Brown Works So Hard And Does So Much And Everyone Is So Mean To Her. Coffee Chocolate Hair Leather Tea

Thinking about professor!Ghost and his stupid motorcycle, abs how he definitely isn't stalking the hot Anthropology professor but he does notice she hasn't left the parking lot at her usual time so he goes to check what's up with that. And when he finds out someone let the air out of not one but two of her tires, thus rendering her one spare useless, he offers her a ride home. Something he never does, because he doesn't like carting people around he likes going fast and not worrying about cargo, but he settles next to Love's car and offers her a ride home. He does tell her to stay put while he runs to his office for his extra helmet and when she finally gets it in her hands she tells him,

"Its pink," with a sort of soft smile that melts his heart, he just grunts and responds,

"I thought you liked pink."

Which is immediately met with laughter like bells and a smile that feels a lot more genuine as she pulls the full face helmet over her head. She steps close to the bike and Ghost stops her to check that the helmet is on right, his gloved fingers skirting under her chin to make sure the strap is on tight. He offers her a hand, holding the bike steady as she climbs on behind him, and he's maybe a little too eager when her arms wrap around his middle and squeeze.

Ghost's never liked feeling a helmet against his shoulder, but somehow when it's her it's tolerable. Somehow he doesn't want to go as fast, meandering down the streets until she taps his thigh and Ghost feels all his blood rush south. He stops in front of her flat and helps her climb off, staring a little too much at the way she swings her leg over his bike until she's fiddling with the helmet and again he reaches out to help.

She shakes her hair out with a smile as soon as it's off and offers the helmet back. Ghost doesn't have a good reason to tell her he got it for her, so he takes it back and watches her make her way inside. He can still feel the squeeze of her arms around him. Maybe he should make a move.

TF141 reactions to "want me to paint your nails?"

PRICE has never been asked that question before

knee-jerk reaction is no. because he is a man.

but he knows better than that, too; it's just an assumption he was raised with and he's lived too long and seen too much to care about other people's judgement.

he leans over and watches you paint yours. seems harmless enough.

he allows you to paint one (1) pinky nail.

you do as neat a job as you can. very deliberate strokes. sliding one of your unpainted nails around the edge of his cuticle to catch a smudge.

you say "there you go :)"

he nods, seems pretty unaffected by the whole thing. just indulging you, it's a good captain thing to do. fun is allowed sometimes as a little treat.

if you catch him looking down at that one painted pinky nail in thought, in meetings, running his thumb over it in thought, no you didn't.

GHOST balks. acts like that's a stupid question. this is a lie.

even if you shrug and say okay, your loss, he feels kinda tingly about it in the stomach for a minute.

but if you were to just... maybe reach over and pull his hand in anyway, he wouldn't stop you.

he just lets you paint his nails. all of them. just sits there like it's not happening.

activates the monkey grooming part of his brain. not only are you doing a nice thing for him for no reason, you're touching him.

like, you're holding his hand almost. that shit is intimate.

his touch-starved ass starts having pavlovian reactions to the smell of nail polish after that.

GAZ says yeah. asks you to show him.

you lean in and show him the hand you're working on.

when you pull his hand over to do his, he pulls an uno reverse. flips your hand over in his.

plucks the nail polish brush out of your hand and starts painting the thumbnail of your non-dominant hand.

he's just doing it as an excuse to have your hand in his. he does not deny it when you point this out. no, he's not letting go.

his grip is secure. you protest and he counters by asking you how long it takes to dry. how many layers. if this is your favorite color. how to clean up that dot he just made on your fingertip.

he is so coolheaded about it that he flusters you the more you try to argue. you eventually have to just shut up and let him work. and answer his questions.

he is smirking.

after that, he makes a point to grab your hand whenever you're not wearing gloves and check your nails. if they're chipped, he quips it's time for him to fill you in.

SOAP says sure >:)

do not trust him. this is a mistake.

the minute you scoot over to pick his hand up, he yanks you over and wrestles you to the floor.

pot of nail polish? spilled. your freshly painted nails? ruined. done for.

you should've known. like this is seriously your fault. you know him.

he gets your nail polish on his fingers by accident. then happily smudges it wherever he can reach. 

he loves wrestling :) and playing too rough on purpose

eventually he will apologize for ruining your manicure.

helps you repaint them. you're awed when he does a better job than you could.

he has steady hands. part of his demo skillset. and he likes sketching, so

you don't have to clean up any of the nails he paints.

he even uses your detail brush to draw a little something on your accent nail to remind you of him. you think it's just something to make up for his bullshit, but now whenever he sees it (and that thumbprint of nail polish he left on the back of your shoulder and didn't tell you) he feels like he signed you <3

Ama Codjoe, from Bluest Nude: Poems; “Bluest Nude”

[Text ID: “I crave. I want to be seen clearly or not at all.”]

meaner than a junkyard dog

cw: dubcon, ghost being a creep, vague allusions to murder (maybe?)

simon who owns the local junkyard, always wearing a wifebeater and covered in grease, known as just about the meanest bastard you'll ever meet. he makes even the roughest guys at the dive bar in town shuffle uncomfortably when he shows up. takes a seat in the corner where a glass of whisky materializes in front of him, lights a cigarette, and glares. smoking inside was outlawed 27 years ago but nobody's going to tell him to put it out.

you manage to slip through the rusted chain-link gate on one of the rare days the junkyard is open for business - you don't want to be here, sun beating down relentlessly, gleaming on acres of exposed metal husks, but you're desperate. you need a part for your shitbox of a car and can't afford a real mechanic. one of the waitresses at work has a brother who is willing to do the work for cheap, if you can get your hands on the right part.

when you sheepishly approach simon where he stands on the back porch of his home/office (a beat down doublewide that's more rust than anything else), cigarette dangling between his scarred lips, he almost can't believe his luck. he's had plenty of things wander their way into his yard (there's a bone pile out back to prove it) but never anything as cute as you. flimsy tanktop and cutoff shorts, big doe eyes, paper clutched between perfectly manicured little fingers.

and when you stammer out your request, asking if he could just point you in the right direction, of course he offers to be your guide. it's easy to get lost out there, after all. he'd hate for you to spend all day wandering in this heat. and if there's a malicious glint in his eyes, you miss it, oblivious little thing. too focused on your task.

get in, get the part, get out.

so what if his hand brushes your ass a few times on the way there? you're certainly not going to say anything. no different than putting up with the creepy customers at work for a good tip, you tell yourself. this is important, you need your car. if you have to let the guy from the junkyard feel you up a little bit, so be it. you'll live.

(give an inch, take a mile, or however the saying goes.)

that's how you'd ended up bent over the hood of the car you were looking for, shorts and underwear tugged aside just enough for three thick fingers stuffed in your cunt down to the second knuckle. metal searing into your skin through the barely-there fabric of your tanktop.

you're perfectly pliant after that, easy to maneuver inside. bent over the table. flat on your back on the floor. face down in his bed.

when you wake up alone the next morning to the faint smell of dust and stale cigarettes his spend is still drying between your thighs. you turn over with some effort, sore all over, and spot something on the nightstand. your part.

it's a shame when, a month later, something else goes wrong with your car. and again a few weeks after that.

(so maybe simon is sabotaging your car, now. making sure you keep slinking back, tail between your legs. he has to make sure you keep coming back to him somehow. and if you'll get on your knees, or your back, for a few parts, he wonders, briefly, what you'd do for a whole car.)

Ghost in reader's Ring doorbell camera at like 3am just standing there silently for a minute before saying some weird shit like "your headlights are still on. you should come turn them off." meanwhile it's pitch black behind him.

Get in loser we’re going uhhh killing

Simon "Ghost" Riley that likes to be pampered, to be taken care of and let me tell you, he's just so not used to it. He's never had anyone to really treat him anything close to good.

In all honesty, he genuinely thought it was fine, being alone. He's a solitary creature, as life taught him to be, and deep down he convinced himself it was best. It didn't matter if there was a small, minuscule, pained tug at his heart every time he thought about it.

What he didn't expect was to be whipped immediately, one glance into your eyes and he was a goner. It went against his reasoning, this instinct of his to have you, battling everything he's been trying to avoid at all costs. But that one glance, that small smile you gave him, and he just knew. And months of tedious yet slow opening up and trying not only for you, but for himself, Simon was yours somehow. Baffling as it was, he now had someone to go home to. A sweet angel that in no time he plans to up and move into that bare house he has and take care of. Only thing is, the man did not expect to be taken care of himself, as if he forgot that was an option.

The first few times you two dated, officially, as he had to clarify this wasn't what kids these days mean by "hanging out" or "talking to" or whatever the fuck Johnny and Kyle were babbling to him about their dating lives (it's dating or not, Simon likes things clear), the man was surprised by how sweet yet determined you were. "Can I hold your hand?" You asked him a little flustered, and this big boy almost stuttered. He found himself nodding while gulping before taking your hand in his, internally beating himself up for acting like such a... boy? Having a silly crush on a lovely sweetheart that made him nervous by just exiting around him.

God, it felt fantastic when he finally got to kiss you. Simon thought it was gonna be just a kiss, big fucking deal (he was trying to cope, his hands were sweaty but whatever, big deal), but the way you sighed and melted into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck made him shudder. It ignited something in him and his heart tugged again, this time not painful but hopeful.

It was the way you touched his scarred face that really astonished him, especially the first night you spent in his house. Whatever movie you babbled about the last date, vampires or whatever, was now playing on his flat screen on the new profile he created for you on whatever screaming service Simon just bought just to watch it. Another tiny bit of you in his life, it seemed. Movie was fucking awful, truly, fucking dumb teenagers and vampires, but whatever, your boyfriend (bloody fucking hell it felt fantastic and scary to think that he's now yours officially) was determined to watch it even if he snorted and made fun of it every three seconds, yet having you giggle by his side made his cold heart warm up as it beat a thousand times per second. Once again, he found himself about to mock something jokingly when he turned to you, finding your beautiful eyes already on him, expression warm and relaxed.

"Come here." At that moment, Simon Riley realized he'd follow anything you'd order him, as his body moved without any thoughts, just closer to you. Like a stray dog that's learning what a home is, something he's never really had, and when your lips touched his cheek while caressing the other, the world slowed down.

Having you move closer to him, placing a leg over his, smiling at him sweetly while gently kissing the scar near his lower lip, all he could do was stare dumbly as his face felt on fire. Little did he know that his pale cheeks reddened so adorably that you started to giggle. God, he fucking loved that sound.

"Lay on me, c'mon." You ordered gently again, grabbing his calloused hands to tug him onto you as you laid down on your back. Simon knew he looked like an idiot in awe, very much aware he's always had a staring problem. But as he crawled gently over you, expecting you to push him off after abruptly changing your mind, all he could do was to look down into your cleavage and stare like a muppet. " 'S aight?" Being all he asked before hearing a nice hum, approval for him to lay on you.

That day, Simon learned what heaven is. Your fingers into his hair, slowly, gently playing with his dirty blond locks, his face in your soft tits, your voice oh-so clear as he pressed his ear into your torso, the slow rumble almost putting him to sleep while his eyes were focused on the silly movie. His arms were wrapped around you while he just laid down between your legs. His dumb jokes still delivered as he muffled them out lazily, getting you to laugh and make him smirk as you(r tits) jiggled under him, and his reward, because you're a fucking angel, of course, was a sweet kiss on his temple every single time. The man could be turning into a clown by the end of the night as long as you kissed him so tenderly.

You spoiled him too. How dare you, really? Bringing him sweets, asking him what he wants to eat, adjusting your schedule to fit his (man's off duty, he can camp outside your house and come in whenever you want him to, if you'd be willing, like a good obedient dog), just making him feel wanted. It was odd. And new. And addicting.

You cared. You cared for him. And in his wonky yet honest way, he cared too. Always making sure that you know he's somehow thinking of you. He wanted to try. He wanted to make sure you'll stick around. The military has taught this man a lot of things, and apart from his head-strong conviction that he indeed can do anything if he puts his mind to it, another was how to not fuck up something good, all through the hundreds of stories from many other soldiers about failed relationships. He knows all the perspectives, all the failures, all the erros and all the aftermaths, so he learned to listen and not blame, to pay attention, to be there even if he was half a world away. Simon is determined to keep you around, coming back to you battered, wounded, traumatized, exhausted, and is greeted with his angel, all ready to pick him up, wrap him in a warm blanket and fuss over his ass. He'd roll his eyes at you, but his emerging smile said it all.

His heart now tugs when he's about to pick his luggage, a duffle bag filled with essentials and nothing more. A week earlier than expected too, relief washing over his body like never before, knowing you're at home waiting for good news. And he's heading that way too, determined, unrelenting, head first, no thoughts. He's going home to you.

Home to warm, delicious food, instead of stale and plain. Home to sweet laughter and love, instead of orders barked and indifference. Home to his, your comfortable bed, arms and legs wrapped around each other, the plump delicious curves of your body pressed against his hardened one. Home to gentle, home to calm, home to soft, home to himself, home to everything. Home to his heart, that is tugging him closer and closer, where he left it with you.

I'm just gonna dump this here and leave. Not proofread because we're old and lazy here.

Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

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this is truly how i imagine simon to fuck you. a heavy hand smothering your moans; his hips punching his cock in, measured strokes hitting deep; dragging his hands along your body, feeling it underneath his touch; before tugging you closer to him, positioning you in the easiest way for him to fuck into. but, most of all, the silence from his end—a hunter. an apex predator.

your whole body shakes, pain and pleasure still mixing because it is all so overwhelming. so daunting. simon fucks you like a man starved; like your body is nothing but for him to use.

break time.