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t1oui · 1 month

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“i’m going to marry you someday,” james says, running his fingers through regulus’s curls. regulus smiles, his ear pressed to james’s heart.

“yeah?” he asks. “when?”

“as soon as you graduate.” james’s heartbeat stays steady, like this is a regular conversation on a regular night.

“yeah?” regulus asks, glancing up, meeting james’s eyes. his eyes are gray like a storm, and they’re so, so beautiful. “how?”

james smiles. “in the fields behind my parents’ house,” he says. “in summer. we’ll have everybody there — sirius and moony and peter and the girls, and all your friends, too. it’ll be perfect.”

regulus settles his head on james’s chest again. “you have this all planned out, don’t you?” he asks. james stares up at the sky, searching and finally locating regulus’s star. his star.

“of course i do,” he says. i love you, he almost says, but he leaves that for another night.

“i’m going to marry you someday,” james says, pulling regulus closer. his laugh lights up james’s world.

“tell me about it,” regulus says, intertwining their fingers.

“we’ll dance like this,” james says, placing his hand on regulus’s waist. “all night. with everybody, all our friends. and we won’t get tired.”

regulus laughs again. his eyes are closed, and he’s pressed his cheek to james’s chest. “how will we manage that?” he asks.

james thinks for a moment, still swaying them back and forth across the floor of the astronomy tower. he’s never been good at multitasking.

“potions,” james decides. “and firewhiskey, probably.”

“mm,” regulus hums. “i won’t drink any.”

“no?”

“no.” he pulls back, opening his eyes, and smiles up at james, gray eyes twinkling. “i want to remember every second of it.”

“i’m going to marry you someday,” james whispers, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks. “and then i’ll get you out of here.”

regulus gives him a weak smile and scoots closer, turning around and pressing his back to james’s chest.

“tell me where we’ll go,” he says quietly. “when we run away.”

james swallows thickly, glances down at the mark on regulus’s forearm.

“away,” he says. “where they can’t hurt us.”

where i’m free, he doesn’t say, from you.

“i wish i was a coward,” james says, his eyes fixed on the sky. on that star — not his, after all. he looks away, but it doesn’t matter. tears cloud his vision. “i wish i didn’t have to run away from you.”

there’s no response. he’s not surprised. there’s nothing for the headstone to say anyway. james bites back a sob, wiping the tears away just in time for more to appear.

“i wish i didn’t have to run away,” he says, setting the ring down in the grass, “but i’m not sorry i left.”

#idk what this is #sorry?#i just felt like doing something angsty #i want it to seem like regulus might’ve never loved james idk if that comes across #hp fandom #harry potter fandom #hp #marauders era #jegulus #james potter x regulus black #james potter #regulus black #sunseeker #starchaser

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kiuda · 1 month

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#discourse #sorry?

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rogueddie · 2 years

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Steve is so tired. He's trying so hard, but it never feels like enough.

He started learning first aid almost immediately after the first incident. Couldn't get that things claws out of his mind, couldn't stop thinking about how little he and Nancy could have done if it had decided to take a swipe at Jonathon- he'd looked so helpless, made Steve feel so guilty for taking so long to come back.

But it had come at the cost of everything else. He was so focused on learning first aid, on learning as much about emergency care, that he fell behind in school. It's hard to thinking about How To Kill a Mockingbird when he's trying to get stitches right, when he's got the mental image of Jonathon or Nancy bleeding out stuck in his mind.

And then in the second incident he'd been surrounded by kids, so small and... breakable. He doesn't think he'll ever stop having nightmares about dogs, opening faces, Max screaming or his fragile Dustin had felt when he'd tried to lift him out the way.

The kids shouldn't have to just deal with the trauma. But who can they talk to? Actually talk to? There's no one apart from each other... so Steve seeks out therapists, books, teachers. Anything and everyone who will let him talk with them. Absorbs as much as he can and, when he feels prepared enough, he starts to reach out to the kids. Starts talking to them.

They get happier. It's so painfully visible, the bounce in their step that returns whenever they finish talking to him, that the parents often pull him aside to thank him. It gets to the point that Hopper asks him to start coming to the cabin, start talking to El too.

After the third incident, though, he isn't sure what he can do to help. Isn't sure he should, not until he gets help himself. But the only person he feels comfortable talking to is Robin and that's not good. He's tried so many times to tell her that she's becoming codependent on him, that it's only encouraging him to depend far too heavily on her in return. Neither of them actually care that much.

Max stops talking to him. El won't answer his calls and Will doesn't know how to open up over the phone. Oddly enough, Jonathon is the only one in California that opens up to him. Though, that's probably because he's high all the time.

By the time the fourth incident rolls around, Steve is tired. Bone deep, exhausted. He's not sure he can learn anything else, isn't sure how useful he can really be. And with the amount of primal fear that is horrifyingly visible in Eddies eyes? He's not sure he'll ever know how to actually help him. Help any of them.

But then Eddie is bleeding. There's so many bites and Steve acts on auto-pilot. Yelling out instructions at Dustin and Nancy, snapping his fingers at Robin to get her to kneel on his other side. He ignores the way she sobs as she presses where he tells her to- he can feel guilty about forcing Eddies life into her hands as well later.

Its hard, long work, to stitch Eddie back together. He's not sure it'll be enough, isn't sure it isn't a wasted effort, but he has to try. He has to.

Two weeks later, he's released from the hospital. A lot of the stitches that are still holding him together, hidden beneath bandages, are the same ones Steve slowly weaved into his skin. Eddie constantly brings it up. Constantly brags that, not only did Steve save his life, but he's still holding him together.

When Steve tries to talk to him, though, it's all flipped on its head.

After Eddie finally gets it all off his chest, eyes red but so much more relaxed, he turns a tired smile on Steve. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Why did Steve Harrington learn first aid?"

Steve blinked at him, a little confused. But Eddie raises an eyebrow, expectant. So Steve started talking- but once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. He just unloaded everything, all the fears and trauma, everything that drove him to learn. To be better, to be useful.

"-And it's still not enough!" Steve finally sobs, already regretting opening his mouth. Eddie is so cool, has been there for Steve in a way he hadn't known he needed so bad. And now he's going to lose him, Steve is sure. He's going to see how useless Steve is.

"Steve, hey, no," Eddie hushes, moving to sit next to him, to curl an arm around his shoulders. "You've done more than anyone should've asked of you. More than you ever needed to. From what I've seen, you're the only thing holding this ragtag group together. They would've fallen apart without you. You're not just useful, Steve, you're the most important."

He kisses the top of Steves head, holds him tight. He doesn't seem to care when Steves snot gets on his top, just rubs his back. It's nice, Steve realizes. Doesn't know how he hadn't realized how much he needed someone to just... hold him. And Eddie holds him tight, fingers digging in, like he's trying to make it clear to Steve that he isn't going to let go.

Steve, finally, relaxes.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #sort of #most just steve going through trauma #sorry?#ficlet #hurtcomfort

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haveihitanerve · 1 month

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"He didn't kill joker!" Jason threw in his face. "B never avenged me! he never loved me! He. Didn't. Kill. Joker." Dick was quiet for so long Jason thought maybe he'd actually succeeded in shutting him, when he spoke, voice quieter than it had ever been. "He almost did."

The words took a second to register. "bullshit!" Jason spat when he had finally regained his tongue. Dick remained cool, staring out of the window. "He almost did." He repeated, as if those words weren't currently rattling around in Jason's brain. "When- when Joker killed you." Dick cut off, staring at the floor. "He went crazy." he whispered. "I- i was visiting because I knew it had- destroyed him. But I didn't realize how bad it was until-" Dick bit his lip. "until I got the call. It was Alfred. He was-" Dick took a shuddering breath and Jason braced himself. "He was stuttering and shaking and ordered me to get to Bruce's tracker immediately and I-" Dick shook his head. Jason had to admire his older brother for speaking so clearly. If he was reliving a moment in his life when he had witnessed Alfred, fucking Alfred, shake and stumble over his words, he would have been much less composed. "I didn't question it. I didn't even put on my suit. I just sprinted to where Bruce was. I thought-" Dick reached up a hand to his eyes and Jason realized with a jolt that he was crying. "I thought he had killed himself." Dick whispered. "i thought he had finally grown tired of it- of living without you, of fighting with me, of not being able to hold a child in his arms anymore without blood being involved." He shook his head, still staring at the floor.

"And I hated him. I hated him for leaving me, for leaving Alfred, for not having the backbone to stay and figure things out and heal- to not stay and try with me anymore. I hated- I hated that he had given up." Dick's hands were trembling, and he curled them into fists to hide it. "I hated that after everything we had gone through together, after all the life you and I had brought into his life, after all the times he had grilled it into me to just get back up- that he had just given up. Given up on life and- given up on me." The words grew so quiet Jason had to strain to hear them. And then he wished he hadn't. Dick shook himself, getting back on track. "So anyway, I raced over and... he wasn't dead. But he was just- sitting there. His legs over the edge of the building and I- I didn't understand why Alfred had sounded so scared. Why he had begged me to run." Jason had the horrible realization that he didn't want to know how this story ended. But he let Dick continue. "Until I got closer." Jason tried not to vomit. "He was- drenched in blood. It was as though he had been in a dunk tank over blood instead of water. And Joker had been the ball." Jason pressed a fist to his mouth. Dick still wasn't looking at him. "I-I didn't know what to do. So I just- sat down. Leaned against him." Dick took a shuddering breath and Jason placed his feet wide, bracing himself. "And then he started to talk." Dick whispered, a tremor in his voice. "He told me about what he'd done, and he spared no detail." Jason couldn't breathe. Something like anger, but worse, was choking his throat. "And when it was all over- when he had told me the last of the description, he turned and looked me dead in the eyes and told me, "he killed my son. if he, or anyone else, ever touches one of my children again- I will do far worse than what I did to him."" Jason sprinted to the bathroom and painted the toilet with his insides. When he returned, pale and shaky, Dick was still standing where he had been. Calm, cool, collected. "He almost did." Dick repeated once more, still not looking at Jason. Finally, he turned, making eye contact. "But you have to understand, for Dad? Killing him is too small of a punishment."

#bruce wayne #batman #jason has to understand #dick grayson #jason todd #umm #sorry?#i want dick to defend bruce and explain it to jason #also i liked the idea of jason losing his lunch to the knowledge of what bruce had done to the joker as 'avenge'#i didnt write it because i thought itd be too long and graffic #but trust me there were many many things bruce did to joker after he killed jason #batfam

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l1mo · 4 months

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okey..

#pomni x ragatha #sorry?#what

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imthursdaysyme · 4 months

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stobin | “come back! even as a shadow, even as a dream.” -Euripides

#stranger things #drawing #art #steve harrington #robin buckley #digital art #stobin #i have nothing to say for myself #character death #anyway #sorry?

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disgustinggf · 11 months

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fuck all of u bitches with huge titties and ass cuz why are they not in my face rn!!!!!!!!

#sorry?#personal txt

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scoobydoodean · 7 months

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Season 2 Sam spends the first four episodes of season 2 scared that Dean is going off the deep end. He knows his brother is not grieving their father in the way he expects by 2.02. By 2.04 he knows Dean thinks he should be dead. By 2.09, Dean plans to off himself imminently.

All of this concerns Sam. Sam keeps insisting Dean tell him what's wrong. He keeps insisting Dean is not okay and that Dean needs to open up. He keeps telling Dean he can help. Sam can carry part of the load. Sam cares.

(2.04, 2.09)

Then he finds out why his brother is depressed and contemplating suicide. John told Dean he had to save Sam—it was all on him—and if Dean couldn't, he's gotta kill Sam.

Of course Sam is gonna have feelings about that. It's a horrible fucked up thing to hear your dad said about you. It's awful and horrible and Sam has every right to be upset and freaked out and he has every right to be mad that Dean couldn't bring himself to repeat what was said for so many weeks.

That said. My guy. Spends the rest of the season. Regurgitating John's words back at Dean. The words that made Dean want to kill himself.

Because Sam knows Dean will not do this. He knows Dean will not kill him. He knows that from the very first episode he finds out. He knows Dean will not kill him with such confidence that he jokes about it in the same episode where he finds out.

But after 2.10... Sam starts to get scared. He isn't scared of what Dean will do to him. He's scared of what Dean won't do.

He's scared Dean will never be able to bring himself to kill Sam—to do what's necessary. So Sam needs to find a way to make Dean follow through on John's dying wish. So he gets drunk in the next episode—in 2.11. And he plays out Dean's conversation with John from 2.01.

(2.01, 2.11)

Then he follows it up the next morning, basically saying, "It doesn't matter that I was drunk and grabbing you and wouldn't let go and that you didn't mean it and only promised to placate me (something I clearly know otherwise I wouldn't bring the conversation up again). You made a promise. Are you going to make yourself a liar now? Are you going to lie to me?"

(2.11)

The problem is, this doesn't work. Dean isn't going to be coerced into a promise, and the ramifications of breaking this "promise" for Dean are so much smaller than the fall out on keeping the "promise" it's not even funny.

Meg tries to make Dean think that Sam's gone off the deep end in 2.14—tries to hold him to the "promise" he made—also tacks on a promise Dean never made to John either on top—trying to guilt him into executing his own brother.

Sam gets his body back, and at the end of the episode... he pounces.

(2.14)

"Are you going to be able to do this? It's your job. Dad told you to. You have to. It was an order."

(2.11)

You're a hunter. It's your job. Sometimes the job is ugly. But it's what you were meant to do.

GORDON This isn't personal. I'm not a killer, Dean. I'm a hunter. And your brother's fair game.

(2.10)

And Sam... Maybe he is this ruthless himself. Maybe he isn't demanding something of Dean that he wouldn't be willing to do himself (at least not at this point in time).

(2.17)

Dean doesn't want to do what Sam can. He can't.

2.17 is named "Heart" because it's about werewolves who eat hearts. But it's also about the show's fracturing narrative heart facing his own impending demise... because Dean's heart will rupture in two if he follows through with Sam and John's wishes—that he become Sam's executioner.

The embrace of death at his own hand seems ever sweeter—ever more deserved—ever softer and kinder than dying the way Sam and John are asking him to without even seeing it.

(2.20)

Death is the light at the end of the tunnel that absolves Dean of Sam and John's expectations. It's the way he makes their family's mistakes right—how he takes his body that's supposed to have given out 12 episodes into season 1 and then again in 2.01 and makes himself the sacrifice he was supposed to be—already was—always has been.

SAM So, what, now I live and you die? DEAN That's the general idea, yeah. SAM Yeah, well, you're a hypocrite, Dean. How did you feel when Dad sold his soul for you? 'Cause I was there. I remember. You were twisted, and broken. And now you go and do the same thing. To me. What you did was selfish. DEAN Yeah, you're right. It was selfish. But I'm okay with that. SAM I'm not. DEAN Tough. After everything I've done for this family, I think I'm entitled. Truth is, I'm tired, Sam. I don't know, it's like there's a, a light at the end of the tunnel. SAM It's hellfire, Dean. DEAN Whatever. You're alive, I feel good – for the first time in a long time.

(3.01)

#sorry?#2.09 #2.04 #2.11 #2.02 #2.01 #3.01 #2.14 #2.20 #2.17 #dean the narrative heart #bad therapist sam

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vixenicks · 6 days

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hi breaking my silence genuinely what the fuck was this about

#???#sorry?#sorry? say that again? sorry?#what? what the fuck?#daredevil #daredevil comics #matt murdock #dd comics #dd #skyler posting

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danibee33 · 1 month

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Part III of undercover!Ghost 🩶

ghost x reader (callsign: Hela)

word count : 4.7k

>>> [PT 1] [PT2]

You aren’t avoiding Ghost. Not really..

Ok, maybe you are.

The week since the undercover mission had been busier than usual, so it’s not like you don’t have an excuse for your absence- you did have other duties and responsibilities to attend to collaterally to the one-four-one. But were you using said collaterals to possibly steer clear of a certain person..? Well, that’s not important.

“Been awhile, lil’ LT..”

You return Soap’s grin, looking up at him as you both take tentative steps- him reaching out first, and you deflecting,

“D’ya miss me that much, sergeant?” You say, eyes skimming his form, looking for any weakness in it, waiting for the right opening.

It wasn’t a planned meet up, you just needed something to do- you’ve been so restless lately, like no matter what you do, it’s never quite enough to stem the relentless flow of thoughts. Which is how you found yourself on the sparring mats opposite the equally restless man at such an ungodly hour.

“Always miss ye, hen..” Soap grunts just before lunging for you, attempting to swipe your leg but inadvertently opening himself up for you to get your arms and legs wrapped around torso- using your body weight to bring him to his knees,

“Steamin’ Jesus, lil LT- worse than a fuckin’-”

Whatever insults he might’ve tried to spew are cut off when you suddenly readjust, but he recovers quicker than you expect- lifting up and bringing you along with him,

“If ye wanted to cuddle, ye could’a just said so..” Soap says, that flirty little lilt at the edge of his words, the same one you’ve heard him use at the bar a hundred times now. And the lopsided smirk on his lips is all too familiar as he tightens his grip around your waist–

God, he’s such a fuckboy…

With a breathless groan, you switch your hold again, crossing your arm over his face in order to put distance between you while still keeping him mostly trapped,

“Shut it, MacTavish. I’m still winning, aren’t I?”

You go back and forth like this until you’re both struggling to breathe and your muscles begin to quiver with fatigue- throwing jokes and jabs easily. It had always been effortless to talk with Soap, banter with him came naturally, but you think it’s only because you two are alike in that way. Never at a loss for words to fill a silence.

And by the time you’re both thoroughly exhausted, all sweat and panting breaths as you stick uncomfortably to the mat, does he roll to his feet, brushing his hair back in the same motion,

“Always a pleasure, ma’am.” He grins, dwarfing your hand in his own as he tugs you up, “And we’re, uh, we’re goin’ out tomorrow night- or well, tonight, I s’pose.” he fumbles over his words in that adorable way he does sometimes, like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher, “If ye’d like to come.. I can have LT text ye the details.”

At the mention of Simon, you feel the very tips of your ears begin to burn. The sergeant’s prompt too quickly bringing back all the thoughts and memories you had been trying to purge yourself of by coming here,

“Um.. Sure. No promises, though. It’s been busy, ya know..” You say, fighting to keep your tone flippant and casual- but John MacTavish is more keen than you might have given him credit for.

He walks by your side out of the gym, obviously searching for the right way to bring it up, until finally it’s almost like you can feel his own curiosity win over his better judgment,

“Ma’am.. Did somethin’ happen? On the last mission?” The next few seconds are filled with him trying, and somewhat failing but it’s amusing nonetheless, to explain why he’s asking- mostly due to your unusual absences since returning that night. The way you’ve been avoiding the entire team in favor of doing paperwork in your office-

Which you never did because you said you hated being back there on your own.

No, you always preferred to take care of those things in the common spaces, where the chances of having company were always high.

“Was it seein’ LT’s mug? I ken that’s always a bit of a shock for first timers, but-”

“What?” You interject, eyebrows raised in surprise, “No.. no, it has nothing to do with that..”

Well, that’s also not entirely true, is it? But you don’t think it’s for the reasons Soap’s imagining.. It’s more about the fact that everytime you even catch a glimpse of the giant man, you’re reminded of how handsome he was on his knees in front of you, how big his hands felt over your thighs, how his tongue-

“Well, just think ‘bout joinin’ us, won’t ye?”

The sheer amount of hope in Johnny’s voice pulls you out of your reverie, replacing the memory of amber eyes with bright cerulean ones, and that signature fucking smirk,

“Fine! Just chill out with the puppy dog eyes, MacTavish.. Begging like a damn dog.” You concede, waving him away and turning toward your hall without waiting for his reaction. But he doesn’t let you get far before you hear his chuckle, husky and chocked full of guile, bounce off the concrete walls,

“Woof, woof, lil LT..”

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

He doesn’t like being unfamiliar with his surroundings, because he spends too much fucking time being unfamiliar in nearly every surrounding he’s sent to. He doesn’t like leaving things up to chance, doesn’t like how much more stress accumulates around his shoulders and neck- it annoys him, the ache.

But Johnny and Gaz had just been so damn adamant about trying out a new pub. One on the opposite end of town, and he can admit it’s nicer than their usual hole in the wall, but still.

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

Well, that was until he caught sight of you. And then he found himself slightly more drawn to the low lighting that danced over your skin, the way it glowed in your eyes as your survey the bar-

“Hel’s ‘ere?” He asks, downing the last nip of bourbon in his cup.

Johnny’s head whips up then, spotting you in an instant- and there’s something about his response that causes Simon’s gaze to narrow at the shorter man. It’s too… giddy, too reverent for his liking.

“Aye! Invited her the other night.”

That ache in his neck returns but somehow significantly worse.

The other night? You had been with Johnny the other night? When this entire fucking week he hadn’t been able to get three fucking seconds alone with you-

Ok, no, he hadn’t worked up to trying to just call or text, that felt too impersonal. He was shit at all that anyway, he needs to see your body language, needs to analyze all the little expressions that give away so much more than words do. But you had somehow found a way to beat him at his own game. You turned into a ghost, only ever catching your silhouette from the corner of his eye, hearing your voice but never being quick enough to be within a few meters of you.

And possibly the worst was when he would enter a room you had been recently in, the smell of you permeating the air, causing his heart to stutter just so with every deep breath.

Fucking hell..

But here you are. And at Johnny’s request, no less.

Ghost despises new places.

Yet, he does think he could learn to like the overly enthusiastic beat of the music when he sees your hips sway to the rhythm as you wait for your drink. You’re in tight jeans and a black leather jacket that fits your figure like a goddamn glove- and he swears he can feel the silk of your skin by just memory alone, the curves of your body already etched into his mind.

“Gonna get a refill.” He grunts, already walking away from the table with the empty glass in hand.

The sound of a cup being sat on the bartop snaps you back to the present, followed by a heady rush of chills when you hear the baritone of Simon’s voice far closer to your ear than you expect,

“So, she lives.”

You let out a small breath, turning to find the burly breadth of his chest taking up nearly your entire field of view- clad in black from head to toe, which doesn’t surprise you one bit, but it’s not his usual hoodie and jacket. No, this time he’s in a black henley that fits more like a second skin, the fabric deliciously stretched over his pecs and shoulders, the top button left open to give you just a peek at the silver chain glinting underneath and… is that a tattoo?

“She does..” You say, meeting his eyes.

And you really should know better, with too many of your nights haunted by the deep amber of his irises- but the instant it happens, it’s like you’re back in that damned office all over again. The music grows faint, and the people around you turn into little more than blurs at the edge of your vision. He’s all you can feel, the heat of him, the intensity behind his gaze, the way his head tilts softly to the side, studying you as if he might be recommitting your features to memory- not that he needs to.

Because you’ve haunted him just as much. You’ve been the bane of his existence this last week, and somehow the only thing he can see when he shuts his eyes. The sole focus of his loathing and his desire-

“Ma’am, your whiskey sour-” The bartender announces from behind you, effectively breaking the spell you’ve been so wrapped up in right before you hear another small clink, “and a bourbon, neat.”

Without hesitation, Simon leans closer, big arm reaching around you to pull his glass from the bartop and the black surgical mask covering his mouth and nose down in the same motion. He keeps that same heavy gaze on you, your own eyes growing wider at the sight of his face, his crooked nose and scarred lip. You watch him take a short sip, but just as quick as it happened, his mask is back in place, and he’s stepping back,

“C’mon. Table’s over ‘ere.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt whiplash quite like seeing Ghost turn his back on you, easily carving a path through the patrons that fill the space-

But you are damn sure the infuriating Brit isn’t going to get the last word in this.

Ghost can feel your stare, feel how it’s directed right at the back of his skull. A perfect kill shot if he were a betting man. But he can also hear the quiet click of your boots following after him, the tightness in his jeans growing more noticeable with every step-

Fuck.

“Lil’ LT! Glad ye’ could make it out!” Johnny shouts over the crowd, blue eyes cast in mischief and that open sort of admiration that Ghost is sure the man couldn’t hide even if he tried.

You round the table, looking up at the Scot with a devastating smile on your lips before nudging his shoulder with your own,

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure your ego wasn’t too damaged after kicking your ass this morning, sergeant.”

“Ach! -”

Ghost can hear Johnny sputtering on and on in that terrible mashup of English and Scottish slang that’s always grated on the lieutenant’s ears- but whatever he’s saying doesn’t quite register. Instead, he can only really hear the way your laugh brightens the dim room, see the way your head tips back as you take another sip of your drink.

And it’s only then he realizes that he just wishes you would look at him like that. Wishes that he could draw the melodious sound from you, that he could be the reason you smile so brightly-

“Well, well, well-” the group looks over to see Gaz and Price meandering through the throng of bodies, the younger man with outstretched arms, “Hela! Thought you’d up and left our sorry arses!”

All Simon can do is grit his teeth as Gaz embraces you in a quick side hug, Price close behind with a warm grin even on his bearded face,

“And miss out on all the fun? You know me better than that, Garrick.” You say, raising your glass to the Captain in greeting.

So, no, Ghost doesn’t like new places.

But he can’t deny that as the next hour passes he’s smiled more than a few times at his team’s antics. And he certainly can’t say that he hasn’t missed the way you bring them all a little closer, your bubbly brand of forwardness allowing them to each get out of their heads, even if just for a little while.

“What’s this about you handin’ MacTavish's arse to him?” Price’s voice booms over the music, which has only seemed to get louder the later it gets-

Ghost watches you down the rest of your whiskey sour without so much as a flinch, your cheeks flushed such a pretty pink from the alcohol,

“I mean, is that really a surprise?” You shoot back, the man in question all but slamming his glass down on the table in rebuttal-

“Ooh- yer arse is oot the windae! I want a rematch!” Johnny’s words slur together just enough to give away how good he’s really feeling, throwing an arm over your shoulder, “Watcha say, lil LT? And this time we’ll have a proper judge, right Cap? No cheatin’-”

It really isn’t fair how you lean into him as you chuckle, that ache in Simon’s neck creeping up again at the sight.

Christ alive, why can’t he just get it together? Why does he care? You’ve never been one to shy away from physical touch… but fuck all if it doesn’t eat at him.

“Oi, who wants another round?” Gaz, thankfully interjects, drawing everyone’s attention with a collective and resounding sound off.

The others waltz away through the crowd in the direction of the bar, everyone but you- standing across from Ghost at the table, toying with the toothpick in your glass,

"Late night spar, huh?" You don't miss the added gruffness in his tone, or the fact that he refuses to look at you now, staring somewhere over your head.

And if you were a better woman, you wouldn't feel the need to play into his offputting display of jealousy- but you're you after all.. and he's Ghost. So, you give a little hum before plucking the tiny skewer from your cup,

"Couldn't sleep.." You shrug, looking up at him under you lashes, his eyes already on the maraschino cherry that drips down your fingers, "Figured I'd do something a little more productive since I was up anyway-"

Simon tracks your hand, falling right into your terrible little game as you bring the fruit to your lips- it's tooth achingly sweet when you finally bite into it, mixed with the burn of whiskey. And it's when the juice runs down your chin that you meet his gaze, swiping up the liquid on your thumb, he watches with a severity that sends a dangerous chill up your spine- not even daring to blink as you suck the digit clean.

You know he's keenly aware of exactly what you're doing, but that doesn't stop the lust and satisfaction from rushing through you at his deep growl- those coppery eyes darker than you've ever seen.

All too innocently, you flash him a smile, "I think I'll have one more.. you want anything, sir?"

Ghost thinks he can feel the crystal glass in his hand begin to splinter under his grip, unable to tear his eyes away from the red stain on your lips- it's enough to drive him mad.

He gives you a curt shake of his head, knowing that if he had another drink, he might lose whatever vague sense of self-control he's clinging onto so precariously.

And instead of watching you walk away, he turns toward the pool tables, needing something to do with his hands- because if he clenched them any fucking tighter he think he might draw blood with the way his blunt nails dig into his calloused palm.

Without waiting for the others, he racks the balls before picking up a cue stick and breaking the formation- moving around the table just as Johnny sidles up to him,

"Did’nae take ye for a billiards guy, LT.." He says, quickly working to chalk up his own cue.

Gaz and Price follow soon after, eager to join in on teams- and it works, for a short time anyway to distract him. If he can just stay focused on making each shot, then he won't have time to think about you. But, that's a rather silly notion, isn't it? Because sure enough, just as he leans in to take a shot, he spots you bump elbows with his Scottish counterpart.

"Here to give me some good luck, lil LT?" Johnny looks down at you with a lopsided grin, both hands wrapped around the cue stick as he leans on it.

You take a slow sip of your drink, just enough time to glance at Simon- sleeves now pulled up to expose the thickly corded muscles of his forearms and the faded black ball cap on his head turned backwards. He's calculated in his shot, efficiently knocking a striped ball into the nearest pocket-

"I don't think you want any of my luck, sergeant.." You drawl, eyes flitting up to see his deep blue ones already on you, "Can't say I have the best track record when it comes to that."

Soap's chuckle is warm and laced with silk in your ears, watching him copy his superior's movements, finessing his own cue to score a bankshot. Gaz is next, followed by Price, and you follow them ardently, moving around the table as they go until it's back to Ghost-

"Aye, LT-" Johnny calls, "Why don't you show Hela how to do a jump.."

You've managed to get close enough to the towering man now that he has to look down at you before glaring back at his sergeant,

"'m sure she can figure it out on 'er own, Johnny."

"I've actually never really played." You say before your better judgment can stop your mouth from moving- maybe you have had a little much to drink.

And the way Simon's jaw clenches, having taken off his mask as the other patrons slowly dispersed, makes your core tighten- biting the fleshy inside of your cheek between your teeth. You shouldn't push it. You’ve done enough of that already, haven’t you?

Yet, in one swift motion, Simon's hand is on your hip, the other taking the half-empty cup from your grasp before positioning your body in front of his. It isn't exactly gentle, there's a roughness to his movements that put you on edge, a stiffness in his voice that only stokes the the fire in your belly,

"Hold it 'ere.." You take the stick in your hand, the wood still hot from his touch, "and 'ere."

When you grab it this time, he covers your hand, easily repositioning it further down- "Like that."

Very suddenly, you're regretting putting yourself in this situation, so swept up in the feeling of Simon all but dwarfing you, his proximity far more intoxicating than any of the alcohol you've consumed tonight, that you don't notice the sly smirk on Gaz's face- nor the knowing looks shared between your teammates.

In your defense, Simon makes it hard to concentrate on much of anything with the way he slowly leans into you, urging you to bend forward- his hold light but still strong enough to make the slightest adjustments to your stance,

"Lift your elbow now." He mutters, his breath tickling over your exposed shoulder, your jacket left slung over the nearest chair. But it's his hand that catches you off guard, because unlike every other movement he's made with purpose and intention, a man simply doing a job; when he moves now, it's slow, his fingers grazing up your side before softly caressing the skin of your arm,

"Good."

You shift on your feet, your body feeling like it might combust at any moment, the one word spoken in his brassy accent threatening to unravel you on the spot.

The next few moments seem to pass in a blur, you feel him lean in just a bit closer, his left arm bracing over you on the edge of the table as his right hand lands right behind yours on the stick. Whatever he does after is more like a magic trick than logic, rushing the tip downward on the ball with enough force to nearly jerk you forward, but with enough finesse that the little sphere hops off the table- knocking what you assume was the intended target into its pocket.

It takes longer than you're proud of to recover, scrambling to put a bright smile on your face, moving when he does and hoping to whatever deities might exist that it's dark enough to hide the red hue of your cheeks,

"Look at that, a natural, ma'am!" Gaz shouts, clapping a wide palm over your back- and you try to force out a laugh, try to keep your eyes away from the dark form that's moved back towards the table now.

Away from you.

And you wish it didn't make your stomach twist, seeing him pull his mask back on and fixing his ballcap again so that the bill sits low over his eyes-

"Headin' out, Simon?" Price speaks up, an unlit cigar propped lazily between his lips now.

Simon gives his signature nod, which barely a perceptible gesture, but you're all used to it enough by now. The captain, already out past his bedtime, is happy to begin rounding up his own belongings as well, urging the sergeants to get it together and get to the truck,

"I call shotgun!" Soap calls over his shoulder, already barreling towards the exit, Garrick hot on his heels,

"Fuckin' hell.." Price grumbles, looking back at you, "Need a lift, love?"

"No, I'm good. See you tomorrow, Cap." You say, a tired smile reassuring him enough that you would get home-

And just like that, the once bustling pub is more like a ghost town when you step out into the crisp night air, watching the tail lights flicker away. You had gotten a taxi here, but you feel too wired to call for one now- your body felt like it was vibrating, still so lost in the fading memory of what happened inside. But maybe you were just imagining it.. maybe you had let those lines between reality and fantasy blur a little too close for comfort.

Simon climbed into the driver's seat, his hands hitting the steering wheel before ripping the hat and mask off and throwing them onto the dash-

"Fuck."

What was he thinking? He should have never given into it, never touched you the way he did, held you, gotten close enough to feel you against him again. Should have never fed the monster.

God-fucking-damn MacTavish and his annoying fucking antics, never knowing when to quit. Ever since the undercover mission, the man had been a hound with a scent. Testing and prodding and sticking his damned nose in places it didn't belong-

Simon loathes new places.

But there you are. Standing under the milky glow of the street lamp, your hands tangled in your hair and your cheeks puffed in frustration. And so fucking beautiful he can't stand it.

He should leave. He needs to go back to base, needs to take a shower so cold it hurts, needs to bury himself in work just like you did. He needs, he needs, he needs.

Yet, he doesn't do any of those things.

No, like the awful, depraved man he is, he steps out of the truck and makes a beeline right for you- which, looking back on it, might not have been the best course of action because the instant you see his hulking frame he watches how you go on the defensive. Your posture stiffening and your hand reaching for one of your many concealed weapons if he knows you like he thinks he does.

That's ok though, he imagines you could stab him right here in the parking lot and he wouldn't mind one bit. Hell, you could slit his throat and he would smile as he bled out at your feet.

Thankfully, you do neither of those things.

And as soon as you're within reach, he's got those big hands framing your face, crushing his lips to yours.

Shock is all you can register at first. Your mind and body flooded by adrenaline, ready for a fight when you initially saw the shadowed figure coming for you. But in those same few seconds, you recognized him, recognized every purpose driven stride, the steady sway of his shoulders-

Though him kissing you hadn't necessarily been on the list of things you had expected.

You're pulled to your tiptoes, and for a moment you think it might be a dream, the way he audibly groans when your lips begin to move against his. But he doesn't relent, and you don't want him to. So you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck as soon as your muscles can catch up to your thoughts.

You feel his tongue gently glide over your bottom lip, a gentle urging for you to reciprocate- which you're more than happy to oblige. The kiss turning somehow more heated, sloppy even, something you had never experienced yet something that you never want to end.

But all too soon, he does pull away, his fingers threading through your hair, "I'm sorry-"

Again, hearing Simon Riley apologise was just not on the bingo card for tonight.

He presses his forehead to yours, your heavy breaths mingling with his, remnants of whiskey and bourbon filling your nostrils,

"Sorry?" You look up at him, eyebrows tightly knitted, "For what?"

"The mission.. I shouldn't have- I didn't-" --he stumbles over his words, scarred lips finally pulling into a grimace, "Hel, is it true?"

The way his gaze bores into you feels intimate, like he's trying to peel you apart, "Gonna have to be a little less vague there.. I'm smart, but I can't read minds."

Your breathy chuckle helps to ease the tension, if such a thing were possible with how close he still holds you,

"That you've never been with anyone, like that.."

Oh. GOD FUCKING DAMN YOU, MACTAVISH.

When you take a step back, he reluctantly lets you go, his expression faltering for a moment- and you hate it. Hate that you had possibly hurt him- but you just needed space to put it all together, to try to explain.

"Yes.." his face falls even more, and it's like you can feel the shame that radiates from him, your hands reaching for him on their own, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt, "But I wanted it.. I wanted.. you. I want you- jesus, fuck- I'm so bad at this."

"You didn't say anythin'.."

You shake your head, a laugh huffing through you as you look to the inky sky above, "Would it have changed anything?"

"I wouldn't have-"

"You wouldn't have done what you did? Why?"

That seems to stump him, his mouth opening and then closing, opening again, "You deserved more."

"Simon, just because I've never had sex doesn't mean I'm completely naive.." You initiate the kiss this time, mimicking the way he had held your face, pulling him closer, "I'm under no illusion that it's suppose to be this magical moment-"

He eagerly returns your kiss, an arm wrapping around your waist as you continue, "And, let's be honest, having 'The Ghost' on his knees was waaayy better than sex."

You feel his smile right before he bends down and hoists over his shoulder,

"Simon!"

But, your shrieks and giggles fall on deaf ears, hands smacking at his back in a lame attempt to wiggle free, "Mm.. no, no, keep screamin' my name, sweet girl. I like the way it sounds."

a/n: this one got away from me… but your honor, they’re down so bad for each other 😭 thank you for reading!!

[PT 4] (coming soon)

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #it’s getting hot in here yall #haha oops #it’s a four parter i guess #sorry?#call of duty #cod fandom #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #task force 141 #kyle gaz garrick #john price #reader #fem reader #no y/n

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