#cod reader insert

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: News Crashing

Poly!TaskForce 141 x Omega!Reader

The Omega Pack Plan Masterlist

Summary: A change in procedure around base causes you to spiral as your world comes crashing down. There's only one way out of this and it starts with telling the truth.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Existentialism, Misogyny, Dismissive Attitudes, Angst, Rage

Mentions of: Medication,

A/N: Honestly, I'd been inspired by a few series (Standard Emergency Protocol and Pantry Solutions) I've read those and it caused me to want to write my own A/B/O COD AU, so I started this as a sort of funny fic awhile ago. I'm haven't entirely plotted out the whole story, but I have some ideas for the first few chapters. I was finally inspired to finish and post it because @cringeycookies liked the snippet I posted in a wip tag game. So thanks to everyone who inspired me, and a special thank you to @penelopepine for helping me with the dialogue and Price's reaction as I try to begin writing for them.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the nurse responds, "we're no longer authorized to refill suppressants of any kinds for any purpose." With a push of the empty orange pill bottle back across the counter in your direction, she offers you an ugly forced smile.

"Is there really nothing we can do?!" You complain incredulously, "Nothing at all? What am I supposed to do with this?!" Taking the emptied bottle into your hands, you stare at the nurse with widened eyes and a wild look.

"There is no 'we'..." she rolls her eyes in response, focus returning to the papers before her. "But if you insist, you can always bring it up with your CO, or the Base Commander." She scribbles something out on the page, but you can hardly focus when your world is virtually crumbling apart around you. "Now if you don't mind, some of us actually have work to do around here."

Still stunned, you can't help the way your breathing picks up as your heart begins to race. About a month ago now there was a base-wide meeting where they'd finally cracked down and implemented a new program the government is trying out: OPP. The Omega Pack Plan. While it's uncommon for Omegas to even be recruited into the military to begin with, such a thing does exist. Regardless, the Base Commander gathered everyone in the Auditorium for a presentation to talk about the new program and how the army would implement it into the troops. Luckily, considering you're on an elite Task Force, it doesn't apply to you. At least... it didn't.

"What the hell is this?!" You yell, tossing the orange bottle in his direction.

He'd heard the stomps all the way down the hall and smelled you coming, so he's neither surprised by your appearance, nor startled by the toss of the bottle. John swiftly catches it in his hand as he looks up at you. "What?" He inquires, finally glancing down to examine what he's caught. "A pill bottle?"

"Captain, it's empty! They won't refill it- I can-"

A groan tumbles past his lips as he drags a hand down his beard. "Look, Panther-" referring to you by your callsign, interesting move. "There's nothing I can do, it's over my head now. I wish I could do something, but I can't." Sitting back in his leather chair, Price places the bottle on the desk; a faint rap of the plastic hitting the wood is the only sound between you momentarily before you hurriedly shut the door.

Panic begins to flood your system as you're not sure how to handle this. It's your turn to freak out. You know how this goes, you know the story now; ever since they'd implemented and dispersed the Omegas into the troops, they'd started implementing them into the Task Forces, and now they have to do so with the One Four One. Fingers curling in and out of shapes as you try to process your next move, you speak before you can even begin to plan what you're going to tell him.

"I- I'm- I..." You're pacing his office now, the heavy gaze of your Captain upon you as you try to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. The thing is, you're usually good with pressure- really good. It's your job to be good. It's just... this is different. This is your life, your livelihood at stake, the livelihood of all your future generations to come.

A sigh resounds throughout the office before you hear the low timbre of his voice. "Dove," he calls out with a gentle tone, "I want you to take a deep breath for me. Alright?" With the calm and even sound of your Captain's voice and the assured look on his face, you comply. Exhaling the last of your breath, you close your eyes and focus in on the deep intake of air through your nose. With the parting of your lips you slowly release it before giving yourself a moment.

When you open your eyes he gestures to the seat before his desk, though you know he won't take offense if you decline. Hesitant, one hand finds its way to the other, wrapping around your arm as you listen to him speak. "Now, can you explain what has you in this state? I assure you that there's nothing that can't be dealt with." You want to trust him, you know him--John Price--your Captain. He's always had your back, always made sure you felt comfortable in the Taskforce, always made an effort to check on you after things got rough.

You nod. Licking your lips, you search his blue eyes as you tentatively take the seat across him.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, alright? I can guarantee you that unless you're trying to tell me you're an Omega, nothing you say is going to shock me that warrants the amount of panic you're putting yourself through," Price chuckles. He's obviously joking, trying to break the tension with humor. Lips drawn upward into a small smile, the Captain stares at you expectantly.

"What if I am?" You whisper, eyes unable to tear from his visage as you try and gauge his reaction. Unexpectedly, silence fills the space between you and feels deafening in the small space. The growing comfort of his office these couple of months now feels like a cage you're forced to stay in, under watch, as you stare down your superior on the brink of a battle to the death. And that's what you do. His blue eyes bore into yours, skeptically shifting between your left and right as he seems to try and get a read on you.

All of the sudden you jump at the smack of his hands hitting the desk in front of him. He laughs at you.

He's laughing at you.

And you're sitting there with your guts spilled out, dread eating away at the pit in your stomach... and he's laughing. It feels like forever is passing you by as you stare at him in shock, this moment between the two of you frozen in time as nothing else persists.

"I understand what this was now," Price explains, still chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. There's a warm smile on his face that feels eerie considering the dire context of the situation at hand. "You got me! I fully believed you for a second there, too."

Eyebrows furrowing in dark realization, you can't help but stare at him wildly. "Wha-" You begin to question him and his line of thinking, but he cuts you off.

"This was all a prank, right? The bottle, the hysterics- you really outdid yourself, Sergeant." Leaning back in his chair, he props his ankle up on his other knee. "Because let me tell you, this was good. Better than anything Soap's cooked up in awhile. Did you come up with it yourself?" There's a cheeky grin on his lips. "Ah, I know you did."

Lips opening and closing like a fish out of water, you sit in the armchair across from him pale with a dazed look across your face. He doesn't actually think that this was...

"Well, with your little triumph in your pocket, I say we get back to work, yeah? I've got some new leads from MI6 that've just popped in." With that, the man stands from his desk and rounds it. "Garrick should be back around Tea. I'll see you in the Command Station then," he informs you. It's then that he passes by, a genial clap on your shoulder while he's at it.

Left stunned in silence, you can't help but grit your teeth, consequentially pronouncing your jaw as anger ebbs through your bloodstream. Breath getting heavier, you can't help but loathe the meeting tonight. Your Captain might be satisfied with the conversation, but all you feel is discouraged. He's abandoned you, left you alone in his office with a humiliating sense of betrayal and shattered trust. Almost like you hadn't just told him your biggest secret at all.

Punching the standard heavy punching bag hanging in front of you, you grunt, ignoring the pain that gnaws at your knuckles underneath the reusable hand wraps. Sweat builds on your brow as you continue to unleash your pent up anger on the gym’s equipment. How could he?! When had you ever pulled anything even similar to this? Never! And the fact that you’ve only been on the team for a handful of months only exacerbates the abandonment you’re feeling right now. He’s your Captain! Regardless of your feelings or the situation at hand, isn’t he supposed to be there for you? He’d promised from the get go to help you with whatever you need, and now the one time you go to him for aid it backfires in your face and leaves you without any sort of solution going forward aside from straight up telling the whole team the flat out truth, and God forbid! You can’t even begin to fathom how that’d go.

A pent up and frustrated yell almost akin to something of a growl emanates from you as you tear into another round of swift jabs and punches. Regardless of the situation at hand, you’ve been trying to build up your upper body’s strength and letting out the anger you’d accumulated over this morning’s events seemed like a perfect opportunity to let loose.

The stretches and treadmill routine didn’t take a lot out of you, but the weights, and now the punching bag definitely is starting to take its toll. Sweat beads at your forehead in rivulets that drip down the sides of your neck, down your scalp past your neck and between your shoulder blades. Tank top soaked in sweat, you breathe hard as your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. You would’ve wound up here at some point or another tonight, but the Captain’s discourteous response certainly led to an earlier workout time.

While others sparsely litter the gym’s floor, you pay them no mind and vice versa. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to be found blowing off steam or aiming to beat their highest reps on the weights. Yet, this gym is reserved for higher standing members of the Force, the gym on the far side of the base where there are less people, offices, and considering the regular army men train in the bigger gym closer to their quarters, it’s mostly other higher ranked officers in here.

“Captain’s lookin’ for ya,” Markowski, another Sergeant that you’d come to befriend on base announces from the doorway, having poked his head in after leaving a few minutes earlier. He belongs to a different Task Force.

A groan tumbles out of you as you realize it’s already that time. Just as the door clicks shut, your phone chimes loudly with the alarm you’d set earlier going off. A few quick swipes of your fingers, you turn the alarm off and unlock the device, seeing a number of messages flood your notifications.

Kyle: You hear they’ve bumped up the timeline? 😯

Johnny: “ https://Tiktok/Shattered.Rat567 ” Had me rollin’ 🤣👏🏻 Gotta check it, Bonnie

Simon: You coming to the meeting or not? 🤨

Johnny: Where r u? You’re usually first here 👀 Cap’s getting peeved, watch out

Not looking forward to the inevitable mess of a meeting before you, you don’t bother rushing to join the men. With a wash of your face in the women’s locker room, a speedy bathroom break, and a grab of the items you’d brought with you, you’re heading for the Command Station.

With the time Price set the meeting, you won't get to eat dinner till afterward. You'd be lying if you said you weren't annoyed by this entire situation, your agitation from neglecting your hunger earlier has certainly come to bite you in the backside.

While you don’t have time to respond to their texts, having set the alarm with only enough time to get back to your team’s Command ‘station’ albeit more like your headquarters before heading out. Speed-walking through the orderly halls with a haste perfectly common around here, you navigate with a well practiced knowledge. Though you’ve only been here coming up on six months soon, you’re well acquainted with this part of the base.

Rounding the corner, you’re in the hall, close. Yet, the worry of being late lingers in the back of your mind and adds another layer of annoyance on top of your residual anger buried deep down from this morning’s situation. You’d inevitably come up with your solution. It’s not one you like… but it’s the only logical option. Another turn and you’re striding into the big garage-like room.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant,” Price calls out to you. Lifting his eyes from the map laid out across your station's table, he glares in your direction.

“What took you so long?” Soap snaps, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at you from the opposite side of the table, hands lazily wrapped around his vest’s straps.

A look at your watch tells you that you’re not even late, the meeting doesn’t officially start for another minute! But you are usually waiting on them. He’s got you there.

“Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. It’s not like you,” Gaz whispers under his breath as you sidle up alongside Ghost, Gaz standing diagonal to you right beside Price at the head of the table.

“Focus,” Ghost orders the men, his hands tucked in his hoodie’s pocket. You don’t fail to notice the way he subtly takes a step further away from you as soon as they start talking again. Price goes back to talking plans as Gaz is questioning the circumstances of the information the Captain had acquired earlier when he’d had to leave the office.

“Which is exactly why-”

A heavy exhale on your behalf leaves the men frozen as their eyes drift back to you. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Panther?” The Captain questions. Jaw clenched, you tear your eyes from the map they’d settled on.

“We’ve got a big problem,” you announce, cutting off the Captain as you finally raise your gaze to meet Price’s slightly widened blue eyes.

“Well, if you see something that needs changin’ then let’s hear it,” he responds. A ‘hmph’ follows as he crosses his arms over his chest and sits his weight back onto his heels.

“It’s not about the op,” you correct him. Tilting your head side to side you attempt to crack the kinks in your neck while standing a little straighter to appear more engaged and serious.

“And it’s more important than this? What we’re doin’ right now?” Soap questions, his hands dropping to rest on the table as he looms over it, eyeing you with frustration obvious in his irises.

“What is it?” Gaz asks, a quirk of his eyebrow garnering your attention for a split-second. He’s genuinely asking, and there doesn’t seem to be a hostility in his scent as he turns his attention to you. Then there’s Ghost, who you don’t even need to look at to feel his heavy gaze on you, waiting expectantly.

“Actually, it is,” you argue with Soap, anger beginning to boil in your belly, the frustration and angst having been left to simmer all afternoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t take me seriously when I came to you earlier,” you turn your anger on Price. He looks taken aback by the outburst, something you’re not known for.

“Dove,” he calls calmly, hands out in an attempt to pacify.

“Don’t-” you bark, starting to raise your voice without realizing it. “I came to you in confidance! Trusting you when you said you’d be there to help me if I ever needed it! How could you?” Gritting your teeth, you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing as your chest heaves with anger.

“Woah, woah-” Gaz sputters, “What-” holding his hands out to try and diffuse the argument.

“I let myself be vulnerable-” You continue to shout.

“Isn’t this something that shoul-” Soap attempts to dissuade, backing down as he puts his hands out.

“-and tell you the truth, and-” you’re lunging for him across the table. You’re held back by a massive hand on your shoulder. “You laugh in my face?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You're suddenly pulled back, off your feet, and shoved into a metal chair that'd been nearby. Your Lieutenant is hovering over you, his cold eyes now tinged with a spark of anger as they bore into you scrutinizingly. There's the sound of commotion behind him, multiple voices overlapping, yet you can't see anything with that utter giant in front of you!

“Does anyone wanna explain what the bloody hell is goin’ on here?” Ghost snaps. It's only then when the man steps aside that you can see where everyone is. With both of you in your respective corners, you simply glare at the Captain from over your crossed arms out in front of you.

“Are you bleedin’ kidding me, ya Scally?” Price grunts as he shrugs Gaz’ hand off his shoulder. “You’re still on about it! When w-"

"That doesn't explain what happened, Cap," Gaz interrupts, stopping him from going off and getting them nowhere.

He groans, running a hand over his face once more before composing himself. Everyone waits for an explanation—you too—he’d been the first to speak, and you’re curious to hear what he comes up with. “She came into my office, bloody cryin’, tossing me a pill bottle, muttering about, saying she’s a-”

You don’t dare let him finish, not wanting him to be the one to finally say it, exposing your truth to the team. "Omega. I’m an Omega, ” you finish his sentence. While you’re scared to meet their faces, you take a deep breath and force yourself to do so.

"Christ," Price curses, fingers coming up to pinch the skin between his brows as he hangs his head.

Ghost's stoicism is nothing unordinary, and in fact, is somewhat a comfort considering you'd expected nothing less from him.

Gaz looks stunned for a moment, eyes flitting about the other’s faces before the serious look on his face morphs. Lips slowly drawing upward, you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts laughing. "Yeah right," Garrick teases, "and I'm actually the Prime Minister."

Yet, it's not just him. The uproarious laughter from your right only adds fuel to the already burning flame as the two other Sergeants laugh like idiots. All as if it's some poor joke with no consequences to anyone's life, and yet... it's the truth. At the end of the day, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, your life is still in jeopardy and they're treating it like some joke. Unable to form any sort of retort, you simply blink; stuck in a stupor raw, stung, and with a dumb look on your face.

Soap, rounding the table slaps Gaz on the back, his face flushed red from laughing so hard. "Yer makin' my stomach hurt. God," he eggs the other on between his dying chuckles and attempting to catch his breath.

"You're really just gonna stand there and laugh?!" You finally burst. Anger surely must be coming off your scent in waves, but you don't care. Standing from the chair, you don't flinch as Ghost swipes his arm out in front of you in case you were going for the Captain again. There will be no physical altercation on his watch.

"She already pulled this on me earlier, mind you, and now what? You're trying to pull it over on the lads' too, eh?" Price goads you.

"And I was telling the truth! You're the one who said I was joking," you point out. The volume of your voice is lost on you, partially blinded by the fury bleeding out.

"I suppose you never did admit to it being a prank," Price reasons, fingers grazing his beard as he runs them over it repeatedly in thought. "But how do you expect us to believe that when you clearly smell of a Beta?"

"Even on the battlefield, after everything we've been through-" Gaz starts.

"After yer all sweaty from a workout, too. I think we'd notice, Pan," Johnny argues, illuminating a legitimate point of consideration.

"Oh please," you mutter quietly to yourself. Shaking your head, you can't believe they're really all being this daft right now. "Like you have heard of those Scent Spritzers.”

There are various perfumes on the market specifically designed to alter one’s scent. Most use it smell like an Alpha when they’re not, or an Omega when they’re wanting to seduce an Alpha when going out. But Omegas posing as Betas was rarely heard of. You’re more than sure it happens more frequently than people know of, they just haven’t been caught. And in your line of work? It’s scarce. People are thoroughly vetted, but… you’d been on suppressants for a long, long time. And a Beta perfume only perfected your hiding.

“Did you forget we’re Alphas, love? We’d be able to smell you across the room if you were,” Gaz taunts. There’s a puff of his chest that makes his cockiness even more annoying than usual.

"You really want to be an Omega? Dumb yourself down to some weak fragile thing?” Johnny jokes, nudging Gaz’ arm as he shakes his head.

“A doll who can get whoever she wants? Want to be nothing more than good for knockin' up and popping out pups?” Gaz adds on.

“Are you serious right now?” You test, seething under your skin as your hands ball up into fists. “How could you say that?!”

“It’s what people say,” Ghost comments.

“Nobody would want that and you’re out here lying about it,” Johnny pokes.

“We’re only trying to point out the flaws in your little rouse, Pan,” Gaz says, a smile lighting up his features as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"And what if I was lying, hm? Would that change anything you just said to me? How you feel about Omegas?" You scoff.

“This isn’t about your designation,” Price finally speaks. Fingers still weaved into his beard, his blue eyes lift to meet yours. “I see what this is about now, but there's nothin' to worry about, Dove.” Your Captain takes on a softer tone and all of the sudden you feel yourself start to get emotional as a twinge of sadness, of the hurt bleeding through upon understanding makes you feel seen.

“I know it's intimidating, the thought of having your first unmedicated heat, but we have medics here. It's natural. Heats, ruts, we all have them. And, hey... at least you're not an Omega, right?" Whatever relief you’d momentarily experienced sinks back down in your gut with the speed of a rollercoaster drop. It’s as silent as a stakeout, the only sound being people’s breathing. And the lack of yours.

It takes a moment to gather yourself, everyone’s eyes on you with the serious topic change. While sex and the downsides to a designation are something discussed with the boys, you’d often been left out. And to your comfort. "You know what? I can’t do this,” you retort. Backing from the group, you toss your hands up. “I guess you'll just have to wait and see," you bite back. With a whip of your hair over your shoulder, you head for the door.

The room is silent once more as everyone gawks. You’d never reacted in such a manner, had an outburst like that… this is… certainly different, and something they’re not at all used to.

“It’s because they took away her suppressants today,” Price explains. It might not have been something the group should be privileged to know. A private matter, really… but with the way you acted? He felt the men deserve an explanation, at least.

“That makes sense,” Gaz responds quietly, eyes still on the door you’d gone through.

“That’s no excuse,” Johnny counters, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl on his lips.

"Well... that went better than I thought,” Ghost comments with a shrug. “Back to the plan? We can fill her in later.”

[devil-in-hiding]

imagine joining the 141 and you’re basically Domino from Deadpool 2. They have seen you escape death by the skin of your teeth with a smile on your face and a happy ‘whoop’.

Soap has quite literally watched a bullet fly past your ear, not even nicking it, just for you to twirl and land a perfect headshot

Soap:… HOW THE FUCK DID YOU NOT DIE?!

[kiryoutann]

i feel like this was wayyy too cute not to share now, so… sneak peek??? and i'm convinced simon is the most patient girl dad out there.

Walking over slowly so as not to scare her, he then asked, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere then?”

Gianna whipped around in a flash like a criminal caught in the act, her big brown eyes gleaming with a touch of guilt but not a trace of fear. "I dropped my cereal," she confessed succinctly, mirroring a trait she had unquestionably inherited from her father.

He crouched down next to her. “’Ere, let me help you with that,” then reached out, taking the paper towel from her tiny hands and started cleaning up.

Gianna just watched him until she finally spoke. ��I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

“’S alright, darlin’. Accidents ‘appen.” Simon stated, rising to his feet and tossing the used tissues into the trash can. He then turned his attention back to his daughter. “But you could’ve woke me up. I’d ‘ave helped you clean it up straight away.”

“I know, but you were sleeping. An’ mum says you sleep like a… like a… clog?”

At that, he couldn't help but chuckle. “I think you mean a log, love.” He corrected.

“Oh right!” The little girl exclaims, nodding her head. “Tha’s the word. You sleep like a log.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever yer mum says.” He glanced at the box of cereal still sitting on the kitchen counter, then decided to keep himself and his daughter away from it. “So cereal is no option then. What d’you want for breakfast instead?”

Without missing a beat, Gianna chirps, “Ice cream!”

Simon snorts, shaking his head. “Can’t ‘ave ice cream for breakfast, darlin’.”

Gianna tilts her head to the side, eyes looking up at him questioningly. "Why not?" she asked. “Mummy 'as coffee for breakfast, alllll the time!” she spreads her arms out for dramatic effect—he chuckles at that. Definitely got it from mommy.

“Yeah, don’t be like yer mum, alright?”

The girl frowns slightly. “But why not? Mummy’s pretty, an’ she cooks good food.”

Something he couldn’t disagree with. He nodded, reaching out to ruffle her blonde hair. “That she does, darlin’. But we still don’t want you havin’ coffee or ice cream for breakfast, alright?”

"Okay, then can we go to Uncle John's house?" she asked.

“An’ why’s that?”

Gianna bounced on her toes, her arms swinging. “I miss Buddy an’ Daisy!”

Simon groaned inwardly. Should’ve known she’d bring that up. Ever since that one time he brought her to Price’s place and she met his dogs, Gianna has been begging to go back. Every time after school—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” Every weekend—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” And the thing is, the bloody mutts aren’t even there anymore, not since Price and his missus divorced.

“The dogs ain't there anymore, love.” He watched her face fall.

"Why not?" she asked, eyes wide in confusion.

Simon shrugged. “Cause,” he trailed off, not really wanting to explain the whole messy divorce situation to a five-year-old. “Nevermind that. What d’you want for breakfast?”

Instead of answering, Gianna crossed her arms while frowning. “I don’t want breakfast. I want Buddy an’ Daisy!

A sigh escaped Simon as the results of his parenting bit him in the ass. Bloody hell, he had to stop surrendering to her big eyes and pouting lips—just like her mum. She had learned from the best, hadn’t she? Got him wrapped around her tiny finger. There was only one trick up his sleeve to get her to cooperate.

“If you don’t eat breakfast, then then we won’t be able to go an’ watch yer mum later.”

And sure enough, Gianna’s whole expression lit up, renewed. She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth in an exaggerated gesture. Seems like he got himself a drama queen.

“We’re gonna watch Mum?!” she asked, full of hope.

Simon nodded, trying to maintain a serious expression but always failing because of her antics. “As long as you behave an’ eat breakfast.”

The five-year-old was cheering, jumping, and doing her little dances in unbridled energy—just like her mum. He guessed it was true what Garrick said that day the lads visited the two of you at the hospital after Gianna was born—“She’s a perfect blend of the both of you.”

[luxcuriousao3]

This idea woke me up out of a dead sleep and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it, so here you go. I always see (and love) stalker!Simon this and obsessed!Price that. But how about our boy Johnny?

Note: from my research (5 second google search) an FE (further education) college is the Scottish equivalent of a community college, for my fellow Americans

warnings: nsfw, stalking, obsession, no noncon/dubcon

Johnny's on extended leave healing up from a nasty injury, and he decides to take a figure drawing class at a local FE college to keep him entertained during his new abundance of spare time. His art skills could use a brush up anyway, and hey, if he gets to stare at a bonnie lass without her clothes on for a few hours each day, that's all the better.

He doesn't quite anticipate just how obsessed he becomes with the model, though. How he jerks off to his own drawings of you, spilling his cum onto the paper like a glossy, vinyl finish.

He sketches you constantly, now, even outside of class, trying to capture your image from memory. But he can never quite get it right. And that he has to guess what your pussy looks like when your legs are spread bothers him endlessly, being the perfectionist that he is. So, he elects to do a little... extra credit. Never let it be said that Johnny isn't an overachiever.

It's easy enough to find out where you live, and concerningly easy to break in. He debates whether he can come up with a way to tell you that you need a better home security system without you calling the police on him, and gives it up as a bad job. But that's alright. With the amount of cameras and listening devices he installs--the latter purely for your own protection, of course, since he doesn't need to hear you to draw you--he's reassured that if anything were to happen, he'd know immediately and could come to your rescue. Can't have his new muse getting hurt, after all. He's never been so inspired.

[worms-for-brains]

Yn and past + present Johnny interactions

(I apologize for extremely loose sketches)

[skywwwalker]

corn maze + john price

synopsis - you go to a corn maze and get fucked by john

warnings - unprotected sex, pet names, ooc!john price

notes - trying to get back into the swing of things. who knows if this will last.

i need someone to match my freak. i need JOHN PRICE to match my freak guys.

like, i could definitely go for a quickie with him in a corn maze.

just think. its early in the season of fall- ordinarily too early for the pinterest couples and groups of friends to be swarming the corn maze and pumpkin patch. you sweet talked john into going and getting the first pick of the patch early on in the season because you knew you both may get called back to work.

you were both wearing jeans and boots- the wind had a slight nip to it now- and miraculously convinced your boyfriend to wear the deep red Henley that clung to his muscles so well. in return, he had picked out a blaringly bright orange sweater so you could ‘fit in with the pumpkins’ or some other bullshit that brought a smile to his face. 

john had let you lead him around the peacefully unpopulated grounds- purchasing apple cider and other odds and ends you saw fit. he knew that you just wanted one day to feel like a normal, regular, sane couple that didn’t have their hands soaked in blood every other day- literally or figuratively. and in all honesty, he didn’t mind letting you happily pull him along because the smile on your face was worth diamonds.

eventually, after you picked over all the shops and food stands, you stopped in front of the corn maze. “final stop, john. then you can take me home,” you mused, snuggling into his inhumanly warm side. 

your boyfriend hummed beside you. “finally,” he grumbled jokingly. The quiet chuckle he earned from his comment made his heart swell a little fuller. “alright, love. lead the way.”

Five minutes later, you had no clue where to go. Ironic, right? You cursed yourself- how could you not know how to escape some dumb corn maze?

Just as your feet started to ache, you lead the both of you into a corn with a couple hay bales in the corner. John followed you and chortled as you sat down on the bale. You could barely feel the pointy straw poking your ass. 

“Stupid maze,” you grumbled.

John’s eyes twinkled. “Let me eat you out, love.”

The casualness of his tone made your mouth open and close once. Twice. “John. My love. My heart. We’re in a corn maze right now.”

One step and he crouched doen to your eye level. The devilish smile that crinkled his eyes was softening your resolve and he knew it. “C’mon, love,” he cooed, brushing a lock of your frizzy hair from your eyes. “Just let me make you feel good, yeah?” 

Stupid man and stupid sexy voice, you thought spitefully, as John’s hands clasped around your waist. He slid his hands over the soft fabric covering your waist. As he leaned closer and pressed his lips to yours in an entoxicatingly slow kiss, he slid his large hands down to the meat of your thighs.

He drank in your moans, letting your hands latch onto the back of his neck. John parted your thighs with his hand. After breaking the kiss, he sank to his knees and tugged you forward before busying himself with undoing your belt buckle.

Waves of goosebumps picked at your skin. By the cold and by John’s skillful hands, tugging your pants and underwear sown far enough to feast his eyes (and eventually mouth) on your already soaked cunt.

Are you still with me here? Because I know John would eat you so good that your inner thighs would be bright red from the prickliness of his facial hair. But honestly, you didn’t care too much. Not after John forcing not one but two orgasms out of you.

Then he finally decided to lift you up and sit him on his cock. It was a miracle you were still concious enough to give him sass, saying “at least take me on a date first, John.” He had responded with a sharp thrust into your gushing pussy.

“You come on my tongue twice, and you’re the one giving me ?” John chides you, a roughness in his voice that made your pussy tighten. “Might want to watch your mouth, love.”

You stayed silent, letting him get used to the feel of you. Your body shivered and you wrapped your arms around John’s neck, voice breaking as you pleaded for him to ruin you: right here in a fucking corn maze.

“Please, John,” you moaned. He grabbed a handful of your ass and squeezed. your positioning was awkward but you knew John would take care of you. “I need it.”

Luckily for you, John didn’t feel like wasting any more time. He positioned his hands to be gripping your waist and started moving. Agonizingly slow, he lifted you up and down, John complied. Your breathless mewls were music to John’s ears as he slowly sped up his pace, fucking up into your core.

It didn’t take long for you to feel that white-hot ball of heat tensing up in your gut. This time, though, you were worried you’d cum too fast- too overstimulated from your previous orgasms.

“Fuuuck,” John groaned into your ear. “Squeezin’ me just right, love.”

John’s words sent a chill down your spine. You bit down on your hand until it bled. John’s speed only increased.

“I feel you clenchin’ around my cock, love,” John told you. The rasp in his voice only sent you closer to your high. “Takin’ me just right. Your pussy’s perfect, love. Like you’re made for me,” he rambled, fucking you so roughly you knew you’d have bruises.

You grip at his shirt helplessly as John repeatedly hits that spot inside of you that feels like heaven. “Christ, John,” you whimper out.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Like it when I tell you what a good girl y’are?”

Tears stream down your face and the coil in your gut is so hot, so alive, so ready. “I’m gonna- John- I’m… gonna-“

“Cum for me, darlin’,” John tells you, voice choked. “Cum on my cock.”

And Jesus Christ you do. You barely have time to slap a hand over your mouth before you cum. Salty tears drip down your face while you feel your thighs go lax as the coil snaps.

John’s warm cum spills into you as he pulls you down one final time and muffles his own groaning by shoving his face into your stupidly orange sweater.

It takes a full minute and a half for you to stop twitching in John’s arms. And even so, you can feel your breathing shudder ever so slightly.

“John?”

You feel rather than hear John’s rumble of a reply. Your hand cards through his hair and you attempt to calm your breathing.

“Are you ready?”

Another grumble.

So yeah. Also. I love him. I am a hot sexy loser. Goodnight everyone love you all im losing my sanity!

[prettybean]

Inexperienced reader x Cod Characters +18

(Ghost, Price, König, Keegan)

!gn reader! tw: mention of “daddy” (Price only), nsfw, riding, bj

Ghost

"Simon, I've never done anything like this." Your boyfriend lovingly stared at you before placing you on his lap and straightening your hair with one hand. "Take off your underwear," he urged, massaging your thighs and assisting you in removing the last piece of clothing.

"You just have to sit down, love, be good and sit on my cock." He whispered hoarsely before pointing to his thick member and asking you to take it with one hand.

"Am I doing something wrong?" . You took his cock and aligned it with your hole, making him gasp. "Fuck, put it in." He practically forced you to accept all of him, pressing you down with both hands on your hips. "Now bounce, show me how good you are at riding me." He said kissing you on the lips, you gathered courage and started moving on his length awkwardly. You felt his cock pressing against your walls

 "Simon.. am I good?" you said putting your hands on your shoulders, while you desperately tried to come on him, extremely slowly.

"You're great, but now leave it to me"

Price

You've been seeing John for two months now, but you've never had the confidence to take things a step further and become more intimate. John knew he shouldn't force you, but it was getting increasingly difficult for him to hold back.

 "Baby, how about we try something new besides cuddling?" you heard the older one remark in a whisper as he gently kissed your neck. "Hm, what do you mean?" You spoke while looking into his eyes.

He didn't answer, so he forced you lie down on the bed and caressed your sides. "John, I'm not sure I know how to do this," you replied, before he turned you on your back.

"Trust daddy," John pulled down your jeans, causing you to gasp; you parted your legs and went on all fours for him. "See? "You're already great," he chuckled before pulling out a condom and tearing it open with his teeth in front of you.

"When you have my cock inside it will be beautiful, sweetie, I promise."

König

You spent little time together due to his work, and months had passed since your last encounter; you missed him in every way possible. You last saw him in the bedroom, naked next to you, after fucking you all night. His phone calls were the only thing that provided you any relief.

"Konig, I don't know what to do." You heard a faint laugh on the other end of the phone. "What do you want to do Schatz?" .

"I don't know how to pleasure myself." You answered meekly, but it wasn't completely a lie; you typically waited for Konig to make you cum, and you'd never had to masturbate alone. 

"Oh, such a little thing. Schatz, open your legs for me and listen to what I say." You place the phone next to you, open your legs, and insert your hand into your underwear. "You can't even wait for me to get home, what do I do with you?" You massaged your sex, groaning loudly so he could hear.

Konig smiled as he heard your moans. "So you know what to do; you just wanted to hear my voice and masturbate, right? What if I didn't make you come at all?"

Keegan

"Open your mouth," you were on your knees in front of him, her throbbing cock barely touching your mouth, wetting it with precum. "I don't have all day," he reminded you, playfully slapping your cheek with his length.

"I never have, Keegan," you confessed, avoiding his amused gaze, he didn't seem surprised. "Oh, I guess I'll have to teach you." He stroked your hair before running his thumb over the center of your lips, causing them to part slightly. "Behave and open your mouth for me." You obeyed, resting the tip of his cock against your tongue.

"Now start sucking, don't use your teeth." Keegan said softly, pushing your head against his member. You sucked weakly, closing his eyes, enjoying the taste of him. You heard him moan as he pushed your head against his cock faster and faster.

 "hold your breath". You held onto his legs, before pushing him away with tears in your eyes.

"I never thought you were this good at sucking cock" he chuckled, seeing you with your mouth open, ready to start again.

[mphoenix-7]

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 17: Annette (pt. 2)

Summary: Soap continues to tell you about his childhood. Spoiler: it doesn’t get better.

Word Count: 6,455

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, strong language, depictions of child abuse, poor parenting, neglect, physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, childhood trauma

A/N: I am back! I got just a little writers block but I finally finished this chapter. I will not stop updating this story. It will be seen to completion!

Masterlist | <- Previous | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Chapter 17

As much as John hated it, life went on in the MacTavish house. He tried his best to avoid Annette at all costs, but of course with her living in their home, it was rather difficult. Especially when Annette was insistent on inserting herself into John's life whether he wanted her to or not.

She wasn't overtly cruel— not at first at least. She just tried too hard.

The second he got home from school, she was there at the door asking him about his day. If he sat in the kitchen to do homework, she was hovering to see if he needed help with his math. She would buy him clothes without asking him, pack him lunches with dumb little notes like he hadn't packed his own for the last year, invade his privacy by cleaning his room for him.

While all those things were nice things to do, the issue was that John had told her on multiple occasions not to do them. He didn't want new clothes, or help with homework, and he certainly could take care of himself enough to pack his own lunches and clean his own space. He didn't need her for those things yet she was insistent on doing them. 

John started to do this homework upstairs in his room just to avoid her, but of course that didn't stop her from checking in on him either.

One afternoon, while he was working on a writing assignment, his door swung open without warning. 

Annette didn't knock. She never did. 

"Johnny?" She said with that overly sweet voice of hers. "Are you doing your school work?"

John didn't even look up. "Yes." He answers shortly.

"Oh." Annette says, taking a few steps closer to him. John can feel her looking over his shoulder. "Do you need help with your homework?" 

"No." 

"Are you sure? I was always pretty good at writing assignments when I was in school." 

"I'm fine." He mutters, gripping his pencil a little tighter. 

He hears her sigh, as if frustrated, and then instead of leaving, she places a hand on his shoulder. "Well then, why don't take a break and come help me with dinner? I could use an extra set of hands."

John tensed as she touched him. "I'm busy."  He says, keeping his voice even despite how badly he wanted to snap.

"Come on, Johnny, it would be fu-"

"Don't call me Johnny." He growls, the words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn't care. She was getting on his nerves again.

Annette blinked, her smile faltering and hand slipping off his shoulder. She clears her throat, forcing the smile back on her face. "John." She corrected, her voice tight. "Come help me in the kitchen." 

"I said I'm busy." He snaps.

Her lips pressed together and something in her eyes shifted. It wasn't anger, but something colder. Calculating. 

Then, just like that, the warm smile was back. "Alright. Maybe next time." She said lightly, stepping back out into the hall.

She left his door open.

***

Later that night at dinner, John picked at his food. He wasn't really hungry. He twirled his fork through his spaghetti, pushing the noodles around his plate.

He forced himself to take another bite, but the taste made his stomach churn. The sauce was thick and overly salty, almost like someone had spilled too much seasoning into the pot. He chewed slowly, swallowing with effort, while his sisters ate without complaint.

Annette sat across from him, a small, pleased smile on her face as she twirled her fork in her spaghetti. "Everything alright, Johnny?" She asked, her voice light. 

John gripped his fork tighter. He hated when she called him that, but correcting her never seemed to do any good. Instead, he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Yeah. Just not that hungry." 

"Shame." She hummed, taking another bite. "I made this just for you. I thought spaghetti was your favorite." 

Before John could say anything, the front door opened, and his father stepped inside, sighing as he loosened his tie. "Sorry I'm late." He announces. "Long day."

He comes into the kitchen a minute later, placing a kiss on Annette's lips, and then taking his seat. "How was everyone's day?" He asks, looking towards John and his sisters while Annette fixes him a plate of food.

Rowan and Eilidh perked up immediately, launching into stories about their day—school, a funny thing that happened at lunch, a teacher giving them a compliment. Their father smiled at them, nodding along, but there was exhaustion in his eyes. 

Then his gaze landed on Annette. "And how was your day, honey?" 

"Oh, fine." She said lightly. "I had two little helpers today in the kitchen." She glances toward John. "I asked Johnny too, but he was too busy to want to come help." 

John bristled, his gaze snapping up to meet Annette's from across the table. "I was doing homework." He says tightly.

His father turned to him. "Is it done?" 

"Yes." 

"Then you can help Annette clean up."

John set his fork down with a little too much force. "Why? I—" 

His father raised an eyebrow at him. "Your sisters helped to make dinner, you can help with cleaning up. It's only fair. Plus you need to start helping out your step-mum more." 

John's stomach twisted at the word. He had to bite back the argument burning in his throat.

"I still have studying to do." He lies.

"Johnny, cleaning up will take but five minutes." Annette says, and his father hums in agreement.

John scowls down at his food. Now he really wasn't hungry anymore.

As dinner wrapped up, John threw his half eaten pasta away and then went into the kitchen to start the hot water for the dishes. Once the drain was plugged and water started to collect, he got to work. The faster the dishes got done, the faster he could go back to his room.

He scrubbed the plate in his hands harder than necessary, the sound of the sponge grating against the ceramic filling the tense silence in the kitchen. Annette came in just a minute later and stood beside him, towel in hand.

"Want some help, Johnny? You wash and I'll dry." She offers.

John's jaw tightened. "Don't call me that." He tells her again.

Annette let out a quiet chuckle. "Oh? And what would you prefer I call you?"

"Just John is fine." He says, handing her the clean the plate to dry.

She takes it with an exaggerated sigh. "Well, if we're making requests..." She grumbles as she starts drying. "I'd rather you call me 'Mum' instead of Annette."

John froze, stopping mid scrub. He turned to look at her. His hands clenched into fists. "You're not my mum." He said, voice low and sharp.

"I know that." Annette replied smoothly, tilting her head. "But wouldn't it be nice if we at least tried to be a proper family? I want to be a part of your life."

John saw red. "Fuck off."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, he regretted it. Annette's breath caught in shock, and his father's voice cut through the room like a whip. "John!"

John stiffened, his body going rigid as he turned to face his father. His eyes were no longer filled with exhaustion, but blazing with anger, the disappointment in them cutting deeper than anything else.

He strode towards John in two steps, grabbing his face in one hand and pinching his cheeks. "You do not speak to Annette like that!" His father's voice was a low and fierce growl as he forced John to meet his gaze. "Apologize. Now."

John's heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at his father. He's never cussed before, at least not in front of his parents, and the anger in his father's eyes makes him nervous. He's rarely ever seen his father this angry.

John swallowed hard, his eyes downcast. "...Sorry." He muttered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

"I never want to hear such fowl words from you ever again. Do you understand me?" His father continues, and John nods quickly, his body tense.

"Good." His father seethes. "Now you finish these dishes and then go upstairs and finish your homework." He says, releasing him. 

John quickly turned back to the sink, his vision blurring as he picked up the next plate and started scrubbing. His hands are shaky, and he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

With that, John's father turned and left the kitchen. Annette seemed to look between John and his father for a moment before huffing and following after him.

***

Later that night, John left his room to go downstairs for a cup of water before bed. He hadn't left it since finishing the dishes. He didn't dare to. But his mouth and throat were dry from crying, and he figured everyone had to be in their own rooms by now. On the way down, he had to pass by his father and Annette's room. He moves slowly so they wouldn't be able to hear him, and he can hear them talking as he creeps by. He wasn't going to stop originally, but something caught his attention.

"I don't understand why you let him speak to me that way." Annette was saying, her voice tight with frustration. 

"I don't." His father responded, exhaustion creeping back into his tone. "I told him to apologize. He did. I don't know why you're so upset."

"That's not enough!" Annette shot back. "You let him curse at me, and the only thing you did was tell him to say sorry? He needs real consequences. You should have washed his mouth out with soap right then and there."

John frowns, leaning his ear closer to the door to listen.

His father sighed. "He's never spoken like that before. He's struggling—" 

"We're all struggling." Annette interrupted. "Rowan, Kristen and Eilidh have adjusted just fine, but John refuses to even try. He's disrespectful, he's defiant, and now he's swearing at me? Are you really just going to let that slide?" 

There was a pause. John swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he waited for his father's response. 

"I'm not letting it slide." His father said eventually. "But I'm not shoving a bar of soap down his throat either." He says firmly.

Annette scoffed. "So what, he gets to do whatever he wants? No consequences? No discipline?" 

Another pause. Then, more hesitantly, his father said, "Of course not. Things do need to change." 

John's stomach twisted. 

Annette hummed, her tone softer now—persuasive. "Then let me help. John needs a strong mother figure in his life, and he needs structure. You've been working late, you don't have time to deal with all this. We are a team now."

John held his breath. 

His father hesitated before finally asking, "What do you have in mind?"

***

Things started to change after that day. Annette made a whole bunch of new rules.

Bedtime was earlier now—much earlier. Meals had to be eaten in full, no exceptions and no throwing away food. A chore chart was made and chores had to be done by certain times. Hanging out with friends became a privilege, not a given. And swearing or back talk was strictly forbidden. Breaking said rules resulted in varying punishments. Ones that only got worse over time.

Not that surprisingly, John broke the most rules at first. He got in trouble for "talking back" quite a bit. Though the talking back wasn't really talking back.

One time, he was just trying to go to a friend's house after school. It was the weekend, and his father never said no normally, but he still went to ask.

"Hey dad, can I go over to Colin's for a bit?" He asks.

His father was at the kitchen table, bills spread out and punching some numbers into a calculator. He glances up from his work to look at John. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Just be home by-"

"John." Annette calls from the living room. She appears in the doorway a few seconds later, arms crossed and a brow raised. "Your father is busy. You can ask me."

"Annette, it's fine. He can-" His father starts to say, but Annette cuts him off.

"Ewan." She raises a brow at him, and his father sighs.

"Ask your step-mum." He says softly to John.

John frowns at him. "What? Why? You just said I could." He says, making Annette give him a look.

"John, don't talk back to your father. He told you to ask me." She says.

John looks to his father for help, but he's just gone back to working on the bills at the table. "Just ask her, John." He says, not looking up.

John purses his lips together and looks back at Annette. "Can I go to my friend's house?" He asks shortly.

"No." Annette answers quickly.

"Why not?" John immediately throws back, irritation creeping into his tone. "My dad just said I could. All my homework is done, I did my chores last night."

"Because I said so." She shrugs.

"That's not a reason."

Annette's eyes narrowed. "You don't need a reason. You need to listen."

John scoffs, looking back to his father. "Dad, come on. This is stupid."

John's father sighs, looking back up at Annette. "Is there a reason he can't go?" He asks her, making Annette roll her eyes and huff.

"Well for one, he's getting a tone with me like he always does." She says. "And he left some dirty dishes in the sink last night. So since his chores didn't get finished, no friends today."

John gawks at her. "I did the dishes last night after dinner!" He argues, his voice raising now.

"Not all of them." Annette says. "There was a cup in there this morning."

"I had a glass of water before bed last night."

"And you didn't clean it. So your chores weren't done." Annette says, making John's jaw drop. She couldn't be serious.

"Dad." He looks back to his father for help, but his dad just looked drained.

Annette steps in before his father can do say anything. "The answer is no. Now quite bothering your father, and go upstairs. You can spend the day in your room since you like to talk back to me." She grabs him by his shoulders, rather tightly, and pushes him back out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

John spent the whole weekend up in his room. He was only allowed to come down again for dinner.

***

The rules weren't the only new thing either. It was a few weeks after Christmas, and John was up in his room drawing. He'd gotten a book from his father for Christmas that taught you how to draw different animals. He was following the step-by-step guide to draw a shark when a sudden wailing pulled his attention away from book. It was one of his sisters.

John was on his feet in an instant, throwing his pencils down and practically running down the hall towards where the crying was coming from. He found Rowan in the hallway, stomping her feet, her face beet red, and in a complete melt down.

"Rowan?" John asks, confused as he tries to piece together whatever happened that's made her this upset.

Then an awful scrapping sound came from inside Rowan's room, and soon her white dresser started to poke out into the hallway. As John moved closer, he could see Annette on the other side.

"Rowan, honey, I need to get this through the door." She said sweetly, still pressing the dresser forward. "Move, please."

Rowan didn't move though. She stood in the doorway to her room, little fists clenched at her sides, and she cried out again. Annette started to push the dresser again, and John quickly darted over to push it back before she could run over Rowan.

"What are you doing?!" He shouts. "Why are you moving her things?!" He demands to know.

Annette looks up and glares at John. "She's moving into Eilidh's room." She says simply. "I need this space for my work."

Rowan seemed to sob harder. "I don't want to share a room!!" She wails. "I hate Eilidh's room!"

"You can't kick her out of her room!" John shouts.

"John. Move. Your father and I talked this over this morning." She narrows her eyes at him. "I am going to start up my own business and I need an office space. So get out of the way."

John crosses his arms, holding his ground. "No. It can wait until Dad gets home. If he knew how upset-"

Annette slams her hands down on the dresser, cutting him off. "John! I will not say it again! Get out of the way or so help me you won't have lunch or dinner tonight!"

John clenches his teeth. He wanted to think that was an empty threat, but he knew better than to test Annette. "Fine. But I'm talking to dad the second he gets home." Whether or not he would listen was another story. "Rowan, come on."

Rowan doesn't move though. She stares at her dresser, her lip starting to tremble as a whole new wave of tears threatens to spill over. "No! It's not fair!"

Annette lets out a frustrated growl. "Rowan. You are testing my patience today. Now move." She marches around the dresser as she talks, and when she gets to Rowan, she grabs her by the wrist and starts to drag her down the hallway. Rowan starts crying again and digs her heels into the ground, but a six year old's strength couldn't match a forty something year old woman's.

"Let go of her! You're gonna hurt her!" John yells as Rowan suddenly goes dead weight and starts getting dragged.

"Oh she's fine. She's just throwing a fit." Annette drags her just a little further before letting go, and Rowan stays on the ground, sobbing and holding her wrist. John quickly picks her up, and Rowan wraps her arms tightly around him.

"Johnny! Don't let her take my room!" She sobs as John hoists her up.

"It's gonna be ok, Ro. Just wait until dad gets home. He'll give you your room back." He tells her softly as he carries her away to stay in his room.

His father was home late that night. He missed dinner completely. Rowan was stomping her foot and refusing to go to bed when he finally came through the door. She bolted down the stairs when she heard him, her face still blotchy and red from earlier.

"Daddy!" She wailed, throwing herself at his legs. "Annette moved all my stuff into Eilidh's room! She took my room!"

His father staggered a bit at the force of her hug, clearly caught off guard. He looked down, trying to soothe her with one hand while setting his work bag aside with the other.

"Whoa, hey now, sweetheart—what's this?" He asked, crouching down. "Why are we crying?"

"She said I have to share a room with Eilidh!" Rowan sobbed. "I want my room back!"

John watched on from the hallway, waiting to see what his father was going to do.

His father sighed and picked her up, rocking her gently in his arms. "I know it's different, sweetheart, but it won't be so bad sharing a room with your big sister. It'll be like one big sleepover! That's fun, isn't it?" He says, trying to deescalate the situation and make it more appealing.

Rowan shakes her head though. "I don't wanna share a room! I want my own room!" She cries.

"Listen to me, Ro. Annette needs her own space to work from home. We had to make a few changes for that. I know it's hard, but you'll have so much fun with Eilidh."

Rowan shakes her head, hot angry tears streaming down her cheeks. "No!" She wails. "I want my room! I want my room!"

"Come on, sweetie. I'll tuck you in and I'll read you a story. How about that?" He offers, picking her up as she continued to sob. He starts towards the stairs where John was standing.

John waits with his arms crossed as his father approached. "It's not fair." He says, making his father look at him tiredly.

"John, this isn't up for discussion." He says, moving past him to walk up the stairs.

"Why can't she just use your study?" He says, following after him. "You barely use it anymore unless you're home. And you're never home lately."

His father stops halfway up the stairs and turns, expression tight. "I am not going to go back and forth with you about this. She'll adjust. Kids adjust. You need to stay out of it. You're just making it harder for her."

"And Annette isn't? You should have been here this morning. Annette grabbed Rowan by the wrist and dragged her out of room while she was crying. And then she threatened not to feed me lunch or dinner if I got in the way!"

That made his dad pause on the steps. He seemed to be in thought for a little while before finally looking back at John. "I'm sure she wasn't trying to hurt Rowan. And I'm also sure she didn't mean what she said about the whole not feeding you thing." He says dismissively.

John's jaw dropped as he stared at his father. "Rowan's wrist was red where she grabbed her." Of course it wasn't anymore. It'd faded after about an hour. "And-"

"John. That's enough." His father says. "I'll have a word with her about it. But right now it's late and I need to get Rowan settled. Come on. I'll tuck you in as well." He offers, holding his arm out to John.

John begrudgingly went with his father. He wasn't happy about how that conversation went, but at least he said he was going to talk to Annette. He still had hope that things would change.

***

Things proceeded to get worse.

It had been nearly a month since Rowan had been forced to move out of her room and into Eilidh's. It took Rowan a while to get used to sharing a room with Eilidh, but the bitterness did fade after some time.

A lot of nights the girls got in trouble for staying up and talking when they were suppose to be sleeping. The first couple times had just been verbal warnings by Annette and sometimes their dad. They usually always listen and would go back to their own beds.

John's room was right next to Eilidh and Rowan's, and one Friday night, he could hear them giggling. He knew if he could hear them, then there was a good chance Annette could as well.

And sure enough. About five minutes later, he hears his father's bedroom door open, Eilidh and Rowan's hushed whispers and hurried shuffling to get to their own beds, Annette's footsteps stomping past his room, and then his sisters' door opening.

"I have had enough of this!" Annette shouted, slamming the light switch on. "Do you two think this is a game?! That this is some slumber party?!"

John held his breath, watching his wall from where the shouting was bleeding through.

"But it's a Friday. We don't have school tomorrow. Why can't we stay up a little later?"

It was Eilidh. Her soft voice barely heard through John's wall.

"Out of bed! Now!" Annette snapped, her footsteps moving further into the room, probably towards Eilidh's bed. "You can go sleep on the couch since you can't keep your mouth shut."

"W-what?" Eilidh stammered, followed by a thudding sound. Annette had pulled her out of bed.

"Move!" She barks. "I'm done with this."

Without another word, John could hear Eilidh's quick and light footsteps patter across the floor. She was sniffling as she ran past his closed door. Their bedroom door was slammed shut, and Annette's heavy stomps passed by a second later, returning to her own room.

Eilidh slept out there for a whole week before she was allowed to sleep in her own bed again.

***

On another instance, it was Rowan again.

Their father was at work—he had been working later and later these days, barely home before they were already in bed. This was one of those days.

John was downstairs reading in the living room when he heard Rowan and Annette in the kitchen.

"Uh-uh." Annette's voice came sharp and quick. "Put that back."

There was a pause. Then Rowan's small, hesitant voice. "But I'm thirsty..."

"You can have something with dinner. Which is in thirty minutes." Annette's tone was clipped, already irritated.

Another pause and then a loud crash followed by a gasp. John tensed and looked up from his book. He couldn't see the kitchen from where he was, but he kept listening.

"Rowan! What the hell did you do?!" Came Annette's raised voice.

"I-I'm sorry! It slipped!"

"Now I have to stop everything I'm doing and clean that up! Get out of the kitchen! All you kids do is make a mess everywhere you go."

John heard Rowan running out of the kitchen, following by the unmistakeable hiccuping of her starting to cry. He set his book down and followed after her, finding her halfway up the stairs and curled up one of the steps.

"Hey." He said gently, crouching down next to her. "What's wrong?"

"I just wanted some juice cause I was thirsty, and Annette said I couldn't have any, and when I tried to put it back it slipped and spilled everywhere, and then Annette yelled at me." She says, her breath beginning to stutter and catch as she tried not to cry. It wasn't working. Tears were starting to flow down her cheeks anyway.

John glanced over his shoulder, listening for any movement downstairs. All was quiet—for now. He sat next to her and rested a hand on her back. "It's okay." He mutters, "Just breathe, alright? You gotta calm down or else you're gonna make her more angry."

"I hate her, Johnny. I don't want her here anymore. I want it go back to the way things were." She sobs, breaking out in tears. She couldn't help it.

"I know, I know. Shhh..." He tries to soothe her, keep her from crying. If there was one thing Annette hated, it was hearing them cry.

"I want daddy! And I want some juice!" She sobs louder, making John wince. Both because he didn't enjoy seeing his sister upset and because he knew what was coming.

A loud smack of something being thrown down, a kitchen towel probably, and then the sound of footsteps coming towards them.

"Ro, please stop crying." John whispered hurriedly, but it was too late. Annette appeared at the bottom of the stairs, giving Rowan an angry look.

"I don't want to hear you huffing and snotting! You wanna cry? You can go cry up in your room where I don't have to hear it!" She marches up the steps as she talks and grabs Rowan by the elbow, yanking her to her feet and taking her up the stairs.

"You don't have to-"

"John! Not a word if you know what's good for you." She threatens over her shoulder, which makes John shut his mouth. He didn't want to make her more upset than she already was. He just turns and looks away as Rowan gets dragged off her room.

***

Not even Kristen was safe. Being the youngest she tended to get off easier than the older kids, but she still would get in trouble.

When she misbehaved, Annette's go to was to make her sit on the stairs in a time-out. Though sometimes she wouldn't let her watch cartoons or she'd take her toys away.

Kristen always cried whenever Annette did those things, which made Annette more upset. If she didn't calm down within five minutes, she would pick her up and take her to her room. Once Kristen figured out how to open doors, Annette started locking it.

On days when Kristen couldn't stop crying in her room, John or Eilidh would sneak in to go comfort her. Annette either never noticed they did that or she didn't care since it made Kristen stop.

***

Then there was the time John went into town with Annette. Normally he avoided running errands with her at all costs, but he needed school supplies for the upcoming year.

They were at the checkout register, and the woman working it had been acquaintances with their family for years. Her name was Holly or something like that. She smiles as she sees John and Annette approaching the register.

"Little Johnny MacTavish! I haven't seen you in quite a while. You're a lot taller than I remember." She smiles, and John offers her a half smile back.

Annette smiles at the two of them. "Oh. Do you two know each other?" She asks.

"Oh I've known Johnny for years. Since he was just a wee lad." Holly says. "His mother would bring him to the nursery at church on Sundays during the service." She explains. "I don't believe we've ever met though. What's your relation to Johnny?" She asks.

Annette seems off put by the question. She tilts her head and blinks a little before answering. "Well, I'm Annette MacTavish. I married his father."

"Oh! I didn't know Ewan remarried." She says, sounding surprised. "Though I guess there's no way I could have known. We never see him anymore."

"We've been married for over a year." Annette says. "We'll be coming up on our two year soon."

"Oh, how lovely." Holly replies with a warm smile. "You're very lucky. Ewan is a good man, and Johnny and his sisters are wonderful kids. Their mum would be happy to know someone is loving and taking care of them."

Annette beams at that. She seems proud, which was odd to John. Especially since she did anything but love or care for them. "Well thank you. They've been such a blessing. Truly."

Then, to John's horror, she slid an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze, pulling him in for a side hug.

He immediately jerked away, wriggling out of her grip without a second thought. "Don't," he muttered under his breath, loud enough that Holly heard it.

Annette froze for a second. Her smile stayed fixed, her voice light, but her hand dropped quickly to her side.

"Oh, teenage boys." She said with an airy chuckle. "They're always too cool for hugs from their mums."

"Step-mum." John corrects her.

Annette's smile twitched, a little too tight now. She lets out a dry chuckle, and Holly starts to look a little uncomfortable.

"Well," Holley starts after a beat of awkward silence. "It was very nice to meet you, Annette. Johnny, tell your dad I said hi, alright?" She gives John another smile.

"Will do." John nods, and then they gather their things and head back to the car.

The ride home was silent, and John just looked out the window the whole way. When they pulled into the driveway, Annette got out without a word and hurried inside, the front door closing sharply behind her.

John didn't think much of it at first. He stayed behind, reaching into the backseat to gather the shopping bags. He walked through the door, shut it behind him, and made his way to the kitchen, the bags rustling against his leg as he moved. He barely had a chance to set them down before a sharp tug yanked his head back.

"Ow—!" He gasps, dropping the bags and stumbling as her grip on his hair tightens.

"Are you proud of yourself?" Annette hissed from behind him. "Embarrassing me like that? In public?"

"I didn't—" He tries, but she gave his hair another jerk, just enough to shut him up and send a fresh sting across his scalp.

"You will not undermine me. Ever. And you will not correct me in front of anyone like that ever again."

John bites the inside of his cheek, blinking rapidly. His hands curl around hers, trying to pry her fingers free and ease the stinging pain.

"Do you understand me?!" She asks when John doesn't say anything.

"Yes." John answers quickly.

She lets go a moment later with a scoff. "You're lucky your father wasn't home. He'd be ashamed of the way you act."

Eilidh was standing just outside her bedroom, halfway down the hall. She'd heard the commotion and now watched him wide-eyed, noticing the tight set of his jaw and the way he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"John?" She asked quietly, taking a step toward him. "What happened?"

He shook his head and brushed past her without a word.

"John?" She tried again, more insistently, but he didn't slow down. He reached his room and shut the door behind him with a quiet soft click—not a slam. He didn't dare to slam his door.

He pressed his back against the door, chest tight, breath catching. His head throbbed where Annette had yanked his hair, the sting still fresh. He rubbed the spot gently, wincing at the tenderness beneath his fingers.

A few seconds passed before there was a soft knock on the door.

"Johnny...?" Eilidh's voice came through, quiet and concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Go away." He said, his voice low and flat.

There was silence. Then the sound of her retreating footsteps down the hall.

John just sat there a moment, breathing in through his nose, willing himself not to cry.

***

She got comfortable grabbing them like that. And somehow that just became how things were.

It didn't matter if John went to his father about it. He just shrugged it off and said she had a reason for doing the things she did. There was always an excuse.

And now he was lucky to even get the chance to tell his dad when something happened. He wasn't home anymore. Most of his time was spent at the office or holed up in his study with the door shut. John had heard him and Annette muttering about bills piling up. That was the most important thing on his dad's mind at the moment.

John was almost asleep when he heard his door creak open and shut softly. He squinted toward the sound, the faint light coming from under the crack of his door was just enough to catch a black shadow tiptoeing toward him.

"John? Are you awake?"

It was Eilidh.

"Yeah. Why are you in here? Annette is going to flip if she finds out you're in here past bedtime." He whispers back to her as she moves to sit on his bed.

"It's fine. She's downstairs with Dad right now." She whispered back, glancing at the door behind her. She hesitated only a second before continuing, getting right to the point. "I was just getting up to pee, and I heard them talking in the kitchen."

John's brow furrowed.

"Dad was saying that he's not making enough money to support us anymore. He said he's thinking about taking a new job. One where he has to travel. He'd be gone for a long time, but he'd make almost double."

John sat up straighter at that. "Did it sound like he was going to do it?”

Eilidh shrugged, hugging her arms. "I don't know. He didn't seem like he wanted to, but Annette was encouraging it. She kept saying she could handle things here while he was gone. And she said it'd just be temporary. Until she could find something too."

John let out a soft, dry laugh and looked down at his hands. "Yeah. Like she'd ever get a job. Just like that 'small business' she was gonna start in Rowan's room."

"I know." Eilidh murmured.

They were quiet for a beat.

"It's not like dad's around much anymore either." John muttered.

"I know." She said again, her voice smaller this time. She stared at the blanket pooled around her legs. "But at least when he is, Annette isn't as mean.

John didn't argue. That part was true. Annette was better when their dad was around—less yelling, less grabbing, more smiling. As fake as it was, it was a relief when she acted like someone else.

"Well, maybe-" John pauses mid sentence as he hears a noise from downstairs.

"You should get back to your room." He whispered urgently, already listening to the quiet footsteps below. "I think they're coming up."

Eilidh nodded and slipped off the bed. "Goodnight, Johnny." She whispers.

"Night, Eilidh." He murmured, watching her as she cracked the door open, peeked into the hallway, and slipped out silently like a shadow. The door clicked shut behind her.

A week later, he'd almost completely forgotten the conversation with Eilidh about their dad getting a new job. Until it was brought up by his father at dinner one night.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you kids." His dad started. His voice was tired but trying to be cheerful. "A new opportunity's come up at work. A big one."

John glanced at Eilidh from across the table. She returned his look.

"It's a new position, one that would mean I'd be traveling for a while. Couple of months at a time, maybe a little more, depending on what they need from me." He says. "But it comes with a significant raise. Which means we could have a little extra money to go do fun things. Like go on vacation or getting something new for everyone."

Rowan looks like from her plate. "Are you going to be gone for my birthday?"

Their dad smiled at her, though there was a pause before he answered. "I'll try not to be. But if I am, I'll send you something special, alright? And we can celebrate however you want when I'm back."

John's eyes didn't leave his father's face. "Do you have to take it?" He asked quietly.

His father hesitated again, just a flicker of doubt before smoothing it over. "It's only temporary. Just until we build the savings back up. You don't need to worry about any of that. I know it'll take some getting used to, but we're strong. I'll be back to my old job before you know it."

For some reason, John didn't believe him.

@the-faceless-bride @venavanup @hotthankss @daemondoll @thepowers-kat-be @xheera

[injestedsoap]

inspired by the person who i guess is my muse at this point, @femalefemur.

18+ MDNI

reader beware you're in for-- nongendered reader with breasts and a pussy, role play, domesticity, rimming, pussy eating, a no mess cream pie, and pegging.

Your John MacTavish, your sweet Soap, was not stupid. He was, in fact, one of the smartest people you have ever known. Your favorite memory, to this day, was of him, fantastically drunk, reeling off every periodic element in order while balancing a full glass of beer on his forehead. He had finished the table and pounded the beer, obviously, and you had gotten contact drunk from the sloppy wet kiss he gave you. No, Soap was whip smart…. Most of the time. Because smart as he was, Soap was also afflicted with what your friend affectionately called ‘cum brain’ which is to say when he was horny John MacTavish had cum for brains and it was leaking out of his ears. 

And, now, look… you never felt good about exploiting this fact about him… but at the end of the day if it worked it worked, and it’s not like you just left him high and dry! Sometimes you wanted pancakes in bed and, you know, if you promised a good boy a blow job in exchange for brekky well that was just what being in a relationship was, really. 

You sighed, looking at the bathroom floor. You each did your part in the apartment. You didn’t have rotating chores or anything, but Soap didn’t mind laundry and you didn’t mind dishes and whenever the trash was full it was taken out but whoever was there at the time. You both hated sweeping but a Roomba from Kyle had solved that issue. The biggest issue was the bathroom. You both kept it clean enough but you couldn’t remember the last time you had given it a proper deep clean. You crouched down, looking at the dirty tiles and pulled a face. You really didn’t want to do this. You should, this was your crusade but… well maybe if you got the smaller stuff done you could talk Soap into the floor. 

You stood, arching your back and feeling it pop. Okay, you’d get started on laundry and have most of the chores done before he got back from base today and then you would see if you could talk him into a good grout scrubbing over the weekend. You picked up the hamper and saw the bright red jockstrap on top. Looking around the apartment out of habit you ensured the coast was clear before plucking the underwear from the hamper and inhaling your boyfriend’s dirty gym smell. You’d missed having him home. It was then, nose deep in the jockstrap, that you had an idea. You grinned, biting your lip and dropped the pair back into the hamper before heading to the washing machine, you had a trap to lay. 

You let out a happy giggle as Soap came in that evening, tossing his keys in the bowl and picking you up, spinning you around as he kissed you. You’d seen each other less than 9 hours ago but he’d been on deployment for nearly four months and it was worth celebrating every evening he was home as far as either of you were concerned. 

“You smell nice,” He said into your neck, snuffling at you, “Oh, did my sweet thing do laundry?” 

You kissed him and gave his mohawk a playful tug, “It’s Friday night,” You said, peppering him with kisses, “No chores tonight, just sex,” 

Soap made a noise in the back of his throat and you shivered, “Aye, I think we can do that,” He said before tossing you over his shoulder and delivering a loud smack to your ass, carrying you back to the bedroom. 

Trap baited, bait taken, time to snap it shut. 

Saturday morning rolled around warm and lazy. Soap was a heavy sleeper at the best of times and after four orgasms and a prolonged prostate massage you didn’t think he’d even move before 10. You kissed his slack sleeping mouth before wriggling out from under his arm and making your way to the laundry room. You started up the dryer again to get the wrinkles out of the clothes and then padded over to the kitchen, getting the kettle on for tea, starting the coffee pot, and pulling out some eggs and bacon. If all went according to plan, your boy was going to need the energy. 

About a half hour later a very naked Soap came plodding into the kitchen. He flopped over the back of your chair, nosing into your neck and nibbling on it before dragging himself over to the kitchen counter, pouring coffee and plating up some breakfast. He pulled his chair next to yours at the bar, resting his cheek on top of your head as he ate a strip of bacon and waited for his coffee to cool. When the dryer beeped he groaned and started to get up but you gave him a tap on the stomach and instead extracted yourself from under him and headed to get the clothes out of the dryer. 

“Thank ye, bonnie,” He mumbled, blinking his sleepy blue eyes and giving you a sweet smile. You grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed the bacon grease off his lips. 

You folded the laundry while Soap sleepily ate his breakfast. You made a careful effort to make sure the red jock didn’t enter your hands until you were sure that he had drunk at least half his mug of coffee and then you let out a little laugh. 

“Here, your outfit for the day,” You said, laying the jockstrap on the table in front of him. 

“Ooooh!” He said, his eyes waking up a little more as he accepted the ‘outfit’, he stood from the table and pulled them on, doing a little turn so you could see him from all sides. “How do I look?” 

“Very sexy,” You replied with a big grin. 

“Not,” Soap tapped his chin thoughtfully, “‘Incredibly’ sexy,” 

“Incredibly sexy,” You laughed, your palms were sweaty, you had to play this just right, “There’s only one thing that could make you not look sexy, honestly,” 

Soap clutched his heart, feigning hurt, “Bullshit, I can make anything sexy,” 

“Really?” You asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. 

“Oh aye,” Soap put a hand on his hip, god he really did look good. “Go on, we’ve got all weekend, what am I making sexy.” 

“I do not think,” You said, stepping closer to poke him in the chest, “You, or anyone, could make scrubbing grout look sexy,” 

“Mmh,” He said, covering his hand with yours and looking down at you, a smoulder in his sleepy, sexed out eyes. You held them, this was the moment, he was either going to call you on it or– Soap leaned in, his breath a mix of coffee and bacon and sleep, it was rancid and you loved it anyway, “You’re on,” He whispered before kissing you hard. 

And the trap snapped shut. 

There was a knock on the door and you looked up from the email you were sending, you checked the time and frowned. You hopped off the chair you were sitting in and walked toward the door, wrapping your silk robe around you as you did. 

“I’m sorry I think you have the–” you started as you opened the door before trailing off as you took in the tall man in the baggy jeans, stained white wife pleaser, and a low slung tool belt standing in the doorway. “C-can I help you?” You asked, startled and very aware of the fact that you were in nothing but a short silk robe and very expensive lingerie. 

“Aye,” He said, his voice a low Scottish rumble, “I think ye called for some,” he made a big show of adjusting his cock, “Help with the pipes,” 

You had to bite the inside of your mouth to keep from laughing as you looked up at him, “Oh, um, yes, please, if you could come in and help me with, uh, pipe,” 

Soap came into the apartment with such exaggerated swagger you had to duck behind him to stifle your laughter. “Please, uh, um,” You schooled your face into something resembling serious and stepped around him, “The bathroom is right this way.” as you walked Soap reached out to tug up your robe and you let out an offended gasp, smacking his hand away. “Just because my boyfriend is out of town on business doesn’t mean you can just grab anything you like,” You said primly, shooting him a dirty look over your shoulder. 

Soap let out a noise you didn’t even know how to classify and spun you around, pulling you in by the belt of your robe and running his hand down your back to cup your full ass, “Pretty shite boyfriend, leaving you all alone dressed like this needing help with,” He squeezed your ass before saying “Pipe,” and popping the ‘P’. 

You shuddered and it wasn’t entirely put on this time, you reached out to touch his chest, splaying your hand over the broad muscles and bit your lip, “Well… how about you see if you can get the pipe fixed… and then we’ll talk.” 

Soap leaned in, he had brushed his teeth before changing and his mouth was much nicer smelling now, “Let’s see what we can do about that pipe problem,” 

He let you go and swaggered his way over to the bathroom, you stood back and watched him turn on and off the sink, and then the tub, and then get down on his hands and knees, arching his back and giving you a peek of the top of his jockstrap over the waistline of his jeans. You bit your thumb, you had to admit it wasn’t not not sexy. 

He spread his legs, arching his back and shoving his round ass out, just the way you liked him when you broke out the strap. “Alright, I think I see the problem,” He looked over his shoulder back at you, you bit your lip and looked back, “But I’m gonna need the room.” 

You perched on the edge of your tub with a glass of wine Soap had insisted you needed and watched your boyfriend in nothing but a tool belt and the red jockstrap scrub the tile of your small bathroom. And you weren’t going to lie… it was extremely sexy. For some reason his maintenance man character had decided he needed to strip down to his underwear, you weren’t keeping track of the reasoning, something about his clothes being dirty and not wanting to get the floors dirty while he was cleaning them. He was committed to the tool belt though. He also needed to keep you in sight line of his ass the entire time. His round, hairy, ass, flexing as he scrubbed the tile, his tight pink hole winking at you with every full body scrub. You crossed your legs and took a sip of the wine. 

Soap pushed himself up, you watched his hole disappear and were still staring when you realized Soap had turned to look at you, his eyes mischievous. “Alright, well, looks like you should be good to go, love,” 

“Oh?” You asked, licking the wine from your lips as you raked your eyes over him “Am I good to go?” 

Soap gave a half grin and crawled over, rising up over you and stepping into the tub. You let out a little giggle, setting aside the glass of wine and laying back in the tub as he gripped the edges and leaned in over you with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What ever will your boyfriend think?” Soap purred low in his chest.” 

“Oh I don’t know,” You replied, letting the robe fall open and giving Soap a beautiful view of your lingerie clad body, “he’s not as good a boy as you,” 

Oh and that worked. You watched his nipples peak and his cheeks flush, if there was one thing about Soap he loved being a good boy. “A good boy am I?” He asked, trying to keep the character going. 

“So good,” You said, reaching up and stroking his cock over the rapidly filling jockstrap “Coming in and fixing my pipes like that,” You squeezed his clothed cock “How about I fix yours now?” 

Soap did his best to not scramble out of the tub and instead climb out with as much dignity and swagger as he could muster. He then reached down, taking you by the hand and pulling you up, out, and into his chest. He reached down and grabbed you by the ass, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“You should take off your tool belt,” You whispered, your heels bouncing off his round ass as you tried to navigate not getting grease from a wrench on your panties. 

“I will when we get to the bedroom,” Soap whispered back before carrying you off to the bedroom. “So,” He said, dropping you onto the bed and then unbuckling his tool belt, letting it fall to the floor as carefully as he was capable. “How are you going to reward your good maintenance man, eh?” 

You giggled and crooked a finger. Soap crawled onto the bed, pausing briefly to shuck the jock strap, before leaning in and nosing your pussy sweetly. He kissed and sucked on your stomach before kissing up your chest until he was sucking and mouthing at your neck. You moaned, raking your fingers through his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist. 

“I love your ass,” You moaned, rubbing your ankles over it, “Please let me have your ass,” 

Soap moaned loudly against your neck. It had been a while since you had given him a good pegging and after being teased with his tight hole for an hour today you were dying to stretch him around your strap. 

“Please,” He grunted. 

You pulled him up and kissed him hard before rolling the two of you around so you were on top. He reached up, squeezing your breasts over your bra and surging up to kiss your chest. His cheeks were flushed hot and you pushed him between your soft breasts for a moment, enjoying the feel of his hot face and his hotter mouth on your skin before pulling back to get your strap and a bottle of lube out of the side drawer. 

“Hands and knees,” You said, your cheeks as red as his. 

Soap barely needed to be told, rolling over onto his front and then getting up on his hands and knees, arching his back, his cheeks spread enticingly.  

You leaned in, unable to help yourself, and gave his hole a deep, sloppy kiss. 

Soap let out a whimpering moan and you gave his ass a swat before pulling back and strapping on your harness. You watched as he winked his pretty pink hole at you and grinned, popping open the cap on the lube and, with no warning at all, poured a healthy glob right down his crack. 

Soap let out the cutest little noise at the feeling of cool lube sliding down his cheeks and before it could drip down onto the sheets you scooped it back up with your finger, sliding your index finger in up to the second knuckle in one go. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” He panted, his character fully forgotten as he pressed back onto your finger, forcing it deeper into his tight hole. 

“Good boy,” You cooed, acting like you weren’t just as affected by this as him, “Such a good boy, looking so sexy cleaning the grout for me,” 

“To-oooooo-ldja,” Soap moaned, bearing down as you slid a second finger into him and then quickly worked in a third. “Can make bloody anything sexy,” 

“You told me,” You agreed, twisting your fingers and grinning at the yelp from Soap as you rubbed his prostate. You were probably imagining that it felt a little tender after all the love it got last night. You leaned in and kissed the slope of his back, working your way up to kiss his broad back and rub your cheek against his soft body hair before rising up slightly and rubbing the tip of your silicone cock against his hole. “Ready for me?” You asked. 

“Been ready,” Soap grunted. 

You fucked in in one smooth motion and Soap yowled. 

“Cheeky.” You said before snapping your hips and getting to work. 

You worked your hips as you plastered yourself over his back, kissing his warm skin sloppily and reaching down to work his cock, sliding his foreskin over his heavy shaft in time with your thrusts. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Soap chanted over and over as you fucked him and tugged him in time. 

“I love you so much,” You moaned into his back, your sweat dripping down from your face to join his sweat pooling on his back, you leaned in and licked a stripe up his spine, “So fucking good to me, so fucking hot on your knees for me,” 

“I’m your big fucking handy man,” Soap babbled, “Your handy man, big strong– unf!” Every inch of Soap tensed up and lightning fast you grabbed the base of his cock, stopping his climax as he yelled and you pulled out. Taking off the harness as fast as you could and then quickly rolling Soap into his back and dropping your dripping wet cunt onto his throbbing shaft. You both moaned and you leaned down, panting into his mouth, and managed to whisper, “No mess.” The way his pupils blew out the color in his eyes told you he understood what you were saying and in four quick thrusts he was cumming deep inside you. You barely had time to enjoy the sensation before Soap was rolling you up onto your shoulders and he was between your thighs, burying his face in your pussy as he licked and sucked on your clit, his own cum coating his face along with your juices. 

“Soap!” You screeched, locking your legs around his head and burying your fists in his hair as you curled in on yourself and seized in a white hot orgasm. You were barely connected to your body as Soap lovingly licked you through it, you had to all but pull him away when the sensations were finally too much. 

You both lay there on the surprisingly clean sheets as you panted and let the sweat dry on your flushed bodies. Soap’s large hand fumbled across the bed to find yours, tugging it to rest on his stomach as he idly played with your fingers. 

“I have a suspicion,” He said, his voice raw. 

“Mhm?” You murmured.

“That you just wanted the grout cleaned.” 

You grinned. 

[soy-soi-si]

Okay but 141 or any cod men with a Reader exactly like Morticia Adams.

GIVE ME THEM ABSOLUTELY LOVING EACH OTHER, AND READER BEING A HUGE BAD BITCH. Give me a reader that knows her worth, and how to communicate with her Men! A reader that literally cannot be tortured because she will enjoy it. A reader that will tease, flirt, and bask her s/o in her attention and expect the same devotion.

[endmeprettyplease]

Happy Birthday, Aнгел

A/N: idk what this is, other than self indulgent. I love Makarov sm, and I'm desperate to get back into writing. So if you guys have any requests for him, please send them my way. This can be read as og makarov or reboot. I had both in mind when writing it. Reader is female but with no descriptions of appearance. Translations at the end.

Vladimir Makarov x Fem!Insecure Reader

Warnings: BDSM elements, but bad etiquette, collars, overstimulation, reader is a bad person, makarov is definitely worse, no use of y/n, pet names, google translate (so sorry)

Summary: Makarov surprises the reader for their birthday.

Stepping into the elevator you reminisce on your evening. Deciding that last drink was probably a mistake. Although, even after tripping over yourself on the way to your door and fumbling with your keys a bit, you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. The warmth of your cheeks from a good night out with friends outweighed any guilt. Until you stepped into your dark apartment. Suddenly reminded of what you were missing. The one thing you did want for your birthday. Likely the reason you’d drank a little more than normal.

Tossing your purse and shoes aside with a sigh. When your arrangement with the man who only identified himself as ‘Vladimir’ began, it was strictly business. Despite the very personal nature of it. You kept him company and he kept you comfortable. Luxury clothes, condo in the nicest part of the city, cash in hand for anything you needed. As long as you did as he asked, discreetly. You knew the inevitable, even as you agreed. That those long nights spent with him between your thighs and romantic dinners would stir feelings in even the strongest of willed.

Nearly a year in and you had been making breakfast watching the news when his image appeared. The same man still sleeping in your bed was plastered on screen beside the names of countless victims. “Makarov Strikes Again” in bold along the bottom. The eggs burned as your mug shattered. The coffee scalding your feet as it spattered but you didn’t move. You knew you had a choice to make. 

Moments later, Makarov had shuffled from the bedroom, hair spiked and ruffled from sleep. Looking incredibly irritated at his abrupt wake up call. A look that was somehow terribly endearing on him. You were fucked, you realised.  When his eyes found the t.v. he paused, slowly tracking his gaze back to you. Making your choice then, you merely smiled back, turning to retrieve some fresh eggs from the fridge. Decidedly unaffected by what kind of person your silence made you. Pretending not to know how it saved your life. 

The memory left your chest feeling hollow, in more ways than one. Against your conscience you had continued to turn a blind eye to his ‘work’. The way he made you feel, the life you lived because of him pulled a selfishness from you that you didn't know existed. Knowing his identity only fueled your need for more of his magnetic and dangerous excitement. More of him. The one thing he could not afford to give you. 

So as it was, you were alone in a condo far too big for just you, on your birthday. Makarov had informed you that morning he would not be in town for the night. Wishing you well with a bouquet at your door and a necklace probably worth more than your childhood home. The necklace itself weighing heavily around your throat, a reminder of what you gave up to have him. Leaving you to question if the loneliness and risk was worth the sparse attention. 

Sighing you felt notably more sober than when you stepped in the door, buzz sufficiently killed by your spiraling thoughts. You settled on going to bed, hoping you’d at least receive a call in the morning. If anything just to know he's safe and alive. You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and moved to walk towards your bedroom before something on your couch caught your eye. Heart pounding as you realised you were not alone. Maybe this is where it all catches up to you-

“Ангел.” Makarov slung his arm lazily across the back of the couch, turning towards you. “You had a good time, да?”

A rush of air left your chest in relief, nearly dizzy with it, quickly replaced by a thrill. “You’re here!” You rounded the couch in record time, happily tossing yourself into his lap. Taking a moment to examine him in the dark you could tell he had showered. The smell of his cologne and your shampoo fresh on his skin. Distinctly lacking his usual scent of cigarettes and gunpowder. His usual dress shirt was replaced by an undershirt and slacks. About as ‘dressed down’ as you'd seen him.  “Did you need to startle me? Why are you in the dark?” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before pulling away. 

Makarov huffed, close to a laugh, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close and with the other he gestured towards the large windows and sparkling skyline. “I was enjoying the view, though I much prefer this one.” Pinching your bottom for effect, you squeaked and batted his hand away.

“I’m so happy you made it, you said you couldn’t come.” You nuzzled into his neck, leaving soft kisses in your wake. You could feel the warmth of him through your cocktail dress and it was already buzzing in your head. Alcohol be damned. It had been weeks since he last visited and your need for him was quickly overtaking your senses. 

Vladimir merely shushed you, fingers scratching across your scalp. “I wanted it to be a surprise, it is such an important day after all.” Suddenly his gentle touch turned firm. Balling your hair into his fist as he wrenched you from him. Vladimir tisked, “I understand you’ve had an exciting night. But I expect better from you, моя любимая шлюха.” His voice was close to a snarl, eyes dark. 

Your heart dropped nearly as quickly as you did. Knees falling into the plush carpet between his feet. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just so happy to see you, but it is no excuse for forgetting my manners.” You twisted your hands in your lap, not meeting his eye. You could nearly never predict how he would react to anything. He flipped so quickly between emotions it was as terrifying as it was exciting. Heat already pooling in your cheeks and between your thighs. 

Vladimir’s fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. “Hush, I have no intention of punishing you tonight. You are forgiven.” His voice soft once again. Finally, his lips met yours in a proper kiss, as deep and unyielding as him. Eventually, you pulled away to breathe, already feeling slightly floaty. Overwhelmed by the feelings he brought out in you. 

“I have brought you something. Повернись.” He gestured with his hand. Quickly, you complied, spinning around on your knees. “Tonight,” Makarov began, behind you, you could hear him opening a box. “I wish to celebrate you.” He easily unclasped your necklace, delicately removing it and settling it aside. You heard a quiet jingle, like a charm bracelet. 

“Now, who do you belong to?” He asked, voice quiet, a thinly veiled threat. But you had never had a problem swearing your loyalty, not to him. 

“You, always you, Vladimir, sir.” 

“Всегда такая хорошая девочка.” He breathed, clearly pleased. A moment later cool leather wrapped around your neck. Thick and firm, smelling freshly polished. Your heart rate rising again as he tightened it around your throat. You could feel your jugular pulsing against the restriction, your mouth suddenly dry. 

Vladimir’s fingers ran along the edge of the collar before slowly cupping your jaw and tilting your head back. Forcing you to bend uncomfortably to follow him. “Tonight, you will take my gifts as I offer them. And you will thank me, да?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” 

The time it took for him to draw you into the bedroom and strip the dress he had bought for you was a heady blur. His hands always felt cold and calloused. His hands never let you forget what kind of man he was. How dangerous he is. And yet you willingly allowed him to arrange your nude body on the bed as he pleased. Hands bound to the rungs of the headboard. Heart in your throat, yet legs spread because it is what he wanted of you. 

Once satisfied Makarov stepped back, still fully clothed and looking unaffected by the scene, except for the growing bulge in his slacks. One reaction he couldn’t hide from you. Humming his pleasure he ran his eyes along your body and - he turned and abruptly left you. 

You blinked, disappointed but not entirely surprised. You wouldn’t put it past him to insist on rewarding you only to leave you naked and bound for later. He had done it before.  You breathed out a sigh and rolled your already stiff shoulders. Your collar feeling uncomfortably tight, you started to settle in for a long evening. But before you could begin to sulk he returned. Holding another box, black with a pink ribbon tied into a neat bow. 

Vladimir was smiling, teeth looking sharp in the dim light. He was excited, oh no. “Happy Birthday, Ангел. Would you like to open your gift?” He held the box towards you as you stared lamely back at him. The cuffs around your wrists clinking as you shifted your arms.

Huffing an almost laugh again, Makarov rolled his eyes. “Of course, not to worry, I can do it for you. This you will enjoy, I’m sure.” Carelessly he ripped to bow from the box, tossing it aside. Unlike how you, oh so carefully, unwrapped his gifts. You felt a shiver run down your spine, instincts kicking in as your brain had a moment to consider your situation. Maybe you’d finally outrun your usefulness, maybe- 

“Ah!” Tossing the box and tissue paper in the same direction as the bow he produced a small pink…vibrator. Finally breathing again, your panic passed. Despite his flair for the dramatic he wouldn’t hurt you, not in any way you couldn’t take. Not if you were good. And you were always good. The sparkle in his eyes and smirk on his mouth told you that he knew what you were thinking, and that he enjoyed sparking such reactions in you. 

Approaching the bed he looked down at you almost contemplative, as he often did. As if he wasn’t sure what he should do with you. Like a cat unsure if it should eat a mouse or bat it around a bit instead for entertainment. 

Moving onto the bed he encouraged your knees apart, the cool silicone in his hand running along your thigh. “Я скучал по тебе.” Sounding almost wistful as he clicked the vibrator on, it was small and curved and you knew exactly what it was for. Surprisingly gently, he dragged the vibrator across your already sensitive skin. Tickling your hips and stomach before he pressed it to your nipple and bent over to kiss you. 

The kiss becoming more frantic as he worked both of you up. Your arms already straining against your bonds, desperate to tangle your fingers in his hair, to touch him anywhere. Rocking your hips unintentionally you found how wet you were as you stained his slacks. Your slick heat pressing against him through the rough fabric. He enjoyed the friction and allowed the movement for a little longer, before pulling back again. Hand steadying your hips, nails biting into your skin. If he could not keep control of you, he could not control himself. 

“I may not have come here with the intention of punishing you tonight, but I will. If you make me.” There was a near snarl to his tone that caused you to lockup immediately. All movement stilling. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You breathed, voice shaky. Was the collar tighter?

Makarov smiled again, “I know, мой питомец.” He moved back on the bed, lying between your legs. Grazing the soft skin of your inner thighs with the vibrator, the buzzing making you shake. Desperate not to disappoint him, you held fast and didn't move. “Хороший.” He seemed pleased, and rewarded you by suddenly pressing the vibrator to your mound, just barely above your clit. You twitched, stunned by the sudden stimulation but did not jerk away. Looking down you met his eyes, watching the smile spread even further on his face. Nothing pleased him more than obedience. Well, possibly suffering, but he seemed in a giving mood tonight. For better or worse. 

Vladimir moved closer to your sex, even his breath on you made you throb. Yearning for the mercy he was known to lack, you behaved. Lying still and vulnerable, just how he liked you. Slowly, he dragged the vibrator along the wet seam of your cunt. Stopping to press it harshly to your clit to watch your reaction. But he had trained you well, so when you didn’t flinch, instead tensing as well as you could, he moved to your opening instead. The vibrations along your slick walls made you choke. You wanted to call out to him, but knew better, he hadn’t asked to hear you. The curve to the silicone focused the vibrations perfectly on your most sensitive spot, and  you felt dangerously and embarrassingly close already.

“Хорошенькая маленькая шлюшка.” Makarov lifted his head, resting his cheek on your hip, fingers still pressing against the vibrator inside you. “Do you like your present?” 

You swallowed harshly, finding words hard to push past the leather constricting your throat. Suffocating, like him. “Yes, sir. Very…much, thank you.” You finally managed. Your world narrowing to nothing other than him and your need. He smiled again, almost boyishly, and began rocking his fingers, clicking the vibrator up another level. This caused a reaction that you simply could not fight. You threw your head back, cuffs noisly clanking again as your hands gripped the bed frame. A cry you had no chance of stopping leaving your lips. 

Despite this, Makarov only sped up his movements. Pressing the silicone into you relentlessly. You tried to think of anything not to come. But it felt like you didn't have a choice, he’d been gone so long. Just as you began to lose hope of being good tonight, Vladimir spit on your cunt. Your hips jerking in response. “Go ahead, you do not need to ask for permission tonight,”

The words had barely registered in your cloudy brain before you were coming messily onto his hand. Your slick running down his wrist. Had you been in your right mind you would’ve picked up on the danger in his words. He did not stop, forcing you to ride out your high as long as possible, even as you twisted in his grip. 

When tears started rolling down your cheeks he let up. Allowing you to take a deep breath. Vladimir shifted, moving away from you. You realized now he would finally fill you, you'd get to feel him inside. What you’d been gagging for all those weeks he’d been away. Relief filling you as you spread your thighs for him again. 

Yet, of course. 

Makarov tossed your legs over his shoulders and locked them in place with his arms. 

Of course, this wasn’t actually a reward. 

When his mouth descended on your overstimulated nerves you squealed. Hopelessly twisting and writhing against his unrelenting embrace. Wrapping his lips around your tender clit as he pressed the vibrator harder inside you. It didn't take long to draw you to the edge again. Fighting the painful pleasure as you sobbed openly now. You knew it was too good to be true, how many times has he taught you that?

Wailing through your second orgasm, you tried to wiggle away. Twisting against your binds, your wrists aching. You couldn't breathe, not between the collar and his relentless tongue. Makarov’s attack on your sex is ruthless, as he always has been. The more you struggled, the tighter he held you. Ignoring your protests in favor of his prize, you. Your addicting submission, desperation and most importantly, your forgiveness. It made him greedy, drunk on his power over you. So he drank and drank until he pulled a third and violent high from you. Squirting messily into his open mouth, thighs squeezing around his ears.

The moment he relented, you dropped limp. Panting like a dog and dazed, barely aware that Makarov had stepped off the bed to remove his clothes. 

“Ты так хорошо справился, ангел.” You heard him say, distantly. Like you were underwater. 

The next thing you registered being the freedom of your hands, tingling as blood finally moved into them freely. Though you barely had time to acclimate as he crawled on top of you. Painfully hard cock resting against your stomach. 

“Sir..?” You whined. Broken and desperate for more, less, him. You weren’t sure. But you knew, whatever it was, he knew, and could give it to you. 

Shushing you uncharacteristically gently, he dragged himself through your slick to your raw opening.  Pausing only to pull the vibrator from your sex and tossing it behind him, still buzzing. 

Vladimir filled you completely. Your walls still tender and throbbing from your last orgasms, making you feel as if he were spearing you. You felt truly flayed and open for him to use. And Makarov took full advantage. Starting a brutal pace, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in. You reached out, your manicured nails finding purchase on his back. Scratching his tattoos as your other hand steadied you against the headboard. Barely preventing him from fucking you through it. 

Vladimir’s head fell into your neck, lips spilling praise. A sloppy mix of Russian and English you couldn't even begin to decipher. Not when he was filling you so full and so deep. Your thighs locked around his hips. You wanted him deeper, closer. You never wanted him to leave. You knew what he did when he was gone. 

Wet fingers met your sopping clit, at a perfectly painful angle. Screaming, you tried to force his hand away, but your arms refused to cooperate. Flailing against him uselessly. “Come with me, шлюха.” He snarled, biting into your neck harshly below your collar. Regardless of your protests, you did. The moment you felt him fill you with his own release. With the ringing in your ears, you couldn't tell if you were screaming.  

Disoriented and… wet, you awoke. You could hear the bath filling as you were lifted into strong arms. “I’m very proud of you.” Makarov murmured. Slowly making his way to the bathroom and settling you in the tub. 

You relaxed for a moment as he left the room. Allowing the warm water to soothe your sore muscles. You reached for your neck and found the collar gone, only tender skin left in its wake. You felt more drunk now than you had when you returned home. The endorphins and adrenaline in your blood making your vision blur.  

When Makarov returned, proudly naked, he held a bottle of water to your lips. Which you greedily drank, slowly feeling your brain return to you. This was when he was most kind, most generous, most unlike himself. When he was freshly drunk on his own pleasure. Slowly he slid in behind you in the tub. Chest pressed to your back, arms holding you close. 

“Thank you, sir.” You sighed. Relaxing fully into him. 

You felt him smile behind you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Of course, I want my ангел to have the most… pleasant birthday.” Slowly his hand trailed down your stomach, reaching your hips before you even thought to protest. Fingers finding your still throbbing clit with practiced precision. Like it was his mission. 

“I- I can’t, wait… Please, sir!” You squealed, twisting against his arm, wrapped tight under your breasts. Water sloshing out of the tub and splattering across the floor. 

“You can, ангел, and you will. One more.”  His tone left no room for argument, though you were well past heeding warnings. Fighting the climax he intended to bring you, until the very last second. Screaming and thrashing in his arms as the agonizing pleasure wracked your body. Leaving you limp and breathless against him. 

“I knew you could do it, good girl.” Makarov purred, running his hands soothingly across your body. 

“Happy birthday, Моя любовь.” 

Translations:

Ангел - Angel

Да - Yes

моя любимая шлюха - My favorite whore

Повернись - Turn around

Всегда такая хорошая девочка - Always such a good girl

Я скучал по тебе - I missed you

мой питомец - My pet

Хороший - good

Хорошенькая маленькая шлюшка - Pretty little slut

Ты так хорошо справился, ангел - You did so well, angel

Шлюха - Whore

Моя любовь - My Love 

[cas-backwards-tie]

⟡ call of duty masterlist ⟡

specgru

taskforce 141

captain john price

simon 'ghost' riley

john 'soap' mactavish

kyle 'gaz' garrick

kortac

könig

konni

vladimir makarov

[blingblong55]

Cupid's Chokehold-Keegan P. Russ

Based on a request: Inspired by this tiktok: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSNvqQeak/ Can I request Rockstar!Keegan x Reader, please? Reader has been a fan of Keegan for many years, and for the first time, she managed to see him irl at a concert. When both eyes connected, ⚡️ ZING ⚡️ tension became to form. P/s: fluff/smut/smuttiest is up to you ☺️. Thank you! 

---- F!Reader, 18+, smut, rockstar!keegan, rockband au, oral!sex, some fluff, P-in-V, unprotected!sex, mentions of drug use, consent checks, fingering ----

A/N: Okay but the song/title is fits with this so perfectly!

11:30 at night, the small venue doors open and you walk in. Your friends are excited just like you. Skulls, the rock band you've been obsessed with started their small tour in your city and there you were, front-row tickets, cherry red lipstick and that tight little dress. And there he is, Keegan Russ, the lead singer, waiting for the lights to dim and for him and his band to light the stage with their presence. 

The guitar begins, drums next and with each drum hit, the lights flash. The fans go wild just like you as the lead singer, Keegan comes on stage and begins to sing. He begins to approach the edge of the stage and caresses a woman's face as he sings, he begins to near her lips with his own and before they kiss he pulls away with a smirk and a laugh. The other men in the bad chuckle, they also make women and men think they are to be kissed only to pull away at the last second. His pale blue eyes catch yours, and your heart races, he smirks and winks. 

Midway through the concert, Keegan pulls a cigarette and lights it up, inhaling its smoke into his lungs, he looks at the women in the crowd. Which one will be his midnight meal? You knew he always had at least three women per show and then, there he stood, women screaming his name and he hopped off the stage, kissing women on the lips like it was normal, until he walked past you and stopped. Why was his heart racing? He had seen beautiful women, yes but you, oh you were carved by gods and kissed by angels. What is this good feeling in his chest? It can't be the drugs he took before the show, can't it? "What's your name, doll?" His American accent is present. You ushered your name to him and he smirked just a little, from his hand, he placed his cigarette to your lips. "Keep it warm for me, yeah?" He hurries back up to the stage and continues his show. 

Last song and he leans over, points to you and gets a security guard to hurry you backstage. "Go, go!" your friends smile, their eyes on the drummer. 

And now, here you are, in his dressing room, clothes scattered on the floor, sex toys and a package of condoms on the sofa. His cologne fills the room and so does the odor of cigarettes. "I see you did keep it warm," he takes the cigarette and places it back on his lips. "Tell me, doll, what are your deepest fantasies?" his arm is placed around your shoulder as he walks you to the tour bus. Every dirty secret whispered to him and the more you said, the more he wanted to just bend you over the sofa, rip those panties of yours and eat you out. As he closed the door to the tour bus, he looked at you. "You're okay with this? With me making every inch of yours mine?" "I am." "Better be, because I can't pretend I don't want you anymore," his warm and soft lips meet yours. His tongue pushed past yours, gaining dominance in a matter of seconds. 

He backs you up to the bed and begins to kiss your neck and jaw, leaving trails of his lips on you. Your hands take off his clothes as he rips off yours. "You don't need this right?" a cocky grin on him as he tears the last piece of clothing off you. You heard stories of how he would fuck women before you and now, you have that privilege. His hand finds your waist and then slowly grabs and slaps your ass before he pushes you to the bed. "Be as loud as you can, okay doll?" Your warm tits bouncing as you eagerly nod. He chuckles, "Good girl." Those warm hands on his find your slick cunt. "Already wet for me? oh, doll, tsk tsk, guess I have no other option but to fuck that eagerness out of you, huh?" his lips twitch at the small smile he gives you.

Keegan kisses you from your forehead and to your inner thighs. He grips, slaps and nibbles on the softness of your skin. Before you can even predict it, he looks at you and begins to slowly trail the precious folds of your cunt. You let out a moan and he chuckles, "What, can't take a little kiss now?" His tongue licking and slowly trailing down to your eager little hole. "C'mon baby, lick 'em," his fingers on your mouth, getting them nice and soaked so he can finger you properly. Once they were, his fingers teased your entrance. 

Good girls get stuffed and prepared before He treated them with his cock, isn't that right? 

Slowly, as Keegan sucks and licks your precious clit and his fingers fuck themselves in you, you feel your climax get near. He can sense it and oh does this make him eager to hear yourself let loose. Why be a shy girl when you can be his loud little pet? "That's right, doll, come for me, do it." His words are persuasive and hot. His breath playing with your already sensitive cunt and all you can do is arch your back. His big hand holds your hips down, "No no, be a good girl and stay still for me," his voice hoarse. Those enchanting eyes never leave your face as he watches you go crazy with every passing second that he is down on you. What man would ever pass the opportunity to see a goddess like this? Your nipples are hard, mouth open as moans and soft whimpers leave and those eyes, oh those half-lidded eyes rolling back. 

Is this what it is? He eats pussy good and that's why all women drop for him? If it is, you have been let in into the secret. When your orgasm crashes with his mouth, you hear him lick and devour your pretty cunt. He moans and drowns in your delicious juices. Pre-cum leaks from his swollen tip and that's when he finds himself humping the bed in which you lie. "Fuck, I can't do this anymore," he grabs your legs and drags you to the edge. "I need to fuck you, okay? I'll be rough, you hear me?" His fat and heavy cock slaps against your cunt and he teases your entrance with his tip. "Are you okay with this?" He looks directly into your eyes and you nod. "Very," is all you can respond and then, he slowly slips himself inside of you. 

A whiny groan leaves his lips and slowly, to help you get used to his size, thrusts into you. A soft gasp escaped your lips, his size too much to bear at the moment but it feels just too good. His hand on your waist, the other cupping your face. Your cheek flushed. "Such a beauty, doll," and just in cue, he begins to kiss you. Perhaps it was the weed in the room, maybe it was that he already had you drunk on sex but it was a connection, the same one from before. It was different, not only did he feel it but you did too. Hooked on romance, the drugged poets say. 

As he thrusts into you, he finds himself worshipping your body. The curves of your soft tits, the way your tummy feels when he lets his hands wander and how you feel clenched around his fat cock. Your moans and his mixing create a perfect tune. That's when the idea struck. He grabs his phone and looks at you, "I'll keep fucking you, you just moan, doll," he nods and presses record. His thrusts harder by the second, only letting you grip onto him as he fingers your clit. Your moans are louder yet still so angelic. "Keegan," you repeat multiple times. What a perfect song you'll be. 

"Fuck, fuck," his eyes shut and his moans grow louder. His cum and your juices meet. His seed filling you up, hands roaming your body as he kisses you, to soothe the exhaustion. "It's okay, you did great, doll," he whispers and pulls out. Keegan begins to caress you, calming your shaky legs and excited body. A bottle of water meets your lips as he begins to care for you. 

It wasn't three women he'd have as a midnight meal, it's you he rather want in his bed now. With your moans and his ever-beating lover's heart, that is what he needs. You, the muse to his sex, love and any other songs. Those painted cherry lips of yours, what a heaven on Earth have you given him. 

Five months into you and it's him who is more than drunk. Now, as he celebrates yet another concert, the last song he finishes with is his ultimate favourite. Cupid's Chokehold, dedicated to his doll. The girl who owns the once playboy. 

Take a look at my girlfriend

She's the only one I got 

Not much of a girlfriend

I never seem to get a lot 

And now, each time he finishes that song, he winks at you. You who so proudly watches him from the side of the stage smile and then he takes your hand and walks to the tour bus with you. 

A/N: Hope ya liked it and I know this is long overdue, so sorry for the delay :)

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[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

Fully geared, rifle—a Honey Badger—gripped tightly in hand, and the soles of his combat boots planted in the fine sand of this godforsaken desert, Ghost marched on. The merciless sun shone down on him, as if punishing him for being here—for he did not belong here. His balaclava's black material absorbed and retained heat, practically smothering him with the sticky sweat that rushed down his face.

It made him miss Verdansk, which was something, given that the last time he was there, it was more than a FUBAR op. A goddamn bloodbath, that’s what—not against enemies, however. There had to be something utterly malevolent living in Victor Zakhaev’s brain when he considered producing and supplying Al-Qatala with the gas they released at that airport, which then turned brothers-in-arms against each other. Gave him a whole brick of déjà vu.

Another slot canyon he passed between; the vantage point couldn’t be far away now. The wind and the rustle of the parched branches of the trees that loomed over the desolate terrain became his constant companions. It had been a long time since he had gone on a mission alone, so it took some adjustment to get used to the absence of Johnny’s awful singing over the comms. The desert heat must have gotten to him because Ghost was reluctant to believe that he was missing it now.

A crackle in his ears, then came Kate Laswell's voice: “Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-7, you in position?”

Ghost pressed his PTT button. “Nearly there.” He replied, continuing his way through the gap between the rocks. A chopper came flying low overhead; he squinted as the wind kicked up fine grains of sand. “Got a heli incomin’”

“That’s General Ghorbrani.” Laswell explained.

Another voice joined the conversation. "Right on time. Now get up there and let's see what he's up to in the middle o' nowhere." General Shepherd, in commanding tone matching his position.

“I'm eyes on.” Ghost reported in, standing at vantage point.

“What do you see?”

Raising his spotter scope, he scanned the area from a distance. “Armed personnel, armor and hardware... All Russian.”

“What the hell are the Russians doin’ with Ghorbrani?”

"Supplying Iran. It's an arms deal." Laswell answered.

“You copying this, Shadow-1?”

At Shepherd’s question, Philip Graves, who had been listening in silence, spoke up. “Affirmative – two birds, one stone...”

“We need positive ID on Ghorbrani before we kick this off, boys.”

“Ghost, can you identify the General?” Shepherd asked.

Ghost focuses his scope on a group of men. "Armed escorts around one VIP. Russians are very happy to see him."

“It’ll be the last time they do...”

The lens of his spotter scope followed the group as they moved. Then, his attention finally landed on a man in a high-ranking military uniform. Stars and badges gleaming even from afar, striding with broad shoulders and hands on hips, proud of the men under his wisdom.

“Visual on General Ghorbrani.”

“Copy that, all stations – target confirmed.”

“Shadow-1, you are cleared hot for launch.” Shepherd gave the green light.

“Roger that, Actual.” Graves acknowledged. “Ghost, you are danger close to the zone. This arrow’s gonna pack a punch.”

"Copy. Approved." Ghost stood up and quickly claimed a safer spot. "Send it."

The moment seemed to stretch on endlessly. He could hear the high-pitched whine of incoming missiles, getting louder and louder by the second. Then, with a thunderous boom, the scene before him erupted into a blaze of light and fury.

Ghost tears his spotter scope away, shielding his face as the shockwave slams into him, debris flying everywhere. “Bloody fuckin’ hell,” he mutters to himself before pressing his comms button and announcing, “Direct. Target destroyed.”

(And your fleeing doesn't guarantee what you're escaping from will stop its pursuit. Time is a friend and a foe, it will give you just enough to let it find you.

In the midst of a sun-dappled day.)

As the aircraft’s cargo door extended to the tarmac, the soldiers—privates, sergeants, and fellow lieutenants—stopped their disciplined steps and immediately cleared a path for him. No one dared to get in Ghost's way, especially when he was still fully kitted out in his gear: bulletproof vest, assault rifle in front, that damned hard-shell skull mask and secretive balaclava, and a mix of his glare coupled with the fatigue after a long flight from the Middle East back to continental Europe and British soil.

Behind his forehead, he imagined his living space, the one bed with plain sheets singing an aubade to him, urging him to hurry and shed the 70 pounds of gear from his body. But Ghost knew a debriefing was waiting—Captain John Price was waiting in his office.

He trudged through the HQ's hallway, his fatigued eyes straining against the overhead fluorescent lights, even behind the shadow of his mask. Another turn and he was on the familiar path to Price’s office. He reached the door labeled “Cpt. Jonathan Price” and gave it three firm knocks. A muffled “Come in” sounded from within, and he pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Inside, Price's table lamp is turned on, but the man is doing anything but work. Leaning back in his chair, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth. He acknowledged Ghost’s arrival with a nudge of his chin, taking a pull before releasing the smoke into the air.

“Simon,” Price called his name.

“Sir.”

Price balanced his cigar between his index finger and thumb. “How’d the mission go?” he asked, eyes flickering up to meet the lieutenant’s. “Y’have fun?”

“Was a good show.” Ghost replied, and Price chuckled.

“Seein’ terrorists bein’ blown to pieces?”

“Yes.” Ghost answered, and he let the conversation die down.

The absence of his cigar was replaced by a pen, its inked tip scribbling on the paper on the table. Mission report. Ghost watched, waiting for Price to jot down the necessary information and sign his name at the bottom, signifying another objective met and mission accomplished.

“Any issues I should know about?” Price asked, more out of procedure than in doubt.

“No, sir.”

“Laswell didn’t mention any other upcoming missions.”

“No, she didn’t.” Ghost said.

Price hums, then leans forward, elbows resting on his desk. “Well, in that case, I'd suggest you enjoy your time off somewhere that isn't the base,” he said, a smile beneath his thick mustache. “The lads are doin' just that—Garrick is back home, an' even Soap's gettin' his vacation.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't say anything.

The chair squeaked when Price leaned back against it. "As a matter of fact, it's my son's birthday this week. The missus might cook up a big feast; you're more than welcome to join."

“If ye need a clown, I’ll be sure to make time.”

Price exhales a long sigh. “Christ, son, you’ve got no life outside this place, do you?”

“’fraid not, sir.”

Shaking his head in resignation, Price waved his hand dismissively. “Well, you may go,” he said.

Ghost was about to do just that, turning around and reaching for the doorknob, when Price called him again. "One more thing. They're renovating yer office tomorrow, so you'll need to move yer stuff to the west wing."

“The army’s got money to spend, don’t they?” Ghost grumbled beneath his balaclava.

A chuckle from the older man as he opened the box where his precious cigars were kept. He tore the tip with his teeth, casually spitting it out onto the floor, then toasted the foot of the cigar with his torch lighter. The smell of tobacco wafting in the air tempted Ghost to reach for his cigarette pack, considering smoking a few before heading to bed.

“Aye, that they do, lad,” Price affirmed, eyes following the movement of his lieutenant as he opened the door to step out. "That they do."

The next day, Ghost did what Price had told him to do the night before—packing up his things and moving into his temporary office in the west wing. He has very few personal belongings, so his main concern was the pile of ring binders and the stack of overdue paperwork scattered across his desk. There was also a box of his old medals in the corner, as well as more boxes he couldn't remember the contents of. He realized he might have more stuff than he had initially thought. Ghost begrudgingly admitted that he was fortunate enough to have an extra pair of helping hands.

Even if the helping hands were John Mactavish, who was still brimming with energy thanks to his recent trip to Malaga, bloody Spain.

“Och! Bloody great it was. Ya shoulda seen the Spanish babes on the beach, beauties. It was like they cuid smell a Scotsman a mile away. They were all over me, LT!”

Ghost hoisted up one of the heavier box, barely paying attention to Johnny's incessant chatter. "Hard to imagine," he said, uninterested.

“Ach, ye jealous, Ghost? Canae blame ya, really, it was like a slice o’ paradise. Sun on me back, a cauld beer in me hand, an’ a gaggle o’ lassies ol around me. An’ the food? Bloody incredible. Ajoblanco, Gazpacho, ol theim Spanish dishes ye cuid imagine. Next time, yer comin’ along wi’ me, mate. Maybe ye’ll finally get a proper tan!”

“You'll get a tan too if they burn you at the stake, Johnny,” Ghost quipped, holding out his hand. “Pass me that box.”

The sergeant handed him a date-labeled box. "I'm tellin' ye, a vacation wuid dae ya guid. Might make ye less moody," he persuaded, but when Johnny realized Ghost wouldn't provide him with a response, he continued, "Canae understand hou ye dae it, stayin' in the base ol the time. The second me feet hit solid ground, ol a want is to get home, find a nice pub 'at ainae full o' the lads from base, have a pint or two.”

“There’s nothin’ for me out there.”

It wasn't an exaggeration, nor was it a devaluation—it was simply the truth. Another mission accomplished was another layer of him to shed; it made him feel reptilian, unfit for society. There was once a time when he attempted to pretend: renting a flat despite his absence, pushing a trolley through aisles full of families and crying infants. In the past two years, he had come to accept who he is—a bestial being, truly belonging in the only place where violence and aggression reigned supreme. The military.

“Aye, a know ye’re rubbish at makin’ friends,” The sergeant taunted him with a light jab. When Ghost stayed silent, guilt tugged on Johnny's bleeding heart, prompting him to add, “Just tryin’ tae help.”

“Ye’re helpin’ with the boxes.”

Ghost's biceps clenched and strained as he lifted the two big boxes from the room and carried them to his new office in the west wing. The room has big, curtainless windows that allowed in sunlight and a fresh paint smell. He returned to where Johnny was to retrieve the rest of his belongings.

The two ended up in the middle of the hallway, with Johnny carrying the final boxes.

“This is the last o' them,” The Scotsman said, passing the boxes over to Ghost.

Taking them, Ghost nodded his head. “Appreciate it.”

“And, ah, here ya go, LT. Looks like ye left yer wee friend behind.” Johnny extended his hand, unclenching his fist to reveal the gaunt figure of a skeleton keychain.

A halt in his actions, his breathing, his thoughts, and his heartbeat. Usually perceptive, Johnny failed to read him this time; instead, he pushed the solitary bone friend into Ghost’s fist and, without him realizing it, forced his fingers to close around it. Ghost barely registered Soap's words or the light punch on his shoulder before the sergeant walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his bare hand, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. He opened his fists with greater caution than someone who had stepped on a mine, the hollow socket of his skeleton friend glaring back at him. Being on the other end, Simon wonders if this is how people feel when they face him, if the bones and emptiness in between remind her of him; thus, a woman in the past bought this for him.

Oh, and it taunted him spitefully. Two years of his attempts to pretend (Christ, now that he put it that way, it sounded more like he was a theater actor than a practical soldier) that it didn't happen—that she didn't exist and that what ended between them didn't end because, as he reasoned, nothing between them had ever begun—had come undone no more gracefully than pieces of shrapnel in arteries, over a keychain that wouldn't have been discovered for another year if not for some stupid renovations and Johnny's keen eye.

Simon stood there like a fool who had lost all sense of time, transported back to the last night he saw her. There she was, on her knees, gripping his hands and pleading, begging him to stay. And Simon remembered how he made her feel that night—how she made him feel after he closed the car door on her and drove away. Like the worst piece of trash in the whole bloody world, that’s what.

All because he was afraid. Of the love she's willing to give him, and the love he felt for her.

It would have been better if this keychain was her revenge tactic, her way of punishing him for the way he had treated her. But this wasn't that. This skeleton piece had been a harmless gift, given to him after a cold night together. Now, this was proof that no matter how far he ran, no matter how many times he had dreamed of her obscured face and acted like it didn’t bother him, it would always find a way to resurface when he least expected it.

Who is this cruel interloper?

If it is none other than himself, his guilt, but also his insistence on showcasing his unworthiness of love.

Lining up his suffering like an exhibition. Never afraid of the threatening edge of a gun, but a woman who gave her heart made him call it quits. Now he was disgusted by himself, as if he had never approved of his internecine way of living all this time.

Even so, no one could prove that he was a changed man. For he only dared to recognize the true weight of his guilt and regrets after a full one hundred and thirty days. For a man of his size, he was a coward.

And his heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing.

Often, he simplified remorse as inconsistency.

If he hurt and killed and felt heavy-hearted, it meant he was inconsistent in his actions and beliefs. It was this mindset that fueled his determination as he hunted down his former friends turned enemies—the same echo in his head as the sharp tip of his knife glided through the sleeping Washington’s carotid arteries and painted his dull white pillow red. He repeated that throughout his torture of Sparks at the Riley house before ending him, too.

There was no looking back for him, even after all that and Mexico. Guilt would get him nowhere, would make him no better man. There should be no gaps in a soldier, no weakness for the enemies to exploit. He murdered his own heart because he knew it would lead him to his death in this line of work.

But that woman... she wasn't an enemy. Nor was she a brainwashed friend turned family killer. She was just someone who loved him—who kissed his scars and wept over them, and maybe it hurt her more than it once hurt him.

So, he was left wondering. Was remorse still just an inconsistency? Because he had hurt her, and now he regretted it—longing for chances to turn back time, to change how things turned out? Is it really better to be a full-blown asshole than a half-good guy? Was it worth it to break her heart just because he was no longer able to feel his?

Tossing and turning in his bed, his glare burns holes in the guiltless ceiling. It seems that the month of July has been full of revelations for him. He used to believe that acting like he had no heart would make it true—that concealing his love would mean he didn't love at all. These are all basics that he should have known all along, but he only realized it now. He has his weaknesses (after all, what is a soldier without anything to threaten them with?), his gaps.

And that’s how she gets in, isn’t it?

That woman and her love, her vulnerability. Her ability to present herself bare to him, exposing herself like a cadaver during an autopsy despite knowing that he lacks the forte to be kind or preserve the things he loved. Her ability to say his name so beautifully, warmly—full of wanting and longing for him.

As if what was between the two of you was a pretty fair trade.

Simon said her name, the air of the dark room carrying the echo of his voice everywhere. Then, he compared his memory of the way she said his. Simon, Simon. A winner had been found. Her and her love, her vulnerability—weakness and gaps, yet for all that she would always be forever braver than he.

His ballerina.

You.

Simon Riley doesn't look back, but his skeleton friend did. More like spinning around, desperately seeking solid ground while hanging from a chain attached to his head, hooked to the duffel bag Simon was carrying as he made his way to his truck parked away from the other vehicles.

On his way, he passed Price, who appeared to have just gotten out of his own vehicle, a mediocre cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Simon,” he acknowledged him.

“Captain,” Simon replied curtly.

Price glances down at Simon’s duffel bag, then takes in his appearance—out of his service uniform and instead wearing a dark microfiber jacket and a plain black balaclava covering his face rather than the usual skull-painted one.

John nudges his chin towards him. “Goin’ somewhere?”

Ghost was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Thought about what you said.”

The corner of Price’s lips lifted into a smirk. “That’s good,” he gave Simon a firm pat on the shoulder, “Enjoy the outside world, eh?” then walked past him.

Simon paused, standing there listening to Price's footsteps becoming fainter. He resumed his steps toward his truck, unlocking it and tossing his duffel bag onto the passenger seat. The engine hummed after he turned the ignition, his hands firm on the wheel as he reversed out of the parking area.

Leaving the base, he insisted he had no destination in mind. He was just driving his car along the road, and he was considering making a few stops, perhaps at a restaurant or a petrol station along the way.

But as he continued, passing by a restaurant and another petrol station, his truck naturally found its way onto a route he knew so well. When his windscreen revealed the view of the road he had frequently driven in those two years, with the same tree line on the sides that he had seen a million times before, he could no longer pretend about where he wanted to be.

It wasn't to stop for a quick meal or to refuel his tank. This was the path taken by a man full of regrets for all that he had taken for granted in his life.

For every word spoken and unspoken, for every prematurely lifted touch. For every moment he missed out on telling her how much of a liar he was to her, but mostly to himself—and that, God, darlin’, I love you so much, but he was fucking scared, a little too stupid and too prideful to admit it. And now, he’s paying for it all. He’s paying with every second spent carrying this unmet void inside of him, paying with him severing himself from the society, thinking it’ll make him forget her. Paying with every silence surrounding him, even as he turns up the radio.

Though he wasn't entirely sure of what he sought in London, he still set off on the trip anyway.

Upon reaching the metropolitan city, the first thing that greeted him was a massive billboard with the face and album title of a musician he had never listened to. The rest of the view was a blend of modernist and art deco buildings. He stopped at a red light, watching a pedestrian cross the street, followed by another who quickly went into the subway system's entrance. Like a keen observer, he is, or perhaps a man in need of a distraction.

Due to his lack of a place to stay, he rented a room in a nondescript 2-star hotel and ate dinner at a small, uncrowded restaurant. He smoked a cigarette in the beige glow of the sidewalk lamp before getting into his car.

On the second day, he stayed in the cheap bed until noon, went out for a quick lunch, then returned to the hotel to shower and put on the closest thing to a “normal,” inconspicuous outfit he could manage. That meant ditching his usual leather jacket and hoodie—the only thing he could keep on was his black propylene mask. Didn’t want people calling the authorities on him for being a “suspicious individual.”

Simon drives straight to the Metropolitan Opera, checking his appearance once more in the rearview mirror before getting out of his car. He walked up the stairs, and as he reached the entrance, the usher asked him for his physical ticket or e-ticket, whichever he had. Immediately, he pulled out his smartphone and held it up, waiting silently with tense shoulders as the usher scanned the QR code.

Once he gets “You’re good to go, sir,” Simon enters the hall and heads to his seat. The second he settles in, he feels like a fucking disturbance—either because of his height despite him already sitting, his masked face, or because he’s shaking his knees. Fucking hell. He tries to lean back and cross his arms, but it’s the bloody title of the ballet that’s got him all worked up.

Swan Lake. When he got the idea (and the audacity) of coming here, he just browsed the opera website and clicked on Swan Lake. Didn’t really read the details or anything, just paid for his ticket and hoped for the best. He knew the story—from her, of course—the love story of a swan girl and a prince, who, if he remembered correctly, ended their lives. Tragic, yet she called it romantic.

A faint smile flitted across his lips as the memory came back to him, but it was short-lived when he remembered two years had passed since then. He was two years too late. Exhaling a subtle sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, preparing himself for the headache that was sure to come.

As the light dims and then darkens the room, his heart begins to race. The orchestra begins their first score, and he's unable to tear his gaze away from the stage, waiting. For her. He doesn't want to miss her when she walks through the curtain, most likely dressed in a swan costume. Again, he didn't know much about the production—not the order or the storyline, even when it’s presented on the brochure he got from the usher—but he didn't care. All he knows is that he’s waiting for her.

The woman from two years ago—the one he met under the merciless London pour, exchanging overshared information, with him sharing more than he would usually over drinks. He made sure she got home safely before letting himself see her a second, third, fourth, countless times—

A flute opened the first music. Simon took a deep breath.

—the woman he spun in a romantic dance at someone else's wedding reception—

The orchestra volume swelled; next to him, a couple whispered that “it’s about to begin.” Simon sat on the edge of his seat.

—the one he held in the warmth of his arms until the sun chased away the darkness of dawn.

The swan girl glides onto the stage. And his heart sank.

It wasn't her.

It was another woman. It wasn't her.

The orchestra drums hit a loud, thunderous note as Simon hunches over in his seat, holding his head in his hands. The tension pain in the nape of his neck—the same one his old therapist used to tell him about—is throbbing, the veins around his temples popping and straining against his skin. Jaw locked, he tried to process and accept the fact that it wasn't her—that the woman he knew two years ago might not be the same person anymore because it's been two bloody fucking years.

Fuckin’ hell, he knew her as a ballerina—his rational mind told him she might have just missed work and someone else had to take her place, but it was also possible she might have left that life behind and moved on to something she felt was better for her.

Her... leaving the thing she loved the most?

But, Simon did that too. So, he doesn't know what's impossible.

He stayed for the entire performance, hopeful that maybe—just maybe—she will appear as one of the dancers. But as the final curtain falls, her face was nowhere to be seen.

On the third day, he found himself outside her old flat—the one he used to visit all the time. From the exterior, the building looked the same as it always did, but he knew two years was enough time for changes to happen. He couldn’t waltz in there without confirming that, yes, indeed, she was still living here.

So, Simon parked his car across the street and waited. Hours went by, and he was still here—only leaving to grab some to-go lunch and finishing it in the car, using the nearest bathroom in the bookstore on the sidewalk if he needed to. Otherwise, he was practically holding his bladder, barely drinking any liquids, just so he didn’t pass anyone coming and going from that building.

The hollow socket of his skeleton friend “stared” at him in disappointment. Simon turned it away to avoid the burn of its glare.

All day, he was there and she was still nowhere to be found.

After extending his stay at that arse hotel, he did the same thing next day – sitting in his car, watching the comings and goings of that flat, like it's some bloody recon mission.

On the fourth day, he finally confirmed it—she was no longer living there.

Slamming his glass down on the counter, he signaled the bartender to serve him another. The young lad complied, didn’t ask any questions—just as Simon preferred—and poured him another glass of his poison of choice. In a tight grip, Simon slightly tilted the glass, the amber liquid swirling inside before he downed it all in one go. A thud, though this time he abandoned his glass rather than asking for another.

It seemed as if he was intently staring at the non-interesting swirl of the old wood, but in reality, his mind was elsewhere. Her.

Searching for her everywhere like a lovesick boy, but worse. And what could be worse than a lovesick boy if not a man full of regrets? He rubbed his face, hoping to dispel the heaviness on his skin. Whatever was weighing down on him persisted. He took a deep breath, but the heavy anchor at the bottom of his ribs remained unmoved.

Perhaps he chose the wrong approach, perhaps the wrong drink too. Should’ve opted for something that would burn his thoughts rather than enhance them, because now the memory-version of her seemed more vivid than ever. She's consuming him, tearing him apart from the inside—right where she's always resided without his permission. Inside his heart.

The cold heart that he always fooled Johnny with.

That woman... she wasn't the ballerina he was supposed to be watching on that stage, and she no longer lived in that flat. She's truly moved on then. It's been two years, he chastised himself. It's been two years, and he's still here.

Sitting in this pub, he wonders what the hell she’s doing with her life now. Did she get a better job? Is she with another man now? One who can love her openly, without the complications and the bloody mess Simon is?

Perhaps she has become that happy family he often eyed in the grocery store. Perhaps-

Simon’s breath caught in his throat as he finished that thought.

Perhaps she is now a mother to a child that isn't his. He always knew she was capable of that soft life. Unlike him. That once was a rose-colored dream for him, one that he eventually had to bury deep because the thought of “family” meant crimson to him—the recollection of a gory Christmas day. It would always be “in another life” for him. In another life, he would have that family with her.

But her? She didn't have to wait for anything for it. She could have it right now or probably did already. Whereas he had fucked everything up—lost the only woman he ever truly loved. It was the something rotten inside of him.

It was there in that old pub that he realized that the worst-case scenario wasn't finding her and not receiving her forgiveness.

No.

The true horror is not finding her at all.

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[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Doc belongs to @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

[worms-for-brains]

What I mean by my previous post.