Quill•Craft•Conquer

Welcome to my blog. I'm Quill (she/her), and I write Task Force 141 fanfiction. If you enjoy stories with angst, smut, and complex characters, you're in the right place.

My fics contain mature content (MDNI 18+), including heavy themes and explicit material. I do my best to include trigger warnings, but please read with care.

I'm always open to suggestions or hearing your thoughts on my work. Feel free to send me asks, requests, or just chat about Task Force 141.

Happy reading!

Headcanons / Blurbs

Mandated Physicals

Hide & Seek

Favorite Positions

Foreplay

Ailments

Take It

Kinks

Simon Headcanons

John Price

John x Ex Wife Series (COMPLETED)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

John x Reader

Simon Riley (Ghost)

Simon x Reader

Simon x Vet Reader

Beneath Us Series (WIP)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Watchdog: Simon x K9 Series (WIP)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

John "Soap" MacTavish

John x Reader (COMPLETED)

John x Reader Part 2

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Gaz x Male Reader

The knock is so soft, Simon barely heard it at first.

He’s halfway sunk into the battered couch in his flat, television droning low in the background while rain taps against the windows. His shoulder aches beneath the sling, a deep, hot throb that painkillers only dull around the edges. Rotator cuff surgery, the surgeon had said. Light duty for weeks.

Weeks.

Another knock sounds, more hesitant this time.

Simon drags himself upright with a grunt, rubbing tired fingers down his face. Whoever’s outside gets three seconds before he sends them off.

He unlocks the door and pulls it open.

“Well, hi!”

The female sergeant, assigned to assist Price with interpretations for the next few months, beams up at him. Thick jacket zipped to her chin, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tangled from the rain. One bag hangs from each wrist.

Simon stares.

She smiles wider.

“Price said you could use some dinner delivered.”

His brow furrows instantly. “Price told you where I live?” 

“I brought dinner,” she says brightly, lifting the bags a little. “Well. Frozen dinner. Price said you like Shepard’s pie. He gave me the recipe.” 

Simon blinks once, then again. Nobody brings him dinner.

Rainwater drips from the hem of her jacket onto the hallway floor while she waits patiently for him to process the interaction. She beams right back at him, entirely unaffected by the fact he’s standing there, looming, half-dressed with one arm in a sling and a face beat up enough to frighten most grown men.

“I can heat it up for you?” she offers.

 Simon’s brows pull together.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She lifts one shoulder in a light hearted shrug.

“…Fine,” Simon mutters at last, stepping aside.

“Wonderful.”

Simon shuts the door slowly behind her, suddenly aware of every unwashed dish in the sink and the fact his flat looks exactly like what it is: the home of a man who spends most of his life deployed.

She sets the grocery bags on the counter and starts unpacking things. Frozen shepherd’s pie, bread rolls, and a small container of cut fruit.

She grabs the box and squints at the instructions.

“200 celsius?” She mumbles, glancing at the oven dials.

Simon walks over reluctantly, reaching past her with his good arm to turn the dial.

“Two hundred degrees.”

“In American?”

“Hot.”

“That means nothing to me.”

Simon glances down at her, close enough now to smell rainwater and whatever floral shampoo she uses. Then, before Simon can process what she’s doing, she starts rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.

“I can do a few chores while it cooks.”

Simon straightens immediately. “No.”

“It’s just dishes.”

“I said no.”

Simon watches, genuinely dumbfounded now, as she starts rinsing out a mug.

“You don’t need to clean my flat.”

“I don't mind. Besides,” she says brightly, “you physically can’t stop me right now.”

“I can.”

“You’ve got one arm.”

“I only need one.”

She looked back at him briefly at that, hands still beneath the running water. “Mm.” 

Simon stood rigid near the kitchen doorway, watching carefully as she rinsed the mug and set it neatly beside the drying rack. Simon liked things where he left them. Now, she was in his kitchen touching dishes he hadn’t expected anyone else to touch. Opening cabinets. Moving through rooms that belonged solely to him.

His jaw tightened faintly.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said again.

“I know.”

She dried her hands on a towel she found hanging near the stove.

“I just figured it’s harder with your shoulder.”

He gave a short nod instead of answering.

She moved around the kitchen again, opening one cabinet carefully before closing it again, then another, searching.

Simon watched her from the doorway.

Every soft click of a cabinet door scraped against something taut in him. Someone in his space. Touching his things.

She finally found the plates in the cabinet above the sink. “There they are.”

Only the stovetop light and the television in the other room illuminated anything. The rest sat in deep shadow, rain streaking faintly across black windows.

She glanced around once. “How do you see anything in here?”

Before he could answer, she flicked on the kitchen light, and warm yellow flooded the room instantly.

Simon blinked hard at the sudden brightness.

“There,” she murmured. “That’s better.”

It wasn’t.

The scars crossing his chest, the sling. The exhaustion carved into his face after weeks stuck inside this flat recovering while the rest of the team worked.

Her gaze flicked toward him only briefly before returning to the plates.

Simon suddenly became acutely aware that he was standing there shirtless except for the sling strapped across his torso.

Christ.

He cleared his throat roughly. “Sorry.”

She looked up. “For what?”

Simon gestured vaguely at himself with his good arm, already turning away. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

Her expression softened slightly in understanding. “You’re okay.”

He grunted something noncommittal and headed down the short hallway toward his bedroom. The moment the door shut behind him, silence swallowed the room whole. Simon stood there motionless, then leaned back heavily against the door with a slow exhale.

His heart was beating too fast.

The tightness in his chest, the faint buzz beneath his skin. His body wound taut with the same alertness that usually came before breaching a room or hearing gunfire crack over comms.

Except there was no threat.

Just a woman in his kitchen heating shepherd’s pie.

Simon scrubbed a hand down his face, staring at the dark floorboards of his bedroom. This was ridiculous.

He had crawled through buildings rigged with explosives. Slept in dirt beside men bleeding out into his hands. Walked calmly through firefights with less adrenaline than what currently sat lodged beneath his ribs.

Yet, somehow, a coworker rummaging through cabinets in his flat had him feeling trapped.

He crossed toward the dresser, fumbling one-handed for a shirt. The movement pulled sharply against his shoulder, pain flaring hot enough to force him still for a second.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Pulling a shirt on one-handed proved irritating enough to ground him again. The movement tugged painfully against his shoulder, forcing him to stop halfway through and grit his teeth until the ache subsided. He adjusted the sling carefully and stepped back into the hallway. Simon rounded the corner quietly and stopped.

One hand held the tied trash bag loosely at her side. The other adjusted the sleeve of her coat as she glanced toward the counter, making sure everything was in place.

His dinner sat plated neatly beside the stove, fork set carefully beside the plate, the small fruit cup placed next to it.

Simon’s gaze flicked from the plate to the trash bag in her hand.

“You didn’t have to take that.”

“It’s on my way out.”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“I should get going,” she said after a moment. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

Simon just stared at her.

“Price said you’re stuck on light duty for a few more weeks,” she said. “I can bring something else by in a couple days, if you want.”

Simon’s mind stalled briefly on the words, like she already planned on coming back.

Some instinctive part of him wanted to shut it down immediately. Say no. Rebuild the distance before his heart started to race again at the thought of someone in his space.

“…Okay,” he said. 

“Okay,” she echoed gently, reaching for the doorknob. “Get some rest, Lieutenant.” 

The door opened, letting cold rain-scented air drift briefly into the flat. Simon stood motionless for several seconds staring at the closed door, listening to the faint sound of her footsteps disappearing down the corridor.

Simon lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs, shoulder throbbing dully beneath the sling.

For a long moment he simply sat there, staring at the sticky note next to the plate.

His brow furrowed slightly as he picked it up with his good hand.

A phone number written in neat handwriting, and beside it, a small smiley face.

Simon stared at it for several long seconds.

TW: explicit sexual content, voyeurism/exhibitionism, blindfold kink, rough sex, dominance/possession themes, strong language.

“I think,” Ghost said, almost to himself, “I like being watched.”

You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “...You what?”

His head tilted slightly, mask rustling as he sighed. “When I’m with someone. You. I don’t know. Maybe I like knowing someone’s paying attention.”

Your brow furrowed. “You like being watched?” You couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that slipped out. “Simon, you wear a mask. You can’t even stand taking your balaclava off around most people.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck, “that’s why it’s bloody confusing.”

You leaned in, teasing, genuinely curious. “Okay, so... who exactly is watching you in this little scenario?”

His shoulders tensed immediately. “Christ, don’t make me spell it out.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making you spell it out.” You smirked. “Is it like... someone random? Or someone you know? Or—”

He looked away, ears turning pink as he pulled the mask the rest of the way down his face, hiding his embarrassment. The room went quiet for a long moment, your heart doing a strange little flutter before you could stop it.

You grinned softly. “So the big bad Ghost likes being watched.”

He groaned, tipping his head back. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Absolutely,” you said, leaning closer until your knee brushed his. “I just didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted the gloves on his hands and stared at the floor. Silence stretched long enough that you caught the faintest tremor in his breath.

“You know… I might be okay with that.” You said softly.

His head snapped up. “What?”

You shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, though your pulse was quickening. “If it’s something you really wanted. We could… find someone.”

He leaned forward slightly, huffing out a laugh. “I was thinking out loud, not puttin’ in a bloody request.”

You bit your lip to hide your grin. “So… not a no, then?”

He made a low sound in his throat, the kind that meant he was wrestling with himself. Finally, Ghost muttered, “Hell… if I say yes, what happens then?”

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “We find someone, I suppose.”

“Find someone? Who?”

“Does it matter?” You shrugged.

“...No.” Ghost said quietly.

“Then I’ll find someone.”

He stared at you for a long moment before letting out a strained laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, mask shifting slightly with the movement. There was another pause, then a sigh. “Alright. Fine. If you think it’s a good idea.”

“Good,” you said softly, brushing your fingers over his arm. “I’ll handle it.”

______

Soap sat at the workbench, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the rhythmic clink of tools filling the silence. You hovered by the doorway for a moment before speaking.

“Johnny.”

He hummed without looking up. “Aye?”

“Would you want to watch Ghost and me?”

He blinked up at you, utterly lost. “Watch you?”

“Fuck. Watch us fuck,” you said easily. “I told him I’d find someone.”

The wrench slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a sharp clang. Soap stared, the color drained from his face, then came flooding right back. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the door like Ghost might materialize any second. “Christ, lass… that’s not somethin’ you just ask a man outta nowhere.”

You smiled, just a little. “I trust you.”

He laughed under his breath in disbelief. “That’s rich. You’ve lost your mind.”

“It was his idea,” you said softly. “He wouldn’t know it was you.”

Soap froze. “...Wouldn’t know it was me?”

You nodded. “He said it didn’t matter who.”

That earned you a long, heavy silence. He kept his eyes on the table, hands tightening around the edge until the tendons showed pale against his skin.

“You’re askin’ me to do somethin’ daft, you know that.”

“I know.”

He blew out a long breath, still not looking at you. “If Ghost ever finds out—”

“He won’t.”

With a defeated sort of exhale, Soap muttered, “Bloody hell. I must be outta my mind.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He hesitated again, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Aye. Guess it is.”

___

Ghost paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. “You’re serious about this?”

You smiled softly, holding the strip of dark fabric between your fingers. “You said you trusted me.”

He let out a sigh, still uncertain. “I trust you. Doesn’t mean I like walkin’ into somethin’ blind.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You stepped closer, the lamplight catching the edge of his jaw. “Just relax. I promise, nothing bad’s going to happen.”

“That what you tell all your victims?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

For all his size and presence, he seemed almost… shy as you guided him into the room. The room was quiet except for the soft shuffle of boots against the rug. You reached up, gently pressing the blindfold over his eyes. He stiffened at first, instinctively ready to pull away, then stopped himself.

“There,” you murmured, tying it behind his head. “Not so bad, is it?”

He tilted his head, testing the darkness. “Depends what happens next.”

“Next,” you said lightly, “Whatever you want. You don’t peek.”

A faint smirk touched his voice. “You’re enjoyin’ this.”

“Maybe a little.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your arm, finding you in the dark. “Whatever I want?”

Your pulse kicked. “That’s what I said.”

He moved faster than you expected, one hand at your waist guiding you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sank down, the mattress dipping beneath you, and he followed, weight pressing into you until you could feel the warmth of him even through your clothes.

The blindfold stayed in place, a thin strip of fabric hiding the feral look you knew he’d have if he could see. His breath came out uneven, lips parted as if he were trying to find you through sound alone.

His palm found your shoulder, tracing up to your neck, mapping the shape of you in silence. When his fingers reached your jaw, he hesitated only a beat before lowering his head.

The first brush of his mouth was searching, then it deepened, consuming you. You felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against your chest, his breath catching when your hands slid up to his hair. The blindfold shifted as he leaned closer, a groan escaping when you tugged him back into another kiss.

He pulled away just enough to murmur, “You know I can’t see a thing, yeah?”

You smiled against his lips. “That’s the point.”

He tilted his head slightly, listening the way soldiers do when they can’t see. “Feels like… someone’s watchin’.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward the far corner of the room where Johnny sat frozen in a chair, elbows on his knees, gaze darting between you both like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“They are,” you said finally.

Ghost stilled, every muscle in his body going rigid. “Who?”

“Someone’s watching,” you repeated. You brushed your fingers along his jaw, stopping him before he could pull away. “But you don’t have to see them. You just have to trust me.”

He swallowed hard, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, and then his hand found your face again, thumb skimming your cheek as he kissed you.

Across the room, Johnny shifted once, the faint scrape of the chair legs against the floor. Ghost’s head swiveled to the noise, then back down to you. Ghost reached up, his hands finding the hem of your shirt. He slowly pulled it off, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine as he did so.

"Who's there?" Ghost asked again, his voice low and husky. You didn't answer, instead reaching for the button of your pants. Ghost's hands found yours, stopping you. 

"Let me," he said, undoing the button and the zipper. His fingers brushed against your skin, making you shiver.

He pulled your pants off your body, flinging them behind him. Soap caught them mid air, staring at them for a moment before letting them drop to the ground. His eyes met yours again, eyebrows knitted like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be here. You only nodded at him once, refocusing on Ghost. His hands roamed your body, exploring, teasing. 

He found your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your nipples, making you gasp. He leaned up, his lips capturing yours in a fierce, passionate kiss. You responded eagerly, your hands tangling in his hair.

Ghost broke away, his lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, until he reached your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, making you moan. He moved to the other, giving it the same attention, his hands roaming your body.

In the corner of the room, Johnny watched, his eyes dark with lust. He adjusted himself, his cock straining against his pants, but he didn't move, content to watch the scene unfold.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against Ghost's chest. You could feel the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the steady beat of his heart. Ghost's breath hitched at the touch, a small, almost imperceptible sound.

 "Fuck," he groaned, his voice ragged. "Keep touching me. "

You accepted Ghost's invitation, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs. You could feel Ghost's body tense under your touch, his breath coming in short, rough gasps. 

"You like that, don't you?" you asked, your voice laced with desire. "You like my touch?"

Ghost's hands reached out and grabbed your wrists. He guided your hands to his belt, his breath hitching again as your fingers brushed against his stomach. "I fucking love it," he growled. "But I want more. I want to taste you."

You undid the belt, the buckle clinking loudly in the silent room. You could feel Ghost's body tense as you slid the belt off, the leather whispering against the denim of his jeans. 

"Then taste me," you said, your voice laced with challenge. "Taste every inch of me."

Ghost's hands left your wrists, moving to your thighs. He grabbed them, pulling them apart. You gasped, your body tensing at the sudden movement. 

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groaned, his fingers brushing against your damp panties. "I can feel it, even through your panties."

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan. "Then take them off," you said, your voice ragged with need. "Taste me, like you said you wanted to."

Ghost didn't need to be told twice. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down. You lifted your hips to move out of them. Ghost leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. You grabbed Ghost's hair, guiding him to where you wanted him. Ghost leaned in further, his mouth finding its mark. You gasped, your body tensing as Ghost's tongue found its rhythm. You could feel Ghost's hands, firm and steady, holding your thighs apart, keeping you in place. 

"Fuck, Simon," you moaned, your body writhing with pleasure. "Just like that. Don't stop."

Ghost's tongue flicked against your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing with anticipation. 

"Fuck, I'm close," you panted, your fingers tightening in Ghost's hair. "Make me come, please."

Ghost redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking against your clit with renewed vigor. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing with anticipation.

Your body convulsed with pleasure, your orgasm washing over you in waves. You could feel Ghost's tongue, still moving, still tasting, still pleasuring. You let out a final moan, your body going limp with satisfaction.

Ghost sat back, his face glistening with your pleasure. He licked his lips, a satisfied grin on his face. "Fuck, you taste good," he said, his voice laced with desire. "I could do that all night."

Soap leaned against the chair, dog tags chiming softly as he palmed himself through his jeans. The twitch in his jaw gave away how badly he wanted to touch. You shot him a look: stay. He answered by popping his button fly open just far enough for the thick line of his cock to press up against the zipper teeth. He let out a moan as he freed himself, already slick at the tip.

His hand moved rhythmically, and your heart raced, a mix of surprise and arousal coursing through you. You can't help but bite your lip, watching him, feeling a strange connection in the shared moment of intimacy.

Suddenly, Ghost's hands gripped your hips, pulling you against him. You gasped, your body tensing as he entered you roughly. He sets a punishing pace, his fingers digging into your flesh, marking you. You can feel his breath hot on your neck, his grunts and moans filling your ears.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I love how you take me, every fucking inch." His words send shivers down your spine, and you push back against him, meeting his thrusts.

He grinned, a feral smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "You like that, don't you?" he said, his voice laced with desire. "You like it when I fuck you hard."

You can feel every inch of him, filling you, stretching you. Your body responds, your hips rising to greet him. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body covered in a sheen of sweat.

Ghost leans down, his lips finding your neck, sucking, biting, marking you. 

"You're mine," he growled, his voice possessive. "Every fucking inch of you is mine."

Suddenly, you hear a soft “...fuck” from across the room. You glanced over, your eyes meeting Soap's. He's watching you, his hand still moving, his eyes filled with pleasure. He bites his lip, his eyes locked onto yours, and you can see the struggle in his face. He's trying to stay silent, but you can see the effort it's taking.

Ghost follows the sound, a smirk playing on his lips.

 "Look at him," he says, his voice a low purr. "Johnny loves watching you like this. You're driving him crazy." He leans back, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles that match his thrusts. 

"Come for him," he demands, his voice a command. "Show him what I do to you."

Your body responds to his words, your orgasm building, your body tensing. You can see Soap's body tense as well, his hand moving faster, his breath coming in short gasps. Ghost leans down, his lips finding yours, swallowing your cries as your orgasm crashes through you. You can feel him follow soon after, his body tensing, his breath ragged. He collapses against you, his body shaking, his heart pounding in your ear. 

"Fuck," he whispers, his voice filled with satisfaction. "You're incredible."

Across the room, Soap lets out a groan, his body convulsing as he finds his release. He collapses back against the wall, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

Ghost, still buried deep within you, reaches up and pulls the blindfold from his eyes. He blinks, adjusting to the light, his gaze immediately drawn to Soap across the room. Soap remains oblivious to it, his eyes still closed in bliss. Ghost's expression hardens, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone.

"Get the fuck out, Johnny," Ghost growls, his voice a rumble. "Now." 

Soap's eyes snap open, meeting Ghost's gaze. He swallows hard, pushing off from the chair, his body stiff. 

"Yes, LT," he says. He turns, leaving the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

You lay there for a long moment after the door clicks shut, your pulse still hammering. Ghost stays where he was, one hand still braced beside your head, the other dragging down his face.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, exhaling a groan.

 “I didn’t know who else to ask,” you admitted. “You said you wanted someone to watch, and I just—”

Ghost laughed, the sound vibrating in his chest. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, still chuckling under his breath.

“It’s alright, love,” he said softly. “Maybe next time, I’ll let him join, yeah?”

You nodded, watching as he reached over to grab the blindfold from where it had fallen, twirling it once between his fingers.

“Hell of a night,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said, lowering your hands, a smile still tugging at your lips. “But you can’t say it was boring.”

Price hadn’t spoken since boarding. He’d nodded once in acknowledgment when you took the seat beside him, then gone back to watching the clouds through half-lidded eyes. His hands were folded loosely on his lap; the wedding band caught the cabin light each time the plane shifted.

The folder lay open on the tray table between you, Laswell’s printed cover story and blank lines where the file left room for improvisation.

You cleared your throat. “Laswell said to practice the personal details.”

Price didn’t look away from the window. “Go on, then.”

You hesitated. “You want me to ask, or—”

He gestured slightly with two fingers. “You start.”

You studied the page. “All right. How’d we meet?”

He leaned back in his seat. “Work. You were translating for a contractor I was assigned to. One thing led to another.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

You snorted. “Romantic.”

“Believable,” he corrected.

You nodded, jotting a note. “Fine. How long have we been married?”

“One year,” he said automatically. “Long enough to stop trying to impress each other.”

“You thought that through.” You noted, writing it down.

“I think most things through.”

“Fair point.” You flipped the page. “Why’d we move to Breznik?”

He exhaled slowly. “Job offer. Cheaper rent. We wanted quiet.”

“We?”

He gave a faint shrug. “Married people are supposed to sound plural.”

The plane hit a patch of turbulence, rattling the tray table, and his hand came up, steadying your cup without looking. Then back to the window.

You tried again, voice lighter. “All right. Your turn. Why’d you marry me?

For a moment, he didn’t move. His thumb traced the edge of the gold band on his finger, turning it once, twice. His hand stilled, and he looked out the window. The clouds outside were silver in the cabin light, the horizon a faint, bruised blue.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

You waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes on the window, jaw set. The faint reflection of his face in the glass looked older than the one sitting beside you.

You nodded once, pen hovering over the folder. “All right,” you said softly. “Then I’ll make something up.”

He hummed once, low in his chest, and it faded back into the hum of the engines.

You looked down at the list Laswell had left. “Children?”

“Fuck no.”

He didn’t glance your way, just turned the ring again, jaw tight.

“Noted,” you said softly.

You moved on. “Pets?”

“No time for them.”

“Favorite food?”

He hesitated, then said, “Whatever’s hot.”

You looked up again, smiling. “You’re going to make us sound very boring.”

“Good.”

You marked the answer anyway. “All right, last one,” you said, glancing at him. “What’s the first thing you notice about your wife?”

For the first time since takeoff, he really looked at you. His gaze traveled slowly, searching your face, as if he were trying to memorize details for a report. The curve of your mouth, the faint shadow beneath your eyes, the way your hair had come loose from behind your ear. You held still under it, unsure whether to meet his eyes or look away.

“Your smile,” he said.

You blinked, uncertain if he was serious. “My smile?”

He gave a faint shrug, still watching you. “It’s the first thing people notice. Makes sense that I’d notice it too.”

You lowered your gaze, writing the answer down. Her smile.

When you looked up again, Price had already reached for the folder, pulling it toward him. “My turn,” he said, flipping through the pages with the edge of one broad thumb.

“You’re taking this seriously now?” you asked, trying for lightness.

He skimmed until something caught his eye. “Right. What’s your husband’s favorite thing to do on a day off?”

You leaned back, pretending to think. “He doesn’t really take days off. But when he does, he wakes up early, makes coffee, sits somewhere quiet before the rest of the world catches up.”

That drew the smallest nod from him. “Reasonable.”

He turned another page. “First argument?”

“Over who forgot to lock the door.”

He exhaled faintly through his nose. “That’ll do.” He kept going. “Favorite food?”

“Chinese,” you said automatically. 

He nodded once, making a short note in the margin, then turned the folder toward himself again. His eyes flicked down the list, scanning until the end. You thought he was finished when he spoke again,

“How many languages can you interpret?”

You frowned slightly. “That’s not on the form.”

He glanced up at you, the edge of a smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. “I know. Just curious.”

“Twelve,” you said.

His brows lifted a fraction, just enough to register surprise. “Twelve,” he repeated, leaning back a little.

You nodded. “Fluent in eight. Conversational in the rest. It’s not as impressive as it sounds, some overlap.”

“Still,” he said, “that’s more than most.”

You tilted your head, studying him in return. “How many do you speak?”

He let out a chuckle, but didn’t answer.

“Oh, come on,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “You can’t ask me that and then go silent.”

“I can,” he said dryly. “And I just did.”

You huffed, amused. “Fine. Let me guess, English and bad French.”

He grinned, eyes still on the window. “Bad’s generous.”

You folded the folder closed between you, smoothing the crease with your thumb. “Guess that’s all Laswell wanted us to know.”

Price nodded, still looking out at the clouds. “People don't need to know half of what Laswell tells us anyway.”

“You included?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Especially me.”

You sat there for a long moment, the plane gliding steady through the dark. His reflection in the window was faint but close enough that you could see the curve of that half-smile before it faded again.

The flat smelled faintly of old plaster and boiled coffee. Breznik’s streets still echoed with noise somewhere below. A faint hum of laughter, music, the occasional shout from the square. The building was narrow, pressed between a grocer and a tailor’s shop, with a peeling green façade that had probably looked the same for fifty years.

Price hauled both suitcases up the stairs, one in each hand, while you balanced a paper folder and the apartment key that stuck every time you turned it. The hallway lights flickered twice before catching.

“Bit of a fixer-upper,” he muttered, shouldering the door open.

The place was small, a kitchenette tucked behind a short wall, a sagging couch facing a narrow window that looked out onto the square, two doors leading off to what must have been a bedroom and a cramped bath.

You stepped inside first, switching on the light. “Could be worse,” you said.

“Could be bigger.”

“Or cleaner.”

He grunted, setting the bags down near the table. “One thing at a time.”

Before you could reply, a sharp knock rattled the half-open door. A man stood there, broad-shouldered, middle-aged, with sleeves rolled up and a grin already in place. His hair was going grey at the temples, his nose a little crooked from an old break.

“Ah, the new tenants,” he said Breznik dialect. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

You returned the greeting easily, matching his tone. “We had a delay. The flight came in late.”

“Mm, yes,” he said, waving a hand. “Always late. I am Marko. I own the building. My cousin said you are good people. I hope you are tidy people also.”

You translated for Price, who stood slightly behind you, expression blank.

“Marko says he’s glad we finally arrived,” you said. “And that he hopes we don’t make a mess.”

Marko chuckled, clearly charmed by your accent. “Ah, she speaks like a local,” he said. “Beautiful sound. Not from the capital, eh?”

“No,” you said lightly. “A small town near the border.”

“Good, good. City people talk too fast.” He turned to Price, switching to broken English. “You are lucky man.”

“So they tell me.”

You bit back a smile and filled in the gaps, explaining that you’d already transferred the deposit and that you’d be staying only a few months. Marko waved it off with a grin. “Stay as long as you like. The pipes rattle, but they still work.”

You nodded, and he looked between you and Price again, amused. “You two are shy, I think. Couples are always shy at first.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks and gave a small laugh, embarrassed. “We travel a lot. Not used to staying still.”

“Ahh,” Marko said, wagging a finger. “Then maybe you learn to rest. The bed, it squeaks, but that is good luck.”

Price made a sound, not quite a laugh, but the sort of exhale that meant he was trying not to. Marko eventually clapped him on the shoulder, left you both with a set of spare keys, and disappeared down the stairs humming something under his breath.

You closed the door behind him, twisting the lock until it clicked. The echo of Marko’s humming faded down the stairwell, leaving only the hum of the old refrigerator and the faint music drifting in from the square below.

Before you could even turn around, Price was already sliding the ring from his finger. The metal made a soft scrape against his knuckle before he set it on the table beside the keys.

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t even wait a minute.”

He glanced over, one corner of his mouth pulling upward. “Old habit,” he said dryly. “Never been eager to keep one on.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he’d already moved on, pulling out a stack of folded shirts, checking the dresser drawers for dust. You watched him for a moment longer, curiosity prickling at the edges of your mind..

You moved to unpack your own bag, setting a few things on the small dresser across the room. The sound of your zippers filled the space between you.

“Marko’s right,” you said after a moment, trying to bridge the quiet. “The bed does squeak.”

Price glanced over, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Good luck charm, wasn’t it?”

“So he says.”

He folded the last of his clothes and straightened. “Let’s hope he’s right.”

You looked at him, still in his undershirt, sleeves rolled, forearms crossed and familiar in a way that made you forget, briefly, that you’d only met him a week ago. The ring still sat on the table between you, catching the thin lamplight.

The fluorescent lights in the briefing room made everyone look sleep-deprived. Maps of a town you’d only ever read about were taped to the walls at crooked angles, stamped with circles and arrows and tight clusters of red string. The projector hummed.

“Breznik,” said Laswell. “Population: twelve thousand. Logging, a paper mill, an aging hydro station, and lately, a charming little pipeline for smuggled military tech.”

She clicked the remote and the town appeared on the screen. Beside her stood Captain John Price; bulky in a charcoal henley and arms already crossed. He watched the room and the room watched him back.

“Local enforcers are compromised,” Laswell continued. “We’ve lost two assets in the last six weeks. Whoever’s running this is careful, and patient. They meet in public under community cover. Church fairs, fisherman markets, weddings.”

You set your notebook on the table. The printed map was wrong about a few street names. Breznik’s dialect tended to cannibalize vowels and rename things. You picked up the pen and made a correction.

“Problem?” Price asked, head tilting.

“Three, actually.” You said, pointing the end of the pen towards the map. “That bakery is a pharmacy now. The market shifted across the square after the flood last spring. And you’ve spelled ‘Sokolniki’ wrong.”

“Noted,” he said, with an eyebrow raised. “You’re our translator?”

You clicked your pen closed. “Interpreter.”

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.” You set the pen down calmly. “Translators work with text. Interpreters work with people.”

His gaze held yours, as if measuring the weight of your correction and deciding whether to spend the coin. 

“We’ll need both,” he said finally.

“Good thing I read,” you said dryly. The room chuckled, and then grew still as Laswell advanced to the next slide.

A narrow street layered with wet cobblestones filled the screen. A banner fluttered across the plaza in rakish Cyrillic, announcing the Feast of St. Mihail. You could hear it in your head already: the accordion, the barkers, the clatter of bottle crates.

“This weekend is the St. Mihail festival,” Laswell said. “Our target shows up every year. Uses the crowd to do face-to-face quality checks and make handoffs. We believe the shipment this time is guidance modules that didn’t make it to their rightful destination.”

Price uncrossed his arms, settling into the chair in front of you. “Target?”

Laswell clicked. A new image: Thick brows. A pale scar curving near his jaw. 

“Tomasz Vrban,” she said. “Old paramilitary ties. Speaks Breznik dialect when he wants to blend and Moscow-standard when he wants to intimidate.”

Laswell gestured and the slide split: crowd shots, then a still of a narrow-apartment balcony dressed with geranium boxes.

“Cover will be a newly arrived married couple taking possession of a rental flat overlooking the square,” Laswell said. “Husband ex-laborer, recovering from an injury. Wife, language instructor. The landlord is Vrban’s cousin; it gives you proximity.”

There was the quiet, expectant shift in the room you always hated. The moment where everyone looked, however politely, at you.

Price’s head tipped backwards toward you. “Congratulations,” he said mildly. “You’re married.”

“Condolences,” you returned.

“You’ll both go in forty-eight hours,” she said. “No weapons beyond what you can explain and stash. Local contacts will be limited to one priest and a woman who sells wine she insists is legal and I don’t have the energy to debate with customs. We want eyes, we want ears, and when the handoff happens, we want identification of the buyer.”

Laswell distributed thin folders, no thicker than a diner menu and ten times more dangerous. Inside; rental agreement copies, a pair of simple gold bands, a key with teeth worn thin.

“Practice your answers together,” she said. “How you met. Why you left your last place. Whether you want children.”

“Oh good, light topics.” You muttered.

Price pulled one ring free, held it between thumb and forefinger. It gleamed in the bleached light. “Left or right?”

“In Breznik?” you asked. “Left for the ceremony, right after the blessing. They move it. It’s a whole thing.”

When the briefing ended, the others filtered out quietly. You were collecting your notes when Price spoke again.

“Before we head out,” Price began, “there are a few things that need to be made clear. First, when we’re—”

You interrupted before he could finish. “Let’s stop there, Captain. I’m not part of your command chain. You don’t set the rules for me.”

He looked at you for a long moment, head tilted slightly, surprised. “I wasn’t under the impression I did,” he said. “But if this is how we’re starting, let’s at least agree whether you report to Laswell or me, we’re operating together. That requires structure.”

“I don’t disagree,” you replied, keeping your voice calm. “I was brought onto this because I can do what you can’t. If you treat me like a subordinate, it’ll get us both exposed.”

“You think I underestimate you?”

“I think you underestimate the job,” you said plainly. “Most soldiers do.”

Price exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening as he rolled his tongue against his cheek. He looked off to the side for a moment, studying the floor as though he were counting the tiles, then back at you.

“Maybe I do,” he said finally. “But that doesn’t make me wrong about what keeps people alive. You don’t work for me. I don’t give you orders. But when we’re out there, there won’t be time to debate every choice. If I say move, you move.”

You considered it, then nodded once. “Understood.”

“Good,” he said, pushing off the table. “You do your job, I’ll do mine. Laswell will have something to celebrate for once.”

He moved toward the door, then paused briefly beside you. “And for the record, I don’t have the luxury of caring who works for whom. My only priority is that we both make it back.”

“I can live with that,” you said.

Imagine Soap softly panicking after realizing he has actual feelings for you, and trying to "act normal", which includes giving you a deeply formal handshake after a successful mission.

Imagine Soap offering to carry your gear, open doors, even tie your bootlaces. “Chivalry’s not dead, lass”

Imagine Soap constantly talking about you like you're unattainable  “They’d never go for a bloke like me”, while you’re literally flirting with him.

Imagine Soap having a very detailed dream about you, then avoiding eye contact the whole next day.

Imagine You’re sitting next to him after a long day, not even touching him intimately, just sitting there, back to his. “You’re gonna be the death of me, love. And I’d die smiling.”

Truly, he didn't. And he knew that.

He was the one, afterall, that had told you after asking him to go get a drink that he wasn't looking for anything serious. He worked too much, he was gone too long, and more importantly, you both worked together. 

“No worries,” you had said, a smile still plastered against your face, “I’ll still see you this weekend, yeah?”

And you did. 

But he knew that it was going to be different. The sex was still good, amazing even. He loved nothing more than sliding his thick cock in and out of you while you laid beneath him, head tipped towards the ceiling like you were praying. He loved when your small hands wrapped around his bicep, nails leaving tiny crescent marks. He loved when your pussy clenched him so tightly he had to pause for a moment and just relish in the feeling.

What he didn’t know he loved was the feeling after, both of you wrapped up in the blankets with his nose buried in your hair. He didn't know how much he loved waking up in the mornings with you still there, chest rising and falling against him. 

But those moments are gone now. As soon as he’s done fucking you senseless, you’d roll out of bed, already searching for your clothes. 

So, he really didn't have any right to complain when he saw you chatting with another sergeant, laughing and leaning forward with interest. He had just stepped off the terminal, duffel bag still in hand.

“Shite luck.” Johnny had said, clapping him on the back.

It was shitty. It felt even shittier when he was home later and his phone buzzed. He had ripped it out of his pocket, heart racing, just for it to drop when he read the ‘raincheck? (: ‘.

He sat there, TV remote in hand while he mindlessly scrolled through channels in the dark room. 

TW's: Alcohol use and intoxication, Sexual content / sexual activity (consensual but impaired), Implied power dynamics, Emotional vulnerability, Mention of PTSD-related themes.

WC: 2k

Simon leaned on the fence, his arms folded. The wood was warmed from the sun, heating up his forearms. The sunlight stretched across the field in golden lines, catching the dust and the tall grass. It was peaceful, aside from the darting motion of the border collie running through the pasture.

Ava stood barefoot in the middle of it, her sleeves pushed up. The dog responded to every command she muttered under her breath, barely loud enough for Simon to hear. One flick of her hand sent it into a fast-paced circle, another halted it mid-sprint.

Simon stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. 

“You’re good at this,” he said.

Ava didn’t say anything, calling the dog into a sharp heel at her side. Its tongue lolled out of its head, waiting for the next command.

He cleared his throat.

“What’s the dog’s name?”

Ava glanced over briefly. “Daisy.”

He nodded, though she’d already turned her eyes back to the field. “Is she yours?”

“No.”

“Family’s?”

“June’s.”

“She seems like a good dog.”

“She is.”

He nodded. “Does she bite?”

“No.”

Simon watched as Ava let out a whistle, and Daisy took off to the right of the pasture along the fence line.

Simon watched the movement. “Panzer do anything like that?”

“No.”

Daisy came back with something clamped in her mouth, a blue frisbee, scuffed and bent at the edge. She trotted up to Ava. Ava crouched slowly, taking the frisbee. Her fingers lingered on the dog's head for a second before she stood again and gave it a smooth toss. The disc sailed out in a high arc, and Daisy sprang after it.

Simon leaned back against the fence. “She bring it back every time?”

Ava gave a noncommittal shrug. “When she wants.”

They watched in silence as Daisy caught the frisbee mid-air with a snap of her jaws, then circled back, tongue flopping. She deposited the toy at Ava’s feet.

Simon let a moment pass before he spoke again.

“What kind of dog was Panzer?”

Ava didn’t answer right away. Her eyes followed Daisy as the dog sprinted after the disc.

“Shepherd mix,” she said finally. “Mostly Belgian.”

Simon nodded slowly. “Good dogs.”

Ava didn’t respond.

Simon watched the dog go, then glanced back at Ava. “You ever think about getting another one?”

“No.”

“Not even to train?”

“No.”

“What about a cat, then?”

Ava let out a scoff of laughter, the corner of her mouth tugging up as she flung the frisbee. The collie snagged it from the air and trotted toward the farmhouse, finally winded and satisfied with the game. Ava watched her go, then stepped up beside Simon and leaned against the fence, mirroring his posture.

Ava glanced sideways at him. “You like dogs?”

“Yeah,” Simon said. “Always have.”

She gave a small nod.

“Never had one, though,” he added. “Too busy moving around. Didn’t seem fair.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. 

“I do want another one,” she said quietly. “Sometimes.”

Simon shifted to glance down at her, watching as she picked at a hangnail. 

“But…” she continued, then stopped, focusing on a split in her nail. She pressed her lips together. “I don’t want to lose one again.”

“You know,” Simon said, “if you ever do get one again, it’d be lucky as hell to have you.”

Ava let out a breath of air that resembled a laugh. “Bit of a mess now.”

“Aren’t we all.”

Simon looked down at the dusty toe of his boot. “If I ever settle down long enough, maybe I’ll get one.”

“You should.”

He looked up again. “You’ll train it?”

“Maybe.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Simon looked out into the field, eyeing the distant spots of the cows near the horizon. “Not much happening around here, is there?”

Ava shrugged. “Most people go to the lake. Drink a little. Shoot empty cans off fence posts.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a decent way to pass the time.”

She smiled faintly. “Decent enough.”

Just then, a figure came flouncing across the yard.

“Ava!” June called out. “I’m throwing a bonfire tonight. You’re coming, right? I want to do it before you head back to the base.”

Ava glanced at Simon, then back to June. “Maybe.”

 “Maybe? That’s not good enough. You’re definitely coming. I even found some old music to play.”

Ava rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine.”

June glanced over at Simon with a teasing grin. “So, Simon, you know what a bonfire is, right?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Yes, June.”

June laughed. “Good. Because you’re coming tonight. No excuses.”

Simon raised his hand in a mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

The bonfire crackled warmly beneath the sky, flames casting flickering light across the gathered group. Ava’s aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few family friends drifted closer, their eyes flicking to her with a mix of concern and curiosity. One of her uncles clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Glad you’re home, kiddo. You holding up alright?”

Ava gave a small nod, her eyes briefly meeting her dads gaze across the fire. “Yeah.”

Her aunt smiled gently. “Good to hear. You know we’re all here if you need anything.”

Simon leaned back against a log beside Ava, taking a sip from the plastic cup. The whiskey burned, his eyes stealing quick glances at Ava beside him. She seemed more relaxed than usual, her own cup near empty.

Nearby, Daisy was wreaking havoc, darting between legs and nipping at shoes, sending a scattering of nervous cousins hopping aside. 

“Are you alright?” Simon asked, voice slurred from the drink.

Ava shrugged, watching as Daisy caught the tip of someone's toe in her mouth.

Rick’s voice called from the edge of the clearing, loud enough to cut through the hum of laughter.

“Ava! Can you grab some more beer from the house? We’re running low.”

Ava sighed, setting her cup down. “I’m going to put Daisy up first.”

Simon pushed himself up from the log. “I’ll help you with the beer.”

Daisy barked excitedly and dashed ahead, her paws skidding on the dirt as she rounded the fire.

Ava’s hand shot out to catch Daisy by the collar, halting her from going any further. Simon followed her as she dragged Daisy to the farmhouse, nudging open the backdoor with her foot. 

Simon reached for the case of beer on the counter, grunting as he lifted it in the air. The bottom of the box gave out, cans scattering onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Simon muttered, crouching to grab the nearest cans before they could roll under the cabinets.

Ava bent down beside him, her fingers brushing against his as they both reached for the same can. Simon’s eyes shot upwards to meet hers, the inches between them smelling faintly of whiskey as Ava’s lips parted and closed again softly.

“Sorr-” Simon began to say, but before he could get the word out, Ava leaned in quickly and pressed her lips roughly to Simon’s. Simon’s hand shot out to cup the side of her face, the other steadying himself against the cabinets as the cans clattered beneath them.

Simon rose slowly, pulling Ava up with him. He let go of the cabinet, pulling her in tightly until she was pressed flush against his body. Ava tilted her head, deepening the kiss as Simon felt her tongue run across his lips. Her hands looped around his neck, hand brushing against the short bristle of hairs at the nape of his neck. A shiver crawled down his spine as he felt her nails graze the skin. His hands moved lower, ghosting her waist as he lifted her and set her on top of the counter, her back bumping the discarded box. One hand left her waist, the other resting gently against the side of her neck.

Simon’s mouth trailed from her lips down to her jaw. He could feel the rapid thump of her pulse beneath his fingertips, matching his own. His tongue flicked over the hollow of her throat, her breath catching in a gasp.

With one hand now braced on the counter beside her, Simon slid the other beneath her shirt, pressing his palm flat against her stomach.

His fingers trailed upward, slipping beneath the edge of her bra. A low growl rumbled in Simon’s throat as Ava’s hands tightened in his hair, pulling him back to her lips desperately. Their teeth clacked, messy and uncoordinated, tongues chasing each other through the haze of liquor.  Ava didn’t stop him. If anything, she pulled him in harder, one hand slipping down to grab at his belt.

“Jesus,” he muttered against her lips, breathing hard. “You sure?”

Ava nodded. “Yes. Now.”

Simon fumbled with her jeans, drunken fingers unsteady, yanking at the button. Her hips lifted as he slid the denim down just far enough, Simon’s belt hitting the floor a second later.

Ava’s breath hitched, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding tightly to the edge of the counter as Simon thrust into her. Her moan was caught between his lips as they moved together, the cabinet behind her creaking under the force of their rhythm.

“This is a terrible fuckin’ idea,” he muttered, “I’m your lieutenant. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Ava let out a sigh against his throat, followed quickly by a moan as Simon punched his hips forward.

“This is mad,” he said under his breath, voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Price is going to kill me.”

Ava’s head snapped forward, a genuine laugh escaping her throat. “You thinking about Price right now?”

Simon paused mid-motion, looked up at the ceiling like it held answers, then back at her. “Unfortunately.”

Ava’s only reply was a firm pull of his shirt that dragged him down into another searing kiss. His reply came in the form of another sharp thrust that made her whimper softly into his mouth, her nails digging into his back.

Simon gripped her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the counter as his pace quickened, his head thrown back as soft pants left his mouth, sweat slicking both of their skin in the summer heat. 

Ava’s thighs tightened around his waist, her body jolting forward as she tightened around his cock. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, muffling the cry that left her. 

“Fuck…” Simon groaned, his cock twitching as he spilled inside of her, one arm wrapped around her back to hold her close, the other bracing himself against the counter. 

They both finally stilled, catching their breath. Simon rested his head on her shoulder, his hand still splayed on her bare hip.

Simon was the first to move, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan as if reality had just caught up to him. “Christ,” he muttered. “We’re a mess.”

Ava gave a small shrug, sliding off of the counter. Simon groaned at the disconnect, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Ava calmly pulled her jeans up, buttoning them and bending under his arm to continue collecting the cans.

Simon paused, eyes darting nervously between the scattered cans on the floor and Ava’s face. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Look… I’m sorry. This was a terrible idea. You’re drunk, I’m drunk... I don’t know what I was thinking. Price is going to lose his mind if he ever finds out. I feel like I took advantage of you. I’m your lieutenant. And you probably weren’t in the right state to-”

He stopped himself, his eyes flickering away as if searching for an escape from his own guilt.

Meanwhile, Ava stayed silent.

“And I know you don’t say much, which makes it hard to tell what you’re thinking, but… I hope you’re not mad. Or disappointed. I should be keeping things professional, keeping you safe. Not... whatever this is.”

Ava’s eyes flicked up briefly, just enough to meet his, and then back down to the cans.

Simon caught it and gave a nervous laugh. “Well, you’re looking at me like I’m a bloody idiot.”

She finally straightened, gathering the last of the cans into her arms. “Can you grab the box?” she asked, already heading toward the door.

Simon watched her go, an uneasy chuckle slipping from his lips. “Yeah... a bloody idiot,” he muttered to himself, bending to lift the empty box.

_

Hi everyone! I've been updating my stories and wanted to let you guys know that I have changed the title of my Simon x K9 fanfic to 'Watchdog'. Beneath Us remains the same, just new banners for each post listed below!

Ill be posting a continuation of each story this week!

Stay tuned!

(K9 POV)

tw: graphic violence, animal death (dog), torture, captivity, ptsd, panic attack, dissociation, firearm discharge, gun violence, mental health crisis, vomiting

Part 6

The gravel bit into my knees through the fabric of my pants, sharp bits breaking the skin. My wrists were bound behind my back with something that burned, plastic cord, maybe, or metal. My arms had gone numb hours ago, but I didn’t dare move.

Panzer stood five feet away, his fur bristling and his teeth bared. He was snarling, pacing in tight little circles, his lip twitching every time one of the men got too close. His hackles were raised, his whole body straining against the leash looped through a rusted car door handle. He’d already bitten one of them. I could see the blood on the man’s arm.

They were yelling fast, angry words in a language I didn’t know. One of them pointed at Panzer, and another shook his head.

I turned my face just enough to see him. Young, maybe mid-twenties, hair cropped short and boots dirty. He was wearing some sort of tactical uniform, but I didn't recognize any of the writing on his sleeve. He spoke again, slower this time, even though I didn’t know the words.

Panzer let out a deep, throaty growl.

The man raised the pistol.

“No, No!” I screamed.

I lunged forward instinctively, gravel slicing my shins as I hit the ground chest first. The plastic cords tore into my wrists.

“Don’t you fucking touch him! Don’t-”

The muzzle flash bloomed like lightning.

Panzer dropped.

The leash slipped free from the car door and coiled on the dirt beside him. His legs twitched once, then nothing.

My scream didn’t even sound human. One of them shoved a hand into my mouth, fingers digging against my teeth and pressing my tongue down until I choked. Another hand wrapped around my throat, thumb pushing against the bruises already blooming there. The hand in my mouth forced it open, another man coiling thin metal wire around my head. 

The wire cut across my lip as they wrenched it into place.

A crude gag, twisted from fencing wire or maybe a coat hanger, whatever was lying around. It bit into the soft skin at the corners of my mouth until I tasted blood again. They wrapped it twice, once behind my head, once around my jaw, pulling until I couldn’t open my mouth even if I wanted to scream. 

My body jerked as the man holding me stepped back and let go. I crumpled forward, heaving dry sobs through my nose.

Panzer’s body lay motionless in the dirt, his eyes open, unblinking.

I woke mid-scream.

The sound tore from my throat without warning. My lungs seized, and for a split second I didn’t know where I was. I kicked out hard, legs tangling in the blanket I’d dragged into the tub hours ago. My arm smacked against the tile and my stomach lurched.

I threw myself out of the tub, knees crashing against the tile floor as I scrambled for the toilet, dry heaving before I even reached it.

My hands gripped porcelain and I pressed my forehead to the rim. I choked on bile, trying to swallow it down. 

I couldn’t tell if I was hot or freezing.

The handle to the bathroom turned, light flooding inside.

“Ava?” June’s voice called softly. “Are you-?”

The door opened, and my heart dropped in my chest.

I launched toward the sink, fingers scraping under the cabinet in a blind panic. My hand closed around the cold polymer grip of the pistol just as the door swung wider.

A single shot cracked through the room, deafening in the small space. Plaster exploded beside the door frame, splinters of wood raining down. June shrieked, stumbling back, her hands raised in panic.

“Jesus Christ! Ava, it’s me-it’s June! It’s-”

She ducked, scrambling back into the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks.

I blinked. The recoil still buzzed through my arm. My ears rang. My chest convulsed with broken, hiccupping gasps. The shadow in the doorway was gone, but the threat wasn’t.

“Ava!” Dad’s voice rang out inside the room, and the door burst open again.

He stopped when he saw me, and his eyes went straight to the pistol in my hand.

“Put it down,” he said firmly.

I backed up on my hands and knees, the tile slick under my palms with blood. I couldn’t make sense of anything. The shape in the doorway wavered, waiting like the ones who used to come when I was weakest, half-naked, sick, and too tired to scream.

“Don’t touch me,” I rasped, the gun shaking in my grip.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, hands lifting. “You hear me? But I need you to give me the gun, baby. Please.”

I couldn’t feel my hands.

My body trembled as he took one cautious step inside. Then another.

When he reached me, he dropped to his knees.

“It’s me. It’s Dad. You're home. You’re safe,” he murmured, his hand closing around my wrist.

“Don’t-” I jerked, weakly pushing against him, but my limbs had nothing left in them. 

“I got it,” he said, and wrenched the pistol free.

It clattered to the floor, skidding under the sink.

I shoved hard against his chest, scrambling upright. My feet slipped on the tile as I bolted for the door. My shoulder slammed into the frame as I turned the corner, almost slipping on the hardwood. I could hear him calling after me, feet pounding behind mine.

I made it halfway into the yard before my knees gave out. I hit the ground hard, hands and jeans slamming into the wet grass. The taste of acid was already at the back of my throat.

I doubled over and vomited.

I curled forward with a choked sob, retching again even when there was nothing left. My palms sunk into the mud as I shook.

“Ava, baby-” Dad’s voice cracked hard. “Talk to me, please- just stop running- please.”

He crouched behind me, a hand gliding up to rest on my back. The feeling pulled another half choked scream from my throat.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch you, I promise,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Jesus, I don’t know what to do, fuck-”

Light fingers prodded against my side, and I lurched forward. My father’s hand, fumbling with the zipper pocket on the side of my hoodie. His fingers were clumsy, and when the fabric caught, he cursed under his breath.

“Just need your phone, just your phone, sweetheart, I swear-” he whispered, voice thick with tears. “I need to call him-I need to get you help.”

He finally pulled it free, staggering back just a few paces, one eye still on me as the line rang.

“What the fuck do I do?”

I pressed my forehead into the grass, still on my knees in the yard. The blades were cold and wet. The leash was gone, and Panzer’s body still lay somewhere in the corners of my vision.

“She pulled a gun on her sister. She fired it. Blew a hole damn near through my wall. She looked right at her and, fuck-. She’s out here now pukin’ her guts out like she’s gonna die and I-I’m standing in the goddamn yard like an idiot because I don’t know whether to hug her or call someone to sedate her. She’s not even seeing me.”

He stopped. I knew he was crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

I could hear my dad pacing, the gravel shifting under his boots. He set the phone down gently by my head, pressing the speaker button.

“Ava.”

I flinched.

“Ava, it’s Simon. You with me?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out except a ragged gurgling sound.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quickly. “Just listen. That’s enough.”

I closed my eyes.

“Put your hand on your chest. Right now. Just one.”

I hesitated.

“Top of your sternum. Center mass. Feel it rise.”

My trembling fingers obeyed without thinking. I curled them lightly against my chest.

“That’s yours. That heartbeat’s yours. You’re not dead. You’re not theirs. You’re here.”

“Now,” he continued. “Right hand to the dirt. Do it slow. Press your palm down.”

I lowered my right hand. The grass gave way to damp soil, cool and soft beneath my fingers. My hand shook violently, but I obeyed.

“Feel that?” Simon asked. “That’s not concrete. That’s earth.”

Another sob crawled up my throat.

“You’re not underground. Not in a fucking van. You’re in your yard. In Kansas or whatever cow-fucked place this is.”

“Come on, baby,” My dad whispered from behind me. “I’m right here. You know me. I’m your dad.”

I wanted to reach for him, I did. But my body wouldn’t move.

Time twisted and my body ached. I could barely hear the mumbling voice on the phone, my lips brushing against the puddle of vomit under my face.

My knees hurt. 

I wasn’t sure if five minutes passed or twenty. I barely registered the distant sound of tires on gravel.

A shadow knelt down beside me. I heard him shift, one knee pressed into the dirt beside mine.

“I’m gonna take your hands,” Simon said slowly. “You can hit me if you need to. But I’m gonna help.”

I nodded, or maybe I didn’t, but either way, he reached out.

Gently, he took both of my hands in his and slowly pressed them down into the dirt with his own.

“Feel that?”

I nodded.

“Cold, wet. Got some give to it,” he said. “That’s not concrete. That’s not blood. It’s dew.”

His thumbs rubbed over the backs of my hands.

“This is real. You’re not there anymore. You’re on your knees in your front yard, and you’re safe. You’re not there anymore, Ava.”

“Your dad’s behind you,” Simon continued. “He’s scared because he loves you. But he’s not going to hurt you. You’re not in that room. You’re not a prisoner.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about the bathroom, about the shadow I saw, about Panzer, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

“I know,” Simon said. “I know it still feels real. But it’s not. That’s over. It happened. And you lived.”

I could hear the porch creaking behind us, the soft chirp of crickets, the breeze rustling through the tall grass at the edge of the fence line.

“Is she…” June’s voice was small, like she was afraid of the answer. “Is she gonna be like that forever?”

“No,” Simon said gently. “She won’t.”

June looked up at him, her face scrunched. “But she…she almost-”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off softly. “It’s scary. But it doesn’t mean it’s permanent.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked down at her shoes, her fingers tightening around her legs.

Simon shifted beside me, still crouched in the dirt. His voice was quieter when he spoke next, like it was just for me.

“It takes time,” he said. “Some days are good. Some days are shit. That’s how it goes.”

 I didn’t lift my head.

“She doesn’t even sleep in her bed anymore,” Dad said. “She sleeps in a goddamn bathtub. With a gun.”

“I know.”

“She can’t keep it,” He continued. “Not like this. Not when she’s-” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the yard, the dirt, to me.

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t let you keep a gun if you’re not even sure where you are.”

Simon crouched beside me again, bending his head down until his eyes were level with mine.

“You ready to get up?”

I nodded.

He slid his arm under mine and eased me upward carefully. My knees wobbled, and for a second, the world tilted, but his grip tightened. Behind us, Dad let out a breath. 

“Will you stay?” he asked suddenly, his voice aimed at Simon. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how to help her.”

“I’ll stay,” Simon answered. “As long as she wants.”

Dad ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not gonna sleep tonight, and neither’s anyone else if she’s in that tub again.”

We moved slowly up the stairs together, Simon at my side, Dad trailing close behind. My legs still shook with every step, but I was upright and present enough to put one foot in front of the other.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, watching as Dad and Simon examined the splintered wood. 

“Could’ve been worse,” Dad muttered, kneeling to touch the edge of the splintered door jamb. “But I’ll need to sand this down and get a new hinge in.”

Dad looked at me one more time, like he wanted to say something else, but all that came out was, “I’ll be up early. Holler if you need anything.”

He stepped out and down the hall. June followed, throwing one more look over her shoulder before disappearing into her own room.

Simon stepped forward and shut the door softly, turning back to face me.

“You want the bathroom?” he asked. “You can take it if that’s where you’ll sleep better.”

I shook my head.

Simon grabbed one of the spare blankets from the end of the bed and spread it across the floor, then lowered himself onto it. Flat on his back, arms folded beneath his head, like this was just another night.

“It gets better,” he said. “Eventually. Not all at once. Not in a straight line. But it does.”

I didn’t move, still planted at the edge of the bed, the tops of my feet gently pressing into his side.

“Sometimes it gets worse first,” he added. “Sometimes it gets worse for a long time. But even then, that’s still healing. Doesn’t always look like it, but it is.”

“I didn’t get better right away,” Simon continued. “Wasn’t some epiphany. It took years. I still have bad days.”

I shifted on the bed, tucking myself under the blanket and pulling it up to my chin.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he added. “And you don’t have to pretend to be. But you will find your way back.”

I could still feel the gun in my hand.

I could still see June’s face.

If I could do that, if I could almost kill the person I loved more than anything in the world and not even know it was her, how was I supposed to trust myself again?

My teeth scraped against the edge of my nail.

“If you don’t get better,” Simon said, “if it takes years, or if it never looks the way it used to, that’s okay too.”

“I’m not waiting for you to be okay,” he added. “I’m just here. However long you need.”

My thumb slipped from my mouth.

“Okay.”

--

TW: PTSD, alcohol use, emotional abuse, trauma-related flashbacks, references to torture (graphic), guilt and self-loathing, mentions of human trafficking, strained family dynamics.

Pt 5 refresher, I made some edits to be happier with my writing. Other parts on pinned post

Simon woke to a drumbeat in his skull. His mouth was dry, his throat felt like sandpaper, and his stomach churned with leftover beer.

He groaned as he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, the roughness of his stubble scraping against his palm. The mask lay beside him on the cot. For once, he had forgotten to put it on.

He didn't forget last night, though.

He remembered every bit of it.

The bar. The drive to the base. His shouting. Her foot against his chest. His hands on her wrist.

Fuck.

Simon dropped his face into his hands, breathing deep like it could somehow erase the memory.

 It didn’t. 

All it did was bring back the image of her eyes when he grabbed her. 

Angry. Exhausted.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, standing on unsteady legs.

The barracks were quiet as he crossed to the kitchenette, bare feet scraping against the floor. It smelled like coffee, a single mug sitting empty on the counter waiting for him.

Johnny sat at the table, his legs stretched out and the chair tilted back. A half-eaten piece of toast dangled in one hand and a mug in the other. 

Simon moved to the counter, grabbing the mug and pouring himself a drink. The coffee sloshed against the rim, a droplet of the hot liquid landing on his knuckles.

“You look like shit,” Johnny muttered without looking up.

Simon grunted.

“Why’d you leave the bar?” he asked.

Simon kept his gaze down. “Tired.”

Johnny snorted. “Tired.” He leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking under him. “Had enough energy to come back and scream at her, though.”

Simon’s jaw ticked. “How do you know about that?”

“She told me what happened.”

Simon’s hand tightened around the mug. “What exactly did she say?”

Johnny’s eyes finally flicked up from his mug, his expression unimpressed. 

“Did you?”

Disappointment coated Johnny’s every word. It didn't matter that they were friends, didn't matter that they fought together. For the first time in his life, Simon felt small. 

“Yeah.”

Johnny didn't answer right away. He took another slow sip from his mug, the feet of his chair scraping quietly against the floor as he sat upright.

“First time she’s ever said more than two words. Shit thing to do,” Johnny said, scooting his chair back as he gathered his things. “Figured if anyone knew better, would’ve been you.”

Simon stayed at the table, finishing the bitter, lukewarm coffee like it was his punishment. Then, he grabbed the report folder and made his way to Price’s office.

Simon walked in and set the file down on the desk, sinking into one of the chairs across from Price. 

“Post-op,” Simon said. His voice sounded worse than he felt, which was saying something.

Price didn’t look up. “You and Cricket are flying out today.”

Simon blinked. “What?”

“K9,” Price clarified, flipping through a separate folder. “She requested leave, going home for a few weeks. You’re going with her”

Simon stared at him, deadpan. “The hell for? It’s home leave, not a fucking assignment.”

Price’s eyes remained glued to the paperwork in front of him. “You read all of this?”

Simon shrugged. “Enough.”

He slid it across the desk toward Simon, finger skimming the top lines.

Tier One trafficking network. Cartel-backed. Arms and personnel supplied by foreign intermediaries. Victims sold to terror affiliates across three borders.

And there, highlighted in bold:

Subject: ‘K9’ – captured during a failed extraction. Returned alive. High-profile asset. Potential retaliation likely.

Price leaned back. “We didn’t pull her out of some third-rate back-alley op, mate. She was in one of their markets. They lose products like her, they start looking for compensation. If they clock her anywhere alone, she won’t make it to the gate, let alone the plane.”

Simon grinded his teeth. “So I’m her bodyguard.”

Price leaned forward. “She’s not safe. Not yet. And neither are the people around her, not unless we keep her in our sights.”

“This isn't babysitting,” Price continued. I don’t give a fuck what you do while you’re there. Get drunk, get laid, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit if you two speak, or fight, or sit in silence the whole damn trip. But make sure she gets on that plane, and make sure she comes back alive.”

--------

The airport was crowded and loud.

Tucked into the far end of the terminal, curled into one of those molded plastic seats with a bag hugged tight against her knees, Cricket looked like she wanted to disappear.

Simon stood nearby, leaning against a structural beam with his arms crossed over his chest.

Simon glanced at the clock. Still thirty minutes to boarding.

He exhaled through his nose and shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms. He moved to the seat beside her.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. He hated this, never knowing what to say, or how to start saying it.

“I’m not gonna bother you,” he said. “Not on this trip.”

Her fingers kept picking at the seam of her bag.

“Price set me up at a hotel a few miles from your folks’ place. I’ll drop you off when we land, and then fuck off.” He paused. “Won’t be near unless you call.”

Still no reaction.

“I mean it,” he added. “I’ll be close, but I’ll stay out of your way. I just… I wanted you to know that.”

A beat of silence passed. 

Simon leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I know I made things worse the other night. You don’t owe me shit. But if anything goes sideways, or if it feels wrong… I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

His head turned toward her just slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

“…Okay,” he repeated quietly, like the word didn’t feel real.

She didn’t say anything else, just kept her eyes forward, hands folded in her lap now.

Simon looked away, staring down at his boots like they might offer some kind of answer.

“…Okay,” Simon said again, under his breath this time.

By the time they landed and cleared baggage, Simon’s nerves were fraying.

The drive was a little over an hour, and the whole way, he muttered under his breath about everything.

"Feels like I’m driving a bloody coffin,” he muttered, adjusting the seat again. “Everything’s backwards. Wheel’s on the wrong side, roads are too damn wide.”

Simon squinted at the GPS. “Take a left at what? That’s not a road, that’s a goat trail.”

Eventually, the roads narrowed into gravel. Trees lined the fields, and fencing stretched across long, open pastures. Faded tractors sat in the distance, flanked by hay bales and barns that had seen better decades. They passed a small cattle herd by a rusted-out silo before a two-story farmhouse came into view.

Simon slowed as they rolled into the drive. He saw the man on the porch before the engine stopped, a tall figure with thick arms crossed over his chest, posture straight as a board. 

She opened the door first, hesitating for only a second before stepping out.

The man’s eyes softened the moment he saw her. He moved down the steps in two strides, sweeping her into a hug.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured into her hair, holding her tightly. “Been waitin’ on you.”

After a few long seconds, the man looked up, finally noticing Simon climbing out of the driver’s seat.

“Name?”

“Simon.”

The man stepped forward, extending a hand. “Rick Callahan. I’m her dad.”

Simon reached out and took it, but Rick didn't let go right away. His grip tightened, studying Simon. The scars that curled up from Simon’s jaw. The one near his temple, half-faded. Finally, Rick’s eyes flicked down to the way Simon’s hand stayed near his hip, his sidearm tucked just out of sight.

“Military?” Rick muttered.

Simon released his hand. “Something like that.”

Rick gave a curt nod, but the studying didn’t stop.

The screen door slammed open and a voice rang out. “Is that Ava? Is that you?”

Ava.

Something in Simon's chest tightened at hearing her name.

A teenage girl came tearing down the porch steps, barefoot, a flannel tied around her waist and braces flashing in the sunlight.

“Oh my god, you’re actually here!”

Rick cleared his throat. “That’s June. My youngest.”

The teenager collided with her sister, grabbing her into a full-body hug, rocking her side to side.

“You ain’t staying, are you?” Rick asked suddenly.

Simon blinked. “No.”

“Good.” Rick crossed his arms. “She doesn’t need someone here telling her what to do.”

“I’m not here to do that.”

Rick gave him a long look. “Hope not.”

Cricket stood a few feet away, her duffel still in hand. Simon could feel her listening, watching the conversation unfold.

Simon took a breath and moved closer to her.

“You’ve got my number,” he said quietly. “Hotel’s ten minutes out. You don’t want to see me, you won’t.”

She nodded.

“But if anything feels off, call. I’ll be there in five.”

Simon shifted his weight, resisting the urge to say more. Without another word, he turned, boots crunching on the gravel as he made his way back to the car.

--------

Simon dropped his bag on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed. His sidearm came off first, set neatly on the nightstand. Then his phone.

He stared at the screen for a long time. No notifications.

He turned the volume to max, then triple-checked it. Simon set the phone on the pillow next to him like it might vanish if he looked away too long.

It didn’t matter that Rick was with her. It didn’t matter that she was technically “home.”

“Safe” didn’t mean the same thing anymore. 

Not after you’ve sat in the dark with your fingernails torn out, ribs shattered, skin peeled back just enough to make breathing feel like torture.

Not after Roba.

Simon exhaled and let his head fall back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. He hadn’t meant to go there, but it crept in anyway. 

He remembered the sound of the chopper, the cold metal floor beneath him. 

The bandages. 

The blood that soaked through them. 

The way no one met his eye when he landed. No embrace, no “you’re home.”

He remembered standing at his brother’s grave, hands clenched so tight he’d torn the stitches in his palm.

He remembered the empty flat. The creaking pipes. The silence.

The anger.

He’d come back four months later and there was no one. His mother was gone. His brother was buried. 

But Ava…

Ava had a porch light left on. 

A sister who threw herself into her arms. 

A father who hugged her like he didn’t give a shit how long it took, as long as she was there.

She had people.

And for a moment, a bitter, selfish moment, Simon wasn’t sure if that made him feel relieved or furious.

Because he wanted that for her.

And because some buried part of him still hated that no one had wanted that for him.

-----

The pub was packed. Loud music, spilled beer, voices rising over each other.

You were standing at the bar, laughing at something some random guy said, leaning a little too close for Gaz’s liking. He reached out, fingertips grazing the sleeve of your shirt.

Gaz’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

From across the room, he watched. His beer was forgotten in his hand, every muscle coiled tight.

When the guy leaned closer, whispering something in your ear that made you laugh, Gaz slammed his drink down onto the nearest table and stalked across the room.

You barely had time to register him behind you before he was grabbing your wrist, tugging you away from the bar.

"Gaz-" you started, confused.

He didn’t answer.

He shouldered past bodies until he found a dark hallway tucked behind the bar, deserted except for the throb of the bass through the walls.

He pushed you back against the wall. Not hard, just enough to pin you there, one hand planted beside your head, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise it.

His face was inches from yours.

"You enjoyin' yourself, sweetheart?" he asked.  "Laughin' at his shite jokes? Letting him touch you?"

You opened your mouth to explain, to say it was nothing, but Gaz wasn’t interested in explanations.

He kissed you instead, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he had every right, and he did. You melted against him immediately, fingers fisting his shirt.

He growled into the kiss, pressing his body against yours. You could already feel how hard he was, grinding slow against your thigh.

"You’re mine," he muttered between kisses, "Not his. Not fuckin' anyone else's."

You barely managed a nod before he was kissing you again. His hands were everywhere, sliding under your shirt, palming your chest, dragging down your sides possessively. You gasped when his hand slipped between your legs, cupping you through your jeans.

"Hard already?" he teased, "Fuck, you like when I get rough, don't you?"

You nodded, hips jerking against his hand, desperate for friction.

He chuckled against your throat, biting just under your jaw, hard enough to leave a mark.

"You’re fuckin’ lucky we're still in public, mate," he muttered, squeezing you through your jeans. "Otherwise I'd have you on your knees right now... mouth full of me... showin' everyone who you belong to."

You whined helplessly, fingers clutching at his jacket, nails digging into his arms.

He kissed you again before pulling back just enough to press his forehead against yours.

"Now let’s get you home. Need to remind you exactly who you fuckin' belong to."

His words left no doubt that when he got you alone, you wouldn’t be able to walk straight by the time he was done.

And you couldn’t fucking wait.

The door slammed shut behind you the second you stumbled inside, Gaz's hands already gripping your hips, dragging you backward into him.

He backed you toward the bedroom, peeling your clothes off piece by piece, tossing your shirt somewhere over his shoulder, mouthing at the skin he uncovered.

By the time he shoved you onto the bed, you were half-naked, flushed and panting, your cock already straining against your jeans. You propped yourself up on your elbows as you watched him tear his own shirt off.

You couldn’t help it, a whimper slipped from your throat at the sight of him, his muscles flexing, cock already dripping.

"Fuck," you breathed, "You're…you're unreal, Kyle."

"Wait 'til I’m inside you," he said. "Then you can tell me how good I feel."

He crawled up the bed, hands forcing your legs apart and trailing kisses down your stomach.

He kissed lower, brushing his lips against your cock without warning, and you bucked into the touch with a moan.

"Fuck, Kyle, please." you gasped, begging.

He grinned, licking a slow stripe up the underside of your cock, keeping eye contact.

 "Could listen to you all fuckin’ night." he murmured. 

He wrapped his hand around you, squeezing just enough to make you gasp, and started stroking.

You choked on a sob, hips jerking uselessly.

"Fuck," you sobbed. "I need you inside me. I need to feel you."

The sound of your voice must have broken whatever restraint he had left, because suddenly he was stripping his jeans off, grabbing a condom from the nightstand, and rolled it on with shaky hands.

He grabbed your hips, dragging you down the bed toward him with a tug.

"Turn over," he ordered.

You rolled onto your stomach, moaning when his hands gripped your waist.

He pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, leaning down to kiss between your shoulders.

"You ready for me?" he murmured against your skin.

"Always," you whispered.

He pushed in slow, stretching you open until you were gasping his name over and over.

"Fuuuck," he hissed through his teeth, bottoming out, hips flush against your ass. "You were made for me, love. Tight little hole just fuckin' made for me."

"Kyle," you whimpered. "Feels so good, fuck, you feel so good."

You writhed under him, grinding your hips back, chasing every deep thrust.

He groaned, snapping his hips into you rougher, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the small room.

"Greedy," he muttered, biting at your shoulder. "So fuckin' greedy for me."

He bent over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth hot against your ear as he panted. He groaned deep in his chest, fucking you harder, deeper, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

His hand slid down your stomach, wrapping around your cock, stroking you in time with his hips.

"Come for me," he ordered.

It took only a few more strokes before you were burying your head in the sheets, body locking tight, spilling across the bed as you came hard.

Gaz cursed, hips jerking as he thrust deep one more time, grinding into you as he came with a desperate moan against your skin.