath all the silence and the caution and the fear of rocking the boat, you were someone who respected me. Who saw me as an equal. Who thought what I did mattered.”

“I do think-”

“But you don’t.” You’re shaking your head. “Because if you did, you never would have laughed. You never would have accepted. You would have been furious on my behalf. You would have defended me. Instead, you joined in.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care what you meant!” Your voice rises again. “I care what you did. And what you did was show me exactly who you are. Someone who values fitting in with hockey culture more than standing up for what’s right. Someone who’ll laugh at women’s hockey to be one of the boys. Someone who’ll cozy up to fascists if it means avoiding controversy.”

Quinn’s face is red now, whether from anger or shame you can’t tell. “You don’t understand the pressure-”

“The pressure?” You laugh incredulously. “The pressure? Quinn, I’m a woman in professional hockey. I’ve dealt with pressure my entire life. I’ve dealt with being paid less, respected less, covered less. I’ve dealt with people questioning whether women’s hockey should even exist. I’ve dealt with sponsors dropping me for being too outspoken, with fans telling me to shut up and play, with teammates worrying that speaking out will hurt their careers. Don’t talk to me about pressure.”

“That’s different-”

“It’s not different!” You’re almost screaming now. “It’s the exact same thing! The only difference is that I decided that doing the right thing was more important than being comfortable. And you decided the opposite.”

The dining hall is completely silent. You can see your teammates, your coaches, athletes from other countries all watching. Some of them look shocked. Some look angry. Some look like they want to applaud.

Quinn seems to realize for the first time that this is happening publicly. He lowers his voice. “Can we talk about this in private?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, because you made this public when you laughed at my team in that locker room. When you accepted that invitation. When you stayed silent about Minneapolis. You made this public, Quinn. I’m just finishing what you started.”

“I don’t-” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment you know it’s really over.

“Because it is a big deal,” you say quietly, tiredly. “That’s the point, Quinn. This is a big deal. The fact that you don’t see that — that you think I’m overreacting, that you think this is all just political correctness gone too far — that tells me everything I need to know.”

“So what are you saying?”

You look at him, really look at him. The boy you met in a coffee shop two years ago. The boy who seemed to understand the pressure, the loneliness, the weight of expectations. The boy you fell in love with.

The boy who laughed when Trump made you and your team into a joke.

“I’m saying we’re done,” you say simply. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Quinn’s face goes pale. “What? No. You can’t—we can work through this-”

“There’s nothing to work through.” You’re already gathering your tray, your phone, your gold medal. “You made your choices. You laughed, you accepted, you stayed silent. And I’m making mine. I choose to be with someone who would never do any of those things. Someone who respects me enough to stand up for me. Someone who thinks women’s hockey matters.”

“I do think-”

“Goodbye, Quinn.” You start to walk away, then turn back. “Oh, and I’m not going to the White House either. None of us are. We’re making a statement declining the invitation. So when you’re there with Trump, taking photos, pretending this is all normal, remember that. Remember that the women’s team — the team he had to invite so he wouldn’t get impeached — has more integrity than you and your entire team combined.”

You walk away before he can respond. Your teammates stand as you approach, and Kendall pulls you into a hug immediately.

“Holy shit,” Hannah breathes.

Behind you, you hear it start. A slow clap. Then another. Then another.

You turn. Athletes from other tables are applauding. Your teammates join in. Then more people. Within seconds, half the dining hall is clapping.

You see some of the women’s hockey teams from other countries standing and clapping. You see athletes from other sports. You even see some of the US figure skating team, who apparently witnessed the whole thing, nodding in approval.

Quinn is still standing at your table, looking shell-shocked and humiliated, as the applause continues.

You catch Sidney’s eye across the dining hall. He’s sitting with some of the Canadian men’s team, and he gives you a small nod. 

The applause finally dies down. You turn back to your teammates.

“Can we get out of here?” Your voice is shaking now that the adrenaline is fading.

“Absolutely,” Kendall says, already moving. “Let’s go pack.”

You leave the dining hall, your teammates surrounding you like a protective barrier. The February air hits your face, cold and clean.

Your phone is already exploding with notifications. The video of your confrontation is probably already online. By tonight, it’ll be everywhere.

You should care. You should worry about sponsors, about your image, about backlash.

But you don’t.

Because for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you feel light. Unburdened. Free.

You’re an Olympic gold medalist. You scored the goal of the decade. You just stood up to your boyfriend and hockey culture and the pressure to stay silent in front of an entire dining hall full of Olympic athletes.

And you’d do it again.

“You okay?” Kendall asks as you walk back to your room.

You think about it. Think about Quinn’s face. Think about the applause. Think about Sidney’s nod and your teammates’ support and the weight of your gold medal against your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. “Yeah, I think I am.”

***

Economy class on a transatlantic flight is miserable under the best circumstances. After breaking up with your boyfriend in front of half the Olympic Village, it’s torture.

You’re squeezed into a middle seat between Hannah and a Minnesotan curler who’s taking up more than her fair share of the armrest. Your knees are jammed against the seat in front of you. The WiFi is spotty at best. And you’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.

The NHL players are flying charter, naturally. Probably in reclining seats with actual legroom, drinking champagne, celebrating their gold medals in comfort.

You try not to think about it.

Your phone keeps buzzing despite the terrible WiFi. Notifications you’re afraid to look at. The video from breakfast has definitely made the rounds by now. You’re either a hero or a villain depending on which corner of the internet you’re in.

“You should eat something,” Hannah says, gesturing to the sad airplane sandwich on your tray table.

“Not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

“I need people to stop telling me what I need.”

Hannah holds up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

You manage to connect to the WiFi long enough to check your messages. Your agent has called four times. Your mom has sent a dozen texts of support. Your college coach wants to talk. And there are approximately eight hundred DMs from people you don’t know.

You ignore all of it and open Twitter, which is probably a mistake.

The video is everywhere. Olympic Gold Medalist Ends Relationship Over Trump Call reads one headline. Women’s Hockey Star Confronts Boyfriend in Viral Breakup says another. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — half supporting you, half calling you dramatic.

Then you see it. Posted two hours ago.

A clip from TODAY. Ellen being interviewed via satellite.

Your stomach drops.

You tap the video with shaking hands.

Ellen looks composed, professional. She’s wearing a Team USA jacket. Behind her, you can see what looks like a ski slope.

“Ellen, there’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the video that leaked from the men’s locker room after their gold medal win,” the interviewer says. “The president’s comments about the women’s team, the laughter that followed. As someone who works with both teams, what’s your response?”

Ellen smiles. It’s the smile you’ve seen a thousand times — warm, diplomatic, carefully constructed.

“Well, you know, at the end of the day, it’s just about the country,” she says.

You feel something cold settle in your chest.

“The moment that these players, both the men and women, can bring so much unity to a group and to a country,” Ellen continues. “People that cheered on that don’t watch hockey, people that have politics on one side or on the other side, and that’s all both the men’s team and the women’s team care about.”

“She did not just both-sides this,” Aerin hisses from the row behind you. She’s leaning over her seat, watching your screen.

“Shh,” you say, turning up the volume as much as you dare.

“If you could see what we see from the inside,” Ellen is saying, “and the men and women sharing, you know, dorm rooms and halls and flex floors and the camaraderie and the synergy and the way the women cheered on the men and the way the men cheered on the women — that’s what it’s all about.”

Your hands are shaking. You can feel Hannah watching you, concerned.

“And the other things they cannot control,” Ellen continues, and her voice is so earnest, so genuine. “They care about humanity. They care about unity and they care about the country.”

The video ends.

You stare at your phone screen, not breathing.

“Did she just-” Hannah starts.

“Dismiss everything,” you finish. “Yeah. Yeah, she did.”

“The other things they cannot control?” Aerin’s voice is rising. “They could have controlled not laughing. They could have controlled not accepting the invitation. What the fuck does she mean they can’t control it?”

“She means,” you say slowly, “that politics are messy and uncomfortable and it’s easier to pretend that unity and patriotism are more important than taking a stand.”

“But she works with women’s hockey!” Hannah looks genuinely baffled. “She was there when we won gold. She saw what that moment meant. How can she-”

“Because at the end of the day,” you interrupt, voice flat, “a boy mom is always going to be a boy mom. Her sons come first. Women’s hockey comes second. Actually standing up for something comes last.”

You feel sick. This is worse than Quinn’s silence. Worse than the video. Because Ellen knows better. She’s spent years in women’s hockey. She knows the struggles, the inequality, the constant fight for respect. And she just threw all of it aside to defend her sons.

“I can’t believe her,” Aerin says. “After everything-”

“I can.” You’re already scrolling, looking for reactions. The comments under the TODAY clip are brutal.

So disappointed in Ellen Hughes

Way to throw women’s hockey under the bus

“Both sides” really? One side laughed at women’s hockey and the other side won gold

This is peak white feminism

She really said “they care about humanity” while defending them going to meet Trump. I’m done.

Then another notification. A new video.

Jack Hughes. Outside a nightclub. Miami, based on the palm trees in the background.

“Oh no,” Hannah breathes, seeing your face. “What now?”

You click play.

Jack is clearly already drunk, stumbling slightly, that manic post-gold-medal energy radiating off him. Someone is asking him about the controversy.

“People are so negative out there,” Jack says, grinning that cocky grin you’ve seen a hundred times at family dinners. “And they are trying to find a reason to put people down and make something out of almost nothing.”

Almost nothing.

“I think everyone in that locker room knows how much we support them, how proud we are of them,” Jack continues.

“Then why didn’t you defend them when Trump made that joke?” Someone off-camera yells.

Jack’s grin falters for a second, then returns. “Everything is so political, we’re athletes, we’re so proud to represent the U.S. And when you get the chance to go to the White House and meet the president …” He spreads his arms wide. “That’s so patriotic.”

Someone else asks a question you can’t quite hear.

“It’s something you don’t get to do every Tuesday,” a different voice says, and your heart sinks as you realize it’s Quinn. He’s there too, just off-camera. “It’s going to be special for us.”

The video cuts off.

You’re shaking. Full-body shaking, rage and hurt and disbelief coursing through you.

“Almost nothing,” you repeat. “He said it’s almost nothing.”

“That fucking asshole,” Aerin says.

“They’re in Miami.” Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “At a nightclub. E11EVEN. That’s a strip club, isn’t it?”

“Technically a nightclub,” Hannah says carefully. “But yeah, also kind of a strip club.”

“They’re celebrating their gold medal at a strip club in Miami.” You laugh, and it sounds unhinged. “While we’re flying economy back to New York in the middle of a snow storm. And Jack thinks this is almost nothing. And Quinn thinks going to the White House for Trump is special.”

“Hey.” Hannah grabs your hand. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

“I can’t.” You’re gasping now. “I can’t breathe. They—Ellen just—and Jack said—and Quinn-”

The Minnesotan curler is looking at you with concern. Behind you, more of your teammates are leaning over seats, watching.

“What happened?” Someone asks.

“Ellen did an interview,” Aerin explains, voice tight with anger. “Basically said both sides, unity and patriotism, the men couldn’t control it, blah blah blah. And then Jack and Quinn gave quotes outside a Miami strip club calling critics negative and saying this whole thing is almost nothing and that going to Trump’s White House is patriotic.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” That’s Megan. “Almost nothing?”

“Show me,” demands Hilary. She’s thirty-six and has been fighting for women’s hockey her entire career. You pass your phone back.

The plane fills with angry whispers as your teammates watch the videos, passing your phone from row to row.

“This is gaslighting,” Hilary says when she passes your phone back. “Classic DARVO. Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender. They did something wrong, but somehow we’re the negative ones for calling it out.”

“They’re doubling down,” you say numbly. “They’re not apologizing or trying to understand. They’re just doubling down.”

“Of course they are,” Hilary says. “Because apologizing would mean admitting they were wrong. And admitting they were wrong would mean acknowledging that women’s hockey matters as much as men’s. And they can’t do that because their entire worldview is built on the assumption that it doesn’t.”

You stare at your phone. At Ellen’s careful smile. At Jack’s drunk dismissiveness. At the knowledge that Quinn is right there with him, in Miami, at a strip club, thinking this is all just political drama he can ignore.

“I need to do something,” you say.

“What?” Hannah asks.

You open Instagram. Your profile still shows your relationship with Quinn. Photos of you two together. His comments on your posts. Your comments on his. Two years of a relationship that you thought meant something.

“I’m going to unfollow them,” you say.

“Who?”

“All of them.” Your fingers are moving before you can second-guess it. “Quinn. Jack. Luke-”

You unfollow Luke Hughes. Then Jack. Then Quinn.

Then, heart pounding, you unfollow Ellen.

“Damn,” someone whispers from behind you.

You’re not done. You go to your photos. Every picture of you and Quinn. Two years of memories. His arm around you after your first professional goal. You kissing after a win. That photo from Thanksgiving with his family where Ellen is beaming at both of you.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

“Are you sure?” Hannah asks gently. “Once you delete those-”

“I’m sure.” Delete. Delete. Delete. “I don’t want any reminders. I don’t want to look back in a year and see his face and remember that I let this slide. That I made excuses. That I stayed with someone who thinks my accomplishments are almost nothing.”

The photos disappear one by one. Two years erased in minutes.

Your last post with Quinn is from the Olympics. You’re both wearing your Team USA gear, smiling at the camera. The caption reads chasing gold with my favorite person 🥇❤️

You delete it.

The next post is just you with your gold medal. That one stays.

“Holy shit,” Aerin breathes. “You really did it.”

“Yeah.” You put your phone face-down on your tray table. “Yeah, I really did.”

Your agent is going to kill you. This is going to be a whole thing. Sponsors will probably have questions. The media will have a field day.

You don’t care.

“You know what the worst part is?” You say after a moment.

“What?” Hannah asks.

“I really thought Ellen understood. She spent all that time with women’s hockey. She saw what we go through. She knew about the inequality, the lack of respect, all of it. And I thought she was on our side.”

“She was on her sons’ side,” Hilary says bluntly. “And when it came down to it, that mattered more.”

“The other things they cannot control,” you quote bitterly. “Like they had no choice but to laugh. No choice but to accept. Like they’re just helpless victims of circumstance instead of grown men who made active choices.”

“It’s always the same,” Hilary says. “Women are expected to be understanding. To not make waves. To accept the scraps we’re given and be grateful. And when we demand more, when we call out disrespect, we’re negative. We’re political. We’re making something out of nothing.”

“Except it’s not nothing,” you say fiercely. “It’s everything. It’s the difference between being respected and being tolerated. Between being valued and being an afterthought. Between partners who lift you up and partners who laugh when someone tears you down.”

“What are you going to do when we land?” Aerin asks.

“I don’t know.” You lean your head back against the seat. “Face the music, I guess. Talk to my agent. Probably do some damage control.”

“Or,” Hilary suggests, “you double down. You make a statement. You explain why you unfollowed them, why you deleted the photos. You control the narrative instead of letting them control it.”

“They’ll say I’m being dramatic.”

“They already say that,” Hilary points out. “Might as well be dramatic on your own terms.”

Your phone buzzes again. Your agent. We need to talk ASAP when you land. Ellen’s interview is making waves. So are Jack’s comments. And people noticed you unfollowed the Hughes family.

Of course they did. Hockey Twitter misses nothing.

“This is going to be a whole thing,” you say.

“Good,” Hilary says. “Let it be a whole thing. Let the world see how women athletes are treated when we dare to expect respect. Let them see how we’re gaslit and dismissed and told we’re making mountains out of molehills. Let them see all of it.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But god, you’re tired.

You’re an Olympic gold medalist, and you’re flying economy while the men fly charter. You scored the goal of the decade, and Jack Hughes thinks the fallout is “almost nothing.” You won for your country, and Ellen Hughes thinks unity with people who disrespect you is more important than demanding better.

You think about Sidney’s words. About deserving someone who would defend you, who would be proud of you publicly, who would never let anyone tear you down.

You think about Quinn in Miami, at a strip club, calling the White House invitation “special.”

You think about Ellen’s smile on that TODAY segment, carefully crafted, diplomatically worded, ultimately hollow.

You think about how you felt on that podium with gold around your neck and how no one — not Quinn, not his family, not his teammates — can take that away from you.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Okay. I’ll make a statement. I’ll explain. I’ll be dramatic on my own terms.”

“Hell yes,” Hilary says.

The plane hits turbulence, jolting everyone. The seatbelt light dings on. Around you, your teammates are muttering, reading the reactions online, getting angrier by the minute.

“You know what I hope?” Aerin says suddenly.

“What?”

“I hope Ellen sees what you did. I hope Quinn sees it. I hope they realize that you’re not some quiet girlfriend who’ll stand by while they dismiss and gaslight and minimize. I hope they realize they lost someone incredible because they couldn’t be bothered to respect her.”

“They won’t,” you say quietly. “They’ll tell themselves I overreacted. That I was too sensitive. That politics ruined a good thing. They’ll make it my fault.”

“Probably,” Hilary agrees. “But that says everything about them and nothing about you.”

“We’re going to be okay,” Hannah says, squeezing your hand. “All of us. We’re going to get through this.”

“I know,” you say.

And you do know. Because you’ve been through worse. You’ve fought for respect your entire career. You’ve dealt with inequality and dismissiveness and being told to be grateful for scraps.

This is just one more fight.

The difference is, this time, you’re not making excuses. You’re not staying quiet. You’re not protecting people who won’t protect you.

This time, you’re choosing yourself.

The plane descends toward New York. You’re exhausted, heartbroken, angry, and somehow, underneath it all, relieved.

You’re free.

And soon, the world is going to know exactly why.

→ Next Part

[400badrequest]

CHAPT ONE: Who the fuck puts espresso in lemonade? | Summer Quinn Hughes x Author!Reader

SUMMARY: Reader just wanted a peaceful getaway for the summer - rest, sun, maybe managing to write a little. Of course, they get hit on by some douchebag in fucking flip flops.

CW: N/A

WORD COUNT: 2743

A/N: AS PROMISED! if y'all enjoy this enough i'll get a second chapt up.

taglist: @destinyg237 @lunadi1una @cruel-winter-nights

You don’t really get how this counts as ‘summer’. It’s barely in the mid twenties - but the air thick with humidity catching off the lake, the sun a lone spectre in the sky. Sweat prickles on the back of your neck, as Guy, your housemates scruffy little terrier trots by your side. You scorn yourself quietly for forgetting sunnies - the glare off the swaying water dazzles you at every blink enough that there’s stars behind your eyelids at this point. Fine, maybe it is summer, you think, squinting against the glare. Maybe you should have worn something that wasn’t black.

It still feels odd to walk around Bloomington Hills, of all places. When your editor had quoted fucking Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in regards to how tight you where (which rude, no way you where tight enough to turn a lump of coal into a diamond with your arse right now) it was clear that the chances of you turning down a getaway was low. The ‘getaway’ ended up being put in a guest room in a skinny townhouse with your editors’ sister in a neighbourhood who’s monthly incomes are probably more than your first yearly salary when you where an intern, writing shitty fluff pieces for online magazines. It really did feel like wandering the streets of that fancy-ass part of whatever the town in Teen Wolf was, with it’s McMansions and sprawling secluded lawns and run clubs.

“Nope- leave it,” you mutter to Guy, tugging the leash a little so he prances away from the curious looking dried feces on the grass. Of course rich assholes didn’t pick up their dog shit, you think with disgust, and after a moment, you pick it up yourself with a little green baggie. You can’t help but curse quietly when the sleeves of the stupid sleep shirt you’re wearing slides down a little.

It wasn’t really a sleep shirt - but your editors’ sister had laughed herself nearly sick when you’d been helping her go through some boxes, pretending it was ‘spring cleaning’ instead of procrastination, and pulled out the jersey. It was a soft worn thing, that had been in plastic wrapping - she’d waved you on when you’d asked if you could unwrap it. It read HUGHES across the shoulders in a sunny yellow, 43 big and bold underneath. The collar had been a little stretched and when you’d sniffed it for mold, it had smelt faintly like old sweat and cologne, but in a ‘well worn’ way, not a foul unwashed way. There was a scribbled little signature on the 43.

“Do you want it?” She’d asked, looking up from where she was trying to fight the Christmas tree. It was a losing battle, fake pile leaves already covering her front.

“Uh… isn’t this like, expensive?” You’d asked in turn, squinting down at it. You’d never been the biggest sports person, outside of like, enjoying the Olympics for their sheer hilarity whenever they cropped up or the women’s FIFA world cup. Still, despite knowing this mystery jersey was expensive, you couldn’t help but smooth your fingers over the seam of the collar - it was so soft. The red and yellow circle with CANUCKS written across the front in a dashed font make you think idly of The Strokes.

She’d hummed. “Yeah, but the Canucks suck, and it’s my exes so… I don’t care if you kill the resale value or whatever. Go forth, cretin, wear the jersey.”

And with that, you’d worn it basically every night. It sat stupidly long, but it was deliciously breathable and perfectly soft. Normally, you wouldn’t wear it out, but neither of you had done the laundry this week so… here you where. Walking Guy, sleeves of the white shirt shoved up again, hat low against the slowly rising sun.

The itch to walk down to the water builds - it sways like the hips of a woman, loose and inviting - but you turn away, nudging a whining Guy with you. “I know, bud,” You apologise. “But you aren’t supposed to get wet today and I’m not walking back home barefoot.”

The shopping strip was a darling little thing - a sleepy halfway between over priced tourist-y boutiques and even more overpriced coffee shops filled with locals. It felt like somewhere that would pop up in your stories; a pretty shoreline, with gossipy locals and rowdy summer houses filled with families to frat boys who would pack out novelty bars for over priced cocktails with sunburn on their noses. You can’t imagine the idea of ever being able to afford a house out here. God, how the fuck does she afford it? You think for the millionth time about your editors sister.

You’re sweating a little under the brow of your hat by the time you duck into your coffee shop of choice. Thank fuck for waterside towns and their lax stance on dogs, Guy happily trotting over to the bowl on the floor filled with clean water.

“Fuckin’ robbery,” you mutter when you look at the hand written chalkboard, even though you knew the iced coffees here where pricey. You come here often enough that you know the barista’s face, and that last week her hair had a pink under cut. It’s purple today.

“Iced coffee?” She asks, when you dig out your wallet.

“Uh- no, just a dirty lemonade today, please,” you correct, handing her the cash. Espresso over house lemonade sounded like blasphemy, but anything was better than an iced long black. You shudder at the thought.

The artfully distressed bookshelf digs into your back a little when you lean up against it, phone in hand, while you wait. Guy, ever the best man in your life, lies down happily, head rested on your foot. It’s truly quiet in here, the cold A/C making the cooling sweat under the jersey dry onto your skin.

So it’s hard to ignore it when three large idiots come tumbling in with a hot breeze and loud laughter.

Great.

Quinn isn’t really paying attention to much - aside from making sure Luke doesn’t fall on his fucking face, because he didn’t see the lip of the doorway - when the jersey grabs his attention before the person actually wearing it does. Which, honestly, is embarrassing in a very specific, professional hazard way.

Red and yellow on black. The Breakaway jersey - a little warped because it’s clearly too big for the little body in it, more so with the kit that would normally live under it missing. But it’s not any Breakaway jersey; it’s absolutely the game day jersey, and not just a really well made knock off. He knows, because he can see the small rip in the stitching on the shoulder from where his sleeve had gotten yanked during a fight.

Holy shit, he can’t help but think - he knows for a fact that that thing got auctioned off for at least a few thousand dollars. The NHL store sells signed replicas for like, five hundred a piece, but there had been some charity thing; he hadn’t even attended. Someone bet like ten thousand bucks just to have lunch with Sid. He doesn’t even want to think about how much the one you’re wearing is worth.

He can’t not slow down midstep, flip flops slapping louder against the cafe’s herringbone floor. Luke bumps his shoulder from behind, trying to muscle his way around him despite there being more than enough space to just walk, goddamn it, already halfway to the counter when Jack makes a little surprised noise in the back of his throat.

“Dude,” Jack murmurs, insistent. “Is that-?”

“I saw it,” Quinn cuts him off, failing not to stare.

You’re standing with your back half-turned to the bookshelf, phone in hand, a scruffy little dog curled neatly at your boots like he’s very well trained, refusing to do more than look up at the racket. The jersey hangs off you like it’s been borrowed and never returned, sleeves swallowing your hands.

A game day shirt.

Christ. He needs to stop running in circles in his brain - he already knows what he’s supposed to do.

It’s kind of a rule for Quinn. It’s not an ego thing - gratitude thing, really. If someone’s wearing his name, his number - especially a fucking auctioned jersey - he says hi if he can. Thanks them for support, maybe sign something and take a photo where he’ll look too awkward for his own good. Hockey is weird like that; you’re a guy who skates fast and suddenly you’re someone’s wall art or the reason some kid dedicates their entire life to being like you.

He drifts a little closer without thinking about it too hard. Luke and Jack are busy ordering, Jack already flirting with the barista in a way that makes Quinn tired on her behalf. Quinn clears his throat, soft, polite, practised.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head a little, and smiling. “Uh- sorry. I just wanted to say that’s a really nice jersey.”

You look up - Quinn’s brain… just. Stops.

Not in a supermodel, drop-dead way - god knows that he sees enough of that. In a softer, more disarming one that makes him want to straighten out his shirt. Pretty eyes. A mouth that looks like it’s used to smiling honestly, even when the rest of the face is guarded. There’s a beat where they just look at him, unreadable.

“…thanks,” you draw out, flat. “I sleep in it.”

Oh.

Oh, okay.

There’s a half-second where his mind offers him an image entirely uninvited - bare legs, rumpled sheets, that jersey sliding high over a hip - and he has to physically blink it away. Reset. Professional. You can do normal human interaction, idiot, Quinn chastises himself.

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little too fast. “I mean- yeah. It, uh. Looks good. On you. The- Those ones are-”

You add, deadpan, “Good textures, and all that.”

Quinn shoots a glare at his brothers who are huddled together and poorly fighting off laughter. He can feel himself being awkward. Cameras catch it all the time, and people just chalk it up to him being bad at people, but this is what it looks like; mouth running ahead of brain, heart rate ticking up like he’s on a bad shift.

He tries again, gentler. “Are you a fan?”

This is where you should double take. Go a little flushed, wide eyed, stumble over your words, apologise. Instead, the temperature drops instantly.

You cock an eyebrow, sharp and unimpressed, irritation flashing bright and fast. “Why?” You snap. “You gonna quiz me on their players? If they’ve won a Cup? Stats?”

…what?

“What? No,” Quinn says quickly. “I didn’t mean-”

But they’re already done with him. God, he knows this tone. He’s seen it at bars, on planes, at charity events. The here we go look. The look he’s seen on pretty girls in band tees when one of his team mates try to get in a girls pants by telling them to name three songs of the band on their shirt.

Before he can fix it, try and unspool the poorly planned play, you name gets called for your drink. You grab it, leash tugging gently as the dog pops up obediently - as you pass by him, you don’t even slow down.

“Maybe just ask for a phone number next time, asshole,” you throw over your shoulder, voice bright with irritation. “You are nowhere near hot enough to be acting like that.”

The bell over the café door jingles cheerfully as if nothing just happened.

Quinn stands there, stunned, cheeks burning, staring at the space you used to occupy.

Jack recovers first. “Oh my god,” Jack wheezes, bent double, tears in his eyes. He grabs the counter in a way that makes Quinn’s face feel hotter with annoyance. “Quinn Hughes, number one defenseman, just got told he’s not hot enough.”

Luke is staring after the door, wide-eyed. “Dude.”

Quinn drags a hand down his face, mortified. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“I know,” Luke says sympathetic - Quinn would almost buy it, if Luke didn’t look like he was fighting off laughter. “You’re bad at it.”

“I’m not bad at it,” Quinn mutters, but he doesn’t believe it. “I’ve been doing this since you where still learning how to flip a puck.”

Because the thing is, you were wearing a game day jersey that probably cost more than his first car. One he remembers sweating through, remembers the exact game, the exact assist, the bruise on his cheekbone that went pink and vivid by the second period. It’s die-hard fan territory. Someone who should have recognised him instantly. And you didn’t. Didn’t recognise his face, his voice, or even his brothers. You didn’t care. You just thought he was some guy, who successfully annoyed you.

Quinn exhales slowly, something unfamiliar and electric twisting low in his chest. Embarrassment, sure - but under it, curiosity. A spark.

He glances at the door again, the sun glaring white off the sidewalk outside.

“-I’m gonna see if they’re local,” he says suddenly.

Jack blinks. “What?”

Quinn’s pulse still a little fast. “I just want to know how they got the jersey.”

Which is true.

…mostly.

And if hockey has taught him anything, it’s that the things that don’t make sense at first are usually the ones that get under your skin.

—-

Quinn waits a full ten seconds after the door shuts before he moves again.

Mostly so Jack can finish laughing. Fucker.

“I hate both of you,” Quinn mutters, but he’s fighting smiling despite himself as he turns back to the counter. The barista is watching them with bright, avid interest - the universal look of someone who lives for small-town drama. She’s cute in an effortless way; long legs, easy grin, cropped tee with the café logo. Zero recognition in her eyes. None. He could be the guy who sharpens skates for the local high school team for all she knows.

Which, honestly? Kind of refreshing. Thank fuck for anonymity, he thinks, wryly.

He steps up, sets his cup down. “Hey - sorry. Quick question.”

She leans in immediately, conspiratorial. “Oh my god, yes.”

Quinn blinks. Okay, maybe not. “-yes?”

“I saw that,” she says, stage-whispering, jerking her chin toward the door you’d disappeared through. “That was brutal!”

Quinn exhales through his nose, scrubbing a thumb along the sleeve of his shirt. Back to anonymity. “Yeah. Uh. Do you know who-?”

Her eyes light up. “I knew this was gonna be good today.”

“I just want to apologise,” Quinn insists, grimacing.

“Men,” she says fondly, like she’s talking about a skittish animal. She grins then, shark like, undeterred. “So. What’s in it for me?”

Quinn hesitates. Fuck. What the hell does he have that he can offer some barista? Does he like… give her cash? Or is that a movie thing? “I can-”

“I want his number,” she says instantly, nodding at Luke. Oh. Well, that was easy.

Luke freezes. “Me?”

She gives him a slow, appraising look. “Yeah. You. You’ve got good vibes.”

Jack makes a sound like he’s about to pass out from joy.

Luke looks at Quinn, scandalised. “You’re trading me?”

Quinn pats his shoulder. “For information. Plus, she’s pretty.”

“I am,” the barista agrees with a grin. “And I’m a good time.”

Luke sighs, dramatic. “I hope you’re happy.” He pulls out his phone and watches as she types her number in; Luke’s a little pink in the cheeks, still left footed when it comes to girls. But, she does give your name. Score.

“Do you know if they’re local?” Quinn asks.

She shrugs, popping the lid on a drink. “Hard to say. They’re kinda… quiet. Tip well. Polite. Not chatty. Like, ever. Small talk only.” She pauses, then adds, “But I’ve seen them out at a couple bars with locals. Not tourists. So… maybe?”

Quinn nods, filing it away.

“The dog is local, though,” she continues, lowering her voice again like she’s sharing state secrets. “Belongs to this chick who works up at the community centre, social programs for teens. Sam? Sarah? I dunno, but she’s super cool. If they’ve got the dog, they’re probably friends. Or house sitting. Or dating. Or-”

“O-kay,” Quinn says awkward, aiming for a smile. “That’s- yeah, thanks.”

As they step back out into the sun, Quinn scans the strip instinctively, half hoping to catch a flash of an oversized jersey disappearing around a corner.

[gmikaelson]

Angel | K.M

One shot | Halloween Special | Masterlist | WC: 3.6K

Summary: Klaus encounters a drunk angel in the quarter, taking her home

>>> Part two here

The French Quarter pulsed with Halloween energy, the narrow streets filled with revelers in costumes ranging from the predictable to the bizarre. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm glow on the cobblestones below, while jazz music spilled from open doorways, competing with the laughter and chatter of the crowd.

Klaus Mikaelson moved through this chaos with practiced ease, his expression one of detached amusement as he observed the humans around him. He hadn't bothered with a costume. What was the point when most of the monsters these people dressed as were pale imitations of creatures he'd encountered over his long life?

He paused at the corner of Bourbon Street, considering his options for the evening. He could join his siblings at Rousseau's, where Rebekah had organized some sort of Halloween gathering, or he could find more entertaining prey elsewhere.

His decision was made for him when something, or rather someone, collided with his chest, nearly toppling backward before his reflexes kicked in. His hands shot out automatically, steadying the young woman who had quite literally fallen into his arms.

"Careful, love," he advised, his accent flowing smoothly as he kept her upright. "These streets can be treacherous, especially in those heels."

The woman blinked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus. She was clearly intoxicated, swaying slightly even with his support. Her costume, some sort of golden-winged angel with a flowing white dress, was slightly disheveled, one wing bent at an awkward angle from their collision.

"Oh," she said, her voice carrying the distinctive slur of someone who'd had several drinks too many. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't see you there."

She made no immediate move to extract herself from his grip, instead tilting her head to study his face with exaggerated concentration. A small furrow appeared between her brows as she squinted up at him.

"Are you supposed to be dressed as Klaus Mikaelson?" she asked suddenly, the question so unexpected that Klaus actually blinked in surprise.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded, genuinely caught off guard—a rare occurrence for the Original hybrid.

The young woman nodded sagely, as if confirming her own suspicion.

"The vampire from the quarter," she elaborated, gesturing vaguely around them. "The Original hybrid. You've got the look down, but..." She leaned in conspiratorially, nearly losing her balance again. "I don't know, you should work on your accent more. It's not quite right."

For a moment, Klaus simply stared at her, torn between amusement and irritation. Then, despite himself, his lips curved into a smile that held genuine humor—another rarity.

"Is that so?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing his accent. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my accent?"

The woman waved her hand dismissively, oblivious to the fact that she was criticizing the very person she thought he was impersonating.

"It's too... I dunno, forced? Like you're trying too hard." She patted his chest sympathetically. "But the rest is pretty good! The necklaces are a nice touch. Very authentic."

Klaus found himself unexpectedly charmed by her brazen critique and complete lack of self-preservation instincts. Most humans in the Quarter had at least heard rumors about him—enough to give him a wide berth, especially after dark.

"Perhaps I should practice more," he suggested, playing along. "What's your name, angel?"

"Y/N," she replied, attempting a small curtsy that nearly sent her tumbling again. "And I'm not really an angel. It's just a costume."

"I gathered as much," Klaus replied dryly, steadying her once more. "Real angels are far less entertaining."

Y/N's eyes widened comically.

"You've met real angels?" she asked, clearly impressed by his commitment to the role. "Wow, you're really in character. That's dedication."

Before Klaus could respond, Y/N suddenly lurched to the side, her face paling alarmingly.

"Oh no," she mumbled, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna be—"

With vampire speed that she was too intoxicated to register, Klaus guided her to a nearby alley, just in time for her to empty the contents of her stomach against the brick wall. He grimaced but didn't leave, instead pulling her hair back from her face with unexpected gentleness.

"There, there," he murmured, his tone caught between disgust and reluctant sympathy. "Better out than in, as they say."

When she'd finished, Y/N straightened up shakily, looking mortified despite her drunken state.

"Oh god," she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I just threw up in front of Klaus Mikaelson. Or, you know, a really good cosplayer. Either way, super embarrassing."

Klaus couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, one of the most feared creatures in New Orleans, holding back a drunk woman's hair while she vomited in an alley—and she thought he was in costume.

"I think we can safely say I've seen worse in my thousand years," he assured her, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.

Y/N accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her mouth.

"Thanks," she mumbled, then added with a weak laugh, "A thousand years, huh? You don't look a day over 900."

Despite himself, Klaus found his smile widening. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him with such unguarded candor, without fear or ulterior motives.

"Where are your friends, Y/N?" he asked, glancing around the empty alley. "Surely you're not wandering the Quarter alone in this state?"

Y/N's face fell, and she leaned back against the wall, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.

"They left," she admitted, her voice small. "We had a fight. Something stupid about... I don't even remember now. But they went to another bar and I stayed behind, and then I decided I'd show them I could have fun without them, so I had a few more drinks, and..." She gestured helplessly at herself. "Here I am. Angel with vomit on her dress. Super dignified."

Klaus felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned, even if the circumstances were vastly different.

"Well, you can't stay here," he decided, taking in her disheveled appearance and unsteady stance. "Where are you staying? I'll escort you back."

Y/N looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes that made something in Klaus's chest tighten uncomfortably.

"The Hotel Monteleone," she said, then added with a hiccup, "But you don't have to. I'm sure fake Klaus Mikaelson has better things to do on Halloween than babysit a drunk girl."

Klaus offered his arm with a slight bow, his expression a mixture of amusement and something more difficult to define.

"As it happens, I find myself at loose ends this evening," he told her. "And it would be remiss of me to leave a lady in distress, especially one who's offered such helpful critique of my accent."

Y/N giggled, linking her arm through his with more force than necessary as she pushed away from the wall.

"My hero," she declared dramatically, then promptly stumbled again. "Oops. The ground is very...tilty tonight."

"Indeed it is," Klaus agreed solemnly, supporting more of her weight than she probably realized. "Perhaps we should find you some water before we continue. Sobriety is generally helpful when navigating tilty ground."

As they emerged from the alley back onto the crowded street, Klaus found himself strangely protective of the inebriated woman on his arm. It was an unusual feeling. He was far more accustomed to being the predator than the protector.

The walk back from the French Quarter was anything but direct. Y/N weaved unsteadily along the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to admire Halloween decorations or wave at passing revelers, all while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that jumped between topics with dizzying speed. It was an exercise in patience for Klaus, who found himself slowing his pace to accommodate her unsteady gait.

"You know," she announced as they turned onto a quieter residential street, her voice carrying in the night air, "I actually read about you. Or, well, the real Klaus. Not that you're not real! You're just...you know what I mean."

Klaus arched an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite himself.

"Is that so? And what exactly have you read about me—or rather, him?"

"Mmm, lots of things," Y/N nodded sagely, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk before Klaus steadied her. "He's supposed to be this super powerful hybrid. Half vampire, half werewolf. First of his kind."

She looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

"But the thing is, everyone talks about how dangerous he is. How scary. But I think..." she lowered her voice to a stage whisper that was likely audible half a block away, "I think he's probably just lonely. I mean, who wouldn't be after a thousand years? Everyone you love either dies or betrays you eventually."

Klaus's steps faltered slightly, caught off guard by her unexpected insight.

"That's...an interesting perspective," he managed, his tone carefully neutral. "Most people focus on the more violent aspects of his reputation."

"Well, yeah," Y/N waved her free hand dismissively, "but that's boring. Bad guy does bad things, news at eleven. I'm more interested in the why. No one just wakes up and decides to be the villain, you know? Something makes them that way."

She stumbled again, and Klaus tightened his grip on her arm to keep her upright.

"Careful, love," he murmured, the endearment slipping out automatically.

"See! That's good," Y/N exclaimed, brightening. "The 'love' thing. Very Klaus-like. You're getting better at this."

Klaus couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped him.

"I'm pleased to have your approval," he said dryly. "I do strive for authenticity."

Before Klaus could respond to this observation, Y/N suddenly changed course, tugging him down a side street.

"This way," she announced. "I don't actually live at the Monteleone. That's just where my friends are staying. I have an apartment over on Dauphine. It's not far."

Klaus raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be redirected.

"And you thought it wise to give a stranger, one dressed as a notorious vampire no less, your actual address?" he asked, genuinely curious about her reasoning.

Y/N waved dismissively, nearly hitting a streetlamp in the process.

"You're not a stranger anymore," she declared with drunk logic. "We've been talking for like...forever. Plus, you held my hair while I threw up. That's basically a friendship blood oath."

"A friendship blood oath," Klaus repeated, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "I suppose by that standard, we're practically family."

"Exactly!" Y/N beamed up at him, her smile bright enough that it momentarily distracted from her smudged makeup and disheveled costume."Besides, I'm an excellent judge of character. You might be dressed as the scariest vampire in New Orleans, but you're actually nice."

Something flickered in Klaus's eyes at that. A brief unreadable expression that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Am I now?" he asked softly. "You might be the first person in centuries to think so."

"It's this building," Y/N announced suddenly, gesturing to a three-story brick apartment building with a small stoop. "Second floor, apartment 2B. For 'Bee,' because I keep telling my roommate we should get a pet bee, but she says that's not a thing people do."

"A wise decision on her part," Klaus commented, helping her up the steps. "Bees generally prefer the company of other bees."

"You're smart," Y/N informed him solemnly as she fumbled in her small purse for her keys. "I like smart people. Everyone thinks I'm just a pretty face, you know? But I'm getting my master's in art history. Focusing on Renaissance portraiture. That's actually why I know about Klaus. There are rumors he was a patron of several Italian artists."

This revelation genuinely surprised Klaus. Most humans who knew of him focused solely on the supernatural aspects of his existence, not his contributions to art history.

"Is that right?" he asked, watching as she finally extracted her keys with a triumphant "Aha!"

"Mm-hmm," she confirmed, struggling to fit the key into the lock until Klaus gently took it from her hand and did it for her. "There are these paintings from the 1500s that some people think he commissioned. The brushwork is incredible. I'd love to see them someday."

Klaus turned the key, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at her words. Those paintings were currently hanging in the east wing of the Mikaelson compound, away from the prying eyes of visitors.

"Perhaps you will," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

The door swung open, and Y/N immediately kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, wobbling slightly as she stepped into the apartment.

"Home sweet home," she declared, flicking on the lights to reveal a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, living space. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and the walls were covered with art prints and photographs. "My roommate's out of town for the weekend. Visiting her boyfriend in Atlanta."

She turned back, confusion crossing her face when she realized Klaus was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against an invisible barrier that prevented him from entering.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tilting her head in puzzlement. "Aren't you coming in?"

Klaus maintained his position, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I'm waiting to be invited," he explained, his tone deliberately light. "It's only proper."

Y/N stared at him for a moment before understanding dawned on her face, followed by a delighted giggle.

"Oh my god," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Wow, you're really committing to this vampire bit, aren't you? That's dedication to the costume."

She made an exaggerated sweeping gesture toward the interior of the apartment.

"Please, come in, Mr. Mikaelson," she invited with mock formality, adding a wobbly curtsy for good measure. "My humble abode is yours to enter."

Klaus stepped across the threshold with measured steps, his eyes briefly scanning the apartment for threats out of long-established habit.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he replied, matching her formal tone with a slight bow that made her giggle again.

"You're funny," she informed him, swaying slightly where she stood. "I didn't expect Klaus Mikaelson to be funny. In the stories, he's always so serious and murdery."

"Perhaps the stories don't tell the whole truth," Klaus suggested, closing the door behind him. ""Let me get you some water," Klaus said, spotting the kitchenette and moving toward it. "You'll thank me in the morning."

Y/N waved a hand dismissively but didn't protest, instead making her way to the couch where she collapsed with a dramatic sigh.

"My wings are killing me," she complained, reaching awkwardly behind her back to try and unfasten the now-bedraggled angel wings.

Klaus returned with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table before moving to help her with the troublesome costume piece.

"Allow me," he offered, deftly unfastening the harness that held the wings in place.

"My hero," Y/N sighed, relief evident in her voice as the cumbersome accessory was removed. "Those things are way heavier than they look."

She accepted the water when Klaus handed it to her again, taking a few reluctant sips before setting it aside. When she looked up at him, her expression had shifted, a hint of something warmer in her gaze.

"You know," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch, "you're really handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look like the real thing?"

Klaus sat beside her, maintaining a respectful distance that Y/N immediately eliminated by scooting closer.

"The real thing?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.

"Klaus Mikaelson," she clarified, reaching out to touch one of his necklaces."The actual vampire. Not that anyone knows what he really looks like, I guess. But the stories all say he's hot."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Klaus's mouth.

"Do they now?" he asked, genuinely amused by this revelation. "And what other insights do these stories provide about the fearsome Original hybrid?"

Y/N's fingers moved from his necklace to trace along his jawline, her inhibitions clearly lowered by the alcohol still coursing through her system.

"They say he's dangerous," she murmured, her voice dropping to what she probably intended to be a seductive whisper. "Powerful. That he's lived for a thousand years and seen everything. Done everything."

Her hand slid to his chest, her intentions becoming increasingly obvious.

"But I bet there are still some things that would surprise him," she added with a clumsy attempt at a wink.

Klaus caught her wrist gently, stilling her wandering hand.

"Y/N," he said softly, his accent wrapping around her name in a way that made her shiver despite his rebuff, "you're in no state for the kind of surprise you're suggesting."

She pouted, the expression making her look even younger than she was.

"I'm not that drunk," she protested, the slur in her words contradicting her claim. "And you're hot, and it's Halloween, and—" She yawned suddenly, the action seemingly taking her by surprise. "And I'm...actually really tired."

Klaus chuckled, releasing her wrist to brush a strand of hair from her face.

"I believe that's my cue to help you to bed," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "To sleep," he added firmly when her expression brightened.

Y/N sighed dramatically but accepted his help, swaying slightly as she got to her feet.

"You're no fun," she complained, even as she leaned heavily against him. "But fine. Bedroom's through there."

She pointed toward a door off the main living area, and Klaus guided her toward it with gentle efficiency. The bedroom was small but neat, with a double bed covered in an array of pillows and a colorful quilt.

"I should change," Y/N mumbled, looking down at her costume with a frown. "Can't sleep in this."

Before Klaus could suggest he wait outside, she reached behind herself for the zipper of her dress, struggling with it for several seconds before looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Help?" she asked, turning to present her back to him.

Klaus hesitated briefly before stepping forward to assist, carefully lowering the zipper only as far as necessary for her to manage the rest herself.

"There you are," he said, stepping back immediately. "I'll wait outside while you change."

Y/N turned back to face him, holding the front of her dress in place with one hand while the other reached for him.

"Or you could stay," she suggested, her attempt at a sultry look somewhat undermined by another massive yawn. "Help me out of this dress properly..."

Klaus took her hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Another time, perhaps," he said smoothly. "When you're less likely to fall asleep mid-seduction."

As if to prove his point, Y/N's eyelids drooped heavily, and she swayed on her feet.

"I'm not going to fall asleep," she protested, even as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm just resting my eyes for a second."

Klaus smiled, shaking his head slightly as he backed toward the door.

"Of course," he agreed. "Just call when you're changed."

He closed the bedroom door behind him, listening with enhanced hearing as Y/N mumbled to herself while presumably attempting to change. There was a thud, likely her dropping something, followed by a soft curse, then the unmistakable sound of her collapsing onto the bed.

After a minute of silence, Klaus knocked gently on the door.

"Y/N?" he called softly. "Are you decent?"

When no response came, he eased the door open to find her sprawled across the bed, still partially in her costume but with a t-shirt haphazardly pulled over the top, fast asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and even, her earlier seduction attempt clearly forgotten.

Klaus couldn't help but laugh softly at the sight. He moved quietly into the room, carefully removing her remaining shoes and pulling the quilt over her sleeping form. He placed a glass of water and some pain relievers he found in her bathroom on the nightstand that she would undoubtedly need them in the morning.

As he straightened, his gaze caught on a sketchbook lying open on her desk. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer, examining the drawing that was visible. It was a surprisingly skilled rendition of the French Quarter at sunset, the detail impressive even to his discerning eye.

"Talented little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, glancing back at her sleeping form.

Y/N stirred slightly but didn't wake, her breathing already deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Klaus watched her for a moment longer, an unfamiliar protective instinct stirring in his chest.

He should leave now. He'd done his good deed for the decade, escorting a drunk human safely home. There was no reason to linger.

Yet something compelled him to take a piece of paper from her desk and scribble a brief note, which he left propped against the water glass he placed on her nightstand, alongside two more aspirin.

With one last look at her peaceful face, Klaus slipped silently from the room and out of the apartment, closing the door securely behind him. The night was still young, and he had his own affairs to attend to.

But as he walked away, he found himself smiling at the thought of Y/N waking tomorrow, reading his note, and realizing that perhaps her "fake Klaus Mikaelson" hadn't been so fake after all.

The note read simply:

Y/N, 

Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.

—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)

🏷️: @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife

Part 2

[honeyandhavoc]

SHADOWS WE KEEP (PT. II)

mdni, 18+, simon "ghost" riley/reader (PART I here - ao3)

the real beginning. Grace has already been with 141 a couple months. Trust is building. Routines are setting. But Ghost? Still circling. Still watching. Still remembering.

Eastern Slovakia — Perimeter Compound - GRACE "VEX" DUMAS POV

The compound was quiet. 

Too quiet.

Grace crouched behind the husk of a rusted out truck, cold seeping through her knees, sweat prickling the back of her shoulder blades. The knife in her hand was slick in her glove, black pain flaking on the hilt. She shifted her grip, just breathing, listening.

Two sets of boots. Heavy. Mercenaries, not guards. Confident. Cocky. Predictable.

Mistake.

She waited for one heartbeat, it felt too long.

Then she moved. Sliding from her cover, slicing the first man's throat before his rifle even cleared his chest. He choked, crumpled to the ground. The second spun fast, faster than most, but not fast enough. Her knee slammed into his gut; her knife punched between his ribs. A wet gasp, froth rising red with blood on his lips. He hit the ground, crawling at nothing while his lungs collapsed.

She stayed there until his last breath left him. She wiped the blade clean on his shirt, straightened and tapped her comm. "Clear."

"Copy that," Captain Price's voice came through, calm as a church bell. "Vex, regroup at the entry point. Ghost's clearing the west corridor."

She clicked her comm twice for acknowledgement. She stepped over the bodies without looking back.

Blood. Bone.

Nothing she hadn't seen before.

Nothing she hadn't done before.

Still, it stuck to the skin a little longer each time,

-------------

MISSION SAFEHOUSE - LATER - GRACE "VEX" DUMAS POV

The safehouse was quiet in the way only a team of killers could make it. Settled, exhausted, but still keyed-up enough to put a bullet through the door if the hinges groaned wrong.

Soap broke the silence first, throwing himself onto the battered sofa like it owed him rent. "Remind me never to bet against you in close quarters again, Vex."

Grace peeled her tac vest off with a grunt. "Was that even a bet? I saw your face when I volunteered to do that hallway run."

"I was supporting you with strategic pessimism."

She snorted at that, catching Gaz's grin from the kitchenette. 

Ghost sat in the far corner by the window, mask still on, arms crossed. Watching. He was always watching. He didn't speak, didn't need to.

She knew he'd seen her work - had her in his sights through his rifle scope the moment she drove her blade home on the last merc. What she didn't know was whether he approved, or thought she'd been reckless. She cracked open an energy drink that tasted like sugar and battery acid and took a swig.

"You're quiet tonight." Gaz said, perched on the edge of the table.

"Bit of a migraine, long day. All that murder." Soap arched a brow. "You get migraines?"

"You don't?"

"I figured your blood was just liquid audacity made out of caffeine and attitude"

She smirked. "That a compliment, MacTavish?"

He laughed, "...We'll call it an observation."

-------------

TWO HOURS LATER

The moonlight spilled through cracked blinds of the safehouse, cutting the tile floor into sharp slats of silver moonlight. Grace lingered by the window, letting the quiet settle into her bones. She didn't hear Ghost until he was right behind her, two steps away, silent as a shadow.

"Nice of you to speak to me," She said without turning, dry as sandpaper.

"I speak when it matters."

She huffed. "Mm. So never, then."

He was silent for a moment.

Then, "You took a risk in that hallway."

"Calculated, Ghost."

"You were alone."

"So were they" Grace countered.

Another pause. She felt the heat of his stare at the back of her shoulder.

"You enjoy it?" HIs tone was unreadable, but there was weight under it- like a test.

She turned slightly, just enough for her profile to catch the moonlight, her lips twitching into something what wasn't quite a smile. "Do you?"

He didn't answer that. 

Instead he said quietly, "You're good. Too good."

She caught that one. "You say that like it's a threat."

"I say that because it is."

That made her turn fully, leaning back against the window frame. Her arms crossed against her chest, hazel eyes catching his dark gaze.

"You afraid of me, Lieutenant?"

"No."

"Then what is it? I've been here a few months now. You barely look at me, acknowledge me. Never. You never talk unless you're lecturing me."

"I'm not here to make friends." His response was cold, clipped.

"I am not asking you to." Her voice was steady. Too steady.

That needled Ghost. Interest, irritation, and something unnamed tightening in his chest. He stepped forward once, not close enough to touch, but close enough for the air between them to change. Snap-tight, like a tripwire.

She didn't move.

"Go to bed, Vex."

"I'm not tired."

"Then close your eyes and fake it."

Her brow rose slow. "That an order?"

A beat passed then he turned away, walking out the room.

No answer.

FLASH BACK - THREE MONTHS AGO - LT SIMON "GHOST" RILEY POV

She moved like she belonged here. That was the first problem.

Most operators - especially the kind dragged out of classified files stamped with assassin, expendable, watch closely - walked into the 141 with with their backs tight and their mouths tighter. They didn't banter with Soap. Didn't argue with Laswell. Didn't lean across the ops table like they were settling into a booth at a bar.

But Grace Dumas, or Vex, which was apparently her name of whatever classified hell Price pulled her out of, she walked in like a fuse already lit. Like she knew exactly how close the room was to blowing, and didn't give a single fuck.

Ghost clocked her immediately. Didn't like it. Didn't like her. Didn't say anything. Not at first.

Their first op with her was a mess from the start, not any fault of their own. 

Intel came in late. Target shifted. Backup missed their signal. Just a shitshow, really.

But Grace?

She adapted too fast. She didn't wait for a new plan. She didn't check with the chain of command, that move in particular really irritated Ghost. She just moved.

Ghost was on overwatch, sniper sight lined on the entry, when she slid into the shadows. Silent. Fluid. A ghost without the mask. One sentry dropped without a sound. A flick of her wrist. The faint gleam of a silver blade stained red in the moonlight. 

No hesitation. No noise.

That wasn't training, not military. That was muscle memory born in darker places. 

She was out before Soap had even breached the opposite wall. Their target was alive. Barely.

At exfil, Soap clapped her on the back, grinning like she'd just won them a medal. Gaz gave a nod. Price grunted approval. Ghost just watched. Watched his team warm up to her. Felt it turn his stomach.

Back at the safehouse that same night, the start of Ghost's own routine of criticizing her began.

She was halfway out of her gear when he found her that night. Gloves off, jacket loose. A thin scratch cut across her collarbone, blood dried and flaky at the edge of her tanktop.

"Something you need, Lieutenant?" 

"You didn't wait for the call." His voice was flat, edged. 

"Didn't need to." She ran a cloth along her blade, cleaning it steady and slow.

He scoffed. "That is not how we operate."

Now she looked at him, stared at him as she said, "The mission was bleeding through the seams, Lieutenant" she snarked, "We were going to lose the target."

"You made a call without orders."

"I made the right call."

There it was again, certainty with an edge of defiance. He stepped closer, boots loud on the concrete floor. "You're new, Vex."

She looked at him like he was stupid, eyebrow raised. "I've noticed."

"You don't get to break formation because it feels right."

She smiled - sharp enough to cut, venomous. "And yet, here we are."

They both stared at each other, unblinking.

"I don't trust you." He said simply.

"You're not supposed to. Not yet."

"Then why are you acting like 141 is your team?" His gravelly voice had bite to it now, annoyance and irritation bubbling at the seams.

"Because, Ghost. I'm already bleeding for it."

That shut him up. He backed off, storming out of the room to his quarters, leaving her there.

 Later, he sat by the window, Smoke curling from a cigarette between his gloved fingers. A shadow passed down the hallway. Grace's shadow. Light steps, humming something faintly - in French maybe?

He wondered, and not for the first time, what the hell it was Price saw in her.

END FLASHBACK

https://archiveofourown.org/works/68908571/chapters/178513306

[jaesblogstuff]

Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

[dreaminguponlilypads]

SHOW-OFF.

finally blessing you all with a fic WOOOO I GRADUATE NEXT WEEK

Ghost rubbed his forehead and silently sighed, shifting his grip on the phone pressed to his ear.

For what felt like the fifth bloody time that day, Laswell was droning in his ear again, this time about their favorite obsession — you.

An assassin. A thief. A ghost of your own making.

“Known aliases, two. Real identity, unknown. Confirmed kills: fourteen, maybe more. Last seen outside Prague, then Paris, then Madrid. Every time we get close, she vanishes like smoke,” Laswell explained, like it was the first time she’d said any of this.

“Don’t you think we’re wasting our resources pursuing this one person?” Ghost muttered, voice laced with annoyance. “Even if they do damage, most of it’s private property. Hardly screams national threat.”

“She’s highly skilled,” Laswell pressed. “Untraceable. And frankly… she’s starting to show off.”

He dragged a rough hand down his face. “I know, Laswell. We’re on it. She won’t evade us forever.”

He ended the call without waiting for her response and tossed the phone onto the nightstand with a thud. You had everyone on edge.

And if they ever found out…

A soft creak behind him drew his attention.

“I hear you’re showing off, eh?”

Ghost’s voice was amused — gravel and smoke — but there was a dangerous undertone laced in it. Not angry, no. Just sharp.

You stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around you like a veil. A too-small towel clung to your damp skin, water trailing down your legs. Your hair was dripping, sticking to your shoulders, and your eyes locked with his like you’d just heard every word of the call.

You had.

“That’s rich coming from the man harboring me in his hotel room,” you said sweetly, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were into rule-breaking.”

Ghost leaned back on the bed, arms behind his head, watching you with that unreadable skull-marked mask still on, though his eyes betrayed his calm. Dark. Heated.

“I told you to lay low. Didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

“I am.” You stepped further into the room, bare feet silent against the floor. “Just happened to visit a private art gallery. Took a few souvenirs. Left through the roof.”

“You left your signature,” he pointed out. “Again.”

“Of course I did. If I didn’t, how else would you know it was me?” You smiled, catlike. “Besides. You’re the one who told them you’re on my trail. Gotta make it convincing.”

“You’re pushing it,” he said, voice low now. “Laswell’s breathing down my neck.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the drawer where one of his shirts was folded, yanking it over your head. It swallowed you whole, but that didn’t stop you from acting like you owned the place. Owned him.

“I’ve been pushing it since Prague. That didn’t stop you from kissing me in Vienna.”

Ghost said nothing. He didn’t have to. His gaze was locked on you, unmoving, but not cold. He was processing. Calculating. Wanting.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he finally murmured, sitting up. “One wrong move and I’ll have no choice but to turn you in.”

You stood in front of him now, arms crossed. “You won’t.”

“Don’t test me.”

You leaned in, your hands resting on his shoulders, wet hair brushing his jaw. “I already do. Every day. And you love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he pulled you into his lap, wet towel forgotten, shirt half-riding up your thighs. His hands were firm on your hips, his voice next to your ear.

“Tell me you didn’t kill the guy in Madrid.”

“I didn’t,” you murmured. “He tripped. And then I…encouraged gravity.”

Ghost sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t frustration.

It was something much more dangerous.

“You’re gonna get me killed.”

You smiled. “Not before I get you in deeper.”

The silence stretched between you and Ghost, the weight of what you were — the risk, the thrill — settling thick in the air.

He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve grabbed his comms and called in your location. Hell, he’d had a dozen chances since you’d slipped through the perimeter at that safe house in Istanbul. But each time, he let you go. Each time, he kept your secrets.

Now?

Now you were straddling his lap, damp and smug, wrapped in the shirt of a man tasked with hunting you down.

And Ghost — Simon — was doing nothing to stop it.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, voice rough. “Shouldn’t even be seeing you. Let alone-”

“Let alone what?” you whispered, nails lightly scratching over his shoulders through the cotton of his black tee. “Letting me in? Touching me like you don’t care who’s watching? Like I’m not the target?”

He gave a low, almost bitter laugh. “They’ll gut me when they find out.”

“They won’t.” Your breath ghosted over the edge of his jaw. “Because you won’t let them.”

His grip tightened. “You’re playing with fire, love.”

You tilted your head, lips brushing against the edge of his mask. “Then burn with me.”

For a beat, everything stopped.

Then his mask was halfway off — just enough for his mouth to claim yours, hot and punishing, like a man torn between instinct and orders. You kissed him like you had a death wish. Like you wanted to be caught, just to see if he’d betray you.

He didn’t.

His hands slid under the hem of his shirt you wore, exploring your skin like he was memorizing it in case he never got the chance again.

“I should arrest you right now,” he muttered into your mouth.

You smiled, breathless. “But you won’t.”

[freedomfangs]

Till it all spills out | Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

1.4k wc | minor blood+injury detail | summary - you’re found out as a traitor and there’s only one way that goes |

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You dare to let your tongue trace over your lips, tasting blood and feeling where a sizeable chunk is missing altogether. Courtesy of Price’s boot.

He sneers, you hear it in the way his lips curl over his teeth- a wet sound. It’s the most pathetic he’s seen you; battered and bloodied and bruised, all for good reason. His eyes survey you, from your left eye that’s almost swollen shut and the way the rest of your face bleeds into one huge wound- there would be too many to count.

You gather the spit and blood that’s pooling in your mouth with your tongue, spitting it onto the concrete floor, you watch as a splintered piece of tooth clatters to the ground too. There’s a whistle to your chest as you breathe, no doubt a fractured rib has pierced a lung- it’s the least of your worries.

Despite it all- you haven’t said a word.

Price can’t find it in himself to commend you, even for that, he hopes his team are as good if they find themselves in similar circumstances, but for your better interest he hopes you break sooner rather than later. He makes an agitated noise, you hear it rattle through his chest, you lift your eyes a fraction, enough to watch his boots come closer as he stomps back toward you.

There’s a popping sound in your jaw when his knee connects with it, sending you backwards, unable to catch yourself from the way your hands are tyre-wrapped behind your back. You try your best not to make a sound, nor to cry, it won’t change anything. Not now. Price growls your name, there’s as much disgust laced within his tone as you know you deserve.

“That even your name?” He asks, knowing you won’t answer regardless.

You lower your head, ashamed, there’s a million thoughts running through your head but you know that none of it matters- you’ll be dead by sunrise, if they’re merciful.

Price shifts on his feet but you don’t lift your eyes, you don’t want to look at him. But he’s soon curling his fingers around your throat, lifting you by the leverage he’s taken so that you’re forced to look at him, forced to meet his eyes. He leans his weight into you, adding pressure to your throat, you can’t move to alleviate it, you’re trapped. He scans your face, from the way the vessels have burst in your eyes so the whites are swallowed completely by red to the unevenness of your jaw- he’s no doubt fractured it.

“Tell me something” he spits, eyes wide, “anything” he shakes you by the neck, fingers curling tighter around your windpipe.

All you can do is stare, blindly, trying not to look at him but instead looking through him. Trying to put yourself somewhere else, doing what Price trained you to do in this situation. You’ve got to disassociate and put yourself somewhere else while your body stays behind to take the brunt of it. It isn’t a stroke of luck that Price is the one doing this, the very man who taught you how to beat this- it’ll kill you either way.

Just as you think Price is about to crush your windpipe, there’s a thunderous knock against the container door. Price isn’t deterred, not at first, but then he hears Ghost’s voice on the other side of it. He stills for a moment, maybe weighing up his options, he takes one last look at you before he’s shoving you back against the ground.

You don’t watch Price as he retreats, again you try to focus on putting your mind elsewhere, making sure you’re not here at all.

There’s the murmuring of voices, choice words thrown back and forth- then the container door is slammed closed, followed by the sound of boots as they thud toward you again. Without even having to look up- you can tell it isn’t Price.

His knees pop as he crouches, low to the ground, surveying you, he has no room for pity either. Not anymore.

Ghost doesn’t reach to touch you “look at me” it’s a low rumble, there’s venom in his voice.

You don’t want to, you don’t need him seeing you like this, but you know what he’s capable of if you refuse. Slowly, you lift your chin, trying to focus your warped vision on the face of his mask.

The two of you take a moment to look at each other, to come to terms with everything that’s happened in the last twenty four hours, both of your worlds have been turned upside down in so many ways. You watch carefully as his eyes dart across your whole body, your grazed knuckles that look like they’re out of their sockets and oozing wounds that cover your face and neck and arms. He can’t say it’s undeserved, he can’t say that Price has overstepped- it’s what you deserve after everything, honestly.

A rat; traitor, betrayer, back-stabber, double-crosser - the list goes on and on.

Ghost blames himself. He’d become so close to you, and you to him, how had he not seen the signs? The obvious telltale clues that something had been off about you from the start. It’s commendable, the lengths you’d gone to, just how long your betrayal had gone unnoticed. You were good, just not good enough to flee before your entire operation came crumbling down around you.

He can’t level with you. He can’t tell you that you’re safe or that you’ll go back to your country to rot in a prison cell- this goes so much deeper than that. The wound is endless, a never ending pit of puss and infection and blood- and you’re the soul cause of it.

You hear his jaw flex, that way he does when he grits his teeth when he’s upset. When he’s angry. You meet his eyes.

“Why me?” It’s a simple question, and yet, you thread your brows together in confusion. He sets his jaw.

“Out of everyone, why did you get close to me?” He doesn’t move, not even an inch, not by the ache of his knees or the angle of his spine, he’s his own separate force.

Your gaze falls at that, he thinks that what transpired between the two of you was part of a bigger narrative, when in reality, it had been a driving force for you to want to find another way- to stop all of this from happening. It was too late for any of that.

“It wasn’t like that” your words are slurred, by the injury to your jaw and the blood that’s still pooling in your mouth.

He laughs, a hiss of air past his teeth. “You’re already dead, there’s no need to keep lying. We know everything.” He still doesn’t move. Your eyes fall.

“If you know everything then why am I still here?” It’s a struggle to get the words out, between fractured teeth and swallowed blood.

Ghost does shift then, propping one knee down as he tilts his head, eyeing you. “Price wanted to see if you’d be honest, guess he thought too much of you” there’s a malice to his tone, a clear detachment from you that he’s trying to fabricate.

You shake your head. “People I love are going to die because of-“ he cuts you off.

“Johnny could die because of you!” he shouts it, the words bounce off of the container walls and hit you ten times harder.

You shrink back. There’s no use. It’s a never ending battle, people you love will die because of this, but if you had succeeded then people that are loved by Ghost, Gaz, Price and Johnny would have died- if not all of them too. No matter which way you look at it or which side you’re on- nobody wins.

Love doesn’t win wars, just like friendship doesn’t, only money and power and lies. Johnny might be lucky, he might not be, you hadn’t been there to watch it happen. The commotion over comms had let you know how serious it was- your life for his, it seems.

As much as you feel the ache in your chest, wanting to scream and cry and mourn everything and everyone that you love and forget everything awful and inhumane you’ve done to keep them safe- it’s redundant. A pointless waste of energy that you don’t have.

“What’s going to happen?” You lift your head, tears cutting through the blood that stains your face.

You’re met with the barrel of Simon’s gun. You’re met with mercy.

[spider-stark]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[itsoutrageouss]

pt. 1

more on the dynamic after Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley saw you cry for the first time…

Things were in fact different from now on. Not in an obvious way but you both noticed it. You had been embarrassed the next day, scared he saw you as weak for crying in his arms like that.

And now his eyes softened a little more every time he looked at you. He remembered how precious and frail you had felt in his hold. He longed for it in a way that made him practice his punching until late in the night, grunting and groaning as the dummy got the best of his strength. His knuckles were bruised, a manifestation of the foreign feelings he tried to let out in the only way he knew- violence.

You were up, snuggly sitting with a mug of tea when Simon comes in, doors swinging open. It was late. Late enough for the owls to hoot and the moon to be at its highest.

He was panting, sweat glistening on the strained muscles of his arms. He stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted you in the corner of the recreational area. You blinked at him, studying his demeanour with intrigue.

It made him shy. He got fucking shy from the way you stared so shamelessly and intensely. He hadn’t noticed it before. The way your eyes lingered on his arms. Maybe it was new thing, or maybe he hadn’t taken the time you really look before now.

“You’re up late.” You whispered, voice small in the silence. His chest heaved as he stretched his fingers, rolled his neck.

“So are you.” He countered. There was a question in both of your statements but none of you decided to answer. Maybe you were awake for the same reasons, he thought. The mere thought was enough for his legs to move towards you, the couch dipping and creaking as it took his weight. You lodt your balance where you sat with your knees tucked to your chest as the seat tilted under you, making you thud into his side, shoulder to shoulder. He snickered under his breath, grabbing you like you were a porcelain doll to help you sit upright. Your mouth dried.

“Do you think I’m weak?” You asked him then, the words bubbling your throat before you could stop them. They had simmered for a whole week now, just under your skin. He frowned, brows set deep on his face as he looked you over.

“Quite the opposite” came his gruff reply like it was obvious. It took him a second to realise what you were referring to. Seeing you cry had made him think so much more of you than before. He saw the insecurity flash in your eyes before you looked away and he tucked a finger under your chin, slowly pulling your gaze back to his.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about it, in fact” he said, confessed it like secret into the night. He tried to keep his voice steady. At least steadier than his heart. Was he sick? Was it weird for him to be so obsessed with that one moment of you… crying?

You exhaled sharply, like his words had squeezed your lungs. Gaze narrowed, head tilted, you tried to figure him out. There was nothing but honesty and a little wariness in his eyes. Had he said too much?

“Me neither.” You replied slowly. It was enough. Enough to know. A cold blow of relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He only now realised he still had a finger under your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw absentmindedly. He withdrew his hand, regretfully.

If he was sick, then so were you.

“You’re hurt” you whispered, staring down at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Your eyes snapped to his, slightly wider than before as his jaw ticked, gaze otherwise unreadable. Was it because of you? The thought made your stomach twist in.. several ways.

“It’s fine.” He insisted, brushing it off and hiding his hands in his pockets. But you were already up, disappearing somewhere. He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. This wasn’t calming down his breathing one bit.

Warm fingers gently pulled on his wrist, and you felt how heavy his hand was as you pulled it into you lap, sitting cross legged next to him. He had to focus hard to remain indifferent when his hand rested high on you’re plush thigh. His fingers flexed slightly around it, gripping it with a bit more purpose than necessary. It made you struggle to open the sanitising wipes.

He hissed as you cleaned the wounds, but the care you put into it had his heart stuttering. You looked down at his knuckles, immersed in being meticulous as you wiped the valleys of his knuckles clean. He wasn’t looking down, though. He was looking at you.

“Take this as a thank you” you said just to break the silence before you slowly lifted one hand, almost like you were holding. Fuck it made it easy for him to imagine that you actually were.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’d do it again.” I want to do it again, he should’ve said. He wanted to hold you, and be the one you curled into when you needed it. Needed him.

Carefully you wrapped his knuckles. Your hand lingered around his afterwards. It looked like you were considering something. Slowly you led his hand higher until you lowered your chin and left a barely there kiss on the white bandage. He swore he died. Such a simple gesture and he felt like a madman.

You wrapped the other one. Did the same. He felt paralysed. It seemed you had understood him quite well.

“You can.” You said then, after placing both his hands down onto his own lap, now bandaged and cleaned.

“Can what?” He asked, voice hoarse and weaker than he would’ve liked as he curled his fingers. He swore it was tingling where your lips had touched.

“Hold me. Skin to skin contact can be calming. Mutually beneficial…” you said to try and reason the action, which there was no point in because the minute you had started your sentence he had wrapped his arm around you and tucked you closely into his side, using his other hand to swing your legs over his lap. Your mumbling became nothing as you nuzzled into him. He was scorching hot and you nuzzled into it, shivering.

He had never felt this good in his life. You seemed to fit perfectly into his side, your legs anchoring him down and your head resting over his rapidly beating heart- which was vulnerable as hell to him. But he allowed it when he heard you hum in satisfaction and saw your lashes flutter, eyes closing.

Just mutually beneficial cuddling, right?

pt. 3

[lunarmothim]

shadowbound- john price x reader

warnings: canon typical violence, assassination attempts, torture, angst, hurt/comfort. price is an asshole and reader's a menace. afab reader, enemies to lovers, eventual smut. all applicable warnings are on each chapter post, will add as we go.

for the first time in your life, you made a choice for yourself- and choices have consequences.

01 - prague - the patch had been left on your doorstep two months ago, the threat clear. it was a warning, the only headstart you were going to get.

02 - soon - the truth comes out.

please like/reblog if you enjoyed! top divider by: me line divider by: @/saradika-graphics mdni banner by: @/gildui

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Assassin!Y/N, holding a detonator: I'll give you two minutes to say your goodbyes before I blow you to smithereens Ghost: Can I get a different kind of blow? Gaz: *turns and stares at him* Ghost: ...I said that out loud Soap: YOU SAID THAT OUTLOUD Price, turning to Y/N: You can skip the countdown just kill us

[theorist-fox]

Simon "I have no clue how to show what I feel so I'll fuck you silly instead (he whispers it in your ear when he thinks you're too fucked out to care)" Riley

Kyle "You don't love me? Okay, give me one night and I'll change your mind (he does. easily charms you at dinner and makes you babble his name at night)" Garrick

John "Please, I'm on my knees, hen. One taste and I'll leave ye alone (he doesn't. you don't want him to)" MacTavish

John "You don't have to think 'bout anything, I'll handle it (he does. you don't know how you've managed to live without him until now)" Price

OR;

Simon "I know you deserve better, but I can't lose you too. Tell me what you need an' I'll give it to you (but he loses you anyway, because that's a promise he couldn't keep)" Riley

Kyle "I'd drop it all for you. All of it. Just say the word, love, and I'll leave all of it behind (but it was a lie, because he swore loyalty to his captain first)" Garrick

John "As soon as I come back, 'm gonna marry ye (but he doesn't come back)" MacTavish

John "I'm sorry, but work comes first—you knew that from the very beginning (you did, but hope burned brighter, back then)" Price

[charliemwrote-cod]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could 🙃

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.

[charliemwrote-cod]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could 🙃

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.

[chasingstardustandmoonbeams]

12 fics for 12 tracks. Based on the album Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We? by The Cranberries.

1. I Still Do - Matt Murdock x reader

“Am I ready for this? Did I think I would be? Can I see the future? No I can’t see. I don’t want to leave you even though I have to. I don’t want to love you, but oh, I still do.”

2. Dreams- Peter Parker x reader

“I know I’ve felt like this before but now I’m feeling it even more because it came from you. Then I open and see the person falling here is me a different way to be

3. Sunday- Bucky Barnes x reader

“And I don't find the words to say. I love you and I couldnt find the time to say I need you It wouldn't come out right it just came out all wrong”

4. Pretty- Matt Murdock x reader

“You’re so pretty the way you are, you’re so pretty they way you are, and you have no reason to be. To be so insolent to me. Youre so pretty the way you are.”

5. Waltzing Back- Frank Castle x reader

“What they gonna do? What they gonna say? Taking you away from my life? My life, my life?”

6. Not Sorry - Peter Parker x reader

“You told me lies and I sighed and I sighed…cause you lied and I cried.”

7. Linger- John Carter x reader

“And I swore, I swore I would be true. And honey, so did you. So why were you holding her hand? Is that the way you stand? Were you lying all this time? Was it just a game to you?”

8. Wanted -Matt Murdock x reader

“Sitting in an arm chair with my head in my hands I wouldn’t have to be like this if you’d only understand. Too many misunderstandings causing such delay and if it doesn’t work like this. We’ll try another way.”

9. Still Can’t… - Loki x reader

“Still can’t recognize the way I feel nothing of what you said to me was real. And you still can’t find the strength to apologize.”

10. I Will Always - Bucky Barnes x reader

“I will always go beside you, you will always understand it.”

11. How - Cassian Andor x reader

“In your world, you’re alone in your face. You’re alone in your world…how you said you would never leave me.

12. Put Me Down - Bucky Barnes x reader

“Let me take you by the hand. Always from here to another land, oh, this land in which we live where people love and are meant to forgive.”

If you would like to be tagged in any of the fics please do so here

[kentwos-archived]

HEAVEN SENT.

Lieutenant Riley has a reputation for being mysterious. Somehow, you've managed to avoid his reportedly tempestuous demeanour for your entire career at the base infirmary; that is until he's dragged himself in one day with a wound to the thigh. Even though he's uncooperative and brutish, you come to discover that his impassiveness is just like the mask he wears and as time moves on you find yourself ambitious to take it off.

tags. [chapter specific] nurse!reader x simon 'ghost' riley. f!reader. sfw. mentions of smoking & drinking. ft. john 'soap' mactavish & original characters. wc >5k

chapter i. | heaven sent directory

CHAPTER II. CLASSIFIED

You’re finishing a work-up for a patient when you catch him glancing at you from the nurses station. 

Word spread quickly around the infirmary after the way Sergeant MacTavish was rushed in two days ago, and you see those very rumours made true by the stature of his own body. Their operation had gone badly—enough to pull them right back to base. 

Not that the lieutenant makes it very obvious, but you can’t help but notice the way his posture is too perfect and his mask is slightly askew. A general weariness weighing him down.

He’s only looking at you for a moment before he’s distracted by the nurses talking to him again, black shirt hugging every single muscle, his arms crossed over his chest like usual as he nods carefully at whatever's being said. You don’t let your gaze linger on him for too long, attentive to the soldier in front of you as you draw their blood and go through routine questioning.

Walking back down to the desk, he comes up next to you from out of nowhere, half-jumping out your skin as his mask comes into view. “Bloody hell,” you curse under a small gasp, hand over your chest as you stop in the middle of the path. “You really need to find a better way to say hello, Lieutenant Riley.”

He doesn’t give a laugh, but you see his mask move with his eyebrows and you’re convinced you’ve gotten a small smile out of him. His voice is gravelly when he says your name, titling his head towards you, “sorry.”

You continue on as you were, amused with how he follows you silently. “Can I help you, Lt.?”

“Need you to check something for me,” he says, standing a little too closely to you, something in his energy that of a guard dog. Your curiosity grows, casting a look over at him to see his usual indifferent expression as he waits patiently for you to respond. You hand over the blood and paperwork to your colleague, “I’m sure I can have someone look over it for you, whatever it is.”

It's hard to miss the way his eyes narrow, looking around the room before in a more hushed voice, “I need you. And preferably a private room with a computer.”

You’re suddenly more aware of the way your heartbeat thumps in your ears, anxiety taking over as he fails to give you any indication of what he wants from you. It’s nerve wracking in these moments, when you’re forced to remember just how serious his job really is.

You guide him past the curved desk of the nurses station, making your way into the small office at the back, kicking the doorstop away so the heavy door shuts. “Am I allowed to know what's going on here?”

His presence is heavy behind you as you take a seat at the desk in front of the monitor, “I wouldn’t botha’ asking.” You smack your lips in response, but he doesn't let the time pass. “I need to know if you’ve seen any charts that look suspicious.”

“Suspicious, sir?”

“Anything tha’s looked too realistic, or too blank. Particularly from about a year and a half ago.”

You look back at him for a moment, hoping for him to give you more to work with, but he’s ungiving and you start to make a mental checklist of anything that fits his description. The screen in front of you comes to life, the white bar filling with black dots as you type in your password.

A notification box appears as you click enter, and you can’t help but groan, a curse slipping past it. You hear him shift, stepping to get behind where you sit. “What’s wrong?”

Pulling out your phone, you swipe through your emails, “some new system’s been put in place, we need double authentication every time we log in now.” With a few more clicks you finally get through to the main system, sighing. “It’s been incredibly tedious.”

Simon grunts lowly, “‘s for everyone's safety. You’ll get used to it,” and to your surprise he leans over your side to plant a tattooed arm on the desk. Your shoulder brushes against his chest, dog tag dangling away from it as he looks at the monitor where you access the database. It’s at this angle that you see the very way his body moves with his breaths, and how the name on his shirt curves with the bulge of his pec.

Trying to ignore how hot he feels next to you, you rake through your memory, beginning to pull up files you’d thought were peculiar at the time. “Sergeant Edwards,” you begin to name, “Private Dawn, uhm—” their files flash up on the screen as you continue listing any names you can think of. All with too perfect backgrounds—or a lack of them. Something you would never have thought was especially strange until now.

“Lt.,” you say, clicking through documents, feeling how he somewhat stiffens next to you. “Your own file is somewhat lacking.”

A silence extends between you for a moment, before his voice is husky in your ear, “I wouldn’t worry about tha’.” Your body goes taught, goosebumps rising on your flesh as his words tickle behind your ear. Refusing to look back towards him, you stare holes into the computer, only for him to then go and ask, “‘ave you been studying my file?”

It's your turn to freeze under his questioning. Now as he brings it up you can’t help but recognise the way that you have been paying special attention to his file—you had wanted someone reliable to help you get the opportunity to advance, and he’d been suitable. And then two visits with him at the infirmary had you reading carefully at his chart, finding out more about him than anyone else. 

Your lips roll, turning to look up at him for a moment, “we’ve run into each other a few times, have we not?” It’s a deflection really, trying to disguise any feelings from him as he hums. 

“We ‘ave,” he muses, his own stare attentive at the lines on the glowing screen, “and I’m sure you kno’ by now, the less questions the better.” The leather of the chair squeaks as his fingers grip tighter, forearms flexed as he shifts closer.

You’re lost on a response, attention escaping as you find yourself glancing at him for just a moment too long. There’s only so much you can get from him, but you can only hope that with this favour he might repay you one—a wishful thought. There’s something about the lieutenant that tells you he’d be willing. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologise, feeling your memory coming to a halt, “if I had more time I could think of others.” Ghost looks back at you from where he hovers, keeping himself steady with his other hand planted firmly in the back of your seat. There’s a concerned energy radiating from his gaze which you barely notice, and you see how he flicks between you and the screen.

Then he’s removing himself from your circle, reaching forward for a pen and post-it note, scribbling hastily. He sticks it to the bottom of the monitor, and you see the messy scrawl of his email, the numbers and letters slanted and blurring together. 

“Send those to that,” he commands, pointing towards the screen with his tone holding just enough of a level of authority to make you slightly anxious. “If ya think of any more, send them as well.”

“Of course,” you provide, watching him return to full height. There’s a restlessness hidden beneath his skin, fingers tapping against the side of his leg as he mulls over the information you’ve given him. Something’s changed after this mission he went on, not only for him but for everyone. A danger of some kind lurking beneath the surface of everything, one that you’re sure even he and whatever authority above him isn’t sure about.

“Sir,” you begin, capturing his attention before he can leave. “We’re going to be okay, right?”

The contours of his eyes shift—once, twice as he considers the answer. He won’t give you the full truth.  You know that whatever's going on is most likely classified to extreme extents, and even him asking for your assistance is a risk. But you somehow know he won’t give you false hope or despair. 

“Things will sort themselves out,” he grunts, holding your gaze, his arms fold over his chest once more, boots planted firmly in the ground. “Not your business to worry about this stuff. ‘S what I get paid for.”

“Right,” you laugh, and this strange proximity between you two has you thinking back to that check-up. Careful chuckles and practised glances shared with one another. A shyness you hadn’t expected was revealed by him, and despite your own ambitions, something pulls at you to try and coax it out of him again. That’s for another time though. You were right in your judgements, and now you hope you can be right about asking him for a favour too. 

He turns to open the door, and you almost lose your opportunity. “Lieutenant Riley.”

His body faces you once more, and every muscle in his face and limbs says he just wants to go. But you’re still determined, “I need a favour.”

It only takes a few steps for him to come back into the room, “what’d you need?”

The pub is far too hot for your liking when you step through the door. Heat blasts over you, jacket still wrapped tightly over your shoulders to escape the late winter that's sweeping through the country. Katie’s in front of you, scanning over the packed tables and groups of people before seeing a friend. 

You hadn’t intended to tag along with her tonight. Having done enough overtime to supply for a week's worth of shifts, exhaustion hit you hard and you were just about ready to sleep for the next fifteen hours if you could manage. But as always she had convinced you, and now you tripped over your own feet as she hurriedly dragged you through the crowded bar.

“Scott!” She says loudly over the chatter, holding your hand tightly as she passes through a group of Privates and finally gets to the bar where he stands. They hug, laughing and whispering something in each other’s ears. 

Your smile is bright as you shrug off your coat, and Scott whistles lowly. “My, my,” he waves, “I wasn’t aware you were still alive!”

A laugh bubbles, and you smirk before pulling him into your arms, patting each other on the back. “Trust me, I’m not quite sure myself,” you joke, feeling that ache in your bones as he assesses your face.

“You look like shit.”

“I know,” you sigh, looking towards Katie, “you can blame her.” Disbelief flashes across her as she turns from the bar mid-order, scoffing at the way you and Scott snicker. A cool glass bottle is pressed against your chest the next moment, a scowl embedded on Katie’s face. “You’re lucky you have me,” she bickers, swirling her own bottle, “otherwise you would take more shifts and continue to rot in that damn infirmary.”

There’s an exchange of glances between the three of you, both concerned and amused, and like on command you all take a swig of your drinks. It’s vile, but it’s cool against your throat, eyes shut as you take hefty gulps—almost as if enough of it could wash away the exhaustion.

Removing the bottle from your lips, your head tilts over Katie’s shoulder and in the corner, surrounded by others you see him. Looming. Hulky. Practically brooding in the corner as you see Sergeant MacTavish and another eccentric personality jestering at the table.

He’s got his more relaxed balaclava tugged on, sepia eyes drawn forward against the exposed pale skin. Even through the fabric you can see the way his brows are drawn together, almost as if trying to hold back a laugh at what’s going on before him. To a stranger, it would appear to be an expression of annoyance. 

A hand on your shoulder startles you, turning your attention back to Scott. There’s a telling smirk on his lips, verging on teasing. “I’ve heard that he’s put in a good word for you with Matron,” he probes, trying to catch you out.

You’ve thankfully worked with him for long enough to know this by now. “He owed me a favour,” shaking your head, “nothing more.” And although you know you’re right by professional terms, something has been looming in the back of your mind. You’ve felt some kind of strange longing to see him more, maybe even try to get to know him a little better for no benefit other than selfish want. 

He’s not much like you at all, but that’s the appeal. Everyone and their mother on base has or has had some kind of crush on the Lieutenant, the mystery around him adding to the desire. They want to be the one to see his secrets. To see what he’s really like—both mentally and physically. To see why he wears that same skull painted balaclava every day.

For the longest time you hadn’t considered yourself to be a part of those obvious sentiments. How is it that only after a sparse few professional yet intimate encounters with him, you've potentially gotten yourself in that very same web of feelings?

Your eyes dart to look over Katie’s shoulder again, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It’s quick, barely even a glance, but his eyes catch yours—almost heated—and you quickly turn back. Anything to get away from this strange fluttering in your chest.

Scott raises his eyebrow as your face grows hot, “did you suck his dick?”

“What? No! Ew!” You refuse, repulsed by the vulgarity. They both break out into cackles at your embarrassment. “Do you both think so lowly of me?”

“What are we supposed to think when you say he owed you a favour?” Katie laughs between breaths, huddled closely to you. You press your beer to your lips again, drinking as much as you can without shuddering. 

“You’re both nasty,” you scowl, rolling your lips together to catch any liquid on your lips. “Even if I wanted to tell you, I can’t. ‘Tis classified.” You jest, watching as they both eye you up and down.

Scott chuckles into his beer, “sounds a lot like sucking dick to me.” Katie’s happily entertained, growing bubbly as she orders her second drink all too soon. You’re tempted to look back to Ghost again, to see if he’s noticed it’s you.

About to give into the temptation, you sense a hot plane of muscles at your back, practically looming over you. Nerves shoot through you, afraid to turn around and see if it really is him behind you until you hear a thick accent above your ear, saying something indecipherable. 

Without a chance to even turn around, a warm, large palm places itself at your lower back, and you choke on your breath at the audacity, observing how Scott’s eyebrows raise in shock. The surprise quickly fades, and you’re preparing to turn yourself around and fight when you see a distinct mohawk come into view, as none other than Sergeant MacTavish steps to your side.

“Evenin’ ladies, and gent,” he smiles, exchanging looks between you and Scott’s dumbfounded expressions quickly before eyeing up Katie. His eyes glow with how they train on her swaying hips as she waits for her drink, elbows resting on the bar in front of her. You can’t blame him, but his lack of manners has you stuttering for some kind of rebuttal. 

“Look,” he begins, a certain guilt in his expression, “‘m not usually this crude but,” and he focuses his attention on you, throwing it over his shoulder for a moment pointedly to where you had just been staring before his arrival. “I got a theory I need’a test, and this is the best way ta’do it.”

Your eyebrows pinch together as you continue to glare up at him, “does it happen to involve me punching you by any chance? You know, it’s not polite to touch a lady without knowing her.”

“I kno’,” he sighs, “but then he would kno’ I’m up to no good.”

You side-eye him before trying to garner some kind of reaction from Scott who just stares at you blankly, invested in this unfolding secrecy until someones pulling him away. That pestering itch to look back towards the Lieutenant comes in full swing again, but this time you give into it, trying to be discreet as you turn to look over your shoulder towards his corner.

He’s talking to a bearded man, more expressive than before, somewhat more relaxed. 

“Oi,” the Sergeant calls, noticing the way you stare for slightly too long. His poor manners really are giving you a headache. “What?” You snipe back, growing slightly frustrated.

“If ya keep lookin’ at him like that he’s gonna find out,” he hushes, but you circle a hand in front of you, urging him to elaborate. He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, a small laugh still slipping past as he eyes you down, supposedly mulling over what to say next. “You want his attention?”

That question has every comeback dying on your tongue, catching you by surprise as he just grins down at you like you’ve been served a pig on a silver platter. You’ve always adhered to your own morals and code, promising to abide by regulations and avoid relationships between colleagues. Especially him. Every feeling that you’ve even considered beyond professionalism has you confused, because wanting to see more of his exposed and scarred skin is not normal. Nor is wanting to know each story behind them. Nor is the desire to maybe even make him a friend.

You don’t nod or reply, but there’s a cunningness in your gaze when you look back up at the Sergeant, and he looks incredibly smug. “If y’ don’t mind,” he whispers, and you feel the light hand at your back grow heavier, moving around so his fingers dip at your waist. It almost feels wrong, like you’re betraying just another one of your own morals to play some silly game against the Lieutenant.

But you’re also thrilled by it, heart pounding a little louder in your ears as he holds you close to him. You let yourself give in, because you know deep down, that Soap only has eyes for one person right now.

He keeps looking back at Katie as she talks to someone else at the counter, animated and so alive, like with everything she does.

“So,” you interrupt his staring, trying to play a little more into his plan, “I think some introductions are in order, no?”

He scoffs above you, teeth shining under the amber lights. “I’m sure you’ve read my file plenty’o times, probably kno’ more about me than I do m’self.” Easily coaxing a laugh out of you, relaxing under his touch.

“That’s very true,” you smirk, “but there’s only so much words on a page can tell me. Lieutenant Riley’s records make it seem like he’s still twenty-three.” You joke, unexpecting when a deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, startling a few other people around you. It’s contagious, the way his lips pull up to his ears as he titters at your statement, and you can’t help but join him. “Aye,” he huffs, his cheeks redder, “the Lt. will fool you like tha’.”

It’s so easy to fall into conversation with Johnny. He’s the complete opposite of the Lieutenant—quick-witted and aberrant. You don’t need to think twice about why Katie has developed a huge crush on the man, he’s a charmer through and through.

The minutes tick by swiftly and Johnny’s hand never strays from your waist. It almost becomes a comfort, but you start to feel a particular energy at your back which fails to stray too. A stare. Hot and intense as you laugh at the mohawk’s jokes, sipping at your beers and agreeing that it does in fact taste like ass.

“Ar-se,” you mock, hand on his bicep to keep yourself steady as you trip a little over your own feet.

“Oi! Tha’s offensive,” he snarls, pointing a finger at you. He lets his hand from your waist drop, standing chest to chest. “I’ll hav’ you know—” he trails off, but with the change in positions you can see the Lieutenant’s dark amber eyes over Johnny’s shoulder, heavily focused and directed at you.

“Johnny?” you interrupt, before he can go on another tangent about his Scottish ancestry.

“Aye, lass,” he responds, following your turned attention to his boss. You both share a glance with each other, and satisfaction plays across every line of his face. Like he’s just won some kind of war. The corner of his lip tugs upwards, “I gotta know,” he starts, “what hav’ you done to ‘im?”

You’re ready to jab something playful, but it’s then and there that you realise that Ghost’s the one who has actually done something to you. All this mockery and playing games against the Lieutenant is a fruitless, pointless thing. He’s only looking over because he’s got a duty to keep Johnny inline, with the way he approaches women so directly. A tap on a window. A burning stare pointed not at you, but at the Sergeant.

Your cheeks pinch at the thought of how foolish you had been to believe that even for a moment, someone like him could want to hold his eyes over you. There’s resignation in your sigh, tipping back the last of your beer. “Johnny,” and you can’t hide the sudden defeat in your tone, “You’ve–we’ve got it all wrong. It’s not me he’s after.”

He turns his head in his confusion.

“He’s trying to keep a leash on you,” you explain through a guffaw, stepping back to give yourself some distance from him. Johnny denies it all wholeheartedly, coming up with good excuses, but you’re quick to laugh off the whole affair. “This was fun,” you reassure, and perfectly on cue, Katie reappears, “but I think she’s much more interested.”

“What?” she asks, almost bouncing on her feet, a dreamy look in her eyes. You almost envy her with how easily she’s able to let go and just enjoy what’s in front of her. “He’s all yours,” you smile at her, “I’m gonna head home.”

“But! What?! We didn’t even get to do shots!” She sulks, her slimmer hand resting on your arm. “What happened?” Turning to Johnny, she pokes a finger at his chest, “What did you do to her?”

“I did nothin’!” He raises his hands in the air, but he’s still smiling down at her—practically smitten. Katie eyes him carefully, still concerned. “I’m fine,” you insist, and it is true really. You’ve got bigger things in the world to deal with than some boss and a tingly feeling about him you can’t shake. “I’ve worked graveyards this week, you know how it takes me out.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs quietly. “Well take care of yourself and get home safe. We’ll catch some more drinks another time, ay?” You lean in to give her a swift kiss on the cheek, warmed by her affection as she reciprocates. “Of course,” letting her hand drop from your arm, “goodnight Katie, Johnny.”

Everything becomes a warm blur as you slip your coat back on, darting through the still lively and drunken crowds in the pub. The wind is soft but cool and biting when you step out, cheeks immediately reddened in the dark of the night, and even though you’re alone, there’s a subtle comfort in your solitude. 

Walking away from the front where more patrons curl into the warmth of cigarettes and heaters, you’re about to reconnect with the main path back down to base when you spot a familiar yet uncomforting figure hidden in the shadows, away from the streetlights. The faint amber flecks of the cigarette it cradles does little to reveal anything, but then he’s stepping into the light, and even before you see his balaclava, you see that unique and defining scar, extending the line of his mouth.

“Lieutenant,” you hum from a distance which he easily closes, coming to match your slowed walk. He smells strongly of tobacco and a certain musk that clings to all the men on base. “I thought you were busy babysitting your Sergeants?”

You don’t expect him to laugh, but it is an accomplishment when he does quietly scoff. “I think grown men can take care of themselves,” pausing to take a long drag of his cigarette, “I got other things on my mind than who Johnny’s gonna sleep with tonight.”

“And what might that be?” You reply quickly, and you turn your attention back to the path in front of you, digging your hands deeper into your pockets to try to mitigate the cold. To try to hide away that curiosity that you know he hates.

“I was wonderin’ how things were going f’ya,” he says though, his voice hoarser than usual, “with the Matron. Did that favour do you good?” You look back up to him, his gaze from the sky coming down to meet your eyes. 

He looks different somehow. Like whatever happened out there and has been going on around the base in these last few weeks has shifted something in his energy. You’re sure, though, that whatevers really got him like this, will be for only him to ever know. “It was just what I needed, thank you,” nodding earnestly as he stubs out the butt with his shoe. “If things keep going this way, I might actually have a good chance at making it.”

“Tha’s good,” he hums, turning to look back up at the sky. One of the few benefits of being so far from the city is being able to watch the stars emerge from the light and into the darkness. Strung together in patterns, guiding people home. No matter how many times you, or anyone else sees it, it’s still a wonder.

Too easily you catch yourself wondering what Ghost is missing—what path home he’s searching for in those invisible lines. 

The quiet of the night fills the space between you, stretching comfortably as you make your way to the main gate. It’s unhurried, and even though a stride of his is three of yours, he slows his pace down so he’s walking right next to you. Your elbows brush occasionally, coats rustling as the cold tries to cling to you.

You’re right by the checkpoint booth when you turn to face him, his balaclava tucked snuggly back down his face and under his jacket. “Thanks for walking me,” you smile, fiddling with your ID card in your pocket. He seems content enough that you don’t shy away from admitting, “you’re nice company.”

You watch the black and white fabric tug around his mouth—a smirk—before he’s looking down at his feet and back up to you. “You’re not too bad y’self,” he copies, and this time he holds your gaze, a warmth stirring inside both his eyes and you.

It’s too late and frankly you’re too tired to keep questioning your feelings with him, so you don’t let yourself drag it out much longer. “Goodnight Lieutenant,” and you’re fishing your card out your pocket, approaching the booth.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—what you least expected to hear, you almost convince yourself you’re dreaming. “‘S Simon to you, yeah?”

You can’t hide the grin on your face when you spin yourself back around, “I thought it was either Lt. or Ghost?”

“I’m Ghost here ‘cause soldiers like Johnny don’t kno’ when to keep their mouths shut.”

“And what makes you so sure I will?” It’s a tease really, trying to push his limits like you had done so earlier with the Sergeant. There’s a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind that tells you mohawk might’ve been right.

“Hope,” he says, as if it’s so casual to rely on something so fickle. “Let me walk you back to your block.”

You bite your lip, laughing subtly at his directness, shaking your head in refusal. This whole evening has your head spinning. Patting his shoulder, you watch his eyebrows pinch with confusion. “Goodnight, Simon.” 

And you circle away, trying to pretend your affections aren’t growing.

taglist. @logansblackgf @daikongirlie @serialkillerattracterhopefully @haven-1307 @surenotsorry @myspaceisra @pa-co @bambikisses66 @xxkay15xx @korraofthereef @mikiyamarie @satxoru @viscade @clearwater-hoe @mareiasereia @cursedforlife666 @makrenee @oliyiviarodriguez @mydickishuge560 @webmvie @thenonweeknd @purplegamer99 @lillyrob @kiyoce @ignoremyworld @romanceloverrrr @marrymesev @pinkwigonmytv @nicksolemnlyswears @melllzz @leninsbabygirl69420 @kittenslovie @maviesamour @deliciouslydisturbed365 @madnesstaking0ver @theyoungeagle @stickysweetie @slut-for-fictional-men @angeldemure @midnightprocrastinator @voiceactivated @direisindanger @spencerreidisbae123 @the-palelady @eternallyvenus @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @britishvamps @nerd-without-a-cause @dinoanelii @tiny-marie @goldustwomun @adversedlee @logansblackgf @elliesweetheart

a/n. hello, hello again! thank you so much for sticking around and reading the second chapter of heaven sent! it's important that you know that updates will be slow for this series, but i'm still working on it behind the scenes and i love hearing about what you guys have to say about them! drop it in my inbox, it's usually open!! and i am officially closing the taglist, as it's gotten a little out of hand! thanks again, take care!

heaven sent directory | masterlist

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Object of Desire (1/3)

Price x female!reader

Self-indulgent hurt/comfort three-part story soaked in angst leading to one of the longest smut scenes I've written in my long-ass life.

Fic warnings: Smut, Alcohol use, major depression, anxiety, self-harm, potential body dysmorphia, non-consentual drug use, attempted kidnapping/assault, brief violence, mention of hospital

Chapter warnings: Alcohol use, major depression, anxiety, self-harm, potential body dysmorphia, non-consentual drug use, attempted kidnapping/assault, brief violence, mention of hospital

This isn’t your speed.

The bar rides the line between dive and club, lacking a DJ, good lights, or a decent sound system. But it’s loud in a way that drowns out conversation and inhibitions. The cheap speakers hooked up to the foggy-glassed juke box crackle on the high notes and buzz on the low. The floor is so sticky you just want to go outside and jump in some dingy puddles to get your shoes clean.

The little half booth you’ve commandeered isn’t much better, but this is as close as you’ll get to hiding behind a door tonight, so you balance your notebook against the edge of the table and pray the cover isn’t smeared with last week’s margaritas.  

On a better night, this could be an adventure. A chance to crack through more of the to-do’s on your therapy list. But it isn’t a good night. You’re tired, possibly hormonal, and Elaine is too drunk and happy to notice as you tumble around the opening wheel of a spiral.

You’re miserable, and acknowledging that just makes it worse, because you objectively shouldn’t be. Nothing bad has happened. Nothing good, either, but it’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

Your eyes go misty, and you clench your jaw. You’re wearing too much makeup to cry without everyone knowing how fucking pathetic you are. Literally crying in the club.

A patch of chipped paint on the wall gives you an outlet, and you press your knuckle to the rough surface, rubbing the thin skin back and forth like you’re trying to start a fire. When it starts to hurt, you press harder. It’s a mission, a punishment, and something you can control all in one fell swoop.

You’ll pay for being a shitty waste of space and then you can move on because you’ve paid your pound of flesh.

When your knuckle’s gone numb and a dark crescent shows your effort on the wall, you take a deep breath and chase the endorphins of your contrived penance. It doesn’t make everything better. There are too many reminders of reality tonight, but it helps level you out, and you pluck your wandering thoughts like flowers in a field, tying them up and dropping them on the page.

Every writer should carry a notebook. Thoughts are fleeting, and impressions fade fast. You swallow your angst and slowly explore the physical scene through words. You notice how little bass the music has. It’s the one part of loud music that makes you smile, and you miss it. You like when something as intangible as music physically rattles in your body, dances in ripples over your drink.

Well. Even if there were a bass, it wouldn’t go all t-rex on you, because the cup is empty. As the night’s designated adult, you had one cocktail before switching to Diet Coke. The caffeine might be making your anxiety worse, but it’s also helping you stay awake while Elaine dances like a woman determined to watch the sunrise.

You’re overdue a refill, but the bar has a massive mirror behind the bottles, and you just don’t have the spoons. One fucked up knuckle will make typing tomorrow hard enough, and you don’t need to grease the wheels on your rollercoaster of ennui.

Notes grow like vines, awkward in the dim lighting but legible, following your ideas and questions as you study the space. One couple keeps grinding in the dimmest corner of the room – more and more aggressively – like no one will notice. You wonder how far they’ll go before the bar’s one bouncer sends them away to find a room. A few people sit at the bar, chatting with the bartender as he pours drinks, and you’d be willing to bet they’re the regulars.

One of them already tried to make friends after dancing with Elaine. He failed to make it sound like he wasn’t trying to buy your silence with a drink so he could “give her a ride home.” The first creep of the night. You should keep a running tally and demand emotional compensation when Elaine’s sobers up, but that’s not what friends do.

She bounces back from the patch of bare concrete – sorry, dance floor – and plucks up the shot of Jameson you’ve been guarding for her. Neither of you really like to shoot your drinks, and she enjoys a breather, sipping as you lean back and watch the heaving mass of dancers flash purple and green under cheap party lights.

“You should dance with me,” she says.

It’s so genuine it hurts, and you shake your head, burying your shit deep so the rot doesn’t infect her mood. She deserves to be happy, and she doesn’t always get to be.

Next time you go out, you get to choose, and you’ll pick some obnoxiously kitsch “Irish” tavern and continue your long tradition of judging every Irish coffee in town while sharing irreverent takes on your favorite shows.

“My knee’s bothering me.” It isn’t a lie, so you don’t feel bad.

Elaine pouts on your behalf. “Stupid knee.”

You nod. “Stupid knee.”

She leans over to give you a drunken squeeze, stuffing her face in your shoulder and squeezing you almost to the point of pain. When she pulls back, she’s smiling again, and she gestures to your notebook. “You working on the story?”

“Just taking notes.”

“Well, if you change your mind about dancing, you know where to find me, okay?”

“Okay. Have fun, and be careful, alright?”

“Yup!”

And she’s off again.

It’s only when she’s back among the throng you realize you could’ve asked her to refill your drink.

Too late. Oh well. Back to the notebook.

About fifteen minutes later, four men walk into the bar. They hesitate just past the door, leaning in to grumble-shout at each other, waving at the “dance floor” and general chaos. But it must be slim pickings this time of night, because they eventually surrender and clear the welcome mat. Two split off to claim a recently emptied corner table while the others beeline for drinks.

They’re very interesting to look at. Clearly not part of the party crowd, they wear heavy jackets and henleys. Work boots stomp over the sticky floors. Only one looks normal by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen. His buddy, who accompanies him to the bar, has a buzzcut mohawk. The two across the room claim the shadows far better than the grinding couple managed. One wears a skull print balaclava, and the last has mutton chops, like he’s an off-duty constable stopping for a pint before returning to his hunt for Jack the Ripper.

His eyes flick your way, and you drop your gaze where it belongs. On the page.

You hate when people stare at you. Time to remember your manners and return the favor. The men clearly want privacy, and you have your hands full with Drunk Elaine, anyway. She’s her own beast, and you have the trip home and an extended rehydration session to look forward to.

As if summoned, Elaine comes back, panting and out of breath. She collapses next to you, giggling and fanning herself, and opportunity knocks.

“Stay here,” you shout in her ear over the ambitiously club-like screech of music. “I’ll get us some water.”

She instantly agrees and thanks you as you stretch your legs for the first time in an hour. You’re feeling a little more charitable about everyone and everything as you approach the bar, but you’re careful not to glance up from the black laminate as you ask for two waters and another Diet Coke. The bartender judges you with his eyes through every step of grabbing three glasses, filling two with tap water, and filling the third with his little soda hose.

He hasn’t put ice in any.

You’ll leave a good tip when you close out the tab, anyway. Just to make him feel like the dick he is.

Carefully holding all three drinks, you work your way back to the table, dodging a forest of elbows and unbalanced heels. You aren’t graceful, but you’re better at getting out of the way than Elaine is, and you get all three glasses back to the half booth without spilling a drop.

Elaine takes two sips and starts swaying to the beat of the newest song. She’ll dance her way right out of her seat in a minute, and you tap her arm, indicating her water.

“Drink the whole thing.”

“But it’s warm!”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Drunk Elaine is bombastic and far too excitable, but she also knows when to listen to you. Even though she rolls her eyes like a teenager, she obediently chugs down the whole glass.

You pat her shoulder. “Good job.”

“Back soon!” And the pit stop is over. She speeds back to being the life of the party.

People drift into her sphere like moths following a light as you watch, letting a sip of soda slowly go bubble itself flat on your tongue. She’s one of those magical, annoying assholes who has no idea how attractive she is. From interpersonal skills to looks, she’s just astonishingly great to talk to, look at, dance with.

It’s exhausting.

But you love her.

And when she isn’t accidentally becoming a dozen strangers’ muse, she screams over horror movies while you cackle and talks about life on her apartment balcony until the sky warms.

This is all a you problem.

But you have your coping mechanisms, and you’ve already spilled blood for the night’s failures.

Inside the notebook, you find your balance. The paper grows around your mind like a garden wall. A healthy(ish) boundary between you and the rest of the world. Besides glancing up once or twice per song to check on your friend, you let the notes spin out into questions. Into ideas. Some have twisted edges that fit your developing narrative, and you brainstorm how they may fit into the plot, hunting for a character who might grow such angled barbs.

The men are barely more than an item on a bullet list of people you’ve seen – shapes that may never grow into stories – and you’ve filled several more pages before you look up and see mohawk dancing close with Elaine.

The bright edge around your thoughts snuffs out, and your belly turns hard as you watch. They’re chatting. Enjoying each other’s company. Mohawk is athletic and conventionally attractive in a way that doesn’t scream Ken doll. He’s confident.

He’s going to be your next problem.

You pretend not to notice as Elaine points you out, as he smiles and she laughs at something he says. You straight-up ignore him as he approaches the table blockading your squeaky vinyl haven from this kind of drama.

But then he sits in a free chair across from you, clears his throat, and shoves an open hand waiting for a shake into your line of sight.

“Hey!” And he’s Scottish. That makes it worse. It’s a fucking charming accent. You’d listen to endless YouTube videos of that voice, and it’s annoying how your brain tries to stuff him into a friend-shaped mold despite the reality of your situation. “Met your friend over there. Name’s Johnny.”

You don’t want to do this again. You’re tired of playing Cerberus. But duty calls, and maybe you can nip this bud.

Heaving a very obvious sigh, you set aside your notebook – still leery of sticky spots – and limply shake the waiting hand by its fingertips.

“She’s engaged.”

He blinks. “What?”

Jerking your head towards Elaine, you clarify, “She’s gorgeous, she’s fun, and she giggles a lot. That doesn’t mean shit. She’s engaged. And drunk. She’s not going home with you.”

He blinks some more, dark eyelashes all a-flutter. Then he sits back and laughs.

“Ah, no, bonnie. ‘M sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”

You don’t relax. If anything, you get stiffer as you wait for the other shoe to drop. At least when someone’s trying to be a creep you know how to deal. This is something else. This is worse.

His attention’s fixed on you, and you know what people see, no matter how much you coach yourself to ignore it. Where Elaine is one of Tolkien’s elves come to life, you’re a background extra in Bree who’s always a little out of focus because no one paid a ticket to see them.

Because you’ll never be naturally elegant, you’ve worked hard on your aesthetic. Every brush of makeup, fold of cloth, and glinting accessory is an attempt to turn yourself inside out. If friends like Elaine can love who you are inside, maybe you just have to give people enough hints to see past… well, everything else. The actual effect can be off-putting. Demure is in your vocabulary but not your wardrobe. But that’s something you genuinely don’t care about. If they don’t like the parts you celebrate, they weren’t worth it in the first place.

Confident, handsome, charming men do not notice you unless they want something.

He must read how cold you’re turning, clock the precious inch you lean away. You’re stuffing your notebook in your bag and preparing to break the bad news that the night is over to Elaine when Johnny waves his hands and tries again.

“Honestly, I’m a shite wingman, but one of my mates –”

“Bet you couldn’t get my number?” You say it in the flattest voice you can, because you’re slipping down the spiral again and you don’t want your voice to shake. “Dared you to get the wallflower to dance? Have a phone prepped to film and everything?”

“No, no! Listen, I might’ve come on-”

You pull the strap of your oversized saddlebag of a purse over your head. It rattles with mechanical pencils and bottles of Aleve.

“Dude, this isn’t my first time out. Do I look like a kid? I know what I am, what I’m not, and what pretty guys like you do.”

He’s stuck, like a computer rebooting to infinity. Several thoughts seem to catch him at once, but the one that wins the race out of his mouth is, “Pretty?”

It comes out amused and a little flustered. You’d enjoy it, take pride in catching him flat-footed if you weren’t rolling at full speed towards a breakdown.

“No harm, no foul. See ya.”

Then you stop to look for Elaine. And you don’t see her.

She stands out by sheer force of personality, and while the bodies on the dance floor are packed close, there aren’t more than a dozen.

“Shit.”

Your uninvited guest follows your line of sight, reaching towards his waist, but he obviously doesn’t understand what’s flipped you from escape artist to hunter. He doesn’t know you aren’t hunting. You’re in Great Pyrenees mode. You smell a predator, and you march away as the Scotsman asks what’s wrong.

You couldn’t give less of a fuck about him and his friends’ games anymore. Ice chills your blood and fear pricks up the hair along your arms.

 Be calm. Be rational. Don’t panic, because you’re the only one who knows she’s here, who’s looking out for her.

You head to the women’s bathroom first, reasoning she could be dealing with the water you made her chug.

“Ellie?”

Five girls crowd around the bathroom mirrors, and both stalls are closed. When you do the creeper squat to peek at the occupant’s shoes, you don’t spy your Cinderella’s glass slipper. You may be the ugly stepsister, but you know who her prince charming is, and it’s none of the cocksure dicks outside.

Another woman pushes through the door just as you turn to the Greek Chorus of drunk girls who’ve turned from their preening to note your search.

“I’m looking for my friend,” you say. “Long hair, bubbly as fuck…”

“She just went out back.” The one in the doorway steps back, points towards the backdoor. “She was leaning on some guy.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Thanks.” You practically sprint across the bar, ducking around the other patrons, and beeline out the door.

It crashes open against the alley’s brick wall as you burst through.

Your breath puffs white in the cool air, and you spot your friend. She looks much drunker than she should, especially after the water you just forced on her. And you recognize the guy. He’s the fucker who tried to get you to smile and nod along with his plan earlier. The dick from the bar. He’s clearly in a hurry, trying to move faster than Elaine can, all but dragging her forward one step at a time.

“Hey!”

Swooping in like an avenging fury, you catch Elaine’s scattered attention, and the creep is forced to halt as she wriggles around to smile at you. She calls your name. oblivious to what’s going on.

“We just stepped out for some fresh air,” the asshole laughs as you approach. “Stop being such a clingy bitch. I mean damn.”

You prioritize Elaine. Supporting her elbow, encouraging her to lean into you and away from the stranger, you feel how wobbly she’s become. This is not Drunk Elaine.

The stranger only lets go of his target to shove you, and you barely help Elaine sit on the filthy alley floor instead of fall before you lose your balance and stumble back. She’s helpless, and this guy isn’t cutting and running when he should.

“Back off,” he says, crowding into your space.

He’s breathing as heavily as you are, and the clouds look like smoke. Well, where’s there’s smoke there’s fire. If he isn’t willing to pretend he’s not the predator you know he is, then you won’t either.

He seizes your collar and pulls you in. You use the momentum to throw your elbow into his diaphragm. The flash of surprise over his face gives you a frigid sense of satisfaction.

Girls are supposed to shy away when big guys grab them. Pull back and protect themselves. Assholes never expect you to charge into the fight, but once they put hands on you, they essentially grapple themselves for the first round.

But the element of surprise is fleeting, and the first few hits matter.

As he wheezes, your foot slides between his, planting just behind his heel. You crack your palm up into his nose, and he instinctively tries to step back from the pain. He trips back, landing flat on his as with blood on his face.

You turn to grab Elaine, confident the bastard won’t follow you back inside if you move fast enough. She’s heavy, and her eyes won’t focus. By the time you’ve gotten her upright, the dick has climbed to his feet, too.

“You fucking bitch!” he screams. “I’m gonna -!”

“You aren’t gonna do shit, mate.”

A newcomer stands at the mouth of the alley, feet spread and arms crossed. It’s the pretty one from the Scotsman’s group. He’s glowering dangerously at the attempted kidnapper, and he isn’t alone. Like a shadow grown solid, skull-face steps into the yellow pool of light from the dim streetlamp.

“How about you fuck off,” the attacker sneers.

Behind you, the bar’s backdoor bangs open again, and you glance back to see the Scot and his remaining friend join the standoff.

The one with the muttonchops you made awkward eye contact with earlier calls, “You alright, love?”

His voice is like brown sugar and maple in autumn, rich and warm, and your belly bursts into flutters.

Absolutely mortifying.

You can’t meet his eyes as you answer. “Pretty sure he drugged my friend. I’m gonna get her to a hospital. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for the police, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

Finally, the asshole realizes just how deep into the shit he’s fallen, and he makes a break for the road. Skull-face catches him by the neck and pins him to the wall like it’s nothing.

“I wouldn’t,” he rumbles. “Might have an accident.”

A squeeze turns the man to stone in the titan’s grip, and the Scotsman – Johnny – sweeps up to help you maneuver Elaine along the alley, out to the street, and into a cab the (still visibly pissed) pretty one has hailed in the interim. It’s all very efficient. Very professional. You realize these men must work together regularly, and they aren’t afraid of a little violence.

Mr. Muttonchops lingers by the open cab door as you settle Elaine, and you look at his shoes. These men aren’t the twats you’d assumed. Your embarrassment mixes with guilt, and the draining adrenaline leaves you defenseless against the building well of tears.

“Thank you.”

“’M just sorry we didn’t notice something was wrong until your friend was already in trouble.”

You finally look up to his face, surprised out of your self-pity, and fuck all if he doesn’t smile at you. He nods into the cab, at Elaine, and says, “Take care of your friend.”

Then he closes the door as Johnny finishes murmuring something to the cabby, and you’re off to do just that.

--------------------------------------------------------

It’s a full thirty-six hours before you realize you never closed out your tab.

To be fair, it has been a very full thirty-six hours. Summoned by the doctor, the police arrived at the hospital to ask questions and get a formal statement. You expected them to request you come into the station at a later time, but the officer lets slip the perpetrator has already confessed, and between the drugs in Elaine’s bloodwork and the matching samples taken from his hip flask, they had plenty to go on for the moment.

Elaine had a rough night, and a rough day after that. When she was released, you shuttled her home and played nurse until she decided she’d had enough of your face and insisted you take care of yourself for a while. A wave of emails pushed back any impending deadlines, and you’d just decided your trauma called for a pizza when you realized your card wasn’t in your wallet.

That leads you back to the bar. Through the front door. Up to the surly barkeep who definitely recognizes you as you weave through empty tables during the mid-afternoon lull. He has the game on an outdated flatscreen that’s too small to entertain more than three people at a time, and he steps up to meet you as your hands come up to rest on the black laminate.

The mirror is still your enemy.

“I didn’t close out my tab the other night. Would you mind…?”

He plonks your card in front of you with a receipt slip. Once you’ve signed and returned it (including tip), he slides another scrap your way.

It has a phone number written on it.

“Uh…” You blank. Have you misread every atom of this man? Doesn’t he hate you? The tip you just left was good but it wasn’t THAT good. Are you missing something? Maybe it was left by a detective or…

“From the guy with the,” the bartender pantomimes a beard. “Left it after he and his pals cleared things up with the police. Said it was for you.”

You take it. The number looks back at you, like something alive, and you aren’t sure whether it’s going to bite you as you study it. The message is scrawled on a ripped bit of napkin, informal and linking a face to an event.

The floor is wide and clear around the bar. There’s no reason to feel like you’re suddenly stranded on a tightrope strung between skyscrapers.

“Oh.” Your head feels fuzzy. Some foundational thing just got yanked out from under your feet, and you’re spinning with the feeling. “Thanks.”

It goes into your wallet with your card.