#former 141 reader

“You did good today,” he says, voice rough and accent thick. He must be pissed about earlier still, when Ghost and Soap threw your matches with them.

“So did you,” you reply, squeezing his hand in return.

“Stay with me tonight?” He asks.

You damn near melt. Nikto has an open invitation to your room, but his is a sacred place, only for him unless otherwise specified. That he’s asking you to come to his tonight…

“Absolutely,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “I just need to see the captain first. Okay?”

He grunts in understanding, eyes flicking to the door the 141 left through earlier. He mutters something in Russian — some insult about goats and mothers you think.

“Yeah, exactly,” you reply, voice dropping with simmering irritation.

A good spar with him and Nova has helped ground you a bit, but it hasn’t helped the anger. You don’t spar any of your team with anger; they don’t deserve.

Luckily, you and your captain worked something out a while ago when you’re feeling a bit… aggressive.

“Cap?” You call, still holding Nikto’s hand. “Could I stop by for a nightcap later?”

His eyes flash, a sinful twist to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, babygirl. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Over his shoulder, you see Nova arch her eyebrows and Keegan grin wicked into his water bottle. Gossip fiends.

“Showers. Now,” the cap says, slapping them both on the ass. “Double time. I need to have a word with Price still.”

—

Long after the sun has gone down, you’re standing outside your captain’s door. Take a breath. Remind yourself of your mantra. He wants you, always will, and he’s going to take care of you.

Then loosen your shoulders, unboxing all the frustration and aggression you set aside earlier. Feel it burn through you, make your hands twitch in and out of fists.

One more inhale, and then you shove the door open.

“There you are,” he rumbles. “C’mere.”

You flash your teeth, “No.”

He tilts head back and forth, cracking his neck. “Alright then.”

There’s no real fight. You’re not looking to get away or actually hurt him. And he’s not looking to actually make you submit. That’s not the point of this game.

He strides across the room and shoves you back, pins your shoulder to the wall. You grip at his forearm, nails scraping, and squirming as the hot, hard length of his body squishes you flat.

“Settle,” he orders.

“Fuck you,” you snarl back, nipping his lip.

He growls, tangling a hand in your hair and tipping your head back. Leaves a searing trail of kisses down your throat, bites a bruise into your collarbone. You wriggle and fuss all the while, safely held still and supported by his hands and body.

“Brat,” he rasps in your ear.

“I’m not,” you snap.

“Oh, yes you are, babygirl,” he replies, a mean smirk on his flushed face. “But that’s alright, I like you bad.”

He pulls you from the wall, bullies you onto the bed. You try to grab at him, get him under you. He doesn’t indulge like he normally would. Pins you on your back so that you can keep fighting, yanking at your wrists in his firm grip, pushing your hips up to grind into his as if trying to flip you both.

He slots his hips between your thighs, positions just his knees under your ass so that your back is arched, shoulders on the mattress. Limits your mobility, but that doesn’t stop you from kicking at air, making half-angry, half-desperate noises in the back of your throat.

“Gonna say please like a good girl?” He teases.

“No,” you hiss back.

He has the audacity to chuckle, which just riles you up more. (It’s supposed to). You curse as he works a hand beneath your shirt, palms at your bare breasts and pinches your nipples until they ache. You gasp like a pornstar, surprised and turned on.

“Pretty noise,” he coos. “Do it again.”

When he twists, you mewl, face immediately burning up as you renew your “efforts” to get away. All it does is make the treatment rougher than if you just laid still and took it, but that’s what you want, what feels good. A little edge to the pleasure as adrenaline and energy electrify you from head to toe.

He grinds against you, cotton of your loose shorts sticking against your soaked cunt. Christ you were turned on before you even barged in. Now you’re fucking throbbing for it.

“Gimme,” you grit out, rocking against him. Gears successfully shifted from physically taking control to just ordering him around.

“Give you what, brat?” He goads, slapping your pussy. The thin fabric muffles the sting, but it sends a white-hot ache through you that makes your eyes roll. “My cock? You think you deserve it?”

Another slap. You cry out, notice the sly look on his face when he notices that you’ve soaked through your shorts.

“Yes,” you reply, all confidence and reckless arrogance.

He yanks his underwear down to mid thigh, thick cock springing up to smack lewdly against his toned stomach. Precum smears over the pale scars there, sticks in the trail of groomed hair there.

“Yeah?” He growls. “Alright then.”

He yanks the crotch of your shorts aside (you hear stitches pop) and then he’s plunging into you. It’s too much all at once and you cry as much, knees squeezing around his tattooed ribs.

“Fuck.” His voice is shredded, so rough and low you feel it more than hear it. He lets your wrists go to grip at your ass, grinding deeper. Can feel the fat head of his cock bullying at your cervix, his favorite passtime while you adjust to the thick base of him.

“How does that feel, babygirl?” He murmurs in your ear. “You needed daddy’s cock, huh? Needed it to set you right again?”

You whimper out a curse at him, gripping at his biceps. He croons mockingly, thumb slipping between your bodies to press at your clit. Not rubbing or grinding, but just pressing. Just the right amount to make you sweat and pant, start trying to squirm to get any friction at all.

He lets you — could stop you if he wanted, or pull away entirely — but he likes winding you up like this. Likes seeing all that vicious energy turned to seeking pleasure from him.

“Fucking move,” you try to snarl, but your voice breaks midway through and comes out more pleading than you’d like.

“What was that, babydoll? Are you talking to me?” He teases, rolling his hips.

Your mouth falls open, a moan ripping from your chest, deep and needy.

“Daddy, move,” you cry, voice going up in pitch.

“There’s my brat.”

He pushes one of your knees up against your chest and slams into you. You scream and he doesn’t even try to cover your mouth, whispering filth as he tilts your hips for the best angle with his other hand. Fucks into you deep and rough, grinning at the obscenely wet noises every time he plunges into you.

Can practically feel him fucking your cervix open to get just that little bit deeper. Licks his lips when he sees the little bump in your stomach. You give as good as you get, squeezing down tight, bouncing to meet him, nails scoring lines down his back and shoulders.

“Gonna ask daddy to make you cum?” He goads.

“Earn it,” you reply.

He laughs and pulls out, flips you onto your stomach while you’re still dizzy with emptiness. Hikes your hips up and sinks into you like coming home. Your knees almost give out but that’s fine by him, he’s plenty strong enough to hold you up all on his own, using you like a noisy little toy for his own benefit.

“Fuuuuck,” you whine, feeling overwhelmed, pleasured tears gathering in your eyes. Then, in a whisper, “Daddy…”

“Feel like being good yet?” He asks. A large, rough hand circles that back of your neck and pins you face down to the mattress.

“N-no,” you whine, fight gone out of you now that you’re getting exactly what you want.

Fuck it feels so, so good. Every inch bullying you wide open and loose, so wet you’re dripping down your own thighs, wetting his ball as they slap against you. You feel split open and pinned, unable to do anything but take it, tortured stupid on ecstasy. He licks a stripe up your back before pressing you down prone, ankles locked around yours to keep you open and accessible.

“S’alright, doll, don’t need to be good to be mine.”

He’s barely pulling out halfway before ramming home now. You can barely get a breath in, the weight of him pressing whatever resistance was left right out of you.

“Daddy, daddy,” you sob. “Fuck, I wan’ it.”

“Want it, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you moan, pressing your face into your arms. Cant your hips just that little bit to get him abusing that bundle of nerves.

“Oh, right there, huh?” He coos. “Did daddy find your little sweet spot?”

A series of short, ruthless thrusts right there, making incoherent, desperate noises fall from your mouth. Before you realize it, he’s wedged a hand beneath your hips and has two fingers toying with your poor, neglected clit.

“‘M gonna… f-fuck, fuck,” you whine, writhing (or at least trying to) against him. Not sure if you’re trying to urge him on or get away. Doesn’t matter, he’s in charge, has been since the beginning. “Daddy, I wanna…”

“Whenever you want, babygirl,” he replies, voice going all warm and gooey. Your chest hitches. “Squeeze around me nice and tight. Let me feel you cum on my cock.”

Didn’t realize that was what you needed, but you fucking scream as you clench down around him, stars bursting behind your closed eyes. He fucks you through it, tapping against your g-spot again and again until you dissolve into a weak, wet whimpers.

“Daddyyyy,” you whine.

And that sets him off, flooding you with heat. He loses control for a second as his hips jerk, pounding brutally into your oversensitive, swollen pussy. Makes a few tears finally slip down, soaking into the sheets along with your drool. The sound of him groaning as he cums makes you spasm around him again, a little aftershock that milks the last of his release.

“That’s it, easy,” he groans, brushing kisses over your trembling shoulders. “Easy, doll.”

He lies over you for a few minutes, letting you feel him there. Right there with you. Breathing and recovering, holding you through the endorphin rush. When you squirm a bit, he eases off you, cock slipping out. You shiver at the feeling of his cum trickling out of you, glassy eyes fluttering.

“C’mere,” he soothes, tugging you in. Lying on his side, he hitches one of your thighs up over his hip, tucks your arms between your chests and rests his stubbly chin on your temple. You splay your fingers over his peck, over the bold, dark symbol for SpecGru. Feel his heart settling back into rhythm and sigh, snuggling in.

The hormone drop is a monster on your emotions, often leaves you shivery and lonely, a little sick in your own body. First time you did this with him ended in tears, expecting him to get up and leave. He didn’t, never has, but you both learned that as much physical contact as possible in the aftermath eases the comedown away from a total crash.

“You did so well, babygirl,” he whispers, leaving kisses everywhere he can reach without dislodging you. “Such a good girl. Even if you think you’re being bad.”

You flush, hide your face against his neck. He chuckles, honeybalm on your soul. Can feel his hand start to move, then pause as he remembers that you can’t handle that stimulation right after sex. So he just squeezes, slow and gentle, helps get you back in your body.

“I still want you,” he assures, echoing your mantra back at you. “Always will. You’re mine.”

You outline a heart shape onto his forearm, not quite able to speak yet. He recognize the feeling though and gently guides your face up to place a slow, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Love you, too, babygirl. Ready to clean up?”

You nod. He eases you up, lets you cling onto his hand as he walks you to the en suite. Fills you a glass of cool water to sip on while he gets the shower running. Turns his back while you use the restroom and wash your hands, then guides you into the hot water.

You lean into him, near boneless, as he washes you, calloused palms with soap instead of a cloth. Then sits still, hands on your hips, while you return the favor. This part is one of the most important for you, getting to freely return touch.

(Simon hardly ever let you touch, especially in the aftermath. Sure, you could scratch and grip at him during sex, but during foreplay it was all part of his dom persona that you couldn’t just touch at will. And afterwards… well. It’s not like he didn’t do aftercare. He did! But the almost formulaic warm cloth wipe down, glass of water, doze for a bit before he left was not… not ideal. Not like this.)

Your captain hums, eyes half-lidded but trained on you, while you smooth your palms over the firms planes of his muscles. Fingers tracing over tattoos and scars. Squishing and patting at the healthy layer of tissue over his stomach and thighs. Lets you nuzzle and kiss his soft cock, even though it makes his fingers twitch with oversensitivity.

Squeezes when you lace fingers together to stretch his arm out, inspecting the lines your nails carved into him.

“M’okay, baby,” he says before you can ask. “Feels good.”

You similarly assure him over the bruises on your wrists and hips, smiling and leaning up to kiss his jaw.

When the shower is over, he dries you off, playfully ruffling your hair just to kiss the pout off your lips. He dresses you in one of his shirts and a spare pair of your own joggers, found in his duffel.

You sit with him for a while longer still, enjoying how he lets himself relax once he knows you’re taken care of. He lies with his head on your chest, your fingers fluffing his hair, while the two of you watch an episode of some stupid show Keegan got the rest of the team into.

Only when it’s over does he ask if you’re ready to go to Nikto’s. If you wanted to stay, you could. Nikto would understand. But you’re looking forward to a night with your quiet Russian while the other three have a little movie night.

At the door, you kiss your captain goodnight. Hug and kiss Keegan and Nova as you pass them in the hall headed to his room. Nova makes a point of kissing one of the bruises on your wrist, while Keegan whispers that he loves you.

You pad to the first door in the hall, where Nikto has stationed himself as the team guard dog. You tap gently at the door, a pre-determined pattern to let him know who it is.

The door cracks open, one startling blue eye peering from the darkness.

“Evening, Nik,” you coo.

A hand reaches out and gently yanks you inside. And then next thing you know, you’re wrapped up in thick arms devoid of any usual covering. You feel smothered, in a good way.

“Love,” he rasps in Russian into your hair.

You hum in return. Place your palms flat on his abdomen. The muscles clench, you pause as you realize his abs, impressive as they are, feel too defined. He needs water. Taking mental note, you draw your hands carefully around, feeling the raised bumps of wicked scars. Make sure he can track exactly where and how you’re touching until your arms are wrapped around him in a return hug.

“Smell good,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” You giggle. “Showered just for you.”

He snorts, then scoops you up. You make a delighted noise, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you across the room. Of course his navigation is impeccable, even in pitch black. He lays you down on the bed, but before he can crawl up with you, you place a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re dehydrated.”

He makes an annoyed noise, sounds like he’s about to protest. You shush him with a quick peck to his chest.

“Get a glass please? I could use some water myself.”

Which has him instantly moving. You politely turn away as the bathroom light flicks on, the water runs. Can hear him chug two entire glasses before he fills it one final time. The light turns off again. The bed dips as he returns, presses the cool edge gently to your cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, sipping about a quarter of it to appease him before he sets aside for you on a bedside table.

And then he gets what he really wants, stripping you down and tucking you in like a nesting bird. Practically on top of you while you’re still reeling from how much skin you can feel. Even during intimacy, he tends to stay clothed or mostly clothed. But right now all you can feel is a pair of underwear against your bare ass. Everywhere else it’s miles of warm skin, uncovered muscle and texture of scars.

“This is nice,” you coo. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

You wiggle around until you’re chest to chest. Start with his hands. Kiss each smooth fingertip, prints flayed off. Then his palms, the divots from nails driving through. Flip them over to kiss his scarred knuckles, smile at the way he twitches, flexing them outward like he’s trying not to close his hand.

“Okay?” You ask.

“Yes.”

You kiss his wrists, his forearms, to his collarbone. You’ve peeked a blue-black tattoo there before. Stars and the start of something that might be religious. Spend a little extra time there, tongue peeking out. He shifts; you take it as a sign of discomfort and move on.

“Here next,” he says when you dip to go to his chest.

He guides your face up his neck, where you press long (but chaste) kisses until you bump his jaw. And realize that’s all skin too.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Can I…?”

“Yes.”

You feather your lips along his fresh-shaved jaw, the nicked scars on his chin. Then up, ignoring the wicked scar along his cheek. Breathe against his temple, feeling dizzy with the trust he’s showing you.

“I love you,” you whisper, continuing along to his nose, twice broken and poorly set each time. A line over one nostril where a piercing was ripped out. He makes a noise in his throat, think he might be having trouble speaking again. Don’t mind.

He lets you get down to his mouth, where a particularly twisted scar warps part of his upper lip away from his teeth. You think that if you saw it in the light, his canine would be visible. His lower lip is uneven too, like a misaligned seam.

You don’t pay any special attention to any of it, focused more on reacquainting yourself with how your mouth fits with his. He doesn’t lead, doesn’t rush or pull or press. But there’s tension all along his body, everywhere you touch. You don’t ask for more than a chaste kiss, and when you pull away, you tilt your forehead gently against his.

“Still okay?” You ask.

“Still okay.”

First | Previous | Next

His arm is under your head, a perfect plush pillow. You run your thumb over the ruined tattoo wrapping his forearm. He says it used to be a skull, but you can’t ever make out the design with the heavy scarring interrupting the ink.

“любовь,” he rasps into your ear.

You press back against him, twist your head to kiss the lax muscle beneath your head. The change in your breathing must have awoken him. He squeezes you a bit tighter for a moment, feeling like an oversized teddy bear. You smile, realize he can feel it when he puffs with amusement.

“детеныш,” he murmurs, lips brushing tender skin.

You sigh, try to dig your voice out of slumber, but it’s slow to come these days. Even when you haven’t had a bad night, you have trouble speaking in the morning. None of your team minds – but especially not Nikto, who hardly ever speaks more than a handful of sentences a day.

For a while, the two of you doze, breaths sinking, enjoying the time darkness before daylight heralds the return of his mask. You don’t mind it, of course, respect his need for privacy and protection, his discomfort with the scars of his torture. But you won’t feel guilty for enjoying the rare access to his mouth, either.

His fingertips begin to trace over the curve of your collarbone, a featherlight caress that makes you shiver. Eventually his palm travels up to your throat, cradles you there, thumb against your quickening pulse. Not gripping or restraining. Just holding, measuring. You tilt your chin back to give him access, finally manage a soft hum against his palm.

“Can I take care of you?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

You almost mourn the loss of his hand on your throat as it maps down your bare body. But then it stops at the soft hair of your pussy, curling almost playfully. You inhale softly, a thrill jolting through your stomach, sinking low and simmering in your gut.

“пожалуйста,” you whisper.

You’re already warm and wet for him, know it as soon as guides your thigh up and over his own. Leftover pleasure from your private time with the captain and a night with your ass cradled against Nikto’s pelvis. You grind back against him now, feel the delicious bulge of his cock parting your cheeks.

He hushes you, peppering kisses along the line of your neck. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You stop pushing back against him, making your body go lax and compliant again. He murmurs praise against your skin, a single finger dipping into your slit, skating over your slippery, swollen clit. You gasp softly, slumping back against him, spreading your thighs a bit wider.

There’s nothing hurried about it, just a gentle, coaxing pressure and leisurely circles. Almost hypnotic, the novel texture of his finger pad setting your nerves alight. You’re still sensitive from the previous night, melting in his arms as pleasure quickly turns your hazy brain to cotton fuzz. When the pleasure starts to crest, he changes the rhythm, rubbing circles in the opposite direction. Doesn’t stop the climax altogether but delays it, spools it out.

You make a soft noise, not sure if your disappointed by the denial or grateful that he’s drawing the pleasure out. When he’s treating you like this, the build up is just as good as the orgasm itself. You could live forever in moments like this, soft and blurry and riding on a constant thrum of ecstasy.

“Easy, easy,” he soothes, “let me take care of you.”

You squeeze his arm in agreement, moaning softly as he changes the direction again. He sucks gently at the sweet spot behind your ear, nothing that’ll leave a mark – but enough to sweeten the pleasure into something syrupy, dripping from your lips on humid breaths. His pace never changes, never hurries or rushes you to the end. Like he could spend all morning playing with your pussy too. Just lets it build and build…

“Whenever you’re ready, любовь,” he murmurs. “I won’t deny you anything.”

The pleasure crests like sunrise, liquid gold pouring over you. You moan, voice pitching low in your throat, none of the desperate high pitch of the night before. His teeth sink gently into the spot he’s been lavishing. No pain, just a pleasant ache that makes you tingle from head to toe.

Nikto doesn’t stop until you whimper softly, tapping twice at his arm that you’re overstimulated. He stops instantly, eases away, squeezes your hip and thighs until you catch your breath.

“Alright?” he asks.

“A-alright,” you breathe, craning your neck back to receive a languid kiss from his rough lips. “Do you want to…?”

“Not today,” he replies, sparing a moment to adjust himself in his underwear. “Just wanted to be good to you.”

You hum in understanding, wriggling around to press your hands to his scarred chest. “You’re always good to me.”

He hums, drops a lingering kiss on your forehead. “Need help cleaning up?”

“No, love, thank you though,” you murmur. “Should I grab your mask while I’m up?”

“It’s on the dresser.”

“Got it.”

You sneak one last kiss before shuffling out of bed.

--

Price’s arms are crossed tight when Simon files into his office with the rest of the 141. His expression could be carved of stone, jaw tight. There’s no evidence of it, but Simon can tell he’s been pacing. Has the grim look of a mission with shit odds and no backup, but they’ll have to make it work anyway.

“I talked to her captain,” he begins without preamble.

Simon stills, doesn’t acknowledge the guilty glance Johnny shoots him. Gaz audibly swallows and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“He’s agreed not to contact Laswell for an exchange.”

Something in Simon’s chest loosens. If your captain contacts Laswell to get a new team assigned to the mission, it means you’re gone again. Beyond their reach. He could have made peace if he never saw you again. But to have you here, within arm’s reach – even if you can barely look at any of them right now… well, you always saw reason once you got the worst of your feelings out.

Simon knows he’s banking on your forgiving nature, but the 141 was your first team. The fact that you’re still so angry with them means they still mean something to you, even after all this time.

“This needs to be put to rest,” Price continues. “I know we’ve all got bad feelings about what happened, but it can’t keep interfering with the job.”

Johnny and Gaz duck their heads, ashamed. Simon’s own chest twists. In retrospect, throwing his fight with you was stupid and desperate. He had been hoping that a few good swings would soften you up to a real conversation – but he shouldn’t have discounted your pride. Especially when it comes to him.

“He’s agreed to talk to her, see if she’s willing to hash things out with any of us – but under the caveat that we keep it professional.”

He rocks back on his heels, pins them each with a hard look. The kind that promises retribution.

“Whatever you’ve got to say, save it for after hours and hope she doesn’t swing on you. Dismissed.”

Even Johnny is quiet as the three exit Price’s office, a somber frown on his face. Simon doesn’t wait to ask him what he’s thinking; he already knows. Johnny may have put up a haughty front earlier, but eventually his true feelings will surface. The hurt and guilt, the confusion and fear. He and Gaz loved you in a way Simon couldn’t manage. Even if you’re still pissed, Johnny’s such an earnest sort that you’ll soften to him eventually.

Same with Gaz. Forgiveness is a light at the end of that particular tunnel.

It’s a coin toss for Price, your poker face is especially blank when it comes to him.

But for Simon…

Simon’s made peace for a long time that there’s little redemption for him. On Earth or anywhere else. With you… at the very least you deserve an explanation, even if it doesn’t absolve him of anything. You should know that his intentions were never to have you removed, by your own volition or otherwise.

Maybe he wasn’t too far off with the initial idea – let you get the anger out. He’s the one that deserves it, not Johnny or Gaz or even Price, really. Went about it the wrong way, maybe, but not a bad idea all around.

So, he doesn’t make the turn to the 141 barracks. He pivots instead for the SpecGru hall.

It’s quiet, all the doors closed, with no indication of who is staying in which rooms. But Simon doesn’t need it. He knows that yours is the third door down on the right, across from Russ.

He pauses outside, stares at the cheap woodgrain as he loads words like bullets.

Raises his hand to knock, knuckles white beneath his gloves—

“Daddy!”

He freezes. Denial flares hot and bright for a moment, a desperate hope that he didn’t actually hear that. But then it comes again, that desperate, needy pitch he remembers on his weakest, loneliest nights—

“D-daddy!” your voice slithers out from beneath another door, wraps around Simon’s throat and strangles him. A hitched moan follows, one that he knows from experience means you’re out of your mind on pleasure.

And it’s like his mind is working against him, because he picks up the little, damning noises he didn’t notice before. The obscene slap of skin on skin, the deeper, quieter cadence of a man’s voice. It only takes a moment to recognize it as your captain’s, the rasp of it unmistakable, even if individual words are inaudible.

Simon feels his stomach curdle and sink, chest burning with something he can’t identify. Anger? Jealousy? Shame? He can’t figure it out – not right now, right here. With the sound of your impending climax making you louder and louder, clawing memories from his brain. A life he should have had with you, a relationship he never had the strength to acknowledge.

He turns on his heel and storms away, almost shoulder-checking Nova on his way.

--

Nova greets you rosy and bright at breakfast later that morning, a coffee for you already in hand. It’s such a sweet gesture that you can’t help yourself. You curl an arm around her waist and kiss her, licking the taste of too-sweet tea from her lips. Your precious girl.

“Morning, pretty thing,” you hum.

There’s a blush blooming high in her cheeks as she pecks your nose. “Mornin,’ babes. Made it right?”

You accept the mug from her, take a quick sip. Not too hot, just the right amount of cream and sugar – you even catch a hint of cinnamon, her calling card for your drinks.

“Perfect,” you reply, kissing her forehead, “thank you, love.”

She hums, sends you off to Keegan and your captain with a little pat on the ass. You sit at the table with a warm greeting, leaning into Keegan when he curls an arm around your shoulders. In the kitchenette, Nova and Nikto are exchanging their own good mornings, a sly grin on her face as she teases him.

“Here, baby,” your captain calls, sliding a plate of pastries your way. “You haven’t eaten since dinner.”

You tuck into a muffin while he and Keegan continue chatting – sounds like they’re discussing plans for the day. Training schedules and dealing with the 141. It’s too early for you to be bothered by talk of your former teen, so you just listen quietly, enjoying your breakfast. Nova takes a seat beside you, snuggling in extra close with her thigh against yours.

“How was your sleepover with the cap last night?” you ask.

“Cozy. We watched one of Keegan’s true crime docs,” she replies happily. “Missed you and Nik, though.”

You smile, knock your knee lightly into hers. “How about you and I start that new season of Doctor Who tonight? I’ll do your hair while we’re at it.”

She lights up. “Yeah? It’s a date.”

She flicks a glance over your shoulder, you turn and catch Keegan watching you both, eyes half-lidded. Fond, warm. With the mask, he can be inscrutable to others, but you know how to read the light in his eyes. Never knew you could understand someone so well when they want you to know them.

You only realize that Ghost was there in the doorway when you notice the dark flicker of him walking away.

First | Previous | Next

But he never meant for you to leave. Not really.

Maybe take an extended solo mission. Or just break off the romance of it all. Maybe you’d stay away for a while, give him time to sort out his feelings and shove the useless ones back into the pit they belong in.

He didn’t expect you to be gone as soon as you could stand.

“You said yourself, Simon, she’s too young and reckless. The 141 can’t afford to babysit her,” Price explained.

“She nearly got you killed, LT,” Soap pointed out. That was before he found out that you were gone for good, not just on disciplinary leave.

And when he did…

“No. No, she dinnae…” he wiped a hand down his face, eyes going a bit glassy. “Why? Why would she… didn’t we mean anythin’ to her? I know we were all a bit on the rocks but ‘s just cos she gave us a scare…”

Gaz took it the hardest, showing up most morning with red-rimmed, puffy eyes. He tried texting you a hundred times; they never went through.

He and Soap begged Price to reconsider, saying that he had no right to kick you out without consulting the rest of the squad.

“I just told her that she should consider transfer,” Price corrected, steely.

“Same fuckin’ thing, ain’t it?” Soap raged. “What else ‘s she gonna do when it’s her captain sayin’ it?”

And Price had finally crumbled, his stubbornness giving way to a clearer head and regret in the aftermath. Simon knew how he felt; had been haunted with the same gut-wrenching feeling for two weeks by that point.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have…” he wiped a hand down his face. “I’ll call Laswell, see if she can put us through.”

As it turned out, your new team had deployed you almost immediately. You were gone, relying on teammates you barely knew, and there was no guarantee when (or even if) you’d be reachable again.

When Laswell put Price through to your new captain instead, he scoffed down the line.

“That how the great John Price sends off his own?” He gruffed.

“I take care of my own,” Price replied, narrow-eyed.

“That’s explains it then, doesn’t it?” A shifting on the other end. “Well, she’s one of mine now, at least; better off that way I think.”

He was on speaker phone with the SpecGru captain. Shouldn’t have been, but it wasn’t a confidential call. So the rest of the 141 was there, vibrating with the effort to stay quiet.

Simon balled his hands into fists, arms crossed. He didn’t trust anyone with one of theirs. No, you belonged right there with the rest of the 141. They could keep you safe, keep you alive.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Price growled.

“Let me just ask you this, Price. And only because I need to know how to take care of her.” A pause, shuffling of papers. Something heavy and almost… hesitant in the silence before- “Did she always have this DNR order?”

Price’s office turned to ice. Simon’s entire shuddered, cored out. The arm of the chair Soap was occupying cracked. Gaz’s hand was covering his mouth, blood draining from his face.

“No,” Price answered, voice little more than rust.

A grunt on the other end.

“Thanks for the insight,” your new captain replied, sounding nonplussed. “At least you were good for something.”

The line droned, dead.

—

You’re standing with the rest of SpecGru, beaming like each and every one of them hung a star just for you. They orbit like you’re the sun, even Nikto, holding you in his arms, letting you lean back against him.

(You used to look at Simon like that. Used to let him hug you like that on the occasion he was weak and gave into the temptation to hold you.)

Every time he looks at you, it’s like a stranger with your face all over again.

You hold your shoulders differently. Tilt your head different. Have a certain control over your facial features better than any mask Simon’s donned.

Today you’re dressed down from your tac uniform. Specifically, your long-sleeve thermal has been replaced by a sleeveless gym shirt. It reveals that tattoo he caught only a glimpse of before — a big, intricate thing from your shoulder down your wrist.

(He and Johnny were going to go with you for your first tattoo. You asked them for all sort of recommendations. Enjoyed tracing Simon’s sleeve when he let you.)

There are more scars too. Burns, bullet grazes, jagged knife marks and patches from bad scrapes.

Nova is finishing up the wrapping on your hand, the other already done. You’re listening to something Russ is spouting off about, whatever it is making you laugh loud enough to be heard where Simon is lurking.

“C’mon,” Johnny says, bumping shoulders with Simon. “Know we fucked up yesterday, but we can try again. Maybe letting her beat the shite out of us will help clear the air, aye?”

Simon forces himself to look away. He already knows you won’t be glancing over.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Maybe.”

First | Previous | Next

You, Gaz, and Soap became a trio of mischief, thick as thieves. Played pranks, ate meals, watched movies. They always made you feel like one of the team, even though you were the newest member with the most to prove.

But Ghost. Ghost was something else. Your mentor, at first. And in the course of training, you two became… something else. Not that he’d ever admit it. Even with your scratches on his back and your kiss marks on his throat, he maintained an aloof air.

You thought it was just his issues. Trauma and all that. You were patient when he needed space, pushed when he was an asshole. Tried to give as good as you got.

And then a mission went wrong. Maybe you didn’t follow orders, or you just made a stupid mistake. Maybe both. You ended up nearly captured, badly injured. Barely got away and only because Ghost put his own ass on the line to save you.

You woke up in the hospital room alone. Gaz visited you just before discharge, only to bring you a change of clothes and warn you that you were in deep shit. Even then, you could sense the wall between you two, a glass pane of separation. You could see him on the other side, but he was completely separate.

Soap couldn’t even look at you, jaw tight whenever you tried to speak with him. He was mad, you knew that. You tried not to take it to heart.

You sought out Ghost before Price, pissed that he couldn’t even have the decency to visit in the infirmary. What you get instead is an ice cold tirade. That you were a child with a crush that became a liability. That you weren’t fit for the 141, that he wouldn’t work with you on missions going forward unless the rest of the team was there. That you clearly mistook a “release of stress” with something meaningful.

When you did get called to Price’s office, you could tell from the look in his eyes. He agreed with Ghost. He told you, blunt (but trying not to be cruel) that you should consider transfer. That he wasn’t sure you were a good fit for the team. You were a good soldier but not good experienced enough.

You called Laswell for a transfer as soon as you stepped out. Were on a plane three hours later. Didn’t say goodbye to a single one of them.

By morning, you were meeting your new team.

Next

Your new captain is gruffer than Price right off the bat, but he’s fair. Tells you what needs improvement, but is honest about what he’s impressed with.

The rest of the team is… fine.

Just fine, you tell yourself. Keep it professional; keep it distant.

Even when Keegan goes out of his way to bring you snacks and remind you to hydrate. Even when Nova helps you with a bad jam on your gun. Even when Nikto of all people sits next to you in the gym. Not touching, not even speaking. Just there.

They respect your distance. Respect your baggage. Don’t give you shit when you decline invitations to go out. You wait for your new captain to say it’s not working out. To tell you that you’re not a good fit, he’s concerned about your teamwork with the rest of the squad.

The ice only starts to thaw when you fuck up again. When you nearly die. You wake up to the entire squad in your hospital room; even Nikto is there, leaned up against the wall across from your bed.

Your captain gives you a couple harsh words for stupid sacrifices, but he chucks you under the chin when he’s done. Keegan presses a kiss to your forehead just as the pain meds are kicking in and you’re too loopy to do more than ask him if he even likes you.

The answer, apparently, is yes.

He likes you quite a bit. So much, in fact, that you start letting him into your room when he knocks. Tell him about the 141. Start joining him for training and seeking him out for tips on the sniper. You like him, dammit.

Then Nikto starts joining you two. Shocks both you and Keegan; he’s not close with anyone. If you’ve got a suitcase worth of baggage, Nikto has a bloody moving truck. You can count on two hands the number of words he’s said, with fingers left over.

Yet he’s become your new shadow. Reminds you of… a certain someone, in a lot of ways. Except Nikto pulls a knife on someone for making a gross comment about you. And starts teaching you how to throw knives and jumpstart just about everything. Seeks you out — constantly, it seems.

So now you’ve got Keegan and Nikto, flanking you almost constantly. And then you have Nova, teaching you hacking skills and makeshift bombs, her thigh pressed to yours. And your captain, patting you on the ass after a job well done.

You agree to go out with them for the first time. End up with Nova in your laps for an hour. Then find yourself in Keegan’s for another. Have Nikto’s hand on the small of your back on the way out of the bar, and your captain’s hand on your thigh during the drive back.

“Fuck you,” you nearly sob, bouncing on Keegan’s cock that night.

“That’s — fuck, baby, ngh — that’s the idea?”

You nip at his jaw and grind down, squeezing your eyes shut. His hands are firm but reverent on your hips, thumbs stroking old scars, guiding you just right when you start shaking.

“Fuck you for making me care,” you sniffle, squeezing down, delighted in the noise he makes. “Goddammit.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he coos in your ear. “It’s alright. I love you too.”

And fuck if that doesn’t make you cum right then.

As you’re panting in the afterglow, you feel a rough kiss against your neck. Freeze as you see a gloved hand covering Keegan’s eyes.

“Love,” Nikto whispers in your ear. Your eyes sting, a sob caught up in your throat.

“Okay,” you whimper. “O-okay.”

Three months later, Laswell calls your captain for a joint mission. With the 141.

Previous | Next

“Good to see you again,” Price says to you.

It’s only then that your eyes shift to him, something distinctly unimpressed about the set of your eyebrows. “Good?”

“Yes. Good.”

You don’t answer, instead flick a look to the man on your right. Russ, Simon remembers from the files Laswell distributed. Wears a mask almost always as well. Something passes between you two in that glance, something Simon would dare say is mocking. Can all but see you rolling your eyes like you used to when the brass was blowing smoke.

“We’re not here for small talk,” your new captain interrupts. “Where are we bunking?”

The SpecGru team sweeps you away with them to their side of the barracks. The man on your other side, covered head-to-toe (Nikto, Simon’s mind supplies) casts a lingering glance over his shoulder at the rest of the 141.

“Brr,” Soap says when you’re all out of sight. “That was chilly.”

“No kidding,” Gaz says, grimacing.

Price sighs, runs a hand down his face. There’s a beat where it seems like he might speak, might comment on the ice radiating across the tarmac. Instead, he just shakes his head and waves them off.

Simon doesn’t let himself make a beeline for the barracks. For you. He made you leave for a reason. Two years doesn’t change anything.

He sees you at the mess later, with the rest of SpecGru. Russ’s hand arm around the back of your chair and your knee against your captain’s.

The seat you used to occupy with the 141 remains empty to this day. Not once during that meal do you glance at it, or them. Simon knows; he watches you the entire time.

You pad into the rec room kitchenette the next morning one feet quieter than they used to be. Your eyes register him, a little puff of air coming from your nose. Don’t say good morning — though neither does Simon.

“Tea’s in the right now,” he says when you reach for the left cabinet.

You don’t even twitch to acknowledge that you’ve heard him, pulling out the coffee grounds and busying yourself at the machine. When did you start drinking coffee? You used to make tea for everyone on the team first thing in the morning.

He’s about to say something when Russ swaggers into the room, still adjusting his mask.

“Mornin’ sweets,” he says.

You shoot him a smile, tilt your head as he kisses your cheek loudly through the mask. Simon freezes.

“Don’t feel like talking yet?” Russ asks.

You shake your head, offer him a sip from your mug. He accepts, winking as he hands it back.

(That’s new too. Used to be you couldn’t shut up in the mornings, chattering to whoever was nearby.)

“This is a public space, you know that right?” Simon rumbles.

“No shit?” Russ asks, eyebrows obviously arched.

You snort and lean up against the counter, cupping your mug in both hands. At least that’s a mannerism Simon recognizes.

He doesn’t rise to the bait, stands from his chair. He’s done with his tea anyway and he’s got shit to do before the team exercises later.

When he passes just within arm’s reach to rinse his cup out in the sink, you don’t tense. Or even move at all, except to take another measured sip of bitter coffee. (Didn’t you have a sweet tooth?)

He leaves just as Nova is stepping in, singing a honey-sweet good morning to you and Russ that makes Simon’s teeth ache.

The exercises are brutally efficient. Not a single member of the SpecGru team speaks to the 141 more than necessary to complete the objective. There are no words of praise or attempts at camaraderie between drills.

Which is not to say there isn’t any at all. Simon sees you scoop Nova up when she bests Soap at a tricky maneuver, laughing bright and bell-like while the rest of your team looks on. Nikto touches your shoulder after you disarm Price of his knife and you beam at him like the fucking sun.

It’s sets Simon’s teeth on edge. How well you fit with them — better than you even did when things were good with the 141. When one of you moves, the other four compensate, no one left unprotected, room left for stumbles or mishaps.

Your captain tugs your belt when you pass him, and you grin as you peck his jaw, before trotting off to a soft-eyed Russ.

Simon can feel Johnny’s eyes bouncing between you and him, waiting for… something. Fuck’s sake. Simon tamps down the agitation crawling beneath his skin and sets up for the next drill.

“Oi, we need to start mixing. We can guarantee that our teams will stay separate,” Price calls to your captain.

He grunts, but jerks his head at the rest of the SpecGru folks. You stay separate, adjusting your gloves as if nothing in the world is wrong.

“Wait, she needs to—”

“She needs to follow my orders,” your captain interrupts. “And her orders are to operate solo for this drill.”

You nod and dart off without another glance.

Simon’s fingers twitch.

“Something wrong, Ghost?” Keegan leers, thumbs hooked in his belt. “You don’t wanna work with me?”

“Fuckin’ Yanks,” he mutters.

Keegan laughs like SImon’s told a hilarious joke. Thankfully, he shuts the fuck up for the rest of the drill.

Your voice is back in Simon’s ear for the first time in two years, working as overwatch. You direct the teams like a master conductor, covering with perfect sniper shots where necessary. Earn a constant stream of praise and admiration from your teammates. In the real thing, you would have saved Simon and Keegan twice over.

Eventually, though, you’re expected to run drills paired with the 141 again.

Your expression doesn’t so much as shift when your captain says so. The rest of your team tenses though, Nova even opening her mouth like she wants to argue.

You cross the small but firm divide between the teams to stand by Gaz’s side.

“Jus’ like old times, yeah?” He asks, offering you a fist bump.

You glance at it briefly, then turn forward.

“Sure,” you answer, flat and toneless.

First | Previous | Next

(And Keegan, who came in his pants once when you had him in a chokehold, one your thighs between his. But no, no, now is not the time to think about that…)

You’re not the best hand-to-hand operator on the team, sure. That title belongs to Nikto, who hits so hard and fast you’re down before you even realize he’s swinging. But you’re certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Not this much though.

If you were in the mood to give them credit for anything — and you’re really not — they’re at least subtle. You don’t catch on during the first round with Soap. Your brain has completely transitioned into the comfortable rhythm of practice combat. Something to be taken seriously, but not the high-stress of victory or death in a mission.

No, Soap gets away with it in the moment. You only notice as you’re taking your water break, rotated out with the uneven numbers between your teams. You’re surveying the pairs and notice him sparring with Keegan.

There’s something decidedly more intense about it. Like… like he’s putting real effort into trying to beat Keegan. An effort he did not put into fighting you.

Rage burns through you, hot and thick, buzzing in your head.

Does he think you’re not worth any real effort? Does he think you can’t handle a proper fight, that this is just playtime? Is he really treating you like some fresh-faced recruit that needs to be babied after all this time?

When you captain finishes wiping the floor with Gaz, you go to his side. One look at your face and he knows.

“Whose head is rolling?” He asks, plucking your bottle from your hand for a sip.

“Soap threw our match.”

His eyes flare before he closes them, swallows the water in his mouth and sighs.

“How do you want to handle it?” He asks.

“Wait, wait,” Gaz interrupts. And the look your captain gives him… Christ. To his credit, he doesn’t back down though. “He probably just thought it would be good, yeah? To… let you get some anger out.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, a mean laugh slipping out. The captain arches his eyebrows in what could almost be sympathy. Or arousal, hard to tell when he’s got such a good poker face. (Mix of both, you figure)

“Oh, he wants me to get some anger out?” You roll your shoulders. “Sounds like a great idea.”

Ghost is your last match before reset — before you’ll get a chance to show Soap just how much steam you need to let off.

Except now that you’re looking for it, you recognize almost immediately that he’s throwing the match. Probably especially because it’s Ghost. You never stood a chance against him before leaving, even now you didn’t have optimistic expectations for a fight with him. So the fact that it doesn’t feel like you’re working for every inch you gain…

The final straw is when you try a move from before. Something he never fell for once and always reprimanded you for using. He “falls” for it this time. You don’t pull your punch when it goes directly into his face.

Know immediately that he’s feeling it, that wicked hook Keegan always whistles over. Blinking past his mask. And you don’t let up, pressing and pressing the advantage. Take him down to the ground using all your built strength, twisting into a vicious arm bar and pulling, pulling, pulling—

“Bloody hell, I yield!” He snarls, palm slamming against your thigh.

You release him, but not without one last nasty kick to the soft spot beneath his ribs.

The gym has gone silent. You don’t care, pushing to your feet with hands still balled into tight, angry fists.

“You ever throw a fight with me again, I’ll break your fucking jaw, Riley,” you snarl.

Price, expression stormy, takes a step forward.

“He threw the fight?” He asks.

You scoff, “Either that or the 141’s quality is lacking nowadays.”

You step off the mat to join the rest of your team, exchange a frustrated look with your captain. Nova comes to your side, curling a finger into your belt loop in solidarity.

“Gotta say, Price, I’m disappointed,” your captain says. “This is getting out of control. I won’t have my team put at risk because yours can’t keep it professional. I’d rather just tell Laswell to get you a different support team.”

You’re almost surprised to see how the 141 jolts, four pairs of eyes flicking to you in panic. What in the actual hell?

“Take it easy,” Price says, eyes flashing. “I’ll have a word with them.”

You glance up at your captain, see from the twitch in his jaw and the tightness around his eyes that his patience for this is wearing gossamer thin.

“See to it. In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.”

He turns his back on the 141, and you’re all too happy to follow suit, pressing a kiss to Nova’s cheek when she sends you a worried look. Whatever weird issue the 141 is having, they need to stop making it your issue.

“Keegan, with me,” your captain says. “Nikto, you’re up against the girls.”

Nikto tilts his head in a nod, then jolts as you and Nova take either side of him.

“Gonna show us a good time, Nik?” You coo.

“Always love a tag-team,” Nova purrs.

The captain grins. “Have fun you three.”

First | Previous | Next