Thinking about ghost doing the running after you trend on tiktok. He doesn't understand the point, but he rarely needs logic when it comes to you; if you want it, you get it, whether it makes sense or not.
"This is stupid," he mutters as he warms up. You're watching him, smiling so wide it'll split your face in half. He could feel the excitement in the way you buzz around him, barely able to stand still.
"Warm up, luv, or I'm not doing it." That's his only condition.
You do a piss poor job at warming up, but he figures there's no need to be on your ass about it since you're not going to be running for long.
As per the rules of this trend, he gives you a ten seconds headstart, stretches it to fifteen, then twenty seconds because he adjusts his mask before taking off after you.
It doesn't take him long to catch up to you. And he'd hate to admit it, but this does something to him. Not the faux fear, not the chase. It's exactly that, he figures. The faux fear. Not real fear. Just pure excitement and joy on your face when you glance over your shoulder and see that he's hot on your tail, loud giggles spilling from your lips.
God, he's so in love with you, and you're so pretty, and so his. His heart clenches in his chest, the hint of a smile curving his lips.
When he catches you, he easily grips your waist and lifts you up in the air. You squeal, giggling the whole time. And Simon thinks he died a long time ago, because this is what being in heaven sounds and feels like.
The clip goes viral. He's a military man in a shirt that hugs his biceps to death, half of his face hidden behind a surgical mask, towering over you like a guard dog, glaring at the camera. Of course it goes viral.
where Adler starts drifting with Bell in their hospital bed to try and get answers on Perseus but keeps hitting a wall, realizing in the process that theyâre compatible simply because any other person would be dead after the kind of roughness he gets up to in their head
which then turns to using Bell to fight with him cause the few people heâs drift compatible with, like Park, refuckingfuse to drift with him anymore since itâs an incredibly violating ordeal. Adler takes, naturally, digs deep into their drift partners without even trying, so they feel like they have his fucking watch on the back of their throat. but Bell takes it with remarkable ease, Adler still canât figure out if itâs a personal quirk or heavy training to compartmentalize the deepest recesses of their mind. and they donât bring up how perfectly their (fake) memories seem to match up with his
until, their jaeger gets pretty much cut in half and while both Bell and Adler are alive and still connected, the drift is disrupted enough that the first second that Bell lays eyes on Adler, across a gaping hole of machinery and sparkling cables, they see Perseus instead
if youâll indulge me on a work day hereâs half the 141 and the fragrances i own that bring them to mind:
kyle âgazâ garric - kenzo homme intense
immediately v refreshing with a little spice, like gazâ humor. it sets you up perfectly to be taken by surprise by a really intense, salty, calypsone note that some people absolutely canât stomach. like realizing that this v amenable looking guy is a trained, incredibly efficient soldier and quite adept at violent resistance
then it dries down to a solid wood heart of fig and sandalwood, but not too warm and still lightly salted like the breaking of a wave, like a joke and a hand on your shoulder to ground you through the adrenaline come down post firefight. the afterimage of it lasts forever
captain john price - givenchy gentleman reserve privĂŠe
solid and serious straight out the gate, woodsy with a v light citric edge, to the point, like price. then the first impression lets through the sweetness of iris and violets, warm and comforting, like a hug. like knowing your captain has your back no matter what
it dries down to leather, whiskey and chestnut, relaxed and almost chocolatey to remind you of a nightcap and a cigar, or an evening at a pricey pub after a job well done. it leaves v quietly tho, one minute youâre still holding onto the last notes and the next itâs completely gone
ive not done the second part to this because tbh i want to give Simon a Zara scent lmao, itâs the London Savile Row Mayfair EDT which a lot of people say is similar to YSL Y but i havenât smelled it for comparison, anyway itâs a v cool mint opening like seeing this giant man on the field for the first time but on the dry down the iris and sandalwood mix in a way that gives the distinct impression of catholic funeral incense and that 1) tickles me to death 2) seems like the kind of unexpected as hanging out around Simon for long enough and discovering his stupid dad jokes and the absolute dog loyalty to his team
and Soap is Pradaâs Luna Rossa Carbon because everyone keeps saying itâs like sauvage for grown ups and thats just John MacTavish to a t, fun and playful and a little spicy but with a solid woodsy foundation underneath, it lasts forever. sticks around even after a wash when you think it should be gone for good
Flirting: it will never end. yall could be together for 20 years or known each other for 20 minutes, my man is never gonna stop flirting. will also love if this is reciprocated
Eye contact: (continuation of my first viral post in the fandom lmao) its his anchor, its one thing to talk to someone, to touch them, but its another to have that undeniable connection when yalls eyes meet.
Subtle touches: its subconscious (easter egg before he opens that crate with his pocket knife he guides the nurse outta the way with a hand on his lower back) but he will always be touching you. hand on the lower back as he walks past. teasingly hip bump you when yall are preparing dinner together. slaps your ass when he walks by you in private. absentmindedly playing with your hair while cuddling. etc
Cuddling: lets be real the man is touchstarved. always cuddling. also massage his legs after a long day and he's going to be putty in your hands
Communication: he's a certified yapper but also he goes to therapy. he wants to talk through all his feelings and thoughts and want to talk through all your feelings too. bad day? lets talk. newest obsession? lets go on a 12 hour yap session about it. (could never do a miscommunication trope)
Insecure: deep down I feel like he's an overthinker. if hes with someone younger he's going to overthink whether or not he's good enough. thinks his past is too much baggage. etc but thats where that communication comes in and you need to spoil that man with all the affection and love he needs.
NSFW
Dominant but not in a domineering sense: idk if it makes sense but hes dominant and wants control but not in the lick my boot and wear this collar type of way. (although those hands make good necklaces)
sir kink
cockwarming: loves the connection. stays in you for hours after yall come together. too tired to fuck you properly he'll pull you onto the couch with him and slot himself into you with his face buried in your neck.
noisy: won't stop talking even if he's down your throat or balls deep in you. will talk you through it "you're doing so good for me", "just like that", "fuck - yea keep going"
peg him
positions: this old man is gonna fold you anyway he can
been replaying blops 2 and got possessed by this little idea, from the same Frank/Bell universe as this
No way.
Itâs the first honest thought in Masonâs head, which he feels just a little bad about. But after trying to pretend he wasnât counting every single one of Frankâs heartbeats on the way back and a shit night on a plastic chair, when one of the good nurses at Walter Reed informs him that theyâve contacted the Sergeantâs next of kin, his wife; all that comes to mind is no way. Thereâs no fucking way Frank Woods tied the knot.
And maybe itâs denial, since Alex feels enough of a bad friend already âsince he already has the thought that Frank wouldnât be in this goddamn bed if Alex had stayed with him beating behind his eyelids. He wants to think that his best friend, his brother, wouldnât have gotten married without a word to him.
Then, thereâs the matter of who. If he forces himself past that first block, he still canât imagine the kind of person who would inspire Woods into a legal partnership. Is she sweet? A girl next door type, that maybe delivered his groceries? Lord knows the job doesnât give them a lot of opportunities for meet cutes in the wild.
No, she has to have some spunk, maybe a family member of some brother in arms. One of the nurses in Vietnam, or a fighter pilot in her own right, perhaps. Someone who gets it, the work, the life. Something like jealousy stirs in the pit of Masonâs stomach.
Heâs being unfair. Even if he feels he has the right to be.
He doesnât even know how to bring it up, an hour later, when heâs finally allowed to see Frank in what he calls his âfish on a hookâ state. IV running and machines beeping all around him. Woods is in as good a mood as he can be in, at least, laughs and thanks him in that roundabout way of his. So Alex tries to make it into a joke and he sees Frankâs face change in real time.
âSo, the nurses say your missus should be here any minute nowââ
âDonâtââ the reaction reminds him of that fucking container, immediate wild eyed panic, that crystallizes into a sharp look. Frank, ready to strike. âWhereâs Hudson?â
âWhatâ?â
âIs Hudson fucking out there?â
âNo? He went home to check on Jenny and the kids.â
Woods sags some, exhausted again, but he doesnât let go of Masonâs jacket. He closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, he focuses on something past Alexâs shoulder with an expression so unreadable that he has to turn. Has to.
There in the doorway, quiet as a church mouse, is the ghost of war crimes past. Her hair is different and sheâs wearing a sweater that looks incredibly soft, but her eyes are as deadly as he remembers, her posture impecable, still a soldier.
âMason,â itâs noncommittal, a perfect host greeting him in her own home.
âBell.â
No way. No fucking way. Adler saidâ Mason has the clearest image of that memory, even if he makes it a habit not to trust his own head too much nowadays. Adler and his unshakable calm, the words âI terminated an assetâ and the way Frank couldnât even fucking look at him. Which in the moment Alex thought made sense, because Bell put her life on the line for them more than once, specially for Frank, since he was babysitter in charge. And Adler had already gone through the trouble of convincing her to help out of her own volition, beyond whatever it was that he did to her mind; so it felt like a waste, sliding oily in the pit of the stomach.
âAre you nuts?â
Itâs the loudest heâs heard from Frank in the past few days and it seems so out of the blue that he wheels around to stare at him for the second it takes for Bell to rush in the room. Mason had almost forgotten about that, the seamless speed of her, half startling as she sidles up to him, right up to Frankâs bedside.
âDonât start with me Frank, I thought you were dead.â
I thought you were dead, Alexâs inner monologue pipes up before he can stop it, the tension in his body familiar as a fire fight. The relief that Frank can see Bell too, tempered by the fact that sheâs a former soviet terrorist, apparently undying, here with intentions he canât completely understand until she reaches for the hand Woods offers up.
All it takes is that first contact for her posture to go liquid, hair and limbs melting over Frank like sheâs been poured from a jug. It clicks, then, when Mason catches a surprising glimpse of tears; when she presses the gentlest of kisses to chapped lips.
Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, reader gets her husband back, Graves wins a bet | word count: 1,657
Coming to is an annoying series of flashes, snippets of awareness even when Philâs sure he couldnât have been out for more than a few seconds; proven by the fact that heâs still falling, sliding over a slope that used to be solid ground. Rain pelts down on his head, adding to the disconcert of being suddenly hauled back to a relatively stable section of the floor by the vest.
âCommander, you good?â
Phillip nods as well as he can at the moment, surveying the damage from his new perch. Thereâs a hole where the back of the building used to be, three stories collapsed in an angle lucky enough to form a makeshift exit all the way to the street. The same kinda luck that smothered out the fire via the downpour and the secondary explosion.
He sees heads poke out, looking up at him from this brand new, primitive ventilation system. And the comms are as down as the antenna that used to sit on the roof, so Phil starts signing along as he shouts for those close enough to hear.Â
The evacuation goes far more smoothly than it could, bless their mandatory beginnerâs ASL course. And thank fuck they were on the way out of this shitshow. As long as they can make it to the meeting point, even if the satellite phoneâs probably sitting pretty under a mountain of rubble, thisâll be a fun story Phillip can keep secret from his wife, lest she worry about him.
The idea puts a pep in his step, one he shouldnât have with the couple casualties and this bullshit rat-scurrying theyâre forced to do across the city. But itâs such a selfish bit of pleasure to imagine his beautiful, unshakable wife caring about whether he comes home or not. Not because of the consequences of widowhood, just âcause sheâd rather still have him in her bed.
That bit of personal joy sours after the first four hours of moving in starts and stops, trying to clear their way through these local defense forces that donât know and donât care that the Shadows arenât here for them. Phillip glances at his watch for the millionth time, theyâre a couple hours late for their first checkpoint and thatâs assuming these assholes didnât force that team to fall back too.
Fuck it, theyâre exhausted. He chooses to take advantage of the relative safety of the semi basement they squirreled themselves into, for his team to catch a few hours of sleep. While he works with half of the first guard to liberate a couple vehicles.
As Phil sees it, the closer it gets to dawn, the messier this fight gets, which increases the Shadow Companyâs chances to slip away in the confusion. So he waits for first light to haul ass in two stolen vans, blowing past the abandoned first checkpoint and hoping to hell that the gas holds out to the next one a hundred clicks away.
In the end, it takes almost a full day to get his ass to the relative civilization of the Shadow main camp, where Phillip and his team are welcomed as if they're coming back from the dead. Shouts and clapping shoulders as far as the eye can see, not to mention the medical set up with enough supplies to stitch them up. And God, he wishes he could sleep on the ride back, but thatâs not even a possibility when he phones HQ and the first thing out of Vanceâs mouth is that his wife is currently at the premises, terrorizing the home team. Well, terrorizing might be a strong word when, from hearing Vance tell it, sheâs been locked up in Philâs quarters, refusing whatever comforts they can offer beyond the privacy of his room.
It makes him antsy, knowing sheâs waiting. Heâd been planning a shower, at least, before showing up at the house with a win under his belt. Not her brilliant eyes on him the second he steps off the transport to more ruckus, the familiar chatter of a job well done despite whatever setbacks try to shit on their party. Phillip isnât braced for the uncertainty of her, pretty as a picture in one of his shirts, watching as he hollers orders still, to check on the injured and account for the casualties. Itâs a shock to get to the end of the long walkway and see the dark circles under her eyes. To hear her voice, quiet and breathy âfor him and only him to hearâ, call his name like a prayer.
âYou win,â she whispers, reaching out slowly to try and brush the blood staining whatever skin of his neck is visible under his gear, âI missed you.â
His girl gives him the same smile she did, over a year ago, as if sheâs making a joke at her own expense. Thereâs no victory in this, not really, Phil might have a fluid relationship with the truth in general, but heâs not in the business of lying to himself. It's been quite a long time since his ego was the only thing on the line. All he feels now is the rabid pleasure of being back in these hands that own him so completely.
âOh honey,â Phillipâs fingers close around her wrist, pulling her in by the waist until he can feel her heartbeat next to his and all it would take to taste the one, solitary tear that rolls down her cheek would be to lean in. And he manages to voice the aching truth at the end of his clusterfuck of a day, âAll I thought about in that shithole was coming home to you.â
Her laughter shakes him, hiccuped and sudden, startling him into remembering thereâs quite a few Shadows moving around them, trying to pretend theyâre not paying attention to this reunion.
âRyan, youâre team leader while I get reacquainted with the missus, alright? Donât come looking for me unless the building is on fire.â
âŚ
The walk back to his quarters is a blur. Philâs half convinced that he died out there and his brainâs being sweet on him for his troubles before it conks out for good. His skin feels prickly all over, not just where thereâs dried blood crinkling off in flakes, as he sheds pieces of his gear one handed, since he refuses to let go of his wifeâs hip.Â
His wife. It burns beneath his ribs in the residual adrenaline high, with the same bite as the twenty seven stitches he sports from shoulder to collarbone, tying together a cut deep enough to glance the muscle. A little agony every time he moves, now that the morphineâs starting to wear off.
But his wife, sheâs here, for him. Kneeling between his feet, unlacing his boots. In his bed with the world on the other side of his locked door. Their door. Phillip could be bleeding out all over her smart fingers and not give a good goddamn about it. He crowds her against the pillows like heâs coming home after a normal day, as if he isnât raining fucked up dry blood confetti all over both of them. And god, she fucking giggles into his kiss.
She minds his shoulder and cups his half chub over his jeans, until he canât help the desperate little rocking of his hips into her palm. Then this monster he married pulls away, leaves him to stumble his way out of pants and underwear, while she pulls a burlesque slow slide off of clothes.
Phil straight up growls a complaint, full on rumbling in his throat as she straddles him, laughing. Wet enough that he slides home in a single thrust. Vaguely, his mindâs gearing up to worry he might come too soon, but the injury screams red behind his eyelids when he tries to readjust for leverage. It grounds him, makes him flop his back onto the mattress, half cackling. Only to see his girl smiling her pleased-cat smile, the happiest little camper he ever did see, riding his cock for all heâs worth.
âThereâs my smile,â Phillip doesnât register heâs saying it out loud until she squeezes around him and his name tumbles out of her a choked, airy sound. âThatâs my girl.â
The claim turns her sharp, stretching her grin so it shows teeth and she picks up the pace of her hips. Heâs not gonna last, Phil figures, even if she chose to dig her nails into his wound, so he resorts to rubbing tiny circles of his thumb, firm over her clit, to the deafening tempo of his heart.
Blessedly, she comes first, whispering his name against his mouth in two bites and tightening her pretty cunt around him on purpose.
Phill-ip. It sounds like âhusbandâ , like âdarlingâ and âI missed youâ and âyou winâ as his orgasm hits, sudden like a shot.
He doesnât know how long he lies there, boneless under her but for the hand he smooths up and down her thigh. Itâs the first time in their marriage that he doesnât hit the ground running on the clean up and, to be honest, he could get fucking used to doing this every time from now on. His wife âand heâs obsessed with the word now, holds it in a tight grip, like everything thatâs his âdoesnât move much either, just settles into his side.
âWeâre fucked, arenât we?â
She laughs, the flakes turned to red smudges over her collarbones from sweat, and Phil understands what she means instinctively; hears the three words under the breathlessness and the flippancy.
âI believe we are, honey.â Itâs a mumble against the crown of her head, followed by a kiss to her temple.
Soon heâll drag her with him to the shower and then back home. And one day, he swears to himself, heâll convince her to tell her she loves him the proper way.
âso maybe he tried, maybe he ended up resenting her, because she didn't understand. But Bell understands, because in a way he made her into exactly what he wanted her to beâ
was responding to a comment on the Adler fic and wrote this fucking sentence while trying to figure out if i think the manâs marriage was real or a throwaway line and now i canât stop thinking
summary: adler doesnât go back to berlin to forget, but he isnât so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems youâve already beaten him to the punch.
or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it.
read on ao3
tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk
wc: 2.7k
a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')
Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.
Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.
The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.
Adler isnât a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off âtil he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he canât find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it canât come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wifeâs hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetskyâ
The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.
The barking doesnât cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.
But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesnât do well to remind himself of old times, not when heâs lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesnât miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesnât care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.
He tells himself itâs the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if heâs sure. And itâs the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.
Not like Arctic air. Not likeâ
The one dogâs snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dogâs ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isnât much noise after that.
But the quiet doesnât last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.
The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.
He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. Itâs getting cold, and heâs left his drink inside. Wouldnât want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.
And you step out of the car.
A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but itâs easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.
Adlerâs fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasnât been able to wash his hands of since â81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.
Heâs seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.
And it couldnât, because it isnât⌠thatâs notâ
Bell.
Itâs in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps heâd find in his clenched fist when youâd argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyesâ
âyou feel someone watchingâ
âyour eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adlerâs heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he canât speak, canât move, canât thinkâ
Open the door, Bell, open the doorâ
âand you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.
The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you donât see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.
There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.
Youâve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You donât know how, or why youâd think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.
Adlerâs heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. Heâd heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And heâs looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.
The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.
And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that youâve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. Youâve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. Youâre the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now heâs watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose youâve always been a dead man walking.
You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe itâs just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow heâs surely due. But it never comes.
You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. Itâs a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of dĂŠjĂ vu. You donât know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.
Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long itâs gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.
But he doesnât. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.
And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.
But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile heâs never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.
Maybe, then, heâs a fool.
But it isnât lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.
(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses âtil they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)
The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like⌠comfort.
Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You donât quite know why.
Warnings: sensuality (I think that's right? There's no sex but it's clear it's gonna happen)
I am working on the requests, I promise. But Mila would not leave me ALONE about Frank's hair until I wrote this so here you go. I'm a very slow writer until I'm not lol.
It was only a few moments after he slipped from his chair back into bed that she began to stir. Mila was always a light sleeper and Frank had expected her to notice him coming back to bed. He had hoped he could avoid waking her fully so he stayed still to see what she would do.
âFrank,â She said softly, his name a contented hum on her lips. Then she scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms around him. The feeling of her skin against his gave him a little thrill, as it always had. Even after all these years.
She pressed her lips against the back of his neck. At least she wasnât upset with him for leaving the bed in the middle of the night. He knew it hurt her when sheâd wake up to find him gone. Sleeping on the cot in the briefing room instead of their warm bed together.
Her fingers combed through his hair, the tips cold against his warm skin. She ran cold he ran hot. Itâs how they were.
Then she stopped suddenly and made a curious sound. He wondered what had grabbed her attention. Her fingers sifted through his hair as if examining something.
âWhat?â Frank asked after a moment.
But she didnât respond. He felt the bed shift as she sat up.
He rolled onto his back to look at her, appreciating the way the moonlight skimmed over her body. The cool light highlighted just the edge of her naked form.
âI didnât see it before,â She said. Her fingers were still in his hair, though his head hand her hand pinned down against his pillow.
âWhat?â He asked again, a little irritated that she hadnât answered him yet.
âIt must be the stress, but youâre going gray in the back-â
âOh come on, Mila. Donât remind me-â
âNo itâs cute!â She insisted.
âCute? No guy wants to hear that.â
âOk ok,â She said, rolling her eyes. âItâs sexy. Whatever.â
âYou like that?â
âYou know I do. Let me look,â She said, pulling on his shoulder to get him to turn over.
âNo! Come on, go to sleep.â
She frowned and then threw a leg over his hips. He should have been expecting this. She planted her hands on either side of his head. Frank took in a breath as he looked up at her. He couldnât help but wonder what she was still doing with him. Itâs not something heâd say out loud, knowing sheâd only ask him what he was doing with her. It was part of why they worked, he supposed.
âAny excuse, huh?â Frank asked with a chuckle. He trailed his fingers along her bare thighs.
Mila let out a sensuous hum in response as she rolled her hips against him. She ran her fingers through his hair again. Then she leaned forward, pressing her body into him. Her lips met his and she kissed him deeply. Her fingers curled in his hair giving it the slightest tug.
âGray hairs, huh?â Frank said when she pulled out of the kiss and moved down to his neck. âAlways surprises me what youâre into.â
âIâm into you,â She said, her lips brushing his neck as she spoke.
He placed his hand under her chin, angling her head so he could kiss her. Then he cradled her face in his hands, holding her head in place as he kissed her long and slow. She moaned into his mouth in a way that told him they werenât going to get much sleep that night.
âIâm glad you came back to bed,â She said.
âYeah me, too.â
Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, Graves finds himself in trouble, Vance makes a house visit and reader loses her mind a little bit | word count: 1,778
Philâs bleeding, heâs pretty sure. Currently heâs unclear on the whereabouts of the actual wound âand the severity of itâ but both of those can wait. Thereâs heat radiating out of one corner of the room, a fire he feels more than sees crawling up the building.
That leaves only one way out, and if these assholes are smart, shooters are bound to stalk the rooftops, hidden among the racket of rain and wind outside.
He has to move the Shadows and he has to move them now, if any of them want a chance to tell the tale. So Phillipâs on his feet on instinct, with a second to spare for gratitude when no bones seem to be broken.
He wonders offhandedly who on Earth would be reckless enough to try mortar fire in the middle of a city, however mangy the cluster of buildings might be, before the second round hits and the floor slips right from under him.
âŚ
Your husbandâs an insidious one. Itâs in the way he folds his clothes and shines his shoes. In how he gently coils his belts to rest between your row of everyday handbags and the gun safe. Little things that speak of a marriage and make sure his presence is always here, in this house he bought you. All charm and a wicked mind. So you have to look at these things of his and think about his accent, the glint in his eyes when you misbehave, his mouth on yours.
Phillip Graves is more than you ever dared wish for. Yours in a way that sparks holy terror in your gut. Against your better judgment and against your will, he sneaks into the routine and makes the bed feel empty without the expanse of his back to curl into.
You crave him, wherever in the world he is at the moment, risking his hide as a way of life. Because of course, you had to find him in the line of fire.Â
Youâre not made for easy, youâre made for finding the perfect husband and being in constant danger of losing him. He has the scars to prove it too, so close to that sharp brain of his. And he wears them with the kind of balls that your friends back in Hudson Yards try to match with distressed jeans and design pre-scuffed boots. Worse is the joy he finds in the work: obvious, magnetic. Such an intrinsic part of him that you couldnât even wish to stop him.
Worst is that when Vance shows up in the middle of the afternoon, after Philâs been gone for weeks, you donât even flinch.
âMrs. Graves,â he says. Standing on your porch with the straightest back youâve ever seen, looking for all the world like heâs carrying the metaphorical neatly folded flag.
The thought slides sluggish into your awareness. You donât know if that still happens, Phillip being a contractor, saving the ârealâ militaryâs asses by doing their fucking dirty work. And itâs so inconsequential that it takes over âthe questionâ, for another second of staring blankly.Â
âMaâam,â Vance tries again, gently herding you into the house by the elbow.
Heâs not wearing gloves, you notice, and he seems to be trying to keep a hand on you, even if it feels like heâs not used to this kind of constant touching. Itâs something youâve seen Phil doing more than once, so it stops you dead, makes you stumble into the stupid decorative side table your in-laws insisted on gifting you.
âWhat happened?â Itâs breathy, punched out of you. Two half words in a long exhale.Â
âWe lost contact with Commander Gravesâ team at around oâ five hundred this morningââ
âItâs damn near six pm.â
âWe have protocolsââ
Of course they do, Phil is adamant about doing things right or not doing them at all. So itâs been twelve hours, plus the drive, of no one knowing where your husband is. And itâs not even that fact that makes Vance hesitate. Itâs the next few words out of his mouth that turn this into a scenario that warrants the face heâs making.
âAndâ satellite images show signs of a fairly large explosion, close to their last known location.â
The shit table catches your weight once again, rattling up a storm. You lean on it, simply because, unlike Vance, it doesnât look at you like youâre on the verge of exploding.
You might be, actually. Your head feels like a lit fuse, building pressure under your tongue. Anger simmers under the shock, an impulse to bite, to leave claw marks on whatâs yours.
âWe still have no concrete information,â Vanceâs palm finds your elbow for the second time.Â
Maybe he expects your knees to buckle, but he stays close. Phil close. So you take a couple steps back.Â
âA team was dispatched for search and rescue, we should have news by tomorrow morning at the latest.â
Vance looks at you like youâre supposed to respond to that, fulfill the social contract in some way you canât fathom right now. Are you meant to thank him for the bad news? This canât be the first widow-to-be visit he makes, but it is yours, which makes the etiquette unclear.Â
He moves, in the end; does that universal half turn, half vague gesture towards the door one does when trying to excuse themselves from something. Your body moves with him, follows on instinct.
Youâve never been one to waitâ call it being a spoilt brat, but you need something to focus on if youâre going to simply hold out for any amount of time; your phone, a book, even people watching. But all your mind goes to at the moment is blood and fire and Phillip and every single black dress you own.
The rage in the pit of your stomach strains at the leash. At Vance, at the Shadows, at Phil. And youâre bound to demolish the house, if youâre left alone in it for more than the five minutes of this interaction. Might end up cutting into ribbons all your funeral-appropriate clothes.
âIâm coming back to base with you,â it comes out flat. Not begging, not a demand. Because it isnât, itâs a statement of fact, a certainty that throws this Shadow off his game. Makes him sputter like an old chainsaw for an excuse he thinks youâll take.
âIâm supposed to go right back, Iâ thereâs no time to pack for the nightâŚâ
You hand Vance your phone, leave him there palm outstretched while you shove laptop, chargers and wallet into a bag. A process that takes all of five minutes, in which youâve correctly assumed he wonât dare fuck off without you. Not before you pluck the device back from his very light grip, keys jingling as you unlock the truck in the driveway.
âIâll follow you.â
âŚ
It occurs to you, quite late, that the correct reaction to this would be to cry. Not that you can focus on it, with the strange bureaucracy of security checks and Vanceâs unrelenting escort into the Shadowsâ facility, but maybe you should.
You could probably try, in the same way that social deception usually comes to you. Second nature, beaten into your body by private schooling and parents that mostly think of you as an asset in whatever scheme they happen to be cooking up at the time. Whether thatâs looking pretty at a charity ball or securing the Gravesâ deep pockets for future political endeavors.Â
Crying for the stony faced, hurried soldiers you pass by on your way to Philâs office would be easy, all things considered; it just feels wrong under your skin. Youâre not fucking here for them, youâre here for the husband that is definitely coming back. Because he made a promise to keep you and, despite the things your world has thought you about promises, you fucking trust him.
Nausea, on the other hand, comes a lot more naturally. Bile climbing up your throat like an awful tide you have to pause to fight every couple steps. It burns in your throat and threatens to make you tear up out of nothing but physical discomfort, but it just doesnât have the same flare, doesnât get the same reaction.
âThe bathroom next to Philâs office is private, right?â Vance levels you with a look so strange that you feel the need to add the truth at the end, amend your question, ââIâm gonna be sick.â
Even now itâs unbearable to be assumed as a fragile little greenhouse flower that canât cope with a shared toilet. Especially when he already looks at you out like youâre an alien learning how to act human and not quite hitting the mark.
âCommander Graves has his entire private quarters back there, not just the bathroom,â Vance doesnât stop, doesnât even slow down his pace, but this is the most surprised youâve seen him. âHe used to spend a lot more time here, before he met you. Youâve bumped up time off for all of us.â
Your expression must be a sight, with the chuckle it gets out of him. It loosens his stance some, makes him look at you like youâre a person and not a grenade he has to jump for the first time today. The silence suddenly not so fucking tense between you, until he punches in the code to your husbandâs office and he stands there a foot away, starting and stopping a sentence for a couple times.
âHe always comes back, Commander Graves,â Vance settles for in the end; not empty assurances, just what he knows from experience.
You can appreciate it, can take the hand he settles on your shoulder amicably. Though heâs not Phillip and hasnât earned the privilege to comfort you.
He leaves you, promising an update on first light, no matter how much you insist on âas soon as you have oneâ. Youâre not gonna sleep anyway.
Even after you shower and rummage around drawers for one of Philâs spare shirts, you settle on the office chair with your laptop to try and pretend to work. Your husbandâs desk is clean, sparsely furnished with a pen holder, a couple stacks of post itâs and presiding over all, a framed copy of your wedding photo.
The tightness in your chest comes on so suddenly that it knocks the breath right out of you. And it forces out the most embarrassing, raw sound youâve ever heard yourself make. Itâs an animal sort of cry, growl and sob and the clarity that losing Phillip Graves will unmake you in ways you donât want to imagine.
Adler x fem!Bell (mostly a bit of Bell character study tbh)
This is as close to madness as Bell has ever felt, which sounds like an exaggeration even to her. This op has had its fair share of hair raising moments, let alone a career of working in the shadows; but itâs this that has her actively trying to keep her leg from bouncing.
The safe house is quiet, beyond the constant, steady beat of Lazar whaling on the sand bag in the corner, so far heâs the only one whose noticed, since he was the only one present when she came out of the bathroom with a length of hair in her fist. He was complimentary, said the new cut suited her, while gently reaching for the scissors to put them away in one of his personal drawers. Funny how he trusted her with high caliber weapons but not the simplest of office tools.
Since then, people have slowly filed in. Park and Sims, returning from the shops; Mason and Woods, only to walk back out a minute later. Hudson, into the back room, clearly sporting a bloody nose. And then Adler, who triggered this horrible fucking foreign feeling.
Cutting her hair wasnât vanity, she was just sick of the weight of it, of tying and tucking and fussing with it. And Bell operates under no delusions when it comes to Adler. She finds him attractive, has from what it seems like as long as sheâs known him. But the sudden ache for him to notice settles new in the pit of her stomach.
That, in itself, is weird. It canât be the first time sheâs changed her appearance in Adlerâs vicinity, not when itâs been years, not when he recruited her himself. Still, trying to remember feels empty, like words on a paper without images. Like knowledge without experience.
If she focuses, she can sort of see East Berlin. Wet pavement and a dreary day, Adlerâs face before the scar, a deal struck. But itâs interspersed with the unrelenting heat of Camp Haskins; an incongruous heat, since the memory is of a dry sort of hot, a space heater instead of tropical wet.
The thought makes her hair fade to the background of her mind. Bell tries to focus, when did she first meet Russ? Where? Berlin? Moscow? Turkey?
When did she start calling him Russ? A voice sneaks into her awareness, disembodied but true, solid like a proud hand on her shoulder: Do not trust Adler.
Bell looks up to see Lazar walking away from the board, from Adler. And then the man himself makes his way to her, glasses glinting in the overheads.
âLooking sharp, Bell.â
âAs a knife,â she smiles, like a dog showing teeth.
iâm starting to think that aftercare in fic doesnât click for me because itâs always bath-water-cuddles and iâd just like to go to the mcdonaldâs drivethrough
the sun's only just cresting over the horizon, and you're barely awake but you're so soft and pliant and smelling so good in his bed that he just has to have to you, doll, jus' let me--
it feels good to not have to think. to not have to move, to just let him take from you what he needs as he rumbles deliciously in your ear, his voice still hoarse with sleep. he slides in easy, and the stretch barely registers to your sleep-muddled brain when his arms band around your chest to clutch you against his own in a tight embrace, spooning you as he takes a moment to just enjoy being sheathed within you. sweet little thing you are, with a perfect cunt to match.
(he must still be dreaming. men like him don't get to have this. men like him don't deserve to have this. but then your cunt pulses around him, warm and welcoming, and he sends a thanks to the fucker upstairs before burying his face into the crook of your neck. he isn't religious, but a pussy this good would have anyone on their knees begging for salvation.)
you could almost drift off again like this, can feel sleep beckoning you once more. it's so snug and cozy with his burly body wrapped around your own, his breathing measured and steady. you can feel your eyes begin to droop, blinks getting heavier...
until he shifts his hips, the slow drag of his cock stoking the fire low in your tummy that'd been ignited when he slid in. it causes the last dregs of sleep to dissipate almost instantly, your body eager for him. always eager for him. you exhale dreamily, more awake and ready to play as he sets a slow pace, really savoring the moment.
when you grab his hand and slide it down between your legs, feel the huff of a chuckle against your neck, you know you're in for a rude awakening.
reader riding him in the middle of the night because theyâre both so needy
heâs got one hand on your hip and one hand lovingly cradling the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss (one that always ends up with him chasing after your lips when you pull away to breathe, a tender, playful smile on his lips) and heâs not that vocal but he does let out soft, breathy little groans from time to timeâ his breathing is the most telling part of him when youâre having sex because itâll hitch or be cut in a little half gasp or heâll exhale shakily through his nose, eyelids fluttering and lashes kissing the apples of his cheeks. heâs also the type that just needs to kiss whatever part of you is closest to him; your cheek, your temple, your nose, your shoulder, your jaw, and also your chin (for some reason he really likes kissing your chin. you asked him why once and he just said he thinks itâs cute for some reason. donât question him. so now you also kiss his chin <3)
you do have to be quiet though (unless youâre in your apartment and not his) because hotchâs greatest fear and biggest nightmare is jack potentially hearing the two of you and asking questions. the thought makes him want to crawl into a ditch and stay there forever
i'm not completely sure what this is i'm just real emotional about Frank Fucking Woods, same universe as this
This is a long time coming. Too long, where Frank is concerned. Thing is, they havenât had time for it, with the constant driving back and forth to the VA, the hospital, the physical therapy, and the dragging bureaucracy of honorable discharge. Then David started getting nightmares âwhich is perfectly understandable for a kid his age who suddenly finds himself with no one in the world except Frankâ, and Bellâs real good with nightmares.
So itâs been months since Frankâs had this: Bellâs perfect ass in his palms, her laughter in his mouth and the graceless bumping into shit on their way to the bedroom. The little shushed giggle as she tugs the armrest to straighten him down the hallway, freeing the foot paddle from the corner.
Trying to keep quiet is another new thing, since thereâs a sleeping child a couple rooms away, but heâs not letting go now that he has his hands on her. In fact, Frank has half a mind to run her over and try carrying her himself just so he doesnât have to stop touching her. But then sheâs opening the door wide for him and this is why he suffers that sadistic fucker of a nurse at physical, so he can still maneuver his ass onto the bed and his own damn pants off when he wants to fuck his wife.
Bell laughs under her breath, kicking off jeans and underwear, moving to straddle him where he finally settles against the pillows.
âWhatâs so funny, huh?â
âHere.â Her answer is half whisper, half moan and goddamn, sheâs already slick for him. She arches, presenting her tits so Frank can manhandle them free and nose at the warm, soft space between them. âFor your frown.â
Frankâs cock reacts before he does, so do his hips. Thereâs a delightful ache in sliding against her, twitching, pretty much on instinct. Pulling at her waist and groaning into her mouth.
âYouâre a little minx, arenât you?â
âI have good reason to be.â
Heâs always been a sucker for Bellâs smiles, from way back when he expected to babysit Adlerâs shiny new automaton and instead got a toothy grin in the middle of a firefight âthat for a long time made him wish heâd just been hit. But the one she gives him, perched in his lap and rocking against him until his cock catches and slides smoothly inside her, spears him straight through the heart.
âFuck, Iâve missed this.â She says and sheâs wearing this âhome after a long dayâ kinda smile, with eyes narrowed so Frank canât tell sheâs tearing up until the drop escapes down her cheek. âIâve missed you.â
And heâs right there with her, choked up to finally have a minute for just her, the same old Bell squeezing his heart between her pretty palms, no matter how everything has changed.
âYou got me, honey. All of me.â
All thatâs left of me, he doesnât say, because itâs depressing when heâd really rather fucking not. What he does manage, comes out barely understandable, pressed against her mouth and itâs a little bit pathetic anyway, but Frank canât care when sheâs chuckling into a filthy kiss and tightening around him.
âOh, you like that?â
Bell pulls back, laughter turning into a giggle as she wipes the tears. And this time the pressure of her muscles on his cock is purposeful.
âI do.â
âAll that cock just for you, huh?â
She bears down at that comment, rides him so slow and deep that she has to shush the very loud groan it pulls out of his throat.Â
âThe cock and all the rest,â Bell doesnât falter in the rhythm she starts, works him like her prideâs on the line, âyour laugh and your eyes, and the way your beard burns. All mine.â
God, what a fucking sucker she makes out of him. Frankâs never been a man to speak his affections, itâs too much to put on the line, to have his heart out there like that. Especially now that heâs even more convinced that loving the likes of him is poison. So he sneaks a hand between their bodies, shifts their balance with firm circles over her clit and tries to squeeze the truth into a single word.
âYours.â
Despite his better judgment and not exactly to her benefit, as far as heâs concerned, but itâs true. Itâs enough. All it takes for Bellâs orgasm to hit full force. A thing of beauty, dimmed quiet but so intense, her thighs shake. Aching in the pit of Frankâs stomach for a long second because he canât flip her under him anymore, give those pretty legs a break and pound her full while she melts into the mattress for him.
She laughs, though, breathless. And she kisses him with a sort of manic joy, face glowing and hair sticking to her forehead; picking back where she left off, rolling her hips âtill heâs emptying himself inside her, panting like a dog and âfor a single shining secondâ content to the bone.
Hers.
Suspended in a moment where it doesn't matter that theyâre sort of sticky, staving off the chill only by virtue of clinging to each other. Then Bell climbs off for long enough to get a warm, wet towel that she uses to clean him and herself; before tucking them both in with easy banter. Talking up a storm in what Frank suspects is an effort to distract him until sheâs curled sweet against his side.
In the morning, when itâs the sun bright through the window that wakes them, Frank finds itâs the first night Davidâs slept through without screaming his way out of a nightmare. He lets Bell wash his hair, in the brand new, spanking bench she got installed in the shower. And he figures heâll find his way through this. Even if itâs embarrassing, even if itâs painful.
For all the shit heâs survived and all the things he can still do, he refuses to let this be what fucking kills him.
You knew Soap was talented, but this is the first time he's showing you a picture he drew of you. It's a surprise; you didn't think you'd ever have a place in his journal.
"No, I didn't," He says, making a noise of disagreement, and you switch your gaze from the picture to see him giving you an affectionate look. It makes your breath catch. You've only seen him give that look to people he's been in love with. "You're already pretty."
"John..."
"Was just drawing what I see, bonnie."
You can tell he's being earnest. Something in your chest aches. You look back down at the worn journal in your hands, taking in the drawing. He actually colored and shaded it, a stark contrast to his usual sketches. Soap rarely takes the time to do that.
"I don't know what to say," you respond lamely, unable to bring yourself to look back at him. You trace the drawing with a thumb. "This is..."
Calloused hands come into view, and you can't react as he gently cups your cheeks, tilting your head back to look at him again. Soap chuckles softly at your dumbstruck face, mouth slightly agape.
Leaning in, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. He feels so warm. Soap glances down at your lips before looking up at your eyes again. He speaks, and his breath puffs against yours, "Don't have to say anything, bon; could give me a little kiss instead?"
"A kiss..?" You steal a glance at his lips. They're curved in an impish smile.
"Aye, just a little one and only if you want." He lowers his voices, and your pupils dilate in response. "But I'd be a really happy man if you did."
Your voice cracks. "What if I want more?"
It's a really simple answer, one Soap exclusively knows, but you get it when he closes his eyes and brushes his lips against yours, murmuring, "Then I'll give you more."
