Traitors Among Us

Traitors among us

Simon 'GHOST' Riley x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

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---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" there was a rule in training, to let enemies that it was working, that their torture had taken its toll. You were always a rule breaker... this was no different apparently. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

part 2 coming soon...

Tulips and blood

(A Call of Duty fiction, based on MW2. This chapter contains TF141)

Chapter one: The rookie

All I remembered is the pain that surrounded me from a rather young age. Always blamed, never understood, never good enoug. But mostly being alone, terrified, isolated for my own good. From my so-called parents and from the world. Maybe too well. Always quiet, seemingly fine.

It was a quiet day for Ghost; he was able to stay in the office, filling out paperwork that Price gave to him. As a lieurenant, it was his job too keep track of whag the base needs. Such as ammunition, explosives, and that kind of stuff.

His calmness was interrupted before 2pm, when a military truck arrived to the base. A batch of recruits, freshly out of training. Only one was able to be the newest member of Price's famous team, the Task Force 141.

That specific group was small, counting up to four ppl, not including the lucky one. The lieutenant quietly observed the twelve newcomers, examining everyone, even that one and only woman who arrived too; while Price and Gaz talked about the plans.

  While he heard other soldiers betting on when the rookies start complaining, when they'll drop out from the special training, even bets on weekly football too. All kind of betting; surely a light and friendly spirit. The LT supressed a smile under his mask; he had a good feeling about this batch of recruits.

  But only one person caught Ghost's eyes and it was the only woman amongst the recruits; not because she had a good physique, but she was a bit different. The way she carried herself, her moves seemed experienced to him, and if she moves like this, she surely hides something. How experienced she's in reality. Slowly of corse, so she wont be alarmed, but how he can investigate without getting caught by her? Oi, he can ask Price and observe the woman sometimes. The excercises didn't helped him much, Ghost was still deep in thoughts. He wanted to know the truth; he'll be more surprised, shocked, angered than he thought.

  His way led to Price's office, where he knocked kn the door then entered. The captain was a good, caring man beside being strict and hardworking. For a few moment, the two men looked each other, waiting for the other one to break the silence.

-Capt'n, we need to speak.

-I told you Ghost, no more missions for a week.

-It's not 'bout that.

-Then?

-'bout the recruits.

-D' you have a problem with them, or you have an idea.

-No, I have a request, Price.

-And that is?

-The only one female. She hides somethin' important... Hiding valuable informations is forbidden, Price

-I know. She requested it specifically. But I read it. You dont want to, trust me, Simon.

-Capt'n. I'll train the new member, I need to read their files.

-You can, but not hers. For your own sake, I'm tellin you.

  The lieutenant let out a sigh and glared at the man for a few moment then left the office, heading to the training grounds. He saw only professional and experienced, well thought out moves and reloads. Ghost just watched her and tried to understand why she acted like that and why was that linked to the only restricted file about the recruits.

-Yennefer! --Ghost shouted to get her attention, no need to say, she walked up to him immediately. Even thought the anxiety ate her away from the inside, she didn't showed it-- Come here.

-Yes, sir? What is it.

-When did you enlisted?

-When I was eighteen, in 2010.

-First enlist?

-In 2010.

-Thank you, Yennefer. You're dismissed, get some rest.

-Sir, the sergeant said we need to fire two mag away...

  Ghost let out a sigh and waited for her to finish and put the gun back to it's place. Once again, he saw that the woman knew what she does. Fourteen years of service. What happened under those years exactly, he wanted to know why she had that kind of request. What was her rank before, where does she served.

  Even later, at lunch, Ghost searched for her or any tiny bit of information crumble about her. This went on days, no particulary new information that was important. He started to get pissed off, but being patient finally paid off, since he noticed the woman sitting down to an empty table; the furthest table from the rest of the hall. Avoidance? He thought, or she might likes to be alone today. No, that can't be possible, he rarely saw her beside training and eating. He also knew that she never spoke unless she was asked. That was suspicious on it's own. Simon knew a bunch of reason why would ppl be this quiet, since he was one of them. The main reason was trauma. Then doubt and self esteem. Even the first reason had a bunch of possibility.

So he sat down at Yennefers table who were too anxious to do anything, so she just let him do whatever he wanted. The LT noticed this, the nervous twiching and looking around. He doesn't know why he expected her to speak; but when realisation hit him, disappointment was strong. Only for a moment. Ghost let out a sigh, thinking what he should ask without triggering more than he wants...

-So, Yennefer...how does that fourteen year was before 141?

-Uh... --she froze up, but somewhat relaxed, knowing that the Lt probably wants to know more about her. Not her injuries. But having severe social anxiety, a broken soul and an ill mind made her life much harder than intented-- it was hard. But I had better moments too.

Her voice was above a whisper, more likely it was a mumble. Ghost still wandered why doesn't she speaks louder. Or longer. More into depth and not only in a nutshell. There is no way that a woman like her speaks this as much as him, maybe even less; must have happened something with her at some point. But what? Something similar to his own past? Or something else? One thing he was sure, whatever she hides; for a good reason, he'll get to that bits by bits.

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood Masterlist

Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.

It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. 

As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Chapters containing smut are marked with a *

Updates are posted on the weekends, either Saturday or Sunday PST

This fic can also be found on my Ao3 -> HERE

YOU DO NOT HAVE MY PERMISSION TO USE MY FICS FOR AI UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

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Divider by: samspenandsword

Part 1 - The Omega

Chapter 1 - The Introduction Chapter 2 - Adjustments Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful Chapter 5 - What I Want *

Part 2 - The Bond

Chapter 6 - One Step Closer * Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost Chapter 9 - Save Me Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*

Part 3 - The First Heat

Chapter 11 - It's Coming Chapter 12 - Fire In My Veins* Chapter 13 - Piece Me Back Together* Chapter 14 - The Aftermath*

Part 4 - The New Normal

Chapter 15: Bonnie* Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes * Chapter 17: Alone Chapter 18: Don't Let Me Go Chapter 19: Daddy Issues Chapter 20: The New Normal * Chapter 21: Crime and Punishment *

Part Six

Can't stop thinking about reader finally giving the boys a taste of their own medicine. And hurting my own feelings in the process of it all. I wanted to make this a baddie reader chapter, but its just a saddie reader chapter. I played Down Bad by T.S on repeat while writing this. Y'all need to thank @blueladys-world for being my ventor for this part.

None of them came the next day to pick up the box of everything you had collected. By everything, quite literally everything. Birthday cards and gifts. Keepsakes from your time together they had given you. Even going as far as returning lingerie they had given you. You didn't want any trace of them in your home anymore. You were gonna have to work hard in rebuilding it to be your safe space once again.

You were surprised that someone from the expo had DM'd you. Renée was an author who had tried to stop by to your stand, but got too caught up in the day. She was in London, working on her next series installment and wanted to pick your brain. Writer to writer.

The two of you agreed on a time. She had mentioned wanting to try this restaurant the last time she visited and you already knew you would be putting that meal on a credit card. It was a bit of splurge, but after the past week you deserved it. You could even wear that sexy black number that had been collecting dust in your closet.

By the time you were done getting ready and squeezing into your dress, you looked more ready for a date than dinner with a colleague.

A colleague. You had a colleague!!!

The knock on the door pulled you from your girlish glee. You didn't need to guess who it was. Your friends knew to text you before they came over and Renée had agreed just to meet you at the restaurant.

It was one of them.

You didn't even t bother looking through your peephole before you opened the door to find Johnny standing there with a floral arrangement of your favorite flowers.

Johnny began to speak, afraid you were going to shut him down immediately no less. But no words came out. His eyes traveled up and down your body, taking you in.

A vision.

You wanted to snap at him that your eyes weren't located on your hips. But damn if it didn’t feel empowering seeing Johnny’s gaze gloss over.

"Fuck me." He swore, gathering his bearings before realizing you were dressed. In a sexy black dress and heels and makeup and oh, fuck you were going out. "Where are you going?"

"First off, none of your business," you said holding a finger up. "And secondly, what are you doing here?"

"Listen," "Bon-"

"The box is right there." You said pointing to a large cardboard box on the floor. "That's everything."

"If you just let me make it-"

"Up to me?" You cut him off again. "I'm over it. Really."

"Just give me a chance."

"Either you haven't spoken to the other two to know I am well and truly done with this situationship, or you’re hoping some half-ass apology and flowers will let you get a last fuck in and the skedaddle. So hopefully if it was latter, hopefully the former answered that for ya.”

So if that's all you came here for, I've got to get going. My reservation is at seven and it's rude to keep a friend waiting."

"It's been a week and you're already going on a date?" He accused.

"Who said anything about a date?" You didn't outright say it wasn't. Where would be the fun in that? “It's just dinner with a colleague.” You didn’t want to lie. It wasn’t a date. But you didn’t need to say it was a woman. “Hardly a date.”

“Look at the sight of ye!" He said, taking the opportunity to take a quick look at how deliciously your ass filled that dress. “A fookin’ dinner with a colleague. Like one of us would show up to a briefing like that.” You opened your compact. Not needed in the age of cellphones but loving the feminine touch.

There was something so... seductive about using a compact mirror to apply your lipstick.

“Kyle does have the legs for this dress.” You said, applying that lipstick he loves. That same shade that looked beautiful on your lips. The same lipstick you would mark all over Johnny’s body. “Believe what you want. Not my problem anymore.”

You put your compact back in your purse along with the lipstick in case you needed to reapply it after dinner.

Johnny's eyes zeroed in on your lips before his eyes met yours. That's when you felt it again. That undeniably spark of chemistry that you had with him. With all of them. That feeling that sucked the very breath from your lungs and for a moment all you could see was the man in front of you.

"Bonnie," he said placing his hands on your neck. His thumbs stroking your cheeks softly. "Just one more chance." He begged, his voice breaking. "I'm a fucking git, but I won't let you go again. I won't leave." You knew that when it came to promises, Johnny had proven that even if he didn't mean to break them, he had forgotten he made them in the first place.

But in that moment you didn't care. Even after everything, Meredith was right. You had loved them. Everything else had ended so shitty. John had blamed you. Kyle had only shown up until it was too late. And Simon. The last time you would ever hear his voice was after he said such cruel things to you.

No.

If you were done with Johnny, you won't let the last time he fucked you being a quick, rough fuck doggystyle before leaving you naked and alone in your bed.

No. The last time with Johnny needed to be good. It might make it harder to finally leave, but you needed this. You needed to know that he could still make love to you and not just fuck you like an animal in heat.

"Johnny?" You asked. Your mouth dangerously close to his. "I don't want you to fuck me."

"I don't have to," he said, starting to take a step back to give you some space before your hands reached his. Holding him in place.

He can't let you go. You couldn't let him go. Not yet. Just one more. You needed just one more time to get him out of your system. The closure you needed.

"Make love to me." You begged, your eyes pleading. "I need to know that I wasn't just something you wanted to fuck." You don't move as his eyes search yours, looking for reassurance. When you nod, his mouth softly touches your own.

His hands travel along your body, but never fully leave you. Sliding your neck to your back. Pulling your body closer to his. A hand placed on your hip so tightly he's afraid you might disappear.

There's no rush, no haste in his touch. His mouth not eager to devour you.

He's slow. With his hands, his tongue. Even when he picks you up and walks to your bedroom with your legs around his waist.

He doesn't throw you on the bed.

Not this time.

He lays you down. His body laying on top of yours. His hand skimming along your bare thighs, but not daring to travel any higher.

But damn you needed him. You wanted love making, but if he didn't get inside you soon, you weren't sure you could let him go after this. You weren't sure you would be able to leave.

"Johnny," you whimpered, pulling away from his mouth. "Please." You took his hand, putting it between your thigh. Aching for any friction.

He obeyed without hesitation. If you told him to get on his bark, he would in that moment. Anything to make you happy. Anything to keep you.

"Got to get you out of this dress first." He resting on his knees before he began to slide the black satin from your thighs to your stomach. You maneuvered, helping him undress you leaving you in nothing.

"I thought you liked the dress." You couldn't help, but tease. Your hand finding its home on the back of his neck, pulling you to him once more.

In a tone lacking any note of humor and in all seriousness, he looked at you. Really looking at you. Taking in how your smile reached your beautiful eyes before he said, "I want you bare to me when I take you."

You felt your stomach flutter at his words before he began to take off his clothes.

He joined you again. His body relaxing when they got between your legs again. His mouth traveled from your exposed neck to your nipples. Sucking and flicking them with his tongue until your back arched. Pressing harder into his mouth.

Your hands tangled in his soft brown hair before you boldly guided him to your already dripping core. He slid down your body before his hands began to push your knees apart until you were fully expose to him.

With your knees bent, Johnny settled on his stomach, placing soft kisses on your soft inner thighs. God, did he love seeing you squirm. He smiled at your tortured expression before looking down at your sex. "There she is." He said before placing a kiss on your pussy.

It wasn't sloppy. He wasn't diving in and licking at your center like so many times before. He was kissing it just as tenderly as he kissed your mouth. Slowly building it deeper and deeper. Adding tongue. Breaking away to readjust his head.

The delicious ache between your thighs began to become to unbearable. "Need you inside me." You panted. "Johnny-"

"Shhh." He soothed. "Got to warm you up first , Bonnie." He said before slipping his finger inside of you. One was all it took before your head settled against the pillows again. When your body relaxed, he added another. He would need to add three to make sure you were good and ready.

His digits stroked that spongy spot inside of you that made your toes curl. "You're barely fitting around my fingers." Johnny was a good 6 inches in length, but the girth is what always did you in. It hurt to take anything past his head into your mouth. If you fucked him without any preparation, especially after a week of no sex, he would tear you into too.

His tongue caressed your clit, your eyes squeezing shut as you felt your first orgasm creeping up on you.

"Johnny." You moaned, your fingers running through his soft brown hair.

"Give it to me, beauty." He panted. "Come on my face. Squeeze my fingers, Lass." He begged before his mouth went back to you.

It was like lightning. Your body now sensitive after being forsaken for so long. Your vision blurred and before you could process it, Johnny was sitting on his haunches between your legs, stroking his cock.

You could only nod, dazed and barely keeping a grip onto the reality of what this was.

The end.

He leaned forward, his cock nestling against you. You knew this was going to be nothing compared to his fingers. "Tell me if I need to stop."

You smiled, mockingly. Reminding him, "Not our first time together, Johnny." just our last.

"You were wrapped tight around my fingers." He gave a half smile before kissing your forehead. The gesture like a knife twisting in your heart. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"I'm ready." You brought your legs around his waist again. Pulling him to you, your arms wrapping around his neck as your mouths meet.

He presses into you. The head of his cock sliding inside just one or two inches. You body contracting around him in a small spasm. He swallows your moan and lets you adjust. He pulls away before looking down where the two of you meet.

"I could die like this, Lass." He said, his breath coming out unsteady as he tries his best to control himself. So close to just burying himself inside of you to the fucking hilt. "Seeing you like this is this first thing I want to see when I make it to the other side." You let out a choked cry as he pushes deeper inside you. Another inch. And another. And another until you're taking all of him.

He slurs something that sound like "fuck", but you are in too much of a daze to care. You arch into him, trying to get closer.

His thrusts are slow and deep. His pubic bone brushing against your clit making you whine and squirm. Begging for more.

You're not sure how long he had fucked you like that.

You needed it to stop.

You couldn't handle it. The softness. His words.

I could die like this, Lass.

Your lip quivered as you told him you wanted to be on top. You needed a moment. A chance to create a bit of space before he shattered your world yet again.

He pulled out. His absence already making you ache for him again before he settled beside you.

You squatted above his cock. Your feet flat against the mattress as you grabbed his hardness and slipping it inside of you. The sound you let out was pornographic. A high pitched, soft moan slipping from your lips as he buried himself inside of you again.

You placed you hands on his chest. Using the leverage to ride him. Your arms serving as barrier for you to get your bearings.

You used his body just as he had used yours. Throwing your head back, you moved faster and faster. Readjusting so your hands went from his chest to his stomach, giving him a better view of your connecting bodies.

His hand slips between the two of you, thumb pressing against your clit, and you tighten even more around. A needy whimper coming out of your throat. The sound mixing in with the sounds of his labored breathing and slapping skin as he begins to fuck up into you.

Even though he had been doing all the work for the last several minutes, you felt the tension start to creep into your calf.

"Fuck fuck fuck." You screech, barely able to hold yourself up any longer. "Ow." You hissed as the cramp took hold.

"Leg cramp?" He asked, not even faltering in his thrusts. You pathetically nod before he takes it upon himself to flip you on your back again.

"I'm going to do this every chance I can." He promises, pressing a searing kiss onto your exposed neck. "Any chance you'll give me." You can't take it. His words, his mouth, his fucking cock. It's too much. "I'm going to show you how much I want you. How much I want to fucking worship ye. Do anything to make you feel good. Not going to leave you again like that, Bonnie."

You reach for him again, pull him into a searing kiss just to shut him up. You need him to shut up. You couldn't take his false promises. You wouldn't survive it. Couldn't.

"Shit." His thrusts quicken, his thumb returning to your swollen bud. Flicking it in a way he had crafted into an art. He buries his face into your neck and you know he's getting close.

You weren't too far behind.

He didn't want to come, not yet, but this was fully out of his control. It was pathetic. A week without sex and you had him nearly coming in the first ten minutes.

But that's what you want. To see him lost in the idea that you would stay.

"Johnny." You groan out. "Please. Cum inside me."

He draws fast, beautiful circles around your clit that immediately push you over the edge. You shut your eyes tight, squeezing him like a vice as you come in strong waves, continuing to push inside you.

in out in out in out.

Deliciously clenching around him tighter and tighter until he can't take it anymore.

"Fuck," he says again, and you see it in his face, and you see it in his face, the second it's all over for him. You want to sear the image in your head. Keep it there forever. Knowing you'll never see it again. The way those enchanting blue eyes squint nearly shut before closing in complete ecstacy.

His mouth would open. A moan caught in his throat that he isn't ready to let go.

His hand closes around your hip, holding you to him while he presses as far as he can go, and it's only then do you feel his cock twitch in quick, jerky movements. He moans out your name before taking your mouth into a searing kiss.

"I fucking love you." He says. "So fucking much."

He was still under the blanket when you returned from the bathroom. You picked up your clothes up from the floor. Looking at the clock realizing you had less than five minutes to get out the door before you would be late for dinner.

"What are you doing?" he asked. You couldn't look at him. Hearing the panic in his voice almost made you stop. Tell him it really was just dinner with a colleague. A woman. That you would be back. Beg him to wait until you came home.

"I can't cancel on the dinner." You said slipping your feet into your heels. "This was a mistake."

You weren't sure why you said it. You weren't sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. If you wanted to hurt him or make him think you regretted it when you would truthfully do it again. You would do it again and again. You would never stop.

Like Johnny, you could have died in that moment, but for a completely different. Where he would be content, you would be saved from the pain. The pain currently coursing throughout your very soul.

"Lock the door behind you." You say as you practically sprint out the bedroom. Only slowing in your stride to snatch your purse off the kitchen counter before running out. The door slamming behind you.

The restaurant was nicer than you expected. The wine alone was the price of an entree. You didn't seem to be phased at all and were relieved when Renée insisted on picking up the bill.

Your dinner had been delicious and the conversation even better. Renée wrote fantasy romance and wanted to pick your brain about a Why Choose. You had nearly spent out the over priced wine you weren't even really enjoying. Oh the irony.

"It's like all the rage now, but it's hard to make more than one appealing as the love interest. You should have seen the Goodreads comments on my last book. So many people bitched about my FMC not ending up with a character who was quite literally her adopted brother."

"So," you took a breath trying to find the words. "I'm going to be honest. I only read your latest book and I loved Luka. But I can't compare him to other MMCs you've written about so I don't know if they are similar or different. But what I can say is that I'm seeing like this trend of MMCs where they are all this dark-haired, brooding or mysterious character who dislikes mostly everyone and is only soft for either a select few or only the FMC."

"I think if you are going to write a Why Choose you need to think of guys you wouldn't mind falling in love with." You couldn't help, but think of what drew you to your boys. "One could be the leader. Someone who isn't afraid to have his neck on the line. To make sure everyone else is taken care of and being strong enough to handle the stress of that. He would be big on words of affirmation. Lifting the FMC up. For me, it would be someone that I know will take care of business. He's confident in his decision. That confidence would extend to me." You clear your throat. "If I was the FMC, that is."

"Okay." She nodded, pulling out a pen and notepad. "You don't mind if I-"

"I don't write about polygamy." Crossed that bridge. Currently trying to burn it. "So feel free."

"Another could be the one who it's so easy to fall in love with their charm. The one who falls to his knees. Wanting to worship every inch of her. The one who makes her laugh. That one to make her forget about the sadness that creeps into her bones. The one to hold her whenever he could. He's about quality time and physical touch."

"So different love languages." She said, her pen quickly scribbling.

"Yeah." You said, leaning forward. "Then there is the gift giver." Your mind went to Gaz. Most of the gifts and trinkets in the box sitting by your door had came from him. He had gotten you new earbuds when yours broke. When you were being harassed at your gym, he had bought you and him a membership at a different one. "The one who would give her the world if she asked for it. If you're going with a high fantasy then maybe the one to take note of something at a market that the FMC had been eyeing and he bought it for her. Just someone who takes notice like that."

"So acts of service would fall with all of them then you think?"

No. Simon had been the one who probably spent the least amount of money on you. He didn't praise you like John. He didn't even try to attach himself at your hip like Johnny.

But if you needed something fixed, he would come fix it himself. He'd be damned letting a strange man into your apartment. And alone? Fucking forget about it. The one who hated any sort of cardio activity outside of fucking you, but didn't hesitate in attempting to keep up with you when you wanted to go on a run and get some fresh air. If you needed something done, he didn't pay someone else to do it. He did it. If you wanted to do something, he made it happen. He made you safe.

You couldn't bring yourself to say explain it. Your eyes begin to itch. Warning you to think of something else.

So instead you just told her yeah. That they would all commit acts of service. And even in your hypothetical explanation of characters that haven't even been written yet, Simon was still the ghost among them.

"Lucky fucking girl." Renée said setting down her pen.

"Yeah." You said, downing the rest of your wine.

You walked home. The cool crisp wind feeling like it was whipping your exposed skin. It was soothing as the ghost of Johnny's touch still seemed to burn you.

You had hoped that you would get some closure, but you just felt hollow. You came twice and still manage to leave unsatisfied. Johnny wasn't malicious... he was Johnny. He wasn't like the others. Simon would never apologize and John and Kyle wouldn't try to keep reaching out after you told them know once.

Johnny couldn't stand you being mad at him. He never could. He would beg and beg for your forgiveness. You didn't regret fucking him one last time. He needed to know that you were well and truly done. There was no going back from this.

"Hey, Love!" You were pulled from your thoughts at the sound of a voice coming from a source you couldn't see. You perked up, quickly scanning the dimly lit street before your eyes settled on a cluster of shadows just across the street. "Yeah." The slurring voice said again. "Talking to you gorgeous!"

You resumed your trek home. Now picking up your pace. "Don't be like that! Where ya off to?" The voice followed you. You kept your gaze straight. You were three minutes away. Three minutes and you would be at your building.

Three minutes.

Three minutes.

"What's the rush?" Another voice joined the cacophony. "Just want to have a chat."

You turned. They were maybe twenty feet away. You kept your eyes glued to them as your started to make a run for it.

You had made it about ten feet before your body collided with someone. Firm hands gripped your upper arms, steading you as you threatened to fall back.

You sucked in a breath of air, ready to scream when you looked up. It was too dark to make out the man's facial features. He was tall. His head eclipsing the street lamp just behind him. You shook beneath his hands. The voices behind you now silent.

"Keep walking." You didn't need to see his face. You knew that deep timber voice anywhere. He released you from his grip before letting you pass him.

"Just wanted to have a chat." You heard one of them try to reason. "No harm done."

"No harm done yet." Was the last thing you heard Simon say before you broke out into a full fledged run.

Imagine you are a photographer for a well known news company, nbc, cbc, bbc, otherwise. You were handpicked to go into a war zone by your manager, to photograph and journal an ongoing conflict in urzikstan. Nervousness abound, you get on that damn plane anyway despite desperate pleas to find someone else, someone with more experience. hell, youve not done anything impressive in your career yet. how're you supposed to survive an active warzone?

this question rattles in your head the whole plane ride, through the shuddering turbulence, the security checkpoints and busy streets. Some deal was struck with people high up, and you are to embed with an a group led by commander Farah Karim and the 141.

The old heads at the office, the ones to document Iraq and Afghanistan back in the day, told you to bring three things;

caffeine pills, cigarettes and Kevlar.

❗️Reblogs get a fat kiss on the mouth ❗️

This isn’t the 141s first encounter with media, and instantly they can tell you are green as new spring. Nervous glances and body language, you still jump at the sound of gunfire and artillery. You even cover your ears when Helicopters fly low overhead and cough at the dust ups. Vest just a smidge too big, your helmet just a bit askew and gripping on that big old camera of yours like someone’s gonna try and take it away from you. You’re cute, they think. you're definitely going to die out here, they think. how the hell are you the reporter that's gonna be embedding with them? When you first meet to shake hands and exchange names, the biggest one looms over you.

“Stay out of our way and you wont get shot”

The CIA woman, Laswell has little to say outside of the regular talking points and media trained bullshit. You’ll report it anyway. You’re grateful to her for allowing your news agency this opportunity, thus, you the opportunity, not that being here doesn't scare you to death. You sense she does have your back though, when the grunts get rowdy she keeps them off your case with stern talking to’s. Part of you is feeling like your watching generation kill unfold in real life, complete with all the unsavouriness. you sneak some pics, and take some notes. As the platoon mobilizes, the rumble of old Humvee's and APCs accompanied by the chemical stench of burning gasoline, she hands you a wooden box. You shake it, hearing it rattle. She cringes at that a bit, and you understand why when you open it. cigars? “Use these only in special occasions” she says, with a secret smile. She only allows a rather plain photo of her in front of the canvas flap of a tent you aren't allowed into.

Farah is a fascinating woman, steadfast and straightforward, she lives for the freedom of her people. Always with her people too, her right hand with one leg at least. A sharp focus, true, deep running determination. A tried and true leader. She lets you take a photo of her and her right hand at golden hour. With the man standing guard in the background, she leans against a Humvee in the foreground, the burning cherry of the cigarette between her lips reflecting in her eyes like fire, Kalashnikov propped up on her hip. She lets you fire it too, as the evening goes on. Your shoulder is bruised for the next five days. She finds humour in this.

You only get initials from the SAS men. You were warned they would be highly secretive, not like the grunts who love to talk. you don’t even get names, just ranks and nicknames, even the nicknames are pushing your luck. They laugh at you when you jump at every blast, genuine glee as they gladly take the cigarettes you have on hand as peace offerings and relax as if the bombs were simply no biggie. To them, they probably weren’t. Just another Tuesday. "how the hell did you end up out here? don't seem up to it" the one with the mohawk asks, leaning back as if he were in a beach chair at a warm, sunny resort. the way the smoke floated up through the air in the sunshine made it almost seem like he was. "i think my managers are trying to off me or something man" you exhale, voice shaky as more heavy gunfire makes you jump.

Before it all happened it surprised you a bit when the one Sargent seemed almost angry that your vest didn’t fit properly, demanding tape to make it fit better. Applied it his damn self too. Now They lead you around the war zone by the scruff of your Kevlar, manhandling you behind cover as you do your job taking pictures of the bombs and guns and bodies.

Does anything really prepare you for the smell of war? Is it covered in their training? Chemicals, fire and copper. Stench of bodies left to rot, dissolve in dark fluids under the hot sun. shit. ammonia. dust. Followed by the hours of driving, driving, driving. Sitting, sitting, sitting. Thinking. They don’t let you look at the bodies you pass on the roads too long, yanking you back from the windows. The SAS guys talk to you in exchange for their nicotine hits, over brown pouches of food. trivial shit, stories and banter mostly. In the low light of the evening, the skies dusky pink over the mountains, you scribble in your little journal, leaning against the metal door of the humvee. the first thing you write? MRE's suck.

Sargent G, “Gaz”, is strikingly handsome. You can’t help but let that be your first thought, after he yanks you behind cover and knocks you off balance. “Stay out of sight” he hisses. “Yes. Sorry” that was your first meeting. You meet again just minutes later, ducking together behind a concrete banister. The dust in the air is making you sneeze, and he pats your back wordlessly. That’s when you hear more shots, and the sickening sound of a ceramic plate cracking, a man hollering in pain. Gaz wastes no time yelling for suppressing fire, running out into the open to drag this fallen… you can’t even call him a man, just a boy really, to safety. You tail him, photographing the fireman’s carry he sustains the whole way out of the hot zone. He does politely ask to see the photos you took once the man is being cared for by the corpsmen, his moans ebbing now with painkillers to ease him. Hours later and covered in dirt, exhausted, panting, downing water by the bottle he hand picks his favorite. “This one?” You ask, pointing to the screen on your camera. “Yeah. That one’s mint” he smiles brightly. A photo of him clouded in dust, the hot sun beating down as he carries his fellow to safety. Around him, you can see where bullets strike the dirt. The other soldiers blood seeps into his own uniform.

Sargent M, “soap”, the Scot, is the most chatty but that’s a low fucking bar to clear. you imagine he was once an extrovert and liken him to a buzzing fly, hovering with the constant request of bumming a cig. At one point during a particularly stressful, moonless night where the constant artillery fire rocks your core until you can’t stop trembling, you give up and just hand him a whole pack. he does grin at that. "bought yer-self a friend now, aye?" You lie prone, just feet apart in the arid grass, mere inches of micro terrain to protect you, and he whispers in the dark. You write by the low light of the distant fires, scribbling chicken scratch to keep up. Some call it soft balling, you call it finding the heart beating under the plate carrier. His gravelly Scottish lilt carries through the chill, you can see his breath as he talks. A man with no family ties back home and barely concealed anger at the treatment of the enemy to the civilians of urzikstan. Your blood boiled too, but it wasn’t your job to be angry, merely to document. It wasn’t your job to criticize, make moral stances or suggestions. Your bosses probably intended you to write a propaganda piece anyway. it was hard to say nothing, do nothing, but your job was to keep your mouth shut and document. Document you did. Descriptions of true atrocities float into the dark and onto the page, your mind conjuring the images. A glimpse into the abyss. You take a picture of him there, lying on his side in the sand. These men don’t smile for photos, but he gives a thumbs up, your arm extended into the picture as you light his next cig of the night. Maybe you’d get one to smile for you someday.

You meet the lieutenant in the morning. You don’t get an initial. Sargent M tells you his nickname is “ghost”. The first thing he says to you is that if you try to take a picture of him, he will destroy your camera himself. You heed the warning and keep him out of your shots, much to your disappointment. Guys a fucking tank. He’s massive. He wears all black, now spattered brownish from dirt. He’s the only one who won’t accept your cigarette peace offerings. And the mask. No one will ever believe you, a guy running around a war zone in a fucking skull mask. he would be a fucking fantastic subject. But, you stay out of his way, and do your job. then there was a skirmish. You saw too much that day, sustained stress over the last few weeks was eating you alive. Worse, your photos and notes today were turning out shit because of the tremors in your hands, throwing gas onto the stress wildfire consuming you whole. Your stress is making the others stressed, their stress is making yours worse, and you know its your fault which makes it worse. caught in a Feedback loop. “Little army humour?” for a second, you blank. was he talking to you? “Huh?” you breathe, barely the sound of bullets flying, making you flinch. he hardly moves. “what do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?” you raise an eyebrow. "a seasoned veteran" “that... was fuckin awful” you say, so why do you laugh anyway? why do you feel a bit better? "do you get used to it?" "used to what?" You pause, thinking a bit. "I know you get used to the chaos, clearly" you gesture vaguely at him. "but when?" he shrugs. "when you need to." you decide to respect his wishes not to be photographed.

The captain, you heard his call sign was bravo 6 on their radios that you probably weren't technically supposed to be listening to. Guys interesting. Has a developed a Pavlovian response to your presence, in which, he always ends up politely but gruffly asking for a cigar. Doesn’t do the caffeine pills like the sargents, drinks actual coffee. This was about all you knew about the guy for a while because man dodged questions like matrix bullets. He was just as bad as Laswell. either stern silence or a media trained script recital. One time you bitterly joked that he could have been an actor in another life. There is one thing you could get out of him though. a topic of conversation struck up as you jostled around in the back of the Humvee a few days back, bumping sweaty elbows with the smelly Sargent soap. “Who brought the Metallica CD?” You had questioned, more out of boredom than anything else. listening to The Unforgiven play over the shitty, borderline antique and deeply abused tinny radio felt like a disservice to the song. There was a shine in his eye as he looked back at you from his seat in the front. That was your ticket in. That was weeks ago.

“I can’t answer that” he rumbles, breathing out smoke in the front seat. You pause between sips of your water. Still not answering all your questions, You’d gotten scant much out of him outside of trivial shit. He liked Metallica, and his favorite song was ONE. His favourite Gatorade was “the blue one”. which blue one? "the blue one". He did talk your ear off about the intricacies of cigars one morning over his absolute war crime to the taste buds coffee he brewed, but you were bored out of your skull by it. well, you understood why Mrs Laswell gave you those now. Creature comforts. They must be friends. You sigh out a pfft, before slapping your thighs. You were running out of time, they had orders to head straight into a hot zone, casevac helicopters had been flying over all day. you needed distraction from the anxiety chewing up your gut. “Alright. I have a real heavy hitter now. Answer honestly” you leaned in, mustering the most serious face you could. He simply hummed.

“What are your thoughts on the snare drum in st anger?” You leaned back in victory as he finally cracked a smirk, you could see it in the way his beard quirked up. “To answer your question.” He says, after a breath to shove that smile back down. “I don’t think about the snare drum in st anger. Try my best to pretend that album never happened” You hum, acting as if you just asked a real hard ball question and taking fake notes, just scribbling. “Would you say it sounds more like hitting a trash can with a metal pipe, or a child getting nailed in the face with a PVC dodgeball?” The broken sound of a buried laugh signaled your victory, and you snapped your pic before he could strangle it back down. capturing the crinkle around his eyes, some teeth in the grin. he coughed and waved you away. “No, please, get rid of that one.” He pleaded. nah, you figured.

there was still time to snap some more, you think, taking a shaky breath.

CALL OF DUTY

** means nsfw / smut (18+ content)

below are writings based in this fandom <3

coming soon !!