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lay-z · 3 days ago

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those ties that bind us

SUMMARY: You choose a new pair of alphas over what you've come to know.

PAIRING: Poly!alpha!141 x omega!Reader x alpha!AleRudy

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ MDNI | OMEGAVERSE AU | female!Reader; angst; a/b/o dynamics; hurt/comfort; cussing; smut; spit kink; bad Spanish translations; bonding; open end

Based on this little blurb. 🩶

You had a feeling it would happen someday if your packmates, the alphas who you’ve spent and shared most of your life with for the better part of the past three years, won’t finally make a move, make you theirs officially—but now that it happened eventually, you’re not quite sure how to tell them.

Perhaps you didn’t do enough? Didn’t make your intentions clear with none of them? The desire to be claimed, to belong, to be loved—always put off by Price, smiled at by Gaz, supported but never pursued by Soap, and straight up ignored by Ghost.

As you follow Simon and Johnny over the busy tarmac, your combat boots begin to feel heavy with each step you take that leads you further away from Alejandro and Rudy, the alphas who are now courting you and currently staying behind by the truck after saying their goodbyes to their foreign comrades.

Even then, you’d wondered if neither Simon nor Johnny found it odd when you chose not to say your own farewells to the other two alphas after finishing a successful operation, but again they stayed oblivious to the bond that has been blossoming between you and the Mexican soldiers since you’ve first stepped foot into Las Almas.

Just last night it was Alejandro who had told you that, perhaps it will be better if you’re the one to break the news to them, though assuring you: “We’ll always have your back, cariño,”.

And now, the harsh tug you’re currently experiencing deep down in your chest cavity, right behind your heart, only puts the last necessary nail in the coffin for you.

You’re staying.

As if on cue, your body works before your mind catches up—still both mentally and physically recovering from the mission—and you freeze in your steps, coming to an abrupt halt that causes Simon to glance over his shoulder, having noticed you in his peripherals like the vigilant alpha he is.

And it causes a chain reaction, when Johnny follows his leader's reaction, stopping dead in his tracks and following Simon’s line of vision until bright blue eyes settle on you, a puzzled look settling on his ruggedly chiselled face.

You speak up before either of them can: “This is goodbye... for now,” you tell them over the loud noises surrounding you on the airfield, and you try to keep your voice firm and steady, but it cracks at goodbye before your throat tightens painfully enough to make your eyes well up with tears.

Simon and Johnny share a long, meaningful look, having a full-on conversation with their eyes in a language you don’t speak like you’ve witnessed so many times before, and then they fully turn simultaneously before approaching you with purposeful steps that make you brace yourself for an argument.

“Whot’s tha’?” Simon asks, towering and gripping the straps of his bulky tac vest while tilting his masked head like a curious puppy. You know he’s just trying to give you another chance to change your words, but this time you won’t.

“Whaddaya mean by ‘goodbye’, bon?” Johnny chimes in, brows furrowed while his gaze flickers between you and then over your shoulder, eye narrowing as they land on their allies—friends—the alpha males still watching the scene unfold with crossed arms and squared shoulders—looking ready to step in any second if need be.

Johnny takes note of the sudden tension and dominance oozing off Alejandro and Rudy, how the comradery and friendliness from before has now seemingly disappeared soon as he and Simon approached you this time—as if they suddenly have a claim on you that your literal packmates don’t.

And just like that, it dawns on them like a physical blow to the chest.

Simon’s jaw clenches as he tries to reign in the rumbling growl building up in his chest while Johnny doesn’t bother to hide the snarl taking over his face, sharpening his features into something feral; both of their scents spiking in intensity, lacing the hot-humid air with sour pheromones, ready to scent mark and drag you onto the cargo plane with them if push comes to shove.

Your eyes widen at once, a deer caught in headlights, staring at the truck coming full speed at her.

“Ye’re comin’ home with us,” Johnny growls, gloved hands balling into tight fists at his sides to keep himself from simply snatching your wrist before Simon’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder like a physical leash. “Easy there, Soap.”

Neither of them is angry with you, you can tell that much, but judging by their blown pupils and dominant stances, something strange is happening.

“I’m not coming with you. I’m–” Your heart thumps violently and your breath hitches momentarily, making it harder for you to get the words out as both men stare at you intensely, expecting you to make a choice that’d be in their favour.

But you’ve made your decision.

“I’m staying here... with Alejandro and Rudy. I have–I have already informed Price last night and asked for special leave,” you explain, fidgeting with your hands while your pulse thrums in your neck.

A strange sensation goes through your body as you speak those words; a buzzing energy rushing through your veins as you cut those emotional packbonds, now brittle by the years of neglect, to focus on the future waiting for you just a few yards away—a tiny seedling soaking up sunshine for the first time, finally stepping away from the trees who’ve drowned her in shadows, causing harm without even meaning to.

Johnny shakes his head slowly, disbelief settling on his face as the crease between his brows disappears, eyes softening. For a moment, it almost looks like something inside him shatters, as if he can feel it, too.

“No... please,” he breathes, reaching out to grasp your hand while his shoulders slouch. “Ye cannae jus’... do this, bon. Ye belong with us,” he squeezes your hand weakly, “–our wee omega.”

A soft whimper escapes your throat, one that has Alejandro and Rudy perk up with worry despite the distance, and one that makes Johnny’s eyes water—because he knows what it means. Your decision is final and it’s their own bloody fault.

They should’ve seen it coming, should’ve noticed the signs even amidst battle, and yet they didn’t; thinking they still had time.

“I’ll miss ye,” Johnny rasps before pulling you against his chest only to bury his face into your neck to inhale your sweet scent greedily, hoping it will brand itself into his nostrils—one last time. Warm blueberry tarte, honey-soaked linen, and freshly cut grass, a concoction now dulled by sadness, though still perfect, still—theirs. It makes his teeth itch to bite, to mark, and his chest feels heavy, unable to let you go just like that.

“Are ye sure, luv?” he mutters against your skin and his nose presses into your virgin scent gland in a way that makes you shiver. You nod meekly, eyes squeezed shut as you rub your face against his shirt, leaving your scent on him instinctively. Just for the flight home to make him feel better, you think. Always the good omega looking out for her pack.

“I’m sure,” you reply so quietly, you can barely hear it yourself. “It’s been inevitable from the moment I saw them... smelled them.”

You can’t see it, but your admission shatters them; cracks their ribcages open underneath their gear and stabs their hearts repeatedly until there’s nothing left but bloodied, torn muscle and shredded heartstrings—hurting even a cold one.

After another moment, Johnny releases you reluctantly; strong arms flexing with tension as they lower at his sides. He rests his forehead against yours, chuffs low in his throat—a quiet, sorrowful goodbye that rings in your ears until your tears drip down your cheeks.

He pulls back with a grimace when Simon squeezes his shoulder, like separating himself causes him physical pain, and he leaves your tears to be wiped away by your new alphas, though in every other situation, Johnny would’ve licked them off your skin with flagrant reverence.

“C’mon, Soap, ’s time to go,” Simon announces, giving his Sergeant a firm pat on the shoulder while his eyes never leave you. You peer up at him, head ducked with a hint of shame, tendons flexing in your neck at the tension.

Eventually, Johnny turns away with a pained snarl, speeding up the process like ripping off a band aid and pulling off scab, muttering profanities under his breath as he storms off towards the plane that will take them back to the UK—while Simon stays back, still staring down at you with those onyx eyes of his, though now they hold a kind of softness to them that leaves your whole system reeling.

“Lieutenant–” you rasp, and he huffs through his mask, making your jaw snap closed again.

His gloved hands come up to rest on your shoulders, the skeleton prints spanning wide, thumbs brushing your sensitive scent glands with a tenderness you’ve rarely experienced from him as he leans in to rest his forehead against yours, hardshell mask pinching into your skin.

“...’s olways been you, pet.”

Your breath stutters, eyes fluttering as you try to process his words while your fingers tremble to reach out and claw into his tac vest to keep him close—keep his scent near, the one no omega before you has found as enticing as you.

Too much, too rigid, like ice shards and gasoline fumes jabbing into your lungs with each deep inhale, rather warning off any potential mate than drawing them in.

It made you feel safe and that’s all that ever mattered to him.

Simon lets you go with practiced ease, shoves down his feelings even though his alpha is snarling, thrashing and howling behind his mask of indifference, but he cannot contain the sound that tears out of his throat, thank god muffled by the cloth covering his mouth—husky and unpractised like blunt nails scraping over gravel, a puppy learning to communicate—something akin to a whine, a sound you’ve never heard him nor any of them make.

Your eyes widen, synapsis and instincts firing in your brain, hissing at you to soothe and purr for him, for the alpha you’ve dared to hurt—but then the dirt on the tarmac scrunches under his boots as he turns, leaving his broad back for you to look after while a swooping feeling in your stomach makes you nauseous, and you swallow your pathetic whines, having lost the right to call for them.

There’s an invisible snap and you swear you can hear it, like a cruciate rupture knocking the breath out of you, loud as a gunshot and nasty, leaving you behind with a limp and quivering lips as you watch them walk away from you, though you can see the slight hobble in their own heavy steps.

That night, your new alphas make sure to help you—not to forget but distract you from the pain of severing your packbond instead.

Though, it’s hardly merely the bond that has broken your heart.

They bring you to their private quarters, invite you into their den, a ranch house on vast land, many klicks away from Las Almas, and give you time until the sun sets, and nightfall cools the temperature to something more bearable, to settle in and sort out some of the internal chaos wreaking havoc and lacing your scent with a bitter smack of sadness.

It is obvious that you’ve loved them all—all four of them with equal ferocity. You would’ve taken a bullet for each one, you’ve tended to their wounds, the ones you can see and the one you don’t, took care of their emotional needs, made sure your shared nest was always comforting and warm to them—and for what? To be replaced if another, perhaps more beautiful, sweeter, and docile omega comes along to take the place you should have been given freely and with an urgency bordering on alpha possessiveness?

You have loved them in the dark and it was good—until someone else showed you what the light can truly look like.

It’s easy and effortless.

Your instincts are no burden but a relief to them; the fact that you come from the same line of work only fuelling their desire to make you theirs. They’ve shown it with their eyes, in the way their chests puff out as they inhale your scents, two pairs of rough hands itching to grab and grope and keep.

And just as they do in the field, Alejandro and Rudy work as a team to shed you of your material layers first before peeling away metaphorical ones—until they have stripped you naked of both cloth and invisible barriers, leaving you raw and exposed to them as they devour you whole, slow and methodically.

Their scents are strong and unapologetically wild, and it doesn’t take long until it seeps into your pores to stay; engulfing you in a comforting blanket of burnt blue agave, leaving a taste of finely aged tequila in the back of your throat, dried cloves, chili and cardamom, reminding you of a homecooked meal waiting for you, and the promising musk of their heady desires, hidden beneath a touch of violent smoke rising from the end of a gun barrel—a barrel now pointed at you.

“Yes, you should weep for them, querida,” Alejandro murmurs against your temple as he cradles you against his bare chest; all warm skin and chiselled muscles. “Makes it easier to let go and focus on what’s in front of you.”

The white curtains sweep as a soft breeze sweeps through the spacious bedroom, coming through the open floor-to-ceiling windows; moonlight illuminating the room in semi-darkness as you lounge on the bed.

Between your legs, Rudy hums in agreement, trailing languid, open-mouthed kisses up your supple legs while you spread for him willingly, giving him more space to explore.

“Agreed,” he breathes against your dewy skin, feeling your skin pebble with goosebumps under his tongue as he licks a slow stripe over the sensitive scent gland on the inside of your left thigh, so, so close to your glistening sex.

He groans at your taste and starts rutting against the mattress, grinding his hips slowely, breathing out: “Díos.”

Your legs quiver and you squirm in Alejandro’s arms, a mere bunny embraced by two wolfs, though perhaps you’ve never felt safer—more wanted—in your life.

A whimper leaves your lips, perspiration building above your furrowed brows.

“Are you–” you swallow hard, unsure if it’s too soon to ask. “Will you–”

Alejandro kisses your temple, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Of course, we will,” he assures you, nose trailing along your hairline, “–just not tonight. It would be too much for you.”

Before disappointment can settle into your gut like a parasite, like another worry adding to your fragile soul, a petulant pout forming on your lips, Rudy is quick to distract you again by parting your outer folds with deft fingers to expose the little treat resting at the top of your pussy, leaving you hot-faced and gasping.

“Pinche... es hermosa, Ale,” Rudy mumbles under his breath, thumb stroking over your swollen clit with unfamiliar reverence. “Voy a probar un poco.”

Your breath hitches while Alejandro smiles against your skull, strong hands roaming over your torso and settling right below the curve of your tits—squeezing and groping your giving flesh lightly as he feels your thumping heartbeat beneath his palms.

“Mi conejita,” he growls before nipping at your earlobe. “I will fuck you once Rudy has prepared you for my cock, yes? Tell me how much you’d like that, cariño–”

The term of endearment, so cute and innocent, followed by pure filth, makes your pulse spike and your pussy throb with its own heartbeat—and then Rudy leans in with a shameless groan to slowly lick and suck at your clit, and the world tips upside down like your eyes rolling back into your skull.

The night progresses in a whirlwind of earth-shattering orgasms and whispered promises—and they manage to keep your mind off the past, giving you but a taste of your new reality.

Rudy eats your cunt as feverishly as Johnny, though less messy and more precise, like he has all the time in the world to learn and explore—and you realize that he does when his teeth graze over the scent gland of your inner thighs again, scraping the sensitive surface with his teeth and lapping up your essence while Alejandro warns him to slow down, let you breathe.

The second-in-command finishes on the mattress, his tan skin sweat-slicked and panting, his ruddy cock spurting a massive load into the white sheets—simply from licking at your sex.

You coo at him when you catch your breath, fingers tugging at his black, fluffy hair to pull him in for a kiss while Alejandro manhandles your legs, pushes them apart and drapes one thigh over his hip as he shifts his weight behind your back for a better angle.

“That’s it, querida, kiss your man,” Alejandro growls, squeezing the back of your neck while he strokes his own prick from base to tip, exhaling a shaky breath when he coats himself in your succulent slick.

Rudy’s tongue is tangling with yours and you can taste yourself on his saliva; messy and passionate, you suck on his tongue with a sensual purr, half-lidded eyes drinking in his wrecked, pretty face.

Alejandro grunts as he lines himself up with your dripping hole, drooling tip dragging through your swollen folds. “Escupir en su boca, hermano,” he orders, voice rumbling with a growl that has you keening, and Rudy is swift to cup your jaw, keeping your mouth open, all too eager to follow his Colone’s orders.

Your breath comes in sharp pants as you stick your tongue out, a breathy moan spilling out your chest as Alejandro thrusts his fat cockhead past your entrance, sinking in an inch or two only to pull out and repeat, your velvety walls swallowing him up with greed.

“Joder,” he groans huskily, resting his forehead against the back of your head.

“Eyes on me, cariño,” Rudy chuckles, giving your jaw a small squeeze. “Feels good, no?” His tawny eyes crinkle at the corners as you nod with your tongue still out, your eyes nearly crossing from pleasure. “Heh, so cute.”

And then Rudy tips your head back against Alejandro’s broad shoulder, making the other alpha watch with his thick cock now nestled and twitching deep inside of your cunt, as he spits a generous glob of saliva into your mouth.

“Now swallow,” he croons before dragging his spit-shiny lips down the column of your throat, feeling it bob against his nose as you swallow obediently.

Alejandro snarls against your shoulder blade, pupils blown with searing lust and possessiveness at the teasing display between you and Rudy, and his hands settle on your hips, keeping you in place on his lap as he begins to thrust his hips up, driving his throbbing cock into your welcoming heat with unbridled need and liquid fire simmering in his veins, spreading like a wildfire as his balls draw up tight.

So close to your virgin scent gland on your neck, he huffs your sticky skin and bares his teeth while you’re blissfully unaware, making out with Rudy until the latter notices the shift in the other alpha—and he swiftly reaches out to grab a fistful of Alejandro’s sleek raven hair, tugging it back to make their eyes meet.

“Not tonight, boss. Tu mismo lo dijiste,” he reminds the older alpha pointedly.

Alejandro growls, then nods. He feels your walls flutter and tighten around his rutting shaft with another impending climax. They share a look, and Rudy tightens his grip with a curt nod—a silent promise to keep the other alpha from sinking his teeth into your mating gland in his ecstasy.

Not tonight, querida.

On another continent, now separated not only by distance but a broken packbond, Gaz paces inside the Captain Price’s office, deadly like an agitated jaguar in its too tiny enclosure.

“This is fuckin’ bullshit, Cap,” he repeats, snarling for the umpteenth time. “Absolute fuckin’ madness!”

His scent—usually so calm and fresh like mint leaves soaking in spring sunshine and fresh lemonade—has turned the air and atmosphere inside the office sour.

He stops right in front of Price’s cluttered desk, glaring at his trusted superior with blatant fury in his eyes as he braces his hands on the polished mahogany, leaning forward.

“How could you agree to this? How could you allow her to stay over there?! To leave our pack?!”

Behind his desk, John keeps his arms crossed tensely, jaw ticking as he clenches and unclenches it, his tongue dry and thick in his mouth as his mistake dawns on him.

The seasoned Captain made a decision with your wellbeing as his priority—always his priority—and now it’s biting him in the arse, becoming more of a simple graze like he’d expected. No, he can feel you slipping, can feel the bond severing, and it’s making him anxious, sad.

Sad. Downright depressed.

John hasn’t felt anything like this before, but he is still faring better than his Sergeant—who had no clue what was happening until he’d staggered into his office a few moments ago, clutching his chest as if someone had stabbed him with a combat knife, whinging like a pup in distress.

Bloody hell, he can’t imagine how Soap must be behaving right now—still stuck in a plane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean; having only Ghost to turn to and soothe him. Fuck. It’s a bloody disaster.

“Gaz,” John sighs roughly, tries reasoning, “– it's her decision. I couldn’t deny her.”

“Deny her?” Gaz barks out a humourless laugh. it only agitates the younger alpha more. His eyes widen, his face twists into a dangerous snarl. “Fuck that, Captain!”

John has never quite seen him lose his composure like this. He rises from his chair with a warning growl, towers over the Sergeant and forcing him into submission, pulling both rank and dominance to ease the tension.

“That’s enough, Garrick,” he says, finality lacing his sharp tone. “She asked for special leave, nothing more–”

“We are losing her. Our omega. Our girl,” Gaz interrupts, though his voice has lost some of its burn. His jaw clenches as he grits his teeth, keeping his accusations inside as he regards his Captain with a hint of disappointment and desperation.

He swallows hard, feeling the bond continuing to dissipate; it feels like sand running through his hands and there is nothing he can do to stop it from leaving him. He knows that Price can feel it, too.

“I don’t know about you, but I cannot lose her, sir,” Gaz admits, brows furrowing with a distraught whine. “We were planning to make her ours, didn’t we? Or did that fucking plan change, too?”

There is a tense pause. John’s jaw ticks again and he rubs a hand over his coarse beard, sucking his teeth before he shakes his head slowly.

“No, son, it hasn’t.”

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partiallysame · 3 days ago

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Soap who has never been causal about anything in his life trying his fucking hardest to find a way to lock down his “just for fun. Not looking for a relationship” hookup. But when the cute outfits and matching lingerie sets turn into comfy clothes and normal underwear and they finally agree to let him order take out and eat together he knows he’s got ‘em right where he wants them

#cod x reader #john soap mactavish #blurb #cod modern warfare #soap x reader #gn reader

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sheepispink · 20 hours ago

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Relief

supersoldier!reader x lt ghost technicallly the 141 too but he’s the main culprit (part 4)

One Two Three

cw: Reaper is reader’s callsign (backstory and meaning will be given at the bottom and thanks to @pythonmoth to help me with this :) ), nightmares, slight derealisation

————

“Lord, Ghost! Why do you think they don’t want to speak up? Look at their face!”

Soap raises his voice, louder than you’ve ever heard a sergeant before. Yet despite that, you watch in horror as Ghost shoves him out of his way, stalking even closer to you. The anger in his eyes is nothing short of fury, making fear spike in your heart and so the machines start beeping loudly, screaming in your ears. They’re not supposed to do that; your heart rate is supposed to keep steady outside of battle and serious situations—you’re breaking.

Wetness coats your cheeks as you scramble backwards, watching the terrifying skull mask grow closer and closer. You suppose you’ve taken it for granted that you never had to worry about the rumours surrounding the mask, but now you understand what every enemy had felt when they came across him, worrying that if you even so blink he’d have your heart in his hands the second your eyes opened.

You suppose he’s talking, likely yelling more curses and insults at you but you can't hear any of it, nor Soap’s voice as he reaches for you, everything swirling into an incomprehensible blur. You have to blink, your vision blurry and the next second you open your eyes his hand is around your throat, forcing your eyes to blow wide and your own breath to clog in your throat. Everything is freezing; the walls are closing in and your entire body feels strange, like the world around you has tipped entirely. “You devil—”

“Reaper!“

Your hands clench at nothing but the cold flooring of the medical room you’re in, having fallen off of the bed altogether. The heart monitor beeps loudly, having been detached when you fell, also causing the iv drip to rip off, and leaving your bare arms feeling naked and raw. Gaz crouches before you, his hands like a furnace against your frozen body, trying to ease you. “What happened? Are you alright?” You do your best to nod quickly in response, a hiccup replacing the yes choked in your throat. He’s still soothing you when heavy footsteps approach, though you know well enough that it isnt the ones you fear—well, not that kind of fear anyway.

The Captain stands in the doorway, watching as Gaz pats your back and says reassuring words to your horror stricken face, the hot tears still curving over your cheeks and thawing the ice your hands feel like. It’s not like you were afraid of him like you were with Ghost, no it was more of a… professional intimidation.

The first time you spoke to him was the day you first arrived at base, having been picked up by Ghost and then taken to meet the Captain. He didn’t do much than tell you how to contact him, and a few words about the things you’d take part in whilst you worked alongside Ghost. Even so, you had figured immediately from the getgo that he wasn’t a man to mess with, and so you avoided him as best you could. In your head, talking to him only occured when something went wrong and well, nothing should be going wrong with a weapon like you.

“I’ll take it from here, Garrick.” His voice is low, but not harsh, and Gaz slowly stands, looking back at you one more time before he steps back. The Captain moves towards where you are on the ground, your back pressed against the small cupboard and your hands flat against the cold tiles. “I’m sorry i didnt come earlier.” It’s the first thing he says, and he takes his hat off, making him look strange and yet nothing like the stern authority he represents, especially when his brows are furrowed.

“Captain— I-” Despite that, you still didnt want to be seen as weak before him. All you had done for the past three months would be for a waste if something as menial as the events of the past day caused you to crumble to pieces. You wish you could explain everything to him, beg him to believe you when you say this was all nothing. All you need is for him to walk away now, pretend he didn’t see the visible distress in your face. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to move past all of this and live your life as the weapon his team would wield proudly. “It’s- I’m just—“

“No.”

The word is short, simple and stern and yet somehow it has you stilling, every nerve frozen as you stare at him.

You should’ve known that weapons don't get second chances, that the damaged soldier doesn’t survive the battlefield. You should’ve known he wouldn’t care for some weak straggler, someone who broke apart from a few threats on their stupid birthday. Even if you had led each of his missions to a swift victory. Even if his days had been spent lighter, with more free time because there were just less things to worry about when you were the equivalent to ten soldiers. Even if he had written star reports about you, even going as far as to someday wish to permanently add you to the team. Even if you held every mission you went on by it’s strings and you kept them taut— never letting go, not even for a second.

“Why’d you always call me Captain, hm? You can call me John, you know.” His voice is relatively calmer, even if it’s the same tone he’s always used for you. He crouches and easily slips a hand behind your back, nudging you forward enough to allow him to pick you up and place you back onto the military bed.

“John…” You test the word on your lips and he nods, your shaken up state not disregarded as his eyes rake over your trembling form. He quickly pulls them away to reattach the iv drip and the heart monitor before his hand carefully brushes through your hair from the front to the back of your head. “See? Slides right off your tongue.”

You realise now that you still had been breathing quite heavily, with your hand gripping the front of your shirt. Everything just felt so tight, everything around was completely fake. You’re used to having reservations about this, used to pulling away from any physical contact, or just staying blank faced. A defense mechanism perhaps, especially after you had been through torture training and they tried their best to prey on any possible weaknesses. The thought of that day makes you shiver, but still, you were too lost in it to care that you were breaking your own rules aswell now.

You look up as his thumb rubs absentmindedly at the soft skin of your cheek. It’s one of the few places untouched by the horrors of experiments and severe training, still somehow retaining that childhood chubbiness, even if you had been trying to rid that for a long time. His lips have pulled into a small smile as he looks down at you, one that seems so fond you’re almost sure that perhaps he’s laughing at you since it couldn’t nearly be possible. Then you see the guilt in his eyes, the way they flicker down every now and then, and when his hand grazes your bandaged arm, for the first time, you flinch.

“Why—no— Did..you ever want to tell me, at all?”

You nod quietly, and his breath returns, letting out in the form of a long exhale as he just nods quietly, nudging you up so he can sit on the edge of the small hospital bed. “What..made you choose not to?”

“I.. I didn't think it was that serious.. It seemed like a stupid threat.” You murmur out and despite how angry he is about the whole situation, he can't get mad at your mindset. It really isn’t your fault.

“You were scared though.” He points out, and you nod in response, his hand still rubbing your head gently. “If it’s enough to cause you of all people fear, I think it’s pretty serious, kid.”

You swallow sharply, and he notices, letting out another sigh as his eyes fill with even more guilt. “I’m sorry..about your party. I should’ve been there; Me and Ghost, and I should've bought all your things for you too.” Never in your life has anyone looked at you with guilt, especially not directed at you. “It’s fine.. I didn’t really care for the party.” You mumble out, wiping the remaining tears that had coated your cheeks.“No— kid, i mean it. I’ll make it up to you; we can have that party—“

”It was a lie- I.. I’ve never celebrated my birthday.” You finally admit, the words blurting out as you stare down at your hands, fiddling with the blankets. “I just.. I thought if one of you came then they wouldn’t have dared to try and harm me.”

John stills, staring at you so hard and his hands have frozen on your shoulder, the air growing silent. “I.. You just wanted us to protect you.”

There’s one thing you haven't been letting yourself think about. Maybe it was the fact you were so terrified by all the threats you received, maybe it was the fact that you wanted to believe you could be the one in control— maybe you just thought that after everything you’d been through you were allowed to feel that confident. Now that everything’s over, your mind can no longer push the undoubted facts out.

You’re a weapon, that’s something you’ve always known about yourself. But just like with a weapon, it can't fire on its own—it needs someone to wield it. Ghost, for example; he’d give you commands on the battlefield, whether vague or specific. Those experiments ensured you listened to him, years of brainwashing forcing you into submission only to who was your commander. And so, despite everything you convinced yourself of the last few days, you weren’t exactly all that feared, not by your comrades. Those who understood the nature of you knew you couldn’t lay a hand against them, no matter how bad it got. You were powerless without a handler, as useless as a gun with no bullets.

Understanding lays heavy in Price’s eyes, seeing the emotions that pass through you with every twitch of your hand and flicker of your lashes. You were just a kid damnit. Sure, you were well of age, but you never knew anything past military life. You were everything he fought against and yet you were still here, under his team’s command. You don't argue when he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in tight, and he doesn't argue when your face is pushed against his shoulder, wetting his thin shirt. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, whispering it in your ear again and again, making sure you dont only know it, but you believe it. You believe he didn’t mean it, and you believe he’ll do everything to fix this.

—————————-

10:23 pm, 3 days earlier

The tension in the room lays thick, the silence eating away at the two men sat infront of each other . Ghost was tense, muscles bulging as his fists clench at his lap, his eyes fixed onto the patterns on Price’s wooden desk. Meanwhile, the latter sat with his hands clasped, both of them with heavy hearts. “Reaper is in the infirmary; their arm took the brunt of the damage when she was protecting the fox.” He breathes out the words, suddenly wishing he has a cigar to fill the empty nausea in his throat.

Meanwhile, Ghost is only growing more furious, standing up way too fast before walking towards the cabinets. “They could’ve got killed, Capt.” His voice is stern, filled with fury that Price cant discern if placed on you or the soldiers at hand. Even so, there’s not much he can do, just sighing heavily.

“The higher ups are furious; we can’t afford for a failure in this program, and this sets us back months of research.” The glass sits in front of him, the golden liquid still inside and glowing in the low lamplight. Price steadies his words, watching as Ghost begins to pace back and forth. “They want to send Reaper back to the Scientists, brainwash any leftover fear out of their head.”

Brainwash

That word alone makes him snap, slamming his hands on the deep mahogany. “You cant be serious— We are not agreeing to that—!”

“I dont want to, Ghost.” Price reaches his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his elbows digging into the table as he tries to still the migraine that threatens to form.”But I can't deny them when we have nothing to disprove that Reaper’s state will only grow worse. We have to find out what happened, why they never told us about the threat—“

“So we have to coax it out of them? What, wait for them to feel all comfortable to tell us why they didn’t open their bloody mouths?!” He knows it’s more than that, he knows if it was that easy this never would’ve even happened because if you only functioned by orders, you wouldn't even be a person in the first place. Yet still he argues, because he knows this is all his fault. He chose to disregard the signs, he chose to hate you, he chose to push you to limits you didn’t even know you had. It’s his fault and he can't handle it.

He just couldn’t understand, why were you the one the team needed? It started off just testing if you’d handle the role you were destined for, a path you didn't know you were chosen to take once the time grew right. But then it grew deeper, a need to strain your limits, see if you could survive the cruelties he did. An abnormal urge and yet never too far, never over the edge. Just sheer of it.

Now look at what he’s done.

————————

4am. 5 days after the incident.

Another nightmare. You breathe heavily; for once no one is rushing to your room to check on your condition. Weirdly enough, Price had moved you to his barracks whilst he used a mattress hastily put together on the floor. Sure you had your own room, but with how frequent you managed to fall off of the bed because of recurring nightmares it was better to keep you here. Besides, this was far more comfortable than any sterile white hospital room which the rest of the 141 quickly realised hit a bad nerve with you. Your chest is tight, but it doesn't hurt, your lungs just feel pressured and yet you’re not short of oxygen either. It’s a strange feeling to say the least, and you just feel so, so exhausted.

Slowly you creep out of the bed, the bandage still tight around your upper arm and for once you’re wearing pajamas rather than the uniform you usually end up sleeping in to stop wasting time on changing. Disgusting perhaps, efficient regardless. Your feet creep into soft slippers Gaz brought you, hand sinking into your signature fox plush that Soap made sure to tuck in beside you. Quietly you slip out of Price’s room, the man snoring quietly on the mattress as you head down the corridor to the common room. They’ve let you use it now, like it’s actually yours too and that you belong there. Even if you know you dont.

It’s at the end of the hall, and you have to pass all their rooms to reach it. Gaz’s first, quiet inside, then Soap’s where you can hear a soft rustle— likely him rolling over. Your eyes linger on Ghost’s, the door shut and deadly silent. Ironically enough, he was sent on deployment the day after all the chaos went down, leaving radio silence on his part. It was strange, knowing your handler was around without you, going on a mission you would’ve probably been on too. All because you hadnt spoken up.

But would things really have changed?

You break your gaze away from his door, slipping into the common room to pour yourself a glass of water. “Hm? What ye doing up?” Soap is clearly tired, yawning all the way as he follows you over to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water aswell. “Thirsty..” You mumble, deciding to not let the idea of the nightmare linger much longer. Although, it seems like Soap’s already figured you all out, an arm lazily around your shoulder as he chugs his glass. “Nightmare, hm?”

You nod in response, and he lets out a small sigh, looking at you with softer eyes than usual. “Did ye tell Price?” He watches you shake your head, making him chuckle in response, a smile growing on his face as he lifts a hand up, ruffling your hair. “ ‘Course ye didn't, rascal.” It’s one of the few times anyone has been playfully mad with you before, the first being a nurse which accidentally just further reinforced your fear of medical staff. You never let that show though; it only came to light because of the trauma of the day. Soap and Gaz had been teaching you a lot of things, first of them being actually having a normal breakfast. You’ve joined them every morning now, well at least when they can make it, and it feels great but strange. They had immediately denounced your notions of “earning your breakfast” too, letting you have access to the actual food that was given at the normal breakfast times.

“Yknow, me and Gaz were thinking..” He hums, one hand still carding through your hair whilst he looks curiously at your arm for any sign of further damage. “You never celebrated in the end, did ya?” He watched you shake your head, teeth grazing your lips.

“No, i didn’t. I never wanted to though, i’m sure Price told you it was only a fib.” You respond, trying to downplay the situation. It’s not like you’d take much joy in celebrating now, even after all these years it felt better to just let the notion of it die in the trenches with your innocence.

“I know, I know.” He sighs, taking both your glasses and placing them near the sink for later. “Maybe we could do something small? Bit of cake, a movie. Nothin’ more.” You just shrug and nod, not sure what people even really do for their birthdays, and he gives you a smile, a hand on your back to lead you down the hall again.

You’re almost at the room when he stops you, his eyes almost locked onto you like he’s searching for something. “Do you wanna.. talk about the nightmare? It helps, I promise. You dont have to go in detail, but it’ll be good to know what you keep dreaming about.”

You debate his offer, staring back at him just as curiously. He wouldn't be mad if you didn't, even though you’re pretty sure the entire team is just anxiously waiting for you to speak. For someone whose silenced most of the time, it sure is weird.

“It was.. Ghost. I dream of when he yelled at me, except in my dreams he doesn't stop, he pushes you to the side and grabs me by my neck..” It’s straightforward and to the point. Well, maybe a little too much because Soap’s eyes have widened, pity swirling deep in his pupils. “He didnt— He was just angry that day, you know he wouldn’t do that.. right?”

There’s a rustle inside the room behind you, Price having woken up by your talking outside. You step towards the door, unsure what to respond to Soap’s question. “I…I know, .”

You disappear back into the room again, the door quietly shutting behind you again, leaving him standing outside and very worried.

——————

10am, the next day.

Gaz walks alongside you as you step through the forest, the morning air biting at your cheeks as he complains to you about whatever paperwork he had to finish last night. You’ve been at this for a while, the frosted leaves crunching beneath your boots and you dont feel the cold much thanks to his gloves.

“Through here.” You know the way and yet you follow him through the forestry, down the path, and towards the cabin up ahead. The floor is trampled, tire marks from when you were rushed back with blood trailing down your arm. Even Gaz looks a little tense at the small splotches on the ground but chooses not to comment on it, taking your hand as the ground becomes a little more uneven.

“Inside.”

He hums, unlocking the cabin door which has been tightly secured since the incident. You walk past him, stepping inside to hear an excited yip, the fox bundling towards you with joy. For once you smile out of relief, crouching down to pet the excitable creature that nips affectionately at your trousers. “Good to see you too.” You hum, hand running down his head and ears. Now that you can see it in the light, you realise they’ve cleaned it up properly, bandaged its dodgy leg and it looks noticeably happier.

The fox licks at your hands as you sit on the small bench, feeding it the occasional dried meat strips which it takes happily, tail swishing from side to side. Gaz sits beside you, one hand on the back of the bench and his arm grazing your shoulders.

“We called the wildlife centre for him. They’ll take him in the next few days, keep him safe and put him with some other foxes. He’ll be happier.”

Would you be happier though? When you look at the scrawny thing, all you really see is yourself. A known predator, a hated species, and yet just trying to survive like everyone else on this damn world.

“You’re right, it’d be better for him.”

—————————

Sleeping is increasingly difficult for once; usually you’re knocked out in seconds but today it’s like the concept of rest refuses you altogether. The reason behind it is Ghost’s return; you had heard the soft whispers between Soap and Gaz, the awkward tension as the day grew nearer. So you had resigned yourself to your room, left alone with your thoughts for the remainder of the day. However, now you were restless, unable to sit still with the threat looming down every corridor and through the vents. Your nails claw at the sheets– they feel sterile and uncomfortable no matter where you sleep– and so you slide off the bed, forcing one foot in front of the other. You need a break.

Somehow they had left you without surveillance tonight, which isn't surprising since you had promised you wouldn’t go out on your own. Oh well, you know two men who broke a promise to you. The air is cold as it blows on your face, slowly less frosty as winter begins to fade, and you walk past the track, planning to just walk through the other entrance and return to your room again. You wouldn’t dare go back the way you came– not when Ghost is around now.

It’s a rush of warmth when you reenter the building, the change making your fingertips tingle and your lashes flitter, mouth threatening to yawn. Thankfully, the hallways were clear, unlike your hazed mind. It was like swimming underwater, every thought swirling around and voices muffled by the water above—wait, voices? You pause infront of a door, immediately stilling when you recognise a voice too familiar.

“I’ve been gone for two weeks– how are they not stable by now?” You swallow, the roughness of the voice enough to make your teeth scrape against eachother nervously. It’s him.

“Reaper’s not doing well, it’s obvious—“

”So what? We’re just going to send them back? To those stupid scientists-”

You don't hear the rest, those words enough to make something in your brain snap. All this time you’ve worked tirelessly, day and night, after every mission and every near death experience. All to be sent back where you came from, like what, some broken toy? The thought of it makes anger brim in your chest, a fury that tips the scales enough to make you actually want to break something. Your feet stumble and for some reason you're running, somewhere, anywhere. It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad idea, a tempting one even— to actually lash out. What’s the point in anything if your life will be a full circle?

What is the point of all the pain if you’ll only relive it again?

Change has to come, even if you grapple with the chains at your neck and leave rope burns on your ankles.

You’ll die trying either way.

“No; we wont. Reaper isn’t going anywhere, ever again.” Gaz speaks up, having just closed the door after seeing a glimpse of someone walking past. They really shouldn't leave any doors open for anyone to hear their conversation. “Their performance outweighs the struggles. We have the time to make things right.”

Ghost’s expression hardens, listening to the words of his teams. Of course he knows what that means— he’s the one who has to make this right.

***************************************

buy me a coffee!

CALL SIGN: REAPER— Grim reapers dont choose who dies, they’re told. The victims time has come, similar to how reader has never killed someone of her own accord, only through the orders another has given. They’re merely a tool.

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anghimalaaynasapuso · 5 hours ago

Text

HYENA JOHNNY

sfw + nsfw. rut. knotting. premature ejaculation. service top!johnny (?)

you meet johnny at a bar.

the place is old but well-kept, a place that’s obviously seen its share of rowdy nights and heavy pours but still holds its charm. dark wood, polished by time and restless hands, stretches beneath your fingertips. liquor bottles line the shelves behind the counter.

the air hums— conversation rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, the sharp clink of glasses meeting in messy toasts. the dim lighting catches on old brass fixtures, scuffs on the floor telling stories of countless nights just like this one.

and behind the bar, johnny.

he moves like he owns the place, because, clearly, he does. he reaches for bottles without looking, flicks open the tap with a smooth twist of his wrist. the other bartenders glance his way for cues. it’s plain that johnny doesn’t just work here. he runs the show.

and it's that experience that has him spotting you immediately.

“what’ll it be, sweetheart?” the words roll off his tongue, practiced but not indifferent.

"a mocktail.”

johnny pauses, processing, then snorts. “that’s tragic. you say that like you mean it.”

"i do."

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head, the motion loose. “waste of a perfectly good night, that.”

"i’m the designated driver," you shoot back, somehow feeling like you have to defend yourself, jerking a thumb over your shoulder.

your friends are deep in it— half-dancing, half-stumbling, belting lyrics to a song that isn’t playing. one of them throws their arms around another’s neck, nearly taking them both down in the process

johnny follows your gaze, lets out a low whistle. “ah. the shepherd of the drunk.” his tail sways behind him, amused. “a noble role.”

"someone has to get them home alive."

he drums his fingers against the bar, eyes flicking between you and the mess unfolding on the dance floor. “you sure you don’t wanna let natural selection do its thing?”

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. "tempting. but i’d rather not explain to their mothers why they woke up in a hedge."

he grins. “fair enough. guess that means you get a drink that doesn’t kick back.” he rolls his shoulders before reaching for bottles. “what’s the call, then? fruity? sour?”

"surprise me."

johnny hums, tilting his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s sizing you up. “dangerous words, that.” but he’s already moving, rolling up his sleeves as he reaches for a shaker. “hope you like a bit of bite.”

"that a threat?"

“nah,” he says. “just a promise.”

you watch him work.

his hands move fast, sure, an efficiency that only comes with time and muscle memory. bottles tip, liquid pours in smooth arcs, ice clatters against the tin before he seals it with a sharp tap. he doesn’t fumble, doesn’t second-guess— he moves with a rhythm stitched into his bones.

and he’s a hyena. no mistaking it.

the broad grin, all sharp teeth. the spots dusting his forearms, darker markings trailing up his skin where his sleeves are shoved back. but more than that, it’s how he carries himself— as if he was built to be here, to take up space without hesitation.

he shakes the tin with quick jerks, wrists rolling, muscles shifting under skin.

“so,” he starts, barely looking up as he strains the drink into a glass, “you always this responsible, or is this a special occasion?”

"i like knowing i’ll wake up in my own bed."

he hums, dropping a garnish into the glass with a flick of his fingers. “can’t argue with that.” then he slides the drink toward you, tapping the rim lightly with one claw. “still. shame to waste a night like this on sobriety.”

you lift the glass, taking a slow sip. citrus, something tart, something fizzy at the edges, a hint of spice lingering at the back of your tongue.

"not bad," you admit.”

johnny leans in slightly, bracing his forearms against the bar, grin widening. “’course it’s not. you think i’d serve you shite?”

"i've known you for all five minutes. forgive me if i didn’t know what to expect."

he chuckles, head tilting, ears flicking forward. “stick around, sweetheart. i’ll raise those expectations in no time.”

"confident, aren’t you?"

“damn right.” his eyes flick over you. “why? that a problem?”

"just wondering if it ever gets you in trouble."

his grin turns wolfish— if a hyena could pull off wolfish. “constantly.”

you don’t take him home that night. not because you don’t want to— because you do, god, you do— but because you’ve got a job to do.

instead, you spend the next hour wrangling your friends, guiding them into overpriced rideshares, confiscating a stolen pint glass, and prying one of them away from a very ill-advised conversation with a married senior executive.

by the time you finally collapse into bed, your jacket still smells like whiskey and citrus, your ears still ringing with laughter.

you tell yourself you won’t think about the bartender with the easy grin and the voice that curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

the work gala arrives like an obligation dressed as an opportunity. the invitation promised networking, an open bar, and a celebration of months of labor.

but you don’t want to go.

you doubt anyone does, but it’s not really a choice. the project your team has spent months sweating over is finally seeing the light of day, and the higher-ups need their captive audience. they need applause, nods of approval, praise whispered over crystal flutes of overpriced champagne.

so you go.

you let yourself be swept inside, past sleek decor and halfhearted compliments, past handshakes that mean nothing and conversations that mean even less. the champagne is crisp, the hors d'oeuvres bite-sized and forgettable, and the smiles around you all feel the same.

the work gala is everything you expected.

the kind of event that looks dazzling in photos but feels hollow in person. the chandeliers glisten, the glasses are always full, and the music hums soft and unintrusive, a backdrop for corporate egos to stretch their legs. it’s all smiles that don’t reach the eyes, laughter that’s a beat too polished, and conversations that carry the distinct flavor of ambition disguised as small talk.

the dress helps, if anything. a deep color, clean lines, the kind that turns a glance into a second look. a little armor against the monotony of handshakes and careful smiles.

you last about ten minutes before you seek out the bar.

and that’s when you see him.

johnny.

standing behind the counter like he owns the place, despite the fact that he very much does not.

his sleeves are pushed up, forearms bared, and his tie is hanging loose like it barely survived a halfhearted attempt at professionalism. he looks like someone who should be on the other side of the bar, drink in hand, making people laugh too loud. but he’s here, somehow, and he’s already watching you.

he leans into the counter, the soft golden glow of the pendant lights casting sharp shadows across his grin— and it looks suspiciously like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

and of course, you do. how could you not?

johnny isn’t just attractive.

that would be too simple. attraction is easy, common. but johnny is something else. something loud and impossible to ignore, the kind of presence that bends a room around him, that demands attention without asking for it.

you stop short, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “johnny?”

he grins. “last i checked.”

your eyes flick down to the neatly pressed vest, the gleaming bar, the expensive bottles lined up in perfect order.

then back to him.

“what the hell are you doing here?”

johnny reaches for a glass, inspecting it against the light before setting it down with a soft clink. “servin’ drinks, apparently.”

your brow lifts. “you own a pub.”

“that i do.”

“so why are you working here?”

“money’s good.” he shrugs, as if that’s a reason.

you give him a look. “you could’ve sent someone else.”

his smirk twitches into a grin. “could’ve.”

you narrow your eyes. “but?”

johnny leans in slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. “but then i wouldn’t have run into you, would i?”

heat pricks the back of your neck. “you expect me to believe you took this job on the off chance i’d be here?”

“nah,” he says easily, reaching for a bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced ease. “but it’s a hell of a nice surprise.”

you exhale, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

“what’s unbelievable is that you’re still holdin’ that same drink,” he says, nodding toward the half-full glass in your hand. “startin’ to think you don’t trust me.”

“i barely trust this event,” you say dryly. “let alone the bar staff.”

johnny places a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “cut me deep, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes, setting your drink down. “fine. impress me.”

his grin turns sharp, all teeth. “dangerous thing to ask.”

he moves with a kind of effortless confidence, each motion smooth, deliberate, like he doesn’t need to think about it. bottles spin in his hands, liquid pours clean, precise. the scent of citrus and something smoky rises as he mixes, the clink of ice against glass filling the space between you.

when he slides the drink across the bar, he taps the rim lightly with one finger. a challenge.

you take a sip.

pause.

lick the taste from your lips.

his smirk lingers, watching. waiting.

“…damn it.” you exhale. “that’s actually good.”

johnny laughs, pleased. “you plannin’ on apologizing for that remark earlier?”

your pulse jumps.

“and how exactly would i do that?”

he tilts his head, considering. “stick around. drink somethin’ strong. keep lookin’ at me like that.”

and just like that, you’re in trouble.

you don’t mean to get drunk. you came here to be seen, to endure, to let your boss soak up the credit for your work while you nod along. but then johnny makes you a drink, and when you finish it too fast, he makes you another.

responsibility starts as a whisper.

drink slower. be professional. don’t plant yourself at the bar all night.

then he tilts his head just so, watching you like you’re a puzzle he intends to solve and the whisper fades.

you order another.

somewhere around your third drink, your laughter turns ease. johnny’s grin mirrors it, fingers working effortlessly over glass and steel as he keeps the drinks flowing.

fourth drink, you tell him he has unfairly nice hands. he nearly spills a cocktail laughing.

five drinks in, you go for a napkin, miss entirely, and send a row of garnishes tumbling. staring down at the mess, you seriously debate the logistics of picking them up without falling under the bar.

johnny exhales, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "i think that means you’re cut off, sweetheart."

"you think a lot of things," you mutter, blinking up at him, heavy-lidded and unbothered.

his laughter softens, turns fond. "and i’m usually right."

you pout at him until you sway a little too much, and the world tilts just slightly before a hand reaches over the bar to steady you.

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head, muttering half-amused, half-exasperated, "jesus."

for a moment, johnny considers just throwing you over his shoulder and dealing with the consequences later. he’s a hyena, after all, and hyenas take care of their own. you’re his, in some loose, nebulous way, and it wouldn’t be difficult to make sure you got home safe.

but even in your current state, he figures you wouldn’t be thrilled about waking up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of how you got there.

so, he does the next best thing.

he steals your phone.

you don’t even notice, too busy playing with the condensation on your glass, and he sighs as he tilts the screen toward your face.

the lock screen slides open instantly.

"oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, shaking his head. "you’re makin’ this too easy."

he scrolls through your messages, thumb tapping with sharp efficiency, scanning over names he doesn’t recognize until he finds a group chat that looks promising. lots of emojis. lots of inside jokes. someone had typed in all caps at some point about a brunch reservation, so yeah— this’ll do.

he thumbs out a message: “your friend is very drunk. come get them before she pukes over my bar.” and attaches the location.

and then, because he can, because he wants to, because some part of him already knows he’ll be seeing you again, he puts his number in your contacts, too.

you wake up to a headache and a mistake.

the headache, at least, makes sense. it splits through your skull the second you shift, a dull, relentless throb pulsing behind your eyes, pressing into the backs of your sockets like a vice tightening around your brain. your mouth is dry, tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of liquor, and your body feels like dead weight, limbs tangled in sheets that are too warm, too heavy. everything is stiff— your neck, your shoulders, your stomach twisting in protest as the memories of last night flicker back in fragments. a bar. dark wood. golden light. laughter that lingered low in your chest, warm and sweet, and—

him.

your stomach flips before your brain can even process why.

you groan, rolling onto your side, pushing your face into the pillow to block out the morning. you want to sleep, to bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of it happened— whatever it is. but your body betrays you, instincts dragging your arm across the mattress, fumbling blindly for your phone where it must’ve slipped from your hand sometime in the night.

your fingers brush cool metal. you blink blearily at the screen.

the glow cuts through the dimness of your room, soft and insistent, illuminating the single notification waiting for you.

a new contact.

johnny ;)

your stomach twists harder.

you blink at it.

once.

twice.

the emoji taunts you, cocky even in pixels, a playful little wink that makes something hot curl at the base of your spine. the name itself is bad enough— too much of a reminder of how his mouth quirked up when he poured your drink, and the warmth of his fingers when brushed against yours as he slid it across the bar.

your pulse ticks up. you hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the impulse to check and the ridiculous urge to just not know.

but you already know you’re going to look.

you swipe, and the screen shifts.

one unread message.

johnny: still alive, sweetheart?

your first instinct is to throw the phone across the room. your second is to type something back. something quick, something effortless, something that won’t make it obvious that your pulse just stuttered in your throat.

you fail spectacularly.

you: barely. might never recover.

his response is immediate, and it makes you wonder if he was already waiting.

johnny: tragic. if i’d known, i would’ve given you a proper sendoff

heat prickles at the back of your neck. you stare at the message for a second too long, then lock your phone and press it flat against your chest as if that might do something about the way your heart is suddenly working overtime.

and just like that, it starts. small things, at first. quick, snappy messages.

johnny: remind me to never let you near tequila again. i don’t think you’d survive round two.

you: bold of you to assume i wouldn’t win.

johnny: bold of YOU to assume you won anything last night. you begged me for water.

you: lies. slander. i demand proof.

johnny: aye, sweetheart, i’d send the security footage, but i think the sight of you poutin’ at me over a glass of water might be too much for your fragile ego.

you don’t have a response for that. you lock your phone, toss it onto your bed, and roll onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow.

but the messages keep coming.

johnny: how’s the hangover? or should i start gettin’ that funeral procession in order?

you: surprisingly not dead.

johnny: pity. i would’ve made a great eulogy.

it’s easy, too easy.

he starts asking about your day. you start telling him.

johnny: how’d the deadline go? survived it?

you: took three cups of coffee and some questionable life choices, but it’s done

johnny: questionable life choices, huh? do i even want to ask?

you: if you must know, i impulse bought a croissant the size of my head. no regrets

johnny: i admire the dedication. although i’d be more impressed if you could finish it.

you: challenge accepted

he keeps talking to you. keeps pulling you in, coaxing conversation out of you and somehow it all feels natural, effortless.

he makes fun of the salad you regret ordering for lunch.

you: i don’t know what i expected. it’s lettuce.

johnny: truly a tragic meal. if you die from boredom, i promise i’ll give a heartfelt speech at the funeral.

you: that’s the second time you’ve threatened to monologue at my funeral. should i be worried?

johnny: just bein’ prepared, sweetheart. never know when tragedy might strike.

he complains about a difficult customer but immediately follows up with “not that i'm whinin'. boss can’t be seen whinin’."

the more he texts, the worse it gets.

you catch yourself checking your phone too often, waiting for his name to light up your screen. you start carrying your charger everywhere, the battery never allowed to dip low, just in case. when he texts, you answer too fast. when he doesn’t, you fight the stupid urge to stare at your phone, to wonder if he’s busy, to think about what his hands might be doing instead.

somewhere along the way, the teasing shifts into something else. something a little slower.

johnny: long day?

you: feels like it

johnny: go easy on yourself, sweetheart. tomorrow’s just gonna show up and make a mess of things all over again.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. something about it makes you pause, makes your stomach do that stupid little thing where it twists up in knots.

you: that’s bleak

johnny: nah. just means there’s always another chance to make somethin’ good out of it.

you don’t have a response for that either.

turns out you don't need one because then he follows it up with a—

johnny: what are you doin’ friday?

your stomach flips.

you: depends. why?

this time, the response doesn’t come immediately.

you watch the typing bubble appear. disappear. reappear.

johnny: takin’ you out. that’s why.

your breath catches. your hands hesitate over the keyboard, mind racing, running in circles. you type something and delete it. type again. delete. finally, you settle on—

you: at your pub?

his reply is fast.

johnny: christ, no. my staff would never let me leave alive.

you: fair point. so where, then?

johnny: you’ll see ;)

you are, without a doubt, in trouble.

johnny is ready. more than ready. too ready, if you ask his staff.

he’s been buzzing since you said yes, practically vibrating through the walls of his pub, too restless to stand still. his staff have been suffering through it for days— watching him plan the date down to the minute, pick out the restaurant, polish his shoes, practice his stories in the backroom mirror with an alarming level of dedication.

“you’re a grown man,” gaz mutters at one point, rubbing his temples as johnny rehearses a joke for the fifth time. “not a schoolboy with his first crush.”

he’s taken people out before, sure, but this— this is different. his fingers twitch when he thinks about it. his pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun him. he shoves it all down, tells himself to act normal, be normal, but his body betrays him at every turn.

and then, just as he reaches your door, just as he lifts his fist to knock—

his rut slams into him like a sledgehammer.

hyena ruts are brutal.

unlike wolves or big cats, they don’t creep in slow, don’t build over days like a fire waiting for kindling. no, hyenas go from zero to hundred in the space of a breath— one second fine, the next wrecked by an all-consuming need, by instincts that don’t care for reason or timing.

johnny staggers, barely catching himself before he hits the wall, his shoulder slamming into brick with a dull, shuddering thud. his claws scrape at his own arms, blunt nails dragging hard enough to leave welts beneath his fur, but it doesn’t help, nothing fucking helps. his body isn’t listening. his breath stutters, fast and uneven, catching in his throat like he’s choking on something thick and hot. sweat beads at his temples, slicks the back of his neck, soaks into his shirt despite the night air.

his stomach knots, muscles pulling tight, something twisting low in his gut like a wire wound too far. his mouth hangs open, his tongue thick, saliva pooling behind his teeth like his body is preparing for a bite, for a kill. his canines throb, the dull ache settling deep in his jaw, instincts curling sharp beneath his ribs, thick and hungry and dangerous.

and fuck. fuck, he’s so hard he can’t breathe.

his cock strains against his trousers, the fabric pulled taut over the thick, aching line of it, every throb so deep it rattles in his bones. he shifts, trying to ease it, trying to will it down, but the movement just grinds the swollen head against the seam of his fly, drags coarse fabric over his leaking tip, makes him hiss between clenched teeth. his balls are tight, drawn up so high it’s like they’re trying to retreat into his body, his whole system locked down, caught in something primal and unforgiving.

he clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms, every muscle in his body coiled and trembling with the effort of staying still, of not grinding down against something, of not reaching between his legs and squeezing his own cock in his fist just to take the edge off.

and then he fucking whimpers.

the sound wrenches out of him, cracking at the end. his breath stutters, catches in his throat, his body too hot, too tight.

johnny's head tips back, knocking against the brick, his hips twitching forward in a broken little jerk, chasing nothing, his cock pulsing angrily, trapped and swollen, sensitivity that borders on pain. he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding, sweat rolling down his spine, but it doesn’t help. nothing helps.

and then— the door creaks open.

he flinches, his whole body jolting, his breath shoving out of him in a ragged, shaking gasp.

you’re there.

crouched beside him, close enough that he can catch your scent, something grounding and unbearable all at once. your hand hovers near his arm like you’re about to touch him.

no.

“no-” it breaks from his lips before he can stop it. “no- back inside-”

his fingers barely catch your sleeve before slipping off, his limbs weak, useless. “call-” he tries again, panting through clenched teeth. “call for help- call for- fuck-”

but you don’t move. you don’t go back inside. you don’t slam the door shut. you don’t listen.

you reach for him. and he folds.

the second your fingers brush his skin, johnny's whole body caves, shaking apart under the weight of whatever the fuck is happening to him. his forehead knocks against your shoulder, a shuddering noise ripping from his throat as he clings to you, his fingers fisting into your shirt like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“oh, fuck-” his cock aches. throbs. pulses against the stiff, unforgiving line of his zipper.

he grinds against nothing, every twitch of his hips sending another spike of sensation shooting up his spine. his balls are heavy, swollen, so full it’s like they might burst, like they might spill just from the way his trousers dig into them, the way his body is wound too tight, too fucking close to something he can’t control.

he needs. he needs.

fuck, but he shouldn’t.

“i-” he tries to pull back, tries to put space between you, but his fingers won’t listen. instead, they curl tighter, dragging you in, his body betraying him in real time, his cock pressing flush to your thigh, the heat of it scalding even through layers of fabric.

a noise breaks from him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

he can’t. he can’t.

“fuck-” he buries his face against your neck. “m’sorry- m’sorry, just-just a second-”

he’s trembling, breath stuttering, little whimpers breaking past his lips no matter how hard he tries to choke them down.

you say something and he barely registers it through the thick haze clouding his head but your warmth weight, and the press of your body against his—

it helps. just a little.

and you— well, you know exactly what’s happening.

you don’t waste time pretending this is something johnny can just ride out alone. you grip his arms, drag him inside, shove the door shut with your heel and twist the locks tight. then the deadbolt. then the security chain.

your fingers are practiced, muscle memory guiding you through the steps of securing the space.

just in case. just in case someone else nearby is in rut or heat, just in case some poor bastard catches wind of johnny’s scent and decides to come sniffing around.

(he smells good. too good. sharp and heady, the scent of him curling in the air, thickening with every ragged breath he lets out. you, even you, feel your own instincts stirring, muscles tensing in awareness, your body recognizing his rut and urging you to stay close. to soothe. to let him take what he needs.)

johnny is shaking against you, his whole frame shuddering with the effort of keeping himself together. his breath is hot against your skin, slipping out between the low, broken whimpers he can’t seem to bite back

“fuck-fuck, m’sorry,” he stammers, voice catching. “didn’t- didn’t mean-”

his claws twitch against your arms, not quite gripping, afraid to hold on too tight.

his tail flicks behind him, anxious, ears pressed flat against his skull. his pupils are blown wide, swallowing up the blue of his eyes, his whole expression caught between shame and need.

“wanted this-” his voice cracks, something dangerously close to a whine. “wanted this to go well. wanted- wanted t’please you.”

johnny shudders, forehead knocking against your shoulder as another tremor rolls through him. “wanted you to- to see me. see me as a good mate. confident.”

he breathes in, sharp, and his whole body locks up for a moment, every muscle going taut— then a full-body shiver wracks through him, cock pulsing hard enough that you feel it, even through his trousers, even through your own clothes.

your throat goes dry.

you reach up, smoothing your fingers through his fur, brushing a hand along his back, trying to offer something— some kind of grounding touch, reassurance.

“johnny,” you murmur, voice steady, firm. “it’s not your fault.”

his breath hitches.

“i really don’t mind,” you say again, softer now, pressing the words into the shell of his ear.

a noise catches in his throat, something small, choked and helpless, and he drags his face away from your shoulder, tilting up to look at you properly.

his pupils are still wide, expression still hazy, but he searches your face with almost terrifying seriousness.

his tail flicks again when he seems to find nothing or what he was looking for.

“…can i make it up to you?”

your brows lift.

his ears twitch, jaw flexing, uncertainty plain with how his teeth catch on his lower lip, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and then lower, dragging slow over the curve of your body.

you shift, tilting your head. “how?”

johnny's tail twitches again then stills. he swallows hard, nostrils flaring, then lifts his gaze back to yours, something new burning in the depths of his expression.

“…can i lick your pussy?” he’s puppy-eyed and pleading, expression screaming with ‘please let me- please let me take care of you- please, i need this.’

his breath ghosts warm over your lips, fingers flexing where they’re still curled weakly around your arms.

he’s trembling, cock leaking. and you—

you nod.

his ears twitch, breath shuddering out in a sharp little gasp, grip on your thighs tightening. fingers hook into your waistband not a moment later, and he yanks, dragging your pants down, underwear with them, his movements are frantic, almost clumsy in his eagerness. he groans, wrecked and relieved, the second you're bare in front of him, pupils blown, tail wagging, whole body thrumming with ‘please, please, please.’

and then—

oh.

his tongue is warm.

hot and wet and wide, the rough texture of it dragging over your slit in a slow, open-mouthed lick, firm and eager like he's trying to taste every inch of you.

your breath stutters, hands flying to his head, fingers curling into his thick fur as he groans against you, the sound vibrating up through his tongue, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.

and he doesn't stop.

doesn't hesitate. doesn't tease.

no, johnny dives in, pressing his face right up against your cunt, burying his nose in the soft flesh of your inner thigh, mouth sealing over you like he's starving.

his tongue flicks, curls, scoops into you, lapping up your slick with these obscene little slurping sounds, breath coming fast and desperate through his nose.

"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking, but he just growls, arms wrapping around your thighs, locking you in place.

his tongue drags up, then circles your clit, flicking once, twice before sucking it into his mouth, lips sealing around it with wet, sloppy pressure.

a sharp, helpless sound breaks from your throat, fingers spasming in his fur, tugging hard, but he just whines, pushing closer, pressing his face deeper between your legs, like he wants to drown in you.

his tail thumps against the floor, hips shifting, rutting, desperate little movements like he needs the friction, like eating you out is wrecking him just as much as it’s wrecking you.

johnny’s tongue works you open, the rough drag of it lighting up every nerve in your body. he’s sloppy with it, messy and eager as a puppy, sucking and lapping and groaning like he can’t get enough— like he won’t get enough, not until you’re shaking, not until you’re breaking apart in his hands.

his nose presses in, nuzzling against your clit as he angles his tongue deeper, the slick heat of his mouth sealing around you, sucking, devouring every drop of slick that spills from your pussy. his grip tightens, claws pricking your skin, grounding you against his face as he buries himself in your cunt, breath ragged.

his ears twitch at every moan, every gasp, tail wagging, thudding against the floor in frantic, jerky movements. his hips roll, little ruts against nothing, cock straining in his pants.

and fuck, the way you’re squeezing around his tongue, the way you’re whining, the way your fingers are tugging at his fur, yanking him closer, using him for your pleasure—

it’s perfect.

his tongue flicks against your clit, so fast he feels like his jaw is gonna cramp and your whole body locks up, muscles tensing, thighs clamping around his head as your pleasure slams through you.

"johnny-!"

you break, back arching, fingers spasming in his hair as your orgasm rips through you, cunt clenching.

and johnny loses it.

his hips snap forward, grinding down against the floor, cock pulsing in his pants, the thick length throbbing in time with your orgasm, so turned on with how you’re gushing into his mouth.

"fuck-” johnny’s body shaking, arms tightening around your thighs as his own climax crashes into him, his whole frame jerking with it.

his tail spasms, ears flicking wildly, and he ruts with mindless abandon, his tongue still lapping at you as he comes, soaking his trousers, thick spurts spilling out in his underwear, making a mess of himself, of the floor beneath him.

johnny’s breath stutters, his tongue slower now, softer. he whimpers against you, his hips giving these tiny, involuntary twitches, pleasure still rattling through his system, buzzing under his skin.

he’s a mess. ruined. wrecked.

but he’s still got his mouth on you. he’s still hard.

even after all that, after coming in his pants like a desperate thing, he’s still thick and straining against the damp fabric, the outline of his cock pressing against his zipper, a dark stain spreading where his release had soaked through.

but he’s smiling up at you, lazy, hazy-eyed satisfaction, ears flicking, tail giving a slow, contented thump against the floor. he looks pleased with himself, looks like he just had the best meal of his life, tongue flicking out to lick the last traces of you from his lips.

you swallow, your gaze flicking down, heat curling in your stomach.

"johnny-" your voice comes out soft. "do you- do you wanna fuck me?"

his ears perk up. his breath hitches.

"fuck," he gasps, pupils blown, hips giving a helpless little jerk, grinding into nothing. "fuck, yes- yes, please-”

your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper, but he hears it like a gunshot.

"fuck me..."

johnny whines. he’s so happy, so relieved, so thrilled that his hands are already moving before his brain catches up— grabbing at your clothes, tearing them off your body, dragging fabric down your arms, over your hips, tossing them aside like they offend him.

you barely have a second to breathe before he’s fumbling with his own clothes, his pants sticking to his skin, soaked through with his release, and he growls under his breath, impatient, frantic, tearing at the fabric.

you hear the sharp rip before you see him, and by then, it’s too late.

his hands are on your hips again, tugging you back against him, the heat of him pressing up behind you. bare now, nothing between you, and—

oh.

there is a lot of him.

you don't see it, but you feel it, the weight of him pressing against you, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, leaking precum against your folds. your brain catches up in a single, dawning moment of realization.

"u-um- johnny, wait-"

he doesn’t wait. he pushes in.

your mouth drops open around a soundless scream, arms giving out beneath you, sending you down onto your hands as your body stretches around him.

"hnnngh- fuck-”

johnny groans, hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still as he sinks in deeper, his fat length forcing you open, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him.

his cock is thick, veined, hot as a brand against your insides, his knot still deflated but already pressing against your entrance, teasing the stretch that’s still to come.

"s’good- fuck- so warm-" he babbles, hips twitching. rolling. driving him deeper. deeper. deeper.

you can feel every ridge, every pulse, the wet sounds of your slick mixing with his precum, making everything so messy, so hot, so unbearably good.

your fingers curl against the floor, nails scraping for purchase, breath coming in ragged gasps. you can barely speak, but you manage a single, broken sound—

"johnny-"

he whimpers, hips jerking forward, sinking the last of himself inside.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

he snaps his hips forward, slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

again.

it’s feral. frantic. mindless. his claws dig into your hips, keeping you locked in place as he fucks into you with the wild, unrelenting pace of an animal.

"fuck- fuck- fuck-"

he’s babbling now, every noise ripped straight from his chest. he’s gone, lost to instinct, breath ragged, panting against your back.

and you— you’re drooling.

your mouth falls open, a string of spit slipping past your lips, eyes hazy, unfocused, body pliant beneath him. it’s like you’re the one in heat, like his need has infected you, sinking into your skin, making you just as desperate, just as mindless.

his knot isn’t even swollen yet, and still— still— it feels like too much, like your body is barely keeping up, like you’re caught in the eye of a storm and all you can do is take it.

and he’s loving it.

“s-so good-" he whimpers, his voice shaking, thick with pleasure, his ears twitching. "s’takin’ me so well- fuck- made f’me, yeah? made t’be bred-"

his teeth graze the back of your neck, not quite biting, but close, breath hot against your skin.

"tell me- tell me y’need it-"

his hips snap forward, hard, cock grinding against the deepest part of you.

"tell me, bonnie-“

you somehow managed a choked moan of his name which seems to please him enough. “j-johnny!”

"hah- hah- hah-" his panting is ragged, tongue lolling out between sharp teeth, drool slipping past his lips, dripping onto your back. his claws dig into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust.

you're reduced to a mess of slick and sweat and open-mouthed moans. your vision swims, breath stuttering, drool slipping past your own lips. your cunt grips him tight, sucking him in, slick coating his cock, dripping down his balls, wetting the base of his knot as it starts to swell.

"pretty..." johnny fucking giggles. it’s breathy, boyish, downright giddy as he snakes a hand down between your legs, fingertips dragging through the sticky mess between your thighs, rubbing over your swollen, aching clit.

"pretty clit… so soft... s’cute like this, all swollen f’me..."

he snickers to himself, his other hand coming up to your lower belly, pressing down, feeling the bulge his cock makes inside you. his hips snap forward hard, pressing down at the same time, making you feel every inch of him.

"fuck-" he whimpers, laughter breaking into a moan, tail flicking wildly behind him. "y'feel that? s’me, bonnie- deep inside- fuck, s’good-”

your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, cunt milking him as you shake. your mind goes hazy, all-consuming pleasure buzzing through your nerves, and you barely register the way his rhythm falters—

until he gasps, breath catching, his whole body trembling, hips stuttering against you.

but he doesn’t push his knot in.

his cock throbs, leaking, twitching inside you, but his knot— still swollen, thick and pulsing at your entrance— doesn’t breach. he was too caught up, too lost in you, and now.

well, now it’s too late.

"fuck- fuck, bonnie, ‘m sorry-" his voice is frantic, hands shaking where they grip your hips. "i was s’posed t’ knot you, i- fuck, i know it hurts-”

and it does.

the ache of being left open, empty where you should be full, the throb of your walls still pulsing around nothing.

johnny knows.

he knows it hurts to push his knot in if you’re not distracted by your orgasm. he also knows the second the high fades it’s going to leave you aching, needy, sensitive in a way that burns.

"i got you, bonnie-" he murmurs, voice soft, affectionate even as he drives into you again, already chasing another orgasm from you. "gonna make it up t’you, promise-"

he grabs your hips, yanking you back onto his cock, fucking you harder, faster, desperate to fix it, desperate to make sure you don’t feel the pain.

his fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, his touch clumsy, eager. “fuck- ‘m sorry, s’gonna feel so good, swear it-"

and he’s right.

your body can’t fight him, can’t deny him, the overstimulation pushing you right back up that peak, another orgasm slamming into you not even a minute later.

your walls clamp down around him, milking him, and he chokes on a moan, his whole body tensing. "fuck, fuck, that’s it- thass it, bonnie-"

his knot swells, stretching you wide, pushing in finally, locking him deep inside you—

and then he comes.

he fills you, cock pulsing, spurts of cum pouring into you, stuffing you full. his hips twitches, grinding against you, voice breaking on your name.

johnny's arms wrap around you, hugging you tight, chest pressed to your back. "s-sorry," he breathes, still panting, nuzzling against your shoulder. "s’never gonna happen again, promise-”

oh but it does. it happens multiple times, in fact.

you don’t know how long it’s been. you lost count after his fifth load. time has lost all meaning, swallowed up by the relentless rhythm of johnny’s rut.

he’s insatiable. a desperate, panting mess, rutting into you over and over, knotting you again and again, rolling his hips even when he’s still locked inside you, grinding his over-sensitive cock against your walls like he can’t stop.

his hands won’t let go of you, always grabbing, always holding— your hips, your waist, your thighs, your wrists. pulling you back onto him, keeping you flush against his sweat-slicked body.

johnny's all heat, burning up against you, whining your name in between frantic, slurred murmurs of "so good, so good, my bonnie, mine-"

but eventually— finally— the first wave of his rut starts to fade.

he slows. his thrusts lose their urgency, grip loosening, breath evening out, the feverish need in his eyes softening into something dazed, exhausted.

you take your chance.

"johnny-" you murmur, shifting slightly beneath him. "you need to drink some water, love."

he doesn't seem to really hear you, nuzzling into your neck. "mmm… later…"

"no, now," you insist, stroking a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "you’ve- we've been going for hours- we need to hydrate, okay?"

he grumbles, but when you finally manage to untangle yourself from his grasp and sit up, he whines, reaching for you again, ears flattening against his head.

"no- bonnie- come back-"

"drink first," you say, grabbing the water bottle from your nightstand and holding it out to him after you've had your own fill. "then I’ll cuddle you."

he pouts but takes the bottle, chugging down greedy gulps, tail flicking sluggishly behind him.

you press a granola bar into his hand next, watching as he blinks at it, then at you, before finally taking a bite.

he chews slowly, brows furrowing like he’s thinking about something, the fog in his brain is clearing just enough for rational thought.

and that’s when you pick up his phone from the mess of clothes, phoning his emergency number.

a guy nicknamed 👻.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the call button.

johnny tilts his head at you, ears twitching. "whatcha doin’, bonnie?"

"calling your emergency contact," you say, glancing at him. "someone needs to know you’re in rut."

johnny groans, flopping back against the pillows, rubbing a hand down his face. "oh, fuck me-"

"i did," you deadpan. "for hours."

he snorts, but his face is already going pink. "fuckin’ hell… he’s never gonna let me live this down…"

you press the call button. the phone barely rings twice before a gruff, sleep-roughened voice answers. "this better be important, mactavish.”

"uh- hi," you say, gripping the phone tighter. "this isn’t johnny, but i feel like i needed to call his emergency contact so..”

there’s a pause. a sharp inhale. then— "…what happened."

you glance over at johnny, who’s sprawled out on the bed, still naked, still flushed, body twitching with the last remnants of his latest orgasm. his tail flicks, ears pinned back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

"he’s in rut," you explain. "we- uh- handled it. but he’s still got waves coming, and i don’t think i can keep up with him forever."

"fuck," the guy mutters. there’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of movement, a door creaking open. "how long’s he been at it?"

you hesitate, looking at the clock. "uh… at least five to six hours?"

"jesus fucking christ." more rustling. "i’ll drop some suppressants off. you got any blockers up?"

"yeah, doors are locked, everything’s secure," you say. "no one else has caught onto his scent. hopefully."

"good. last thing we need is someone else getting ideas."

you nod, happy you're both on the same page.

"i’ll be there in twenty," he continues. "keep him calm, get some fluids in him, and don’t let him knot you again unless you wanna be stuck for another hour."

you open your mouth to answer, but before you can, johnny groans, rolling onto his side, tail swishing, his voice petulant.

"is that ghost?"

"is that his name? i mean, i guess so-"

"tell him he’s a fuckin’ cockblock," johnny whines, pouting up at you. "cannae believe this- rut suppressants? really? yer ruining all my fun, mate."

"oh, fuck off," ghost deadpans. "you’ll thank me when you’re not dead from dehydration and a broken dick."

johnny grumbles, burying his face into your thigh, huffing dramatically. "don’t wanna suppressants. wanna keep fuckin’ my bonnie-”

ghost sighs, long and heavy. "jesus christ. twenty minutes."

the line goes dead.

225 notes · View notes

quarterlifekitty · 1 day ago

Text

I can imagine AbsoluteBastard!Johnny keeps his ear out for casualties on base so he can get in on that grieving widow action

He’ll show up to the funeral in his best, tell you some tale about how your man was a good one— saved his ass a few times, didn’t deserve to have things cut short, to be pulled away from such a beautiful woman—

It’s easy for him, in your vulnerable state, to charm you into letting him be the one to take you home from the service. Sits on your couch with you, lets you serve him tea to keep yourself busy, talks about all the things you miss about your man, inching his way closer and closer— comforting hand on your thigh, gently stroking.

It’s not long before his tongue is down your throat and he’s putting the framed photo of your man face down so the poor bastard doesn’t have to watch Johnny ruin you.

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #soap x reader

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goatgoesmbe · 3 days ago

Text

poly!141 x f!reader idea

Where everyone is a loser, except for Gaz.

And you.

Gaz got all the rizz, he was definitely the one doing all the work to get them all together. It took a while, and it was agony for him. Long conversation of awkward flirting, quiet glances where they would look away if their eyes met, and don't even ask him about the sex.

But.. somehow, everything worked out in the end.

Then came you, the pretty thing who had just got recruited to the taskforce. You, who immediately became the talk of everyone on base, the cute medic that got everyone courting left and right. The new primadona.

Just like everyone else, Gaz had an eye for beauty. And it seemed like his lovers had the same idea from how they turned from a pragmatic, respectable soldiers to a pathetic, blushing mess just from your presence alone.

And just like before, it made sense for Kyle to be the one who would pursue you. To charm his way into your heart (and pants), before introducing you to everyone else.

Because Price thought approaching you to talk about work count as flirting. Thinking what was important was spending more time with you, no matter what was the reason. Hoping you'd eventually notice his feelings concealed in the questionable amount of paperwork handed to you.

Ghost would follow you around from a safe distance. Staring at you with that look. The kind of unsettling look he usually directed at his target, like you were an enemy's operative instead of a potential partner. Gaz didn't understand what his lieutenant's plan was, maybe he was trying to communicate with you telepathically? Gaz didn't know.

Soap was- well.. either he would embarrass himself so bad, or you would report him to the higher up for sexual harassment.

And with that, it made sense for Gaz to make the move. He was the best candidate- no, the only reasonable candidate for this.

He knew he was attractive, and charming. So this would be easy, right?

Nope.

What he didn't know was, you were so used to having casanovas trying to woo you. So it got boring after a while.

You preferred to be the player instead of the pawn. And so, you simply brushed off all of his advances. Because your type of man was actually the pathetic kind.

And so, Gaz could only watch as you took the drink he bought for you before approaching the others who tried (and failed) to act casual, like they weren't spying at all.

Price was focused with his phone in his hands.. which was upside down.

Soap was.. inspecting a wall like he was at an art exhibition.

While Ghost just stood still as if no one could see him if he didn't move.

...

If he was being honest? Gaz was a bit offended. It was kind of his first time facing rejection. But as they said, there was a first for everything.

And of course, he didn't make a scene, didn't give up on the game because well why should he?

He wasn't disappointed. Because in the end, whoever you chose first, you'd end up with all of them. They were a package after all.

a/n: despite whats written here- the fic is actually gonna focus more on Gaz x reader lolol- some kind of multichap porn rival to lover (?). well I said that but the porn with Gaz wont happen til the very end- does that make sense. probably wont write more than 2 short chapters

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vampirekilmerfic · 3 days ago

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Omg, I love this. It had me absolutely cackling!

Asking the 141 men “Is it in?”

That's DIABOLICAL, anon. DIABOLICAL. *proceeds to cackle hysterically while opening up a blank Word doc*

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: bratty behavior, swearing, unprotected piv, humor

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“Is it in?” you ask, gripping John’s shoulders as you settle in his lap.

John is silent a long moment before he sighs heavily. “I know what you’re up to.”

His hands slide from the backs of your thighs to your ass. With a firm grip, he lifts you up and off his cock. There’s a gentle ache left behind, and your pussy flexes slightly at the loss of him.

“John,” you moan, knowing that instead of getting what you want, you’re about to get the exact opposite.

“Not playing this game, dove,” he replies, voice assertive but not mean.

John lightly plops you down onto the bed. As you reach for him, he rolls away with a slight grunt, standing tall in all his nude glory. He shifts slightly, his hand grasping the base of his cock. He strokes up and down.

“I’m taking care of this,” he says, nodding toward his erection. “While I do that, I want you to have a good think.”

“John,” you whine, and there is no pleasure in it.

He’s already walking toward the bathroom, his hand still pumping steadily. “When I come back, I might just give you what you want, love.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Is it in?”

Johnny blinks, shifting his weight onto an elbow. “I bloody well hope it is,” he says in full seriousness. Shoving your legs higher, Johnny checks like he’s not even sure himself. “Aye,” he confirms. “It’s in.”

Trying not to laugh, you say, “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” His voice rises slightly. “Am I sure?” Johnny moves his hips back and forth. “Can you not feel that?”

Oh, I certainly can.

“I think so?” you reply slowly. “Do it again.” Johnny does. “Maybe a bit harder?” He does exactly as you instruct, and you have to hold back a groan. Johnny has always felt good inside you, a stretch that’s perfectly pleasurable. “Harder?”

Johnny increases the pace, and you nearly choke on your next inhale. “Harder.”

“You—oh. You’re fucking with me.” He tuts. “Having a laugh, are we?”

“No,” you whisper, and then immediately snort as you cover up your face to keep from bursting out in a fit of giggles.

Johnny shakes his head, and immediately pushes off, flopping onto his back.

“Johnny!” you exclaim, this time unable to contain your laugher.

He points to his erect penis. “Get on. You’re doing the work today.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon doesn’t deserve this, but fucking with him a bit will get you what you want. While you can ask for it, getting him worked up enough to fuck you senseless is just as fun.

“Is it—” Simon sighs. “Is it in?” He repeats your question with a loud sigh, like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. He gestures downward with a nod. “I’m literally in your guts.”

He’s not wrong. You’re on your back, legs spread wide, hips slightly elevated. Simon is kneeling between your legs. It’s not like you’re on all fours. There is a clear view of where your bodies meet. Even if you truly couldn’t feel it, you’d see it.

You shrug, and Simon shakes his head.

“We’re not doing this today,” he mutters.

With a rough growl, Simon dives in, flattening himself over you. You’re completely pinned, trapped beneath his body. His hips snap back, and then drive forward.

“I know you can fucking feel this,” says Simon, grinding his hips against you on the last word.

You try to hold back a moan as his pelvis rubs against your clit.

“Is it in now, love?” chuckles Simon when you finally moan aloud.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle settles between your legs. Leaning in, he goes for a kiss. One hand slides up your outer thigh, turning inward to press your leg into the bed and open you wider for him. Another kiss, and then he’s sliding home, easing himself inside.

He groans, and though you want to groan with him, it takes every ounce of willpower to hold back.

It takes even more willpower to not crack up at the words that come out of your mouth.

“Is it in?”

Kyle pauses, draws back as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Is it—” He pauses, stares at you a long moment, mouth slightly open and the middle of his brow creased with concern.

You’re about to ask again but then Kyle starts…laughing.

“Kyle?” He rests his forehead against your shoulder, still chuckling. “Kyle,” you prompt. “Is it in?”

This only makes him laugh harder.

With a little shove, Kyle pushes himself off you and rolls on his back, his cock sliding out of your body. He throws his arm over his eyes, still laughing.

“Kyle,” you try again, but even you start to break, a smile spreading across your face.

“You’re,” he wheezes. “Bloody unbelievable.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3

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ghouljams · 1 day ago

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Theyre all just fucking gaslighting you at the Mactavish family reunion. What do you mean you've been kidnapped, Johnny's been telling us about you for years :) he's got pictures and everything.

#cod x reader #x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #giggling to myself at this alone on holiday draft #no mactavish is to be trusted

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starlit-writer · 2 days ago

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i am Poorly™️ and now my brain (what functioning bits are left from this MIGRAINE) can’t stop thinking about the boys of tf141 reacting to reader unconscious in medbay after an op.

capt. john price - silent guard dog. obviously, as the captain of the taskforce, he doesn’t get the luxury of dropping everything right off the helo to run to your side, no matter how much he wants to. but, he is restless and short-tempered as he rushes through the post-op debriefs, snapping at anyone or anything who wastes his time or gets in his way. but once he’s in medbay, your unconscious body finally in his sights, the violent, rough edges of his agitation soften. the protective streak of the captain is no less sharp, however, as the older man keeps a watchful eye on everything as his hands run through his mutton chops, mustache, hair, over his clothes, anything to distract him from the fact that you’re hurt. he won’t touch you - doesn’t quite trust himself to not break down and beg for your beautiful eyes and warm smile to grace his presence again if he does. no, he stands vigil in the room, watching over you and protecting you until he hears you start to wake. then, your beloved captain gets down on his knees beside your bed, his face pressed into your hand that lays on the sterile, scratchy white sheets as he mutters kiss-littered reassurances into your skin as his hands brush softly over your hips and stomach in a gentle, comforting manner. if there’s one thing that breaks his stoic, mountain man exterior, it’s you.

lt. simon “ghost” riley - the other side of the captain’s coin. where do you think he learned it from? where the captain attempts to keep some semblance of composure, simon is incapable of the same. he’s all bristled hackles and barking commands as he jumps off the helo before it even fully touches down, ignoring the protesting ache in his joints as he sprints towards the med bay just to get to you as quickly as he can. he’s tormented, replaying the last moments before you were injured in his mind. he’s angry; at the enemy, at the injury, at the world, at you. he has half a mind to throttle you himself as soon as he bursts through the medbay door, to scream at you until he’s hoarse about how stupid you were to get yourself injured. but that anger is a thin shell covering the aching fear of losing you, and as soon as you’re in his sights, he is at your side, his hand finding yours. he runs his thumb over the back of your hand as his other hand comes up to brush a loose lock of your blood-matted hair out of your face. it doesn’t quite quell the anger bubbling through his veins, but you’re still alive. where the captain keeps a silent vigil, simon is right by your side. he pulls a chair as close to the bed as he possibly can, keeping a watchful, terrifying eye on anyone and everything that comes into the room. but, when he’s alone with you, his demeanor falters; whatever thoughts crossing his mind spilling from his shaking lips as his touch brushes over every part of you that he can reach. he’s a complicated man with a very poor grasp on his own emotions and reactions, but you are the only thing that keeps him grounded, and he can’t lose you.

sgt. john “soap” mctavish - johnny isn’t angry. no, he knows his emotions well enough to call it what it is: he’s terrified. much like simon, he rushes off the helo, but unlike both his lieutenant and his captain, he doesn’t even glance at anyone else. his mind is laser focused on getting to you, completely avoiding and ignoring everything that is between you and him. however, as he gets closer and closer to the medbay, the terror builds. restless, panicked energy floods his veins, his adrenaline shooting through the roof. what if it’s worse than he was told? what if this is it? does he really want his last memories of you to be the sight of you hooked up to god knows how many machines? he’s in touch with his emotions, certainly much more than the rest of his team, but that also makes it that much easier for him to start spiraling to the worst case scenario, especially when it comes to you. he’s caught between the desire to rush to your side and the panic freezing his momentum, resulting in him pacing outside of your room, his fingers alternating between tugging at the longer strands of his mohawk and at the elastic of the com mic around his throat. and that’s how he stays, stuck in this perpetual loop that is slowly ripping him apart. it’s not until he hears that your awake that he finally peeks in, stepping in slowly as to not frighten you. however, once your gaze meets his, all bets are off. he rushes to your side, his hands grabbing onto you as he presses his forehead against yours as tightly as he can. muttered apologies for not being here for you fall past his lips between the kisses he presses gently to your cheeks, your eyelids, your forehead, your chin, as his hands gently run across your sides. the apologies quickly turn into reassurances, but he doesn’t leave your side. he stays standing over you, covering you with his touch and his soft kisses. if there’s one thing he believes in more than the golden cross that hangs next to his dog tags, it’s you.

sgt. kyle “gaz” garrick - he’s better at compartmentalizing than the rest - has to be, after everything that he has done and seen. he keeps a tight lid on his emotions through the entire helo ride back to base, the vacant stare into nothing ahead of him and the way his knee bounces ever so slightly the only signs that anything is wrong. where the rest of the boys are basically foaming at the mouth when their bird is injured, kyle knows that he can’t. that’s not to say that he doesn’t care about you - doesn’t love you - he just knows that if he gives into the fear, it will be impossible for him to pick himself back up. and he needs to be strong for you, for his team. he feels like the entire world rests on his shoulders, and if he falters, even for you, everything will crumble around him. he goes through the post-op motions robotically. anything anyone says to him is met with a monosyllabic reply. it’s only after he’s finished his duties that he’ll find himself in med bay. he pulls a chair to the side of your bed, one of his hands wrapping around yours as his other comes up to his mouth. he has a horrid habit of biting at his cuticles when his emotions are high, and, well, you’re not here to slap his hand away. he holds onto you, his thumb running over the ridges on the back of your hand as he mutters prayers to whatever could possibly be listening to bring you back to him. he is much more outwardly relaxed than simon or johnny, but inwardly, his mind is racing with the same terror. and when you finally wake, his soft voice is there, coaxing you back as his touch brushes gently over your cheek. while he feels like the fate of the entire world rests on his shoulders, that weight feels a lot more manageable when he remembers that you are his world.

(lol oops this turned into so much more writing than i was planning but whatever. i love playing angst barbies with these boys and exploring the differences and similarities between them. as always, i hope you enjoy, and i would love to hear what you think! thank you thank you thank you for all the support mwah mwah)

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pettysreverie · 2 days ago

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It’s late and we all know that’s when it’s horny hours…so like, I can’t stop thinking about sucking cock.

Long, thick cock.

But your mouth is so small, isn’t it?

Your throat so tight. So wet and hot…but with hardly enough space to fit his massive length.

And you, you dainty thing you—your gag reflex is just too strong. He can barely get it into your mouth, let alone anywhere down your throat, before you’re spluttering and your eyes are watering.

Your throat constricts tightly. Draws up. Waters.

Fuck does it water. You’re gagging. Spitting up so damn much, it’s kind of pathetic don’t you think?

But you want to be good for him, don’t you? You want to please him. He eats your cunt like he’s starved for sustenance—like it’s his last meal and fuck are you his favorite snack.

So you want to do this.

You practically begged for this.

And yet here you are; with tears in your eyes and spittle dribbling down the side of your swollen lips.

“Yer no’ givin up on me are ya, love?”He asks you, and as he looks down at you…well, you know that he’s not really asking out of concern.

He loves you. He cares for you. He does.

But this isn’t about love or consideration.

This is about training. This is about submission.

This is about bending you to his will.

This is about your body giving in for his pleasure—learning how to turn off its survival instincts for the sole purpose of bringing him satisfaction.

“N-No…never.”

“Good girl. Now, let’s try this again yeah?”

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jumbojazzcats93 · 3 days ago

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Ok, so hear me out-

There is a cast out goddess doomed to eternal reincarnation on earth as a human. It's been centuries. Hundreds of new faces, names, and lives. Her followers are long dead, but her favored remain. The four of them, blessed by their goddess before her fall, seek her endlessly in every new life she lives. Her power is what keeps them alive. Regardless of if she has the ability to touch it or not, as long as she exists, her blessings still remain, and effected entities still reap the rewards. Her power leaks from her body in every life. Its what enables them to find her when she's reborn. Worshipping her is different now, but they're no less enamored by their Goddess than they once were.

And if I expand on this... who knows.

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cherie-doll · 2 days ago

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COD men with a witchy girlfriend that also dresses like Stevie Nicks? Like I have random tarot decks or crystals that appear. I tend to attract crows, cats, and snakes mostly. Herbs, jars, bones, etc all around the house.

i love her style sm <3

𓆩♡𓆪 Headcanon: You're Their Witchy Girlfriend

☽〇☾ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

Price

He knew how much you loved wearing flowy, comfortable clothes, it was just so convenient and nice to wear in any weather! You couldn't go out without your shawl, in cool weather it was useful to cover yourself with, and it was useful when the glaring sun was out in summer to provide some shade

When interacting with an animal, he found it endearing when you would greet it as if it were another person, many times they followed you too, and he would sigh when he'd find a new animal sitting on the window sill watching him

For some reason, he thought you were trying not to be a burden to him when you only went to thrift stores to buy your clothes, until you explained to him it was easier to find vintage stuff there, not only for your clothes but also for decorating your home

Picking out gifts for you is easy, you love anything given with love because you care more about the intentions/symbolism rather than the price of the item, but he also takes his time in choosing what to give you

Ghost

You like making some of your own clothing, simple stuff like adding some extra flair to your blouses or skirts, you even repair them too, and you've taught Simon to sew as well, it's comical to see a large man like him sitting down on a nice, sunny afternoon in the living room with the window open letting the breeze in and holding a needle so small between his big fingers

And you fondly gaze at him as you watch him sew, turns out he can patch up your clothes better than you do!

You couldn't have asked for a better boyfriend, so you always ask for his protection every day he goes out, or every time he has to go on a mission because he's the best thing that's happened to you and you can't imagine losing the one person who understands you best

You're sort of into amulets and other things that can grant protection to a person, Simon used to not believe in them but after seeing how good life can feel when you're with a person who shows you the beauty in life, he doesn't mind standing still as you stitch a protection sigil into his jacket

Soap

He thought he was hitting on a whimsigoth chick when he saw you out in the street walking with your bell sleeved top and patterned maxi skirt, he asked for your number and you surprisingly gave him yours, soon he found himself sitting next to you at a park on a date

You always carried a tote bag where ever you went, it always made a lot of noise when you walked, sounded like rocks in there or something, and when you would in reach into your bag when he was trying to pay for something he'd stop you and assure you he'd never let you pay, except you weren't planning on paying

You just have a bag of crystals in there and your tarot cards you like bringing along, never know when someone is going to need a reading, right?

He remembers the first time he came over to your place and it matched with your vibe, dried flowers/plants tied and hanging to the wall, leather-bound books on wooden bookshelves with glass bottles and even more, larger crystals

He noticed you took a liking to anything relating to the moon or sun, so he actually bought you a matching couples moon and sun bracelet, he let you pick which one you wanted

Gaz

He's always interested in what you're into, asks questions and isn't afraid in partaking in any small "rituals" you do, mostly habits really that you have, like petting every black cat you see or leaving something shiny for crows to take

There was a time crows started following him because of the things he'd leave out for them that he got scared and ran all the way home and hid until you came back, you explained that they likely just recognized him as the person who gave them food and other things

One of your favorite things to do is trying to foretell the future, you look for signs in every day life, or even just trusting your intuition when you get a certain feeling, you and Kyle will sit on the steps of your porch and observe the sky, there's a murder of crows that like to perch on a tree in the backyard

There's always a different number of them, not always the same amount, but you've heard that counting crows is a way of foretelling the future, today you counted three just as Kyle was feeling for that small box containing a ring in his pocket :)

Roach

I like to think he also loves to collect animals :), he enjoys coming along with you and foraging deep into the woods near riverbanks helping you look for skeletons and any other bones, secretly it's because he likes finding small animals like lizards or cicadas

He loves the idea that when you place an animal skull on a pile of items their spirit will protect that specific stack, he imagines that each animal bone/skull around the house has their items that they like to protect and hang near

You two love visiting the local park on weekends and taking romantic walks together, during these talks some animals might follow you

He remembers when he took you on a date out and every cat you passed would meow and come up to you, he just assumed you were really good with cats, until it started happening with crows and even snakes

Now your little companions make you both smile fondly seeing them come to greet you, you even let a cat follow you back home and couldn't bear to leave the poor thing outside in the cold :(, of course you'd bring it in! They now have their own little cushion to sleep on and get spoiled <3

Alejandro

It's literally in his blood to be into the macabre, most of his traditions revolve around that anyways, so it was no surprise that he gets along with you perfectly

He loves the herbs you have around the house because it reminds him of the elderly ladies that he used to see when he was a kid, he remembered most people avoided them, but others frequently visited them, he always viewed them as powerful and full of wisdom and knowledge

He'll listen to whatever subject interests you the most, you often talk to yourself and if he so happens to walk into a room while you're dusting the shelves or placing a new crystal and you're having a conversation with yourself, he'll just walk by like it's nothing, he knows you tend to do that

You like to grown your own herbs and plants so you won't always have to go out and buy more because now you'll never run out, it used to be Alejandro who was sent on these errands lol

Some people still talk bad about you sometimes, saying you make them feel uncomfortable, but little do they know, you leave a lemon out whenever they come by to "absorb their negative energy" and when they leave.. the lemon is brown.. how strange, something about them must be off

Alejandro was never afraid nor put off by you, you're the most alluring person he's ever seen and from the very moment he met you he had been attracted

Rudy

You've always had an air of elegance and mystery around you, people were afraid to wrong you but couldn't figure out what was so unsettling about you, contrary to that you were quite friendly to those who built up the confidence to get to know you

Rodolfo was the one to discover this and he's the one who frequently experiences your sweet side since he's your boyfriend, you'd actually be pretty lost without him! You tend to misplace your cards, crystals and other things and he's the one who patiently reminds you where to look

He helps you especially when you're in the kitchen, you like to make your kitchen space a nice and cozy area where you can be yourself, mostly focusing on herbs, you love tea and can't go a day without it! Rodolfo even learned how to make your favorite and every morning he gets up before you do to prepare it, so by the time you wake up there's a warm cup of tea by your bedside <3

You and him love cooking together, but you often misplace the notebook with all your recipes and other thoughts you write in them, sometimes he'll find the notebook but if he doesn't you have to turn to the recipes you've written in your notes app on your phone

Not all witchy people can afford or manage to keep glass bottles in their homes if they're clumsy, so you've turned to recycling plastic bottles and buying durable tupperware to store dried herbs or potions, Rodolfo helps you write what they're for in sharpie and organize them on shelves

Phillip Graves

The first time he noticed you, you were doing a tarot reading for another Shadow, he himself got curious and asked for one, you looked him straight in the eye and said "these cards mean we should go out on a date" (they did not mean that at all)

He was eager to learn more about you, he regarded your behavior not as strange but as... whimsical and it was honestly refreshing for him, you smiled at children and pets/animals, you believed those little pure souls needed all the positivity they could get before the negativity of this world got to them

You couldn't have asked for a more supportive boyfriend than Phillip, he remembers all your little quirks and habits and tries to imitate him best he can, heck he even incorporates some of them into his daily life!

Whenever he takes you on vacation he KNOWS he must stop at a shop that sells crystals or incense knowing how much you love that, you go insane in there and he has no limits knowing how happy it makes you, just stands, waiting next to the cashier smiling fondly as he sighs, ready to pull out his card whenever you're done picking out what you want

Makarov

You'd think he couldn't care less but you're WRONG, he loves bothering you all the time knowing you've got good intuition and thinks you know what everything means, assumes you can interpret his dreams, "I had a dream what does it mean?" "I'm not Joseph the fu-"

As time has gone by, he's gotten to know you better, instead of bouquets of fresh flowers, he started gifting you dried flowers which you love a lot more because you can keep them for wayyy longer, you keep it on display around your home and it brings you lots of happiness when you look at them

He also buys you a vase for every time he gifts you a bouquet, preferably ones that match your aesthetic, even though you're thankful for anything that he gets you, it's even sweeter when he pays attention to these things because it shows he truly cares

When building your new house, he came to you asking how you wanted the interior to look like, told you not to hold back and you did not hold back at all, he fully trusted the decisions you were making and the final product had a dark cottagecore vibe to it during the night but spring-like fairy vibe during the day

You can fully incorporate your desired vibes and express yourself as you wish because he's there to make it possible <3

Keegan

He used to always be the kind of guy to never really bother or pay much attention to certain things, but you were all about the small details, not obsessing but noticing, he wanted to be like that, he saw how much joy it brought you in your interactions with nature and small, inanimate things

You would talk to anything, not just yourself because it were as if you were conversing with someone, he asked you once why you did it and you replied that it's a habit that you developed as a child, which is common, but never "grew" out of it, you were sure someone listened even if you thought you were alone

He walks into your room to stare at the stacks of cards, crystals, potion bottles, an alarming amount of bones you found when foraging in the woods, etc..

Speaking of bones, you always take a bag when going on hikes, you'll be walking with Keegan hand in hand and suddenly he doesn't feel you beside him anymore, you've veered off the path to dig up a bone you saw sticking out of the dirt, and if you're lucky to find a whole deer decomposing you get overexcited and take the big container you made Keegan load up in his truck

Of course, you ask the deer or animal for permission to harvest their bones before taking them, Keegan can only stand there and watch, slightly concerned for you, but you'll make him help you clean the bones when you get home

König

He's never delved much into the same things you have but he tries his best to comply and make you happy, you love crafting, almost everything in your home is handmade by you, you believe the effort you put into those things benefit you and your home, providing positive energy

There's certain herbs you can never run out of: rosemary, sage, lavender, etc.. you try to grow your own but let's say you don't have much luck with plants, you've tried everything and you can't figure out what you're doing wrong, you decide to tell König and to your surprise he says to let him handle it

Those herbs are growing nicely and quite healthy when you decide to test him, who knew he could be so good with them, you let him take care of the rest of your plants while you focus on the more "dirty" work which is the process of cleaning your bones, you have to bury them to let the bugs eat the flesh and then dig the bones back up later to check up on them until you can clean them yourself

You also love buying and hanging tapestries up, preferably those with mushrooms on them, but you have a hard time because unlike someone you aren't super tall and pulling up a chair with a wobbly leg isn't the safest option... König rushes over just in time to help you down and instead you sit back and tell him where to put the tapestry up

And when he's done? You got four more you want to hang up in other rooms, but he's willing to do anything for you

Horangi

God, he just loves loves LOVES your style, on some days it can range from long and flowy maxi dresses that are comfortable and perfect for simple chores around the house or it can be bell bottoms with a shirt tied in the front

Despite how often he scolds you for this but you like walking barefoot around the house, in your backyard too when the weather is warm and you want some sun or even if it's raining and you want to enjoy the rain, he's afraid you'll catch a cold or step on something that'll cut your skin

When on bookstore dates, you're always drawn to the book section that features books about spells, or related to witchcraft, anything that can be useful information for your home

Often, when a tough decision comes your way you like playing with a pendulum, you often stay up late at night, letting your thoughts just run rampant within your mind as that pendulum swings and you sit in a pensive state, sometimes it can even help you if you're feeling anxious because just watching it swing back and forth helps to get your mind away from negative thoughts

Nikto

He never outright asked nor assumed if you were a witch, I mean, you resembled one.. but if asked he could never place a finger on it, he didn't care either

Never really paid much mind to what you were up to most of the time, barely even questioned you when you'd stay up late at night or get overly excited when it was the full moon, he noticed you always marked the lunar cycle on your calendar, you kept up with it regularly, also didn't say much about that either

You love burning candles and other herbs to keep your home clean, he likes coming home to the smell as he's grown accustomed to it, feels it as welcoming even and always thinks of you if he detects it elsewhere

You love being out in nature like him, you two love veering off into the woods and making your own paths to explore, you do it to connect with nature as you deeply resonate with it, he observes you and it's almost like seeing you be in your true element, always brings a flashlight or a lantern knowing that not even the sun going down will keep you from playing in the woods at night

You say that as long as you're respecting the wildlife, you have nothing to fear

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