#cod:mw2 au

[bitchin-beskar]

the taste of scotch and cigars - chapter two

Rating: M

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!Reader

Warnings: relatively light for this chapter in terms of sexy content, but I'm keeping the M rating for the story. fake dating trope, but make it marriage instead, hints of exhibition kink, hints of voice kink, absolute fucking douchebag of an ex, mentions of cheating, descriptions of an abusive relationship.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: once again I am thirsting for Captain John Price. I have been thinking about this story nonstop, and I've finally had the motivation to write more for it! I was originally going to make this a much slower burn, but I am impatient so we will be getting to the sexy times much faster than expected. in the meantime, enjoy this chapter!

Oh.

Well, if you weren’t flustered before, you certainly were now.

Your teeth began to worry your lower lip out of nervousness, and your stranger, John, stepped closer, letting go of your hand to bring his thumb up, gently pulling the flesh of your lip from between your teeth.

“None’a that, love,” he murmured, his eyes going dark in a predatory kind of way that made your breath stutter. “There we go.”

God, this man made it damn near impossible for you to think, every sense you had consumed by the gorgeous specimen of perfection in front of you. Seriously, there was no way he could be real.

He seemed reluctant to separate from you, and before you could try to contrive some way to ask for his number or something out of pure desperation, he offered you that out.

“Have you eaten, princess?”

You shook your head. You’d been too nervous to eat for tonight, and then at the bar all you’d had were your vodka sodas, something you’d be sure to regret in the morning if you didn’t try to offset the incoming hangover with food.

“If you just wanna go home, I understand, but if you’re interested, I know a place not too far with some pretty good grub.”

It took you a few tries to respond, but you finally managed it, a semi-steady “alright,” making it’s way past your lips as he grinned and gently took you by the elbow and began to steer you down the street once again.

A comfortable kind of silence fell over the two of you as you walked. You took in the area, having been far too frazzled to really pay attention on your way to the pub this afternoon. You’d only been living here for a few months, and there was still a lot you had to get used to. Liverpool wasn’t large, but it was still a stark difference from the southern United States, where you’d been raised.

John’s hand left your elbow, but before you had a chance to mourn it’s loss, his palm settled in the small of your back, just the slightest bit of pressure to direct you, but not any more. You could feel the heat of his skin through your shirt, like a brand. Not for the first time, you wondered what the hell was going on with tonight. Everything felt like a fever dream, and you were half afraid you’d wake up in your bed to find it had all been conjured up by your mind. You decidedly did not think about how devastated you’d be if that were true.

The small little hole-in-the-wall John was taking you to came into view as you rounded the corner. It looked… well, charming, for lack of a better word. You weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting, but this looked like the kind of place you’d try on your own, just because it looked interesting.

John held the door open for you and you ducked inside, taking in the cozy atmosphere. Like the outside suggested, it wasn’t a very large place, maybe half a dozen tables and the same amount of booths, and a bar along one wall. The exposed brick walls and exposed wooden rafters gave the whole restaurant a rustic feel, and soft strains of guitar music floated down from the speakers. John led you towards a booth at the back, the two of you sliding onto the plush, well worn leather seats opposite each other. In the soft golden lighting of the lamp over your booth, you could admit that your earlier estimation of John’s apperance wasn’t quite accurate. The man embodified pure sin, the kind of beauty the preachers in church swore that only angels could achieve, which meant John Price, mortal as he was, couldn’t be anything but the Devil.

You might’ve argued that he could’ve been an angel in human form, but no angel would’ve kissed you the way he did not even half an hour ago.

The waitress wandered over, grinning and greeting John by name. He responded in kind, asking her how she was and how her degree at university was going, and it brought a small smile to your lips. How people treated servers and other wage workers was usually a good measure of character, and you were pleased to see that John Price was the kind of man to treat them like his equals.

The waitress–Clare, she’d said her name was–asked for your order, and John looked to you for a brief moment. You gestured for him to order for the both of you.

“I trust you know what’s good here?”

Clare chuckled, and John looked a little sheepish. “He’s here enough to,” she said, laughing. “I’ll bring out the usual. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

As she walked back towards the kitchen, you looked to John to see his eyes on you with a soft look on his face. “If you don’ mind me askin’, what’s the story with that prick at the pub?”

You let your head tip back, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips. “That, John, is a long story.”

“I don’ got anywhere else ta be, love.”

You weren’t sure what it was, but something about this man made you want to tell him what had happened. Something told you he’d be a good listener, something you were honestly in desperate need of. Maybe it was the lingering effects of vodka. Maybe it was the sincerity that laced his voice. It didn’t really matter in the end, as you opened your mouth.

“I grew up in Bumfuck Nowhere, USA,” you started, a wry grin crossing your lips. “We had about 250 kids at my high school. My graduating class was about 40 kids, if that gives you any idea of how small the town was. Everybody knew everybody, which was more a curse than a blessing, if I’m honest.”

Clare came back out with waters and a basket of chips while you were talking, and you paused to take a small sip.

“I’ve known Christian my entire life. Pretty sure my momma decided she wanted him as a son-in-law when we were still in diapers. She spent my entire childhood pushin’ the two of us together, and I swear when he asked me out right at the start of high school, she damn near started crying. Went ‘round tellin’ everybody her little girl was datin’ the Christian Abraham Beauregard III.”

You stopped when John abruptly choked on his water, coughing roughly into the crook of his elbow. You winced when he pinned you with an incredulous stare.

“Come again?”

“You heard me,” you said, shrugging. “The Beauregards founded our town, and damn near everybody worshipped the ground they walked on. I cannot tell you how many nasty notes I got in my locker and jealous stares I received when it got around I was goin’ steady with Christian. We dated through high school, and he proposed after graduation.”

Your voice was bitter with old pain. You’d wasted so many years trying to make everybody around you happy, and all it did was make you miserable. You’d never had a plan for after graduation, not because you hadn’t wanted one, but because you’d been told over and over that once you married Christian, you’d be expected to stay at home and do whatever he required of you. You didn’t need a university degree to be a good housewife. You’d tried so hard to force yourself to be happy with that.

“We were married for two years. I was fuckin’ miserable. He was always gone for work, there’d be days that went by where I didn’t see him. I couldn’t do anything right. I didn’t clean enough, my cooking was shit, I was a bore in bed, I didn’t tell him I loved him enough, the list went on.”

You paused to take a drink of your water to try and calm yourself down from the familiar fury that had risen up in you. Christian had always had a way of getting under your skin, and it infuriated you even now, all these years later.

To your surprise, John reached out and grabbed your hand before you could pull it back from your glass and place it back on your lap. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, gently soothing away your ire. How exactly a man you’d met not even a full hour ago had managed to find such an easy way to calm you down and settle your heart was lost to you. He looked like he wanted to interject, but he held his tongue, merely nodding at you as a gesture for you to continue.

“Then, one day, I’d been out running errands but I had to stop at home because I realized I’d forgotten my phone. I walked into our bedroom to see Christian-” you spit the name with venom dripping from your tongue, eyes blazing with fire. “-balls deep in my best fucking friend. Who was wearing my lingerie, if the rest wasn’t bad enough.”

John growled, the sound low and rough in his throat. It startled you slightly, hearing him make a sound so inhuman. And yet, you weren’t scared. Quite the opposite, in fact. You wanted to know how that growl would feel with his mouth pressed to your skin, his teeth sinking into your flesh, if he’d feel more animal than man.

You shook yourself from the daydream. “I divorced him, to the horror of damn near everybody. My mama was furious with me. All the gossipy old birds tutted and shook their heads at me, shaming me for darin’ to go against the Bible’s teachings and leave the bastard. My friends, if you could even call them that, all sided with Christian over me. My grandmama was the only one who was ever on my side, but she’d been in the hospital with a broken hip, so she couldn’t do much.”

You paused, needing to take a second to shove down the old hurt from being abandonded by essentially everyone in your life in one fell swoop. To your horror, your eyes are starting to water, and you roughly swipe at them with your free hand.

“Hey.”

You focus back on John as he gently grabs your attention. There’s a furrow in his brow, and he looks both heartbroken and furious at the same time. But surprisingly, there’s no pity. Whenever people have asked, or inadvertedly learned some facet of your life’s story, there’s always pity in their eyes. It’s something that endlessly frustrates you, and eventually you just stopped telling people altogether. But in John’s gaze, there’s nothing but understanding, and it throws you.

“You don’t have ta keep goin’ if ya don’t want to, love.”

God, could this man get any more perfect? Honestly, this is only cementing the idea in your head that somehow, someway, John Price is a figment of your imagination, because such a perfect man can’t possibly exist in real life.

“Ah, s’alright, John,” you say with a wry smile. “Figure you deserve an explanation for being acosted and propositioned by a stranger in a pub on a random Friday night.”

“Well, it’s certainly been a more interesting start to a weekend than I’ve had in a while.”

You snort, not expecting that from him. He chuckles with you, and as the two of you pull yourselves back together, Clare arrives with your food. She’s brought fish and chips, as well as bangers and mash. She sets the food down, and your stomach grumbles a bit at the delicious smells. Still, you give John a bit of a look.

“So you’re a proper Brit, huh?”

He gives you a wicked grin. “Proper isn’t usually a word used to describe me, love.”

Fuck, this man’ll be the death of you.

You take a break from the impromptu trauma-dumping you’ve been subjecting John to in order to eat, and damn if he wasn’t right in saying that this little pub had good food.

“This might be some of the best food I��ve had in the UK so far, John.”

He scoffed at that. “Clearly you’ve not been havin’ good experiences then. I’ll have to recommend some more places to ya’.”

A pleasant little buzz swirled low in your belly. Maybe that means you’ll see more of him? Maybe some how you haven’t managed to scare him off with your fucked up life story so far. Small mercies.

After taking a bite of his own food, John fixes you with a look. “So, how’d a southern belle like you end up in fuckin’ Liverpool of all places?”

You couldn’t stop the bark of laughter at his incredulous tone. “Quite the change, isn’t it? After the absolute disaster that was my divorce, I couldn’t stay in that little town. Every single person knew what’d happened, and not a single one aside from grandmama was on my side. I was drowning.”

You paused to take another sip of your water. “I needed an out. I needed an escape. And then I saw an ad for an international student sponsorship program in the UK, and it was like a sign from the Lord Himself. Offering a full ride to international students if they attended UCL and then joined the workforce in the UK for a minimum of five years. Best damn decision I ever made.”

John furrowed his brows. “I’d imagine it’s mighty difficult to transfer credits, ‘n all that.”

You laughed bitterly. “Didn’t need to transfer shit. I wasn’t allowed to go to uni in the states. I had to fight to get my momma to let me get my damn high school diploma. Apparently, Christian had wanted to propose even earlier, and she was all for it, but I wanted that diploma. I’d earned it. But higher education? A housewife doesn’t need that. Don’t need a fancy degree to play house, and that’s the only career I’d ever been told I was allowed to have.”

The look on John’s face was explosive. “Tha’s fuckin’ bullshite,” he growled, and again, the tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine, in the best way. “It ain’t up to them. ‘S your life.”

His words damn near made you start crying again. How is it that this man understood you better than every single person in your stupid little town that you’d grown up in? They’re the ones who’d known you for near two decades, and yet, the image of you they wanted to believe in was about as far from reality as one could get.

“That’s a small, southern town for ya,” you muttered, twisting a napkin between your fingers. “Backwards and misogynistic and fuckin’ racist.” You paused. “Well, not always. There are plenty ‘o towns that are jus’ fine in the South, filled with wonderful people. I just wasn’t lucky enough to be born in one of them.”

John nodded sagely. “Tha’s true of damn near everywhere, love. For every good person, seems like there’s four bad, unfortunately.”

You shook your head. “Anyways, I grabbed what little belonged to just me, and left town as soon as I could. I had a small amount of savings from doin’ odd jobs for the neighbors, and it was enough to pay the fee to apply to UCL. I don’ know how, but I got in on the sponsorship, and I was on the first plane outta the states I could get. I got here broke as hell, with half a suitcase to my name, but for the first time ever, I’d felt like I was in charge of my own future, you know?”

The look he gave you was so tender it just about broke your heart. “Oh, princess,” he sighed, reaching out with one hand, palm up. He waited until you placed your hand in his, fingers brushing across a calloused palm before he continued. “You always should’a been allowed that choice. I’s a damn shame you weren’t. But the fact that you were strong enough to break free? It speaks volumes. I don’ gotta wonder how you got into UCL. They’d’ve been fools to reject ya.”

You covered your mouth with your free hand, trying desperately to hold back the sobs. “I swear I’m not usually this emotional,” you protested shakily, trying to wrest back control. “Shit.”

John abruptly stood up from the booth, not letting go of your hand.

“C’mere,” he said gruffly, tugging you to your feet and into his arms. You went willingly, letting him wrap you up in a strong embrace. One arm banded around your waist, pressing you tightly against his chest as his hand settled low on your hip. The other hand came up to cradle the back of your head as you buried your face in the hollow of his throat. Your fingers twisted in that light blue henley that felt so damn soft under your touch. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, and just held you.

Giving up the fight, you let some of your tears fall, letting the old pains and sorrow that tonight had resurrected fade away. The last time you’d been hugged like this had been when your daddy was still alive, but he’d died when you were just a little girl, and it’d been so long since you’d felt that same safety and comfort you’d felt in his arms.

“I mean every word I’ve said, love,” John whispered into your hair. “Every damn one. I work with some o’ the toughest bastards you’ve ever seen, and you’ve got every single one’a them beat. You’re one o’ the strongest women I’ve ever met, survivin’ what you have. Don’ let anyone tell you any different.”

The conviction in his voice stunned you. Once again, you were struck by the thought that maybe you’d fallen and hit your head and were in some kind of hallucinatory dream state. People like John Price didn’t exist outside of the pages of romance novels, and there was no way you were lucky enough to stumble into the physical embodiement of the kind of man you’d dreamt about rescuing you from your sad, pathetic life for years.

It was a foolish hope you’d held during your brief marriage and the tumultuous divorce. That a knight in shining armor would come to sweep you off your feet and take you away from everything bad in the world. Eventually, you’d decided that you couldn’t wait for a wish upon a star, and had taken the steps to save yourself. And you’d done it. You’d made it. You’d become more than what they’d planned for, but somehow you’re still having trouble believing you’ve come across the exact kind of man who would’ve saved you, if given half the chance.

You held on tightly for a few seconds more, letting yourself relish in being held in what you could imagine was a loving embrace. Then you took a step back, wiping at your eyes as you tried desperately not to let your embarrassment show.

“You’re probably the kindest man I’ve ever met, John Price.”

He smiled down at you, his own eyes bright. “Nothin’ less than what you deserve, princess. Now, c’mon an’ finish the rest o’ the story.”

You both took a seat again, and it took you a few seconds to remember where you’d left off and what question you were actually answering.

“Uh, yeah, so I went to UCL, worked my ass off, and managed to get my degree in two and a half years. I spent another half a year with the university as a teaching assistant, before my professor gave me a job recommendation for a consulting firm out here. I’d been living in dorms, so I didn’t have much. Makes moving easy when you haven’t set down roots. I found a small flat overlooking the river, and started at my job. I’ve only been in Liverpool for about six months now.”

John shook his head. “You’re goddamn incredible, you know that?”

You felt your cheeks burn at the compliment, and took a sip of water to try and not make it obvious just how affect you were by his words.

“I’m serious. Fuckin’ incredible. The only thing I don’ get, is why the fuck your ex from Bumfuck Nowhere, USA is here. Can’ imagine Liverpool bein’ all that attractive of a tourist destination for a lil’ shit like him.”

You sighed. “It’s a stupid class reunion of all things. Was originally supposed to be a five year reunion that ended up getting cancelled because a bunch of them got sick. That’s the problem with living in a small town. When one person gets sick, the whole fuckin’ town gets sick. But Christian wanted to go all out, and sent out a big invite to our whole class, all 40 of us, declaring that he was funding a trip to Liverpool for the class reunion.” You shook your head. “Don’t know why Liverpool, my only guess is that he thinks it’s ‘exotic’ or some such bullshit. Most’ve them have never left the state, let alone the country.”

John scratched at his beard pensively. “Did he know you were in Liverpool?”

You felt dread pool in your gut, ice cold and terrifying. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that Christian could’ve chosen Liverpool because you were here. You just figured he was being a stupid, uneducated idiot, choosing a random city and country to fly to just because he could.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered. “I cut off all contact with everyone back home, but I didn’t exactly keep my plans a secret. My momma knew I was taking off to Europe. She still worships the ground Christian walks on, if he asked her, she’d absolutely tell him.”

John scowled. “Maybe he wants another chance?” But before he could even finish the thought, already you were shaking your head.

“Christian never loved me. I’m not sure he’s capable of it. But I was supposed to be his, we’d grown up hearing that, and when I divorced him, it was like taking away a toddler’s favorite toy. He threw some pretty epic tantrums in court.” You took a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me back because he missed me, or wants another chance. He just wants ‘what’s his’, or something else equally stupid, I’m sure.”

You ran your fingers through your hair, frustrated. “What the fuck am I going to do? They’re holding the damn reunion in the town I live in. Even if I didn’t go to the events, I’m sure they’ll find ways to fuckin’ harass me. And I can’t afford to take a vacation anywhere right now.”

John hummed in agreement, a thoughtful look on his face. He tapped his thick fingers against the rim of his water glass as he looked at you, and you felt very suddenly like you’d just let a fox in the henhouse.

“I’ve got a… proposition, love.”

You nodded slowly, suspiciously. “Go on?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “What’dya say we continue our performance from earlier? It’d be damn hard for him ta harass you into gettin’ back with him if you’ve got your husband with ya.”

[eowynstwin]

a wake-up call / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - “Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest. - ao3

Three knocks on your front door wake you up.

The sound feels at first like the thump of your own throbbing brain against the inside of your skull. Awareness comes back to you slowly, in gradiated shades of stiff joints and greasy skin. You shift, and find you’re still on your couch, still in your clothes from last night. Your eyes are filmy, sticky with dehydration—you blink several times to clear them, to little effect.

The knocking, a three-beat staccato, comes again.

“One second,” you croak irritably, cupping your forehead with your hand. Your skull might come apart, you think, if you move too much.

Your entire body feels like it is suspended from loose, tangled marionette strings as you struggle to sit up on the couch, and you wobble to that effect as you stand. Somehow, your flat has tilted at thirty degree angle, likely sometime in your sleep. You make it to the door at an oblique, having to lean on the jamb as you open it, and to add insult to injury John is standing on your doorstep like a clean, shining beacon of sobriety.

He’s in a dark shirt and jeans. His hair is casually neat, as if he’d styled it with his fingers. He looks fresh-faced, as if he’s been awake for hours already.

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

His brows draw together over cool blue eyes. “Jesus, love,” he says, looking you up and down.

You think you should say something back. But your head is too full of ache and interrupted sleep—and the bright shock of his presence—to produce anything intelligent.

“John,” is all you say, and you sound absolutely pathetic.

“Was gonna accuse you of standing me up,” he says ruefully, “but I see that’s not the case.”

“No,” you say dumbly. The fact that he’s come to seek you out gets tangled up in the strings. “Um.”

It is so far out of the ordinary as to be dreamlike. John’s knocking belongs on the other side of your wall, not your door. His boots belong on his own doorstep, making room for your house slippers at the time of your choosing, not his.

“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.

John gives that little huff-laugh of his. “I doubt it.”

You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”

“Just a bit,” he replies. “I’ll admit, when I didn’t hear you move around this morning, I got worried.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” you confess. You put a hand to your forehead as your brain throbs again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“Love,” says John, gentle and soft, “why don’t you let me in, and I’ll make you some breakfast?”

You blink, and you’re sure now that you’re still drunk. 

John. In your flat. Cooking?

“I’m not fancy in the kitchen, but I manage alright,” he suggests further. His gaze is warm on yours, brows lifted encouragingly.

“…Sure,” you say, and shuffle to the side to let him in. If this morning is determined to be strange, you might as well not get in its way.

He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold. 

Your flat shifts again; as he enters your living room, it seems to shrink, or maybe it’s just that John fills your home in a way no one ever has. His body, his presence, casts new light on the interior that throws its existence into unfamiliar repose. Details—the softness of your furniture, the cozy clutter of books and knickknacks spread across every available flat surface—offer unmeasured insight into who you are, more than you might ever have intended to reveal to John.

It’s only when he’s halfway to your kitchen that you realize one detail—the bright fucking pink of your vibrator, still on your coffee table—is glowing like a neon sign.

And your previous night’s activities come flooding back. 

Your body, draped over his. The scrape of his beard on your hand, your face. 

The furious grind of your mons against that toy as you pictured him taking you, drenched in hot shower water and pressed bare to the tile wall.

You are fully, painfully awake now. You stare, frozen in shocked terror, waiting for him to catch sight of it, but his head does not turn in its direction. He passes by it with no indication that he even noticed.

You dart over and snatch it behind his back, shoving it deep into your dress pocket, and grab up the empty water glass for an excuse. Then you have to put a hand to your head as your vision swims from the sudden movement.

“Have eggs?” John asks over his shoulder. He enters your kitchen. “I can make ‘em any way you like. Fried, over easy, sunny side…”

“Um,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, “scrambled.”

You follow after him, and lean against the wall to watch as he opens your fridge. His hand engulfs more of its handle than yours ever has; the musculature of his powerful body visibly shifts beneath his clothes as he has to bend down to root around the shelves.

He is broad in your kitchen. As broad as he’d been between your legs, in memory and in fantasy.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he straightens and puts the eggs, butter, and milk on the counter. Your breath hangs suspended in the shallows of your lungs when he catches your gaze.

His brows crease again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

“Um,” you say, again, because it’s the only sound your brain will reliably supply.

To your horror, he comes to you, and—oh, god—takes your face in both hands.

“You’re warm,” he says. “Do you feel sick, love?”

Your brain supplies nothing now. It is so unfair, how good he looks the morning after drinking nearly half a bottle of scotch. His features are velvet-soft, so easy and wonderful to look at that you stop feeling your headache entirely.

“I really think I might still be drunk,” you admit, sounding pathetic.

His thumbs rub into your temples as he smiles at you. “Hell of a hangover, then.”

The pressure of his fingers is an incredible relief, and you close your eyes as you give into it. You feel, if your knees suddenly gave out, that he would easily be able to hold you up like this, as if you weighed nothing. His hands are a little cool from rooting around in your fridge, and the rest of him is warm, standing close enough that his body heat reaches out to you with the freshness of a recent shower. You want to fall into that warmth, bury your face in his chest…

Your eyes fly open. You hear your own voice again—I wanted to touch you, and I wanted you to hold me. You feel, again, the echo of his body between your thighs. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest as embarrassment, hot and acidic, pumps through you.

“I think I need to sit down,” you whisper.

He strokes your temples, and surveys your face with a gentle gaze. “Sure, love. Go ahead.”

And then he releases you, and you try to remember how to walk as you return to your living room. There is no relief to be found as you sit down on your couch, which is indented by the dissatisfied night.

“How’d you sleep?” John asks from the counter. You hear him crack a few eggs into a bowl. This is the first time cooking has happened in your kitchen with you outside of it, and the cognitive dissonance of it does not help to steady you.

“Like the dead,” you say, rubbing your sore neck. Then, you decide to lie to him. “I—I think I passed out before the door even closed last night.”

John looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles. The vibrator sits cold in your pocket. Are you imagining that glimmer in his eyes? “Wouldn’t be surprised. You were pretty out of it.”

“I didn’t end up drinking the whole bottle, did I?”

A chuckle. “Not quite.”

“Didn’t you drink as much as me?” You try to recall, and think you can remember him matching you glass for glass. “Why aren’t you out of commission?”

“The army never cares if you’re hungover, I’ve found,” says John. “Guess I learned to stop caring too.”

You hear the sizzle of whisked eggs spreading over a hot pan, and for a while there’s only the sound of John moving a spatula around.

You watch him in your kitchen, his back to you as he stands at the stove. His long-sleeved shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, planes of shifting muscle underneath casting shadows through the soft cotton. The collar hangs a little low down his neck, leaving enough room for the dark hair at his nape to curl as it dries.

It makes something in your stomach twist, twinning your nervous hunger with unstable desire. It’s something that wants to walk back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his trim waist, press your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Want anything else?” John asks. “Could make some toast.”

“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.

The spatula scrapes softly against the pan again. As he turns to open your fridge, you swear you see him grinning. 

Heat blooms across your face. SAS. Of course he could feel you looking at him.

It does not take him very long to finish cooking. Space bends once again as he leaves your kitchen, as he comes to you with a plate balanced on one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. You feel smaller than you ever have as he approaches, and sets the meal in front of you on the coffee table. 

“Hope it tastes alright,” he says, sitting down beside you. He sinks into your couch cushions, far more dense than you are, and looks quite comfortable doing so. “I made ‘em how I like ‘em, but no guarantee you’ll feel the same.”

You look from him to the eggs, which are golden yellow and steaming pleasantly. “You didn’t make yourself anything?”

There is a softness in his eyes when you look back to him. You’ve seen it before—it’s there every time you hand him a new book. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just eat.”

You can’t protest when he’s looking at you like that, so you obey, suddenly ravenous once a forkful is between your teeth. The eggs are whipped to a wonderfully soft fluff, salted perfectly, and you think you can taste the barest hint of butter. You can’t help shutting your eyes to savor the taste.

“Good?” John asks. “I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, but I think I’m all right at eggs.”

Usually you like to add things when you make the same dish—potato chips, broken up into little crumbs, or a dollop of sour cream and salsa. For once though, right now you’d be disappointed by all that. 

They wouldn’t be the eggs John made for you.

The thought makes your stomach twist again. “Delicious,” you say. “Thank you.”

He watches you eat, and you try not to feel self-conscious. He seems almost—satisfied by this, by feeding you, more than you would expect him to be. But then, this has always been the case with John. You have never understood why the smallest of things you do have such an impact on him, but they do nonetheless.

“John,” you say. “About last night…I wanted to apologize.”

Dark brows crease as you set the empty plate down. “What for?”

“I got so drunk,” you say. You won’t look at him, face heating, strangling your own fingers in your lap. “You—you had to carry me home, and I’m so embarrassed by the things I said, I was so inconsiderate.”

“That’s not—”

“You must have felt so uncomfortable,” you continue, “you were so nice to take me out, and there I was acting like a lush with no self-control—”

“Darling, it’s fine—”

“And then after, the way I—I pawed at you—”

He says your name—fully and clearly, firmly—and it catches you so off guard that your words halt in your throat. You finally meet his gaze.

John’s eyes have always been windows. Portals into the truth of him, freely offered, without hesitance or fear. You think John knows himself in ways few men do—knows every corner, every crack and crevice, and refuses to hide any of it from himself or anyone else. As if he is not afraid of being seen for what and who he is; as if he has seen it all already, and cannot be daunted by it.

What you see now is undisguised. Untempered. John Price wants you. And he has no fear that you can see it.

“Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest.

The question catches you off guard, throwing you with its directness. The only thing keeping you upright is his gaze, the steady certainty of its own intention. Strong even under the weight of suspense. 

You swallow, and take a shaky breath. “John,” you say, “I was so drunk...”

His eyes flash. John moves, leans forward, and you are speared, held in place much the same way you had been at dinner, by his presence alone. “I know. But did you mean it?”

The breath trapped in your lungs calcifies, solidifies into hard, pressing nodules of catalyzed fear and desire that trap the seeds of any response in your chest. You tear your gaze away from him, finally, stare at the empty plate on your table. He does not touch you, but you feel the phantom weight of his hand on your knee. The warmth of his body against yours.

“We hardly know each other,” you whisper shakily. It is a flimsy scrap of an excuse, even to you. “We—we barely know each other at all.”

“Love,” John says, low and soft. You turn to look at him again. His lips part—

Your phone rings.

You exhale hard, strings suddenly cut. John closes his eyes, breathes out, and then leans back again.

You retrieve your phone from where you’d flung your purse last night, off the couch and to the opposite wall where it lays on the floor. When you see the caller ID, you want to throw the phone back across the room, but you take a deep breath and answer anyway.

“Ben,” you sigh, and to your furious embarrassment it comes out as a croak.

“Hey, sweets, Liv is—wait. You sound awful,” comes your coworker—and ex-boyfriend’s—voice through the earpiece.

“Rough night,” you say, closing your eyes against sweets. You then look at John. His gaze is fixed on you.

“Oh, sorry,” Ben says. “Anything I can do?”

He could have not called. “Tell me about Liv,” you prompt him.

“Right! She’s out. Flu.”

“Oh.” You blink, and watch John retrieve your plate and glass. He takes them to the kitchen and runs the faucet low, so the sound won’t interfere with your call. 

You’re not sure how you know that that’s his intention, but you do. 

“That’s awful.”

“And inconvenient. We need another instructor for the trip.”

Can John hear what Ben is saying? He looks up from the sink, lifts one brow when you meet his eyes. There’s humor there, a kind of rueful empathy for dealing with the nonsense of coworkers.

You want to hang up. You want to answer his question right then and there. 

“When?” you ask.

“Two hours. I know! I know it’s short notice,” he says, animatedly contrite. “Sorry. But we’d love to have you, it’ll be fun! I can even pick you up, if you like.”

“No, that’s alright,” you sigh. “But okay, I’ll start packing. Just send me the details, yeah?”

“Sure, sweets,” Ben replies, “can’t wait to see you! I’ve missed hanging out, you know? Even after…everything.”

The gravitational force of John’s presence—the shift and bend of your flat around him—snaps in half. Reality asserts itself like a recurring headache. 

Suddenly you’re in your flat, phone to your ear, unshowered from last night and coated in a layer of grease. The vibrator is a useless weight in your pocket. You are a useless girl hungover in day-old clothes.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say noncommittally, and hang up.

John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.

“Work trip,” you say, and you wonder if you sound as dazed as you feel. “Last minute, I…I need to get ready.”

John blinks, and then grins, amused. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I’m usually the one in that situation.”

Suddenly he is too much to look at. You tear your gaze away, look at your phone in your hands. You feel very exposed, ashamed somehow. “I’m sorry,” you say.

You hear the easy drum of John’s boots out of your kitchen, across the room, and then he’s in front of you. His hands are in his pockets, arms slung loose at his sides. “What for?”

“For…”

He steps closer to you. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you have to look up at him, unable to resist the pull he has on you.

The line of his mouth is gentle, and you stare too long at the divot of his Cupid’s bow. Beneath the soft lines of his brows, his gaze is soft, fond. More so than you deserve.

“I don’t really know.”

The long muscle in his neck shifts as he tilts his head. You swallow, unconsciously mirroring the gesture.

“John…I…”

His gaze drops—rests on your lips, and returns to yours.

“Love,” he murmurs, low and humming. “Did you mean it?”

His voice slides across you like physical touch, and every hair feels like it’s standing on end.

Yes. Yes, of course you meant it, every word. It feels so obvious to you, so blatant, and the shame of it holds you by the throat. You are not important enough to inflict upon John Price. You are trembling, meek, afraid of stepping outside your own door sometimes. What is that in comparison to him? Him, who comes home shaking off the dust of places you’ve only ever heard of. Him, who you’ve learned can swear in six different languages. Him, who has stuffed more life than you thought possible into only a handful more years of living than yours.

Of course you want him. Moths are always drawn toward flame. How could you not?

“John,” you say in your smallest voice. You hate the way it sounds—like an admission of guilt. “What if I did?”

He doesn’t move, but you see the shift in him anyway. A coiling, almost,  energy banking as he studies you, searches your face. His hands remain in his pockets. He watches you for a long moment, and you can’t possibly imagine what he might like in what he sees.

“Ball’s in your court, then,” he finally says, soft and low in his chest. “Whatever you want from me, love, you can have.”

You want too much. You can’t give enough back.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” you say on a shallow breath. “Our—us. What we already have.”

He steps closer to you. Close enough that his shirt brushes the front of your dress. Close enough that his clean, soft warmth near-envelops you, the exact same way you’d been wishing for earlier. He does not reach out, like he did when he thought you were sick. You cannot decide if this disappoints you or not. You feel shaky without his hands on you, feverish and embarrassed, and you fear desperately that he can see that as he holds your gaze, that you are completely open to him in a way that leaves no space for the truth to hide. 

“You won’t,” he says, steady and solid.  

You take a trembling breath, swallow to clear your throat. “I…”

He withdraws one hand from his pocket, slowly, and brings it upward. Feather-light, he curls his index finger under your chin, caressing his thumb so terribly gently beneath your bottom lip. You cannot help flinching, anticipatory want recoiling from the very thing it was aching for in surprise, and for a split second you are newly scared that he’ll take his touch away.

But he doesn’t. The windows of John’s eyes stay open, and there is nothing but intent behind them. You realize he knows. He knows that you’re reluctant, that you’re unsure, that you are pulled to him like a falling star to earth and also terrified of burning up in the process. 

He understands.

“I’m a patient man, love,” he purrs, and you realize too that he is excited by this, by you. “I can wait. As long as you need.”

next

[celenawrites]

After Hours: CH1 — Another Work Day

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Chapter Summary -

Just another day at work with your unique team.

Read on AO3? | Masterlist | Navigation

As you put up the final poster of your missing dog near a park, you ruefully recall how this wretched week had begun. 

You were two months clean of your no-good, chauvinist manwhore of an ex when you decided to leave your beloved golden retriever behind at your empty one-room apartment as you set off for a long commute to work. Granted, your life has become lonelier than usual with the remnants of your estranged partner scattered around the space - like his red toothbrush in the bathroom stand, the ukulele still hung up on your cream walls, or the crystal ashtray he used whenever he decided to smoke a cigar and set off the smoke alarms in the small (you prefer to call it ‘cozy’, despite his many protests) living room, forcing you to open up the windows and air out your room, hoping that the neighbors don’t lodge a complaint against you in the RWA.

But you have set up a routine, which is not perfect by any means - yet you make do with it. It also helps that your dog Butters is just an absolute ray of sunshine, always up for a walk and playing fetch to cheer you up whenever you get off work. After a long day of work, playing with him was all you had been looking forward to - until you noticed your ajar door and felt your world come to a standstill. Fearing the worst, you burst inside and frantically check around for any stolen valuables you may have to report to the police. So much for a chill night after work. 

Luckily, it had seemed no one had broken in and you had just forgotten to lock your doors in your hurry to catch the morning train. But the silence and the lack of your furry friends sets off alarm bells in your head. You quickly call out his name, hoping to catch a glimpse of that golden fur, but to no avail. Frantic, you rush out of your apartment as you yell for your companion. When you fail to locate him anywhere in your block, you resort to asking your neighbors in case any one of them had spotted him throughout the day. Some of them are peeved at you disturbing them, but they’re quick to pity your dejected figure, tears welling up in your eyes as the day catches up to your weary body. 

With aching legs, you make your way to the park you often frequented with Butters and in the plethora of crowd of people and pets alike, you attempt to search for your dear doggo and it is all in vain. With defeat weighing you down, you quickly dial for the police and lodge a report for your missing friend. Noting down your case number and the names of the staff in-charge, you sluggishly go back home and prepare a half-hearted dinner of heated frozen pizza, which you eat with virtually no appetite to satiate and go to sleep on the hard couch with swollen eyes and a migraine blooming between your temples as the empty bedroom still haunted you with not-so-fond memories. 

A week has passed since then, with no plausible leads to Butter’s whereabouts. The cops have even suggested you give up and get a replacement for him, which just made you all the more angrier at their blatant apathy. With each passing day, you lose your hopes of ever reuniting with your beloved fur baby; but you hope for Butters to be alright, wherever he is. 

Whoever has him, please take care of my baby, you silently wish as you stare at the blank screensaver on your desktop, activated due to your prolonged inactivity. Snapping out of your thoughts, you quickly press on the spacebar thrice until the Excel spreadsheets are visible again. Sighing at the banal tasks assigned to you, you quickly check your phone for any texts. Family and friends and classmates you occasionally stay in touch with;they all have texted you something or the other - a greeting, a link, a meme. And then there’s your ex, who has left you ‘on seen’ after you texted him to come and grab his box of belongings two weeks after your breakup. Whether it is because he is in denial over you growing a spine and breaking up with him when you caught him cheating, or because he believes that you would come crawling back to him and beg him to grace your life with his presence(which is a tempting thought that you frequently entertain, especially during lonely nights when you crave rough hands to caress you into a lull), you do not know and you don’t have enough fucks in order to find out either. 

“How’s my bonnie doin’?” a familiar Scottish voice asks, and you whip up your head to find Mactavish standing in front of your desk, all sunshines and smiles and mohawks as he greets you. 

“Hey Johnny, I’ve been better”, you rub the sleep from your eyes as you look at him with a slow smile of yours. John ‘Soap’ Mactavish was the first coworker you had befriended when you decided to join the tech security company One-Four-One. Director Laswell had asked him to give you a tour of the place and help you set up your work devices and he had taken on that responsibility with a toothy grin and a loud pat on your back, promising to show all there is to be seen and help you out whenever you find yourself stuck. With his easy going attitude and helping nature, it didn’t take you long until you found yourself looking forward to attending office, if only to spend some time with your coworker-slash-friend. 

“Worried about Butters, huh?” he somberly asks you, gently rubbing your upper arm in sympathy. 

“Yeah, I am just worried about him. I hope he’s okay”, your nose prickles with the fresh onset of unshed tears in your eyes and you bury your face in your hands as you try to take deep breaths and calm yourself down. Crying at the workplace never really ends well for you. 

“I know, lass. But I also know that Butters is a smart boy, he’d take care of himself just fine till he comes back home, yeah? So don’t you worry”, he consoles you, picking up your empty mug as he leaves you to collect yourself. 

“I’ll get you a new brew, and we can talk for a bit, okay? Be right back.” 

And then he leaves the common floor, hopefully going to the break room to get some new coffee brewing for the morning.

Seeing your distraught state, Kyle Garrick, the temp hire, gets up from his desk and drops off some raisin cookies at your desk to go along with your cup of oncoming java. When you protest, he winks at you and asks you to save the treat for yourself - all the more exasperated with Johnny and his grubby hands that are always eager to snatch away his snacks. That makes you laugh a little, and he smiles at you as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

Feeling a little lighter, you decide to work on the neglected spreadsheets just a tad bit longer till Johnny comes back, each hand holding a cup of coffee and a grin on his face that tells you he has some much needed gossip to keep your mind off from your constant worries. 

It is an hour before lunch break when Joseph, the new intern, approaches you at your desk. 

“Hello-”

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”, he whines out, and you are reminded once again that he’s still a college student, despite his monstrous height and unusually deep voice. 

“You don’t have to”, you reply, your eyes barely leaving the screen as you typed away and responded to him, “I can tell you have come here to bribe me into doing your work again, and my answer is no. I am too busy to deal with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything, I swear! I already did the work!” he claims, and you turn to face him with an arched eyebrow and a speculative expression on your face that gives away that you’re having a hard time believing him. 

Joseph is a nice enough guy - he always greets you and is kind enough to use his height to pull down things for you that are kept on the too-high cabinets, and he is intelligent enough to keep up with almost all the technical jargon being passed around by some of your haughty teammates during daily meetings and project discussions, as well as suggest some truly out-of-the-box innovative ideas that has transformed how the team worked for the better. But he’s a terrible procrastinator, often finding himself finishing tasks at the eleventh hour; while prolonging tasks until the last minute does lead to him coming up with amusing and original ideas, it leaves room for him to commit quite a few silly mistakes and errors that one might overlook on an initial run, unless a senior staff member is asked to review it. 

And ever since Laswell went on leave and appointed Price as the acting Director in her stead, you have been swamped with towers of paperwork and meetings while also managing meetings, work sprints and other team issues - basically acting as Price’s right hand as he tries his best to manage the team without letting it implode on itself. Add in your messy personal life and you are already tired enough to sleep at your desk by the time the day is over and hope to never move. (Price has at times found you slumped up against your keyboard, softly snoring with dark eyebags as he noted how you probably needed a much-needed break from it all, despite knowing very well that your absence in the office for more than a day would probably cause unending chaos he won’t be able to manage on his own.)

“I have finished the report. I just need you to go over it once to make sure I haven’t messed up anywhere, else Simon would tear me a new one!”, he pleads with you, and you recall that his uncle, Simon Riley, is one of the founding members and is responsible for overlooking the interns they had hired and tracking their progress. You also remember how the behemoth of a man had almost made you pee your pants when Johnny first introduced him to you, all in his brooding glory. 

You have half a mind to reject his request on that basis alone, afraid to attract his attention onto you. But then Jo looks at you with his puppy brown eyes(a complete opposite from his uncle’s brilliant blue eyes) and furrowed brows, his lips downturned as he looks at you with pure hope and you find yourself sighing as you finally acquiesce, “Fine, just mail it to me before you leave for lunch, and I will send you the finished file before the deadline.”

He fistbumps the air and promises to you, “I will pay for your coffee! And a snack too! For a week! You’re the best!”, before he leaves you to your own devices. 

You sigh out in exasperation, leaning back into your ergonomic chair and feeling your back stretch in discomfort. You swear Joseph might give you a few gray hairs by the time his training period is done for good.  

You check your drawers for spare snacks, well aware that you’d have to skip lunch if you want to complete your pending work and help Joseph out with his report. 

Skipping lunch proves counter intuitive when you find yourself in the common break room and groan at the empty coffee jug, half-heartedly making a fresh batch for yourself and for your forgetful colleagues as well. While you wait for the java to slowly percolate and drip down into the empty pot through the freshly-changed filters, you look inside the freezer in hopes of finding some frozen food you can microwave, or at least find a spare ice cream for you to munch on. 

Unsuccessful in your search, you instead nibble away at the granola bar you found stuffed inside one of the spare drawers, when one of your coworkers decides to join you in the break room. You pause as you see Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the cyber sec guy, enter the room and stand a few feet away from you as he eyes the whirring coffee machine with interest. You find it hard to even exist in his larger than life presence, as his giant stature almost compels you to hunch your shoulders and curl in on yourself - a poor attempt to hide away from his intimidating figure, like a doe-eyed prey trying to shy away from an apex predator, and futilely hoping for it to forget about you if you try your best to blend into your bland, uninteresting surroundings. 

You always feel odd whenever you interact with Riley. Mostly, you do not know what to feel about him. He’s silent and deadly, and the horror stories you have heard from the fresh batch of interns about his anger and his need for perfection has cemented his image as a strong and fearsome, unapproachable figure into your mind just fine. Standing at 6’2 with broad shoulders and veiny arms visible thanks to his summer tees and thick thighs that bulge whenever he wears those tight black jeans that only makes you all the more curious-

The ‘mindless’ rambling aside, his appearance is enough to put the fear of God into you. Add his rough and not-so-friendly demeanor along with his deep voice, and you have got one very attractive asshole who you can never approach no matter how much you’re compelled to make a move on him. You almost thank him for it, because mixing pleasure with business will only ever land you in trouble, if you’re being honest with yourself. 

He nods at you and you are forced to acknowledge him with a calm greeting, as your fingers silently drum against the marble island of the kitchen. 

“Didn’t have lunch?” he asked you with his gravelly voice, and you wonder how many girls have swooned (and possibly gotten their panties wet) when he addressed them so casually. You’re pretty sure he can read a grocery list and make a girl wetter than the Atlantic just fine. 

You shake your head, “Had some catchin’ up to do, sir.”

His eyes appear darker than usual, despite being his softest feature yet, “Skipping meals won’t do you any good, you know. Better to eat a proper meal than whatever you’re having right now.”

“I know”, you tell him, well aware that whatever excuse you use here would just land you in hot waters with the weirdly overprotective man anyway. You’d rather not get lectured by the man today. 

Whether it is because he might make you cry, or turn you on - you do not know and are not eager to find out either. 

The ceasing of the brew trickling into the glass pot allows you to divert your attention to the caffeine concoction you have just created. Pouring some of the hot liquid into your cup, you see someone push their mug beside it. Looking up, you see Simon standing beside you with an amused look on his face. You blink at him in confusion, and he gently shakes his glass, begging for some much-needed coffee. 

He explains himself, “Had some of the early morning brew, tasted like dogshit.”

You laugh at his sudden crassness, finding it too funny to clarify that the morning brew was made by his beloved friend, Johnny. Mactavish would’ve chewed him out for that if he was there, but he’s having one of those few days wherein his meetings made it hard for his schedule to sync up with Simon’s. 

Taking a slow sip out of white mug, he replies with a wry smile, “Yours always tasted better anyway.”

And then, he exits the scene and leaves you in a puddle of pure confusion, with one question looping in your mind - When has he ever tasted your coffee?

You’re thankful Simon has already left and cannot witness your flustered state at his sudden remark. 

Author's Note -

Happy breaking out of writer's block to me!

Finally able to write and post something after a month of inactivity and contemplating about abandoning this blog all together. Glad I persevered through it though.

I came up with this after reading a dozen or so fanfics throughout the week while worrying about landing a job where I am interning. Very original, I know. I also think this would be a relatively shorter series, given how it is more lighter than some of my other works and WIP materials.

Also, I am hoping to stick to a schedule in order to hold myself more accountable and write more consistently. So expect new updates every 2nd and 4th Sunday/Monday :>

Until then, have a great week ahead. I have to sleep if I want to wake up on time and start work. ;-;

[vampire-matcha]

Blood in the Wine-5

Chapter Five: Tannins

A/N: so, uh... it's been a while, huh? yeah... I'm sorry about that. but I'm two months sober, now. I just want to thank everyone who has been checking in and has been offering me support and kindness. I can't tell you all how much i appreciate it. Well, I hope this was all worth the wait! I feel like this chapter felt a little rushed, but let me know what y'all think. Love you! xoxo

Reader x Vampire!141

Warnings: Blood, injury, yelling, SMUT (I know y'all have been waiting for this) oral sex (f receiving), fingering, fem!reader, blood kink

(yeah I had to use the sexy Sleep Token song okay sue me)

MASTERLIST, CH1, CH2, CH3, CH4, CH6, CH7

---

Your feet seemed to move on their own accord, boots sticking in the mud. You tripped over yourself as you scrambled off the forest floor. And then you were running. You heard the haggard breath of the monster behind you, felt the hot puffs from its mouth on the back of your neck, but you didn't dare look behind you. You felt sharp claws graze across your back, tearing through your shirt and knocking you facedown on the ground. Before the monster behind you could completely overtake you, another body rushed past you. Sounds like animals fighting roared out behind you. Once again, your boots squelched in the mud and you got back on your feet. You kept your eyes forward as you sprinted through the forest. 

You should've been lost in a maze of trees and underbrush, but something in the pit of your gut told you where to go. The dirt pounding under your feet guided you, the trees whispered to you their secrets, and you followed the road of their roots systems until you broke out into the clearing once again. 

You squinted as the moonlight flashed in your eyes, so bright compared to the pitch blackness of the forest, and ran straight into something firm, but soft. Something familiar. You felt arms wrap around you, and your brain tried to tell your arms to fight back, but you froze all over again as a voice called out loudly next to your ear. 

"I've got her!" The voice was familiar. 

"Get her inside, now!" Someone else called from the other side of the clearing. Before you could register who was speaking, you were moving- or rather, you were being moved. The arms around you lifted your weight easily, and the world around you seemed to flash by in a slideshow of blurry snapshots. Your surroundings morphed into one another until your feet were planted onto the floor of Price’s study. Vertigo threatened to overtake you, but someone strong held you steady. 

“I've got you, love. I’ve got you,” the rich voice crooned. 

“Gaz?” you asked. Your whole body was shaking from adrenaline and your head was still spinning, but you recognized the voice. It was him. He shushed you gently. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re alright.” He seemed to be convincing himself as much as you. His hand stroked the back of your head, and the other held you securely against him. Your heart was pounding in your ears, and you were willing to bet he was listening to it, too. 

“Gaz, what the hell was that thing?” you asked into his neck where your face was still buried. 

“Don’t-” then the study door burst open. You flinched, and maybe you screamed, expecting that Dead face to be the one to greet you, but instead it was one equally chilling. Price slammed the door closed behind him with a look of unrestrained fury trained on you. 

“What the FUCK were you thinking?” he roars, taking long, calculated strides at you. “You stupid, stupid girl. I give you one rule to follow, ONE RULE, for your own safety, and you can't even listen to that?!” Gaz, to his credit, does his best to physically shield you from Price’s rage, pushing you behind him; but he can only do so much. Your mouth opened, and you tried to find the words to defend yourself, but they got stuck in your throat, blocked by the terror you couldn’t get ahold of. 

“John, please, just-” Gaz starts to try and diffuse the situation, but Price shoves him away with a snarl, leaving you bare and exposed to his wrath. 

“Do you understand you could’ve been killed? Do you not understand how dangerous the night is here? He would have ripped you apart, had you stayed out there a second longer.”

“Wh… who?”

“You’re lucky he had enough self-control not to tear into you then and there in the woods. No, instead he sunk his teeth into the next moving thing he saw, which just so happened to be Soap.”

“What? Is he okay?” Gaz interjected, concerned for his- boyfriend? What were they to each other? Now wasn’t the time to think about it. 

“He’ll be fine… he’ll heal,” Price answers, scrubbing at his beard and screwing his eyes closed. “You…” he started, pointing a finger and taking a dangerous step closer. His eyes were dilated and he licked his lips. There was no doubt he could smell the blood seeping out of your back. “Now, what are we going to do with you? Hm? I trusted you, gave you freedom to wander. I thought you’d be smart enough to heed my warnings, but clearly you’re not.” He raised a hand, seemingly to grab at you, but stopped himself short when you flinched away, clenching the hand into a fist and forcing it back down to his side. He shook his head. 

“Should I put a collar on you like Soap? Hm? Or should I chain you up in the cellar? Maybe a bedroom is too good for you.” He was leaning into your face at that point.

“John, stop.”

“I tried doing this the easy way- Tried giving you a choice. But if you want to act like a prisoner, maybe I should-”

“John, that’s enough!” Gaz interrupted once again, putting a firm hand on the older vampire’s chest and pushing him back. Price looked at him, stunned. You assumed Gaz standing up to him wasn’t a common occurrence. “Look at her, she’s scared out of her mind already. You’re making it worse.”

“She deserves to be scared.”

“She deserves an explanation. She deserves answers.” Price considered him, chest still heaving in anger. 

“Fine. You want to give her answers? Go ahead.” he motioned between Gaz and you. “But for fuck’s sake, don’t let her out of your sight.” he looked at you once more, swallowed hard, and then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him again. 

A moment passed in silence. Gaz stared at the door with a look of disbelief. But then his eyes snapped back at you when a terrified sob clawed its way out of your chest. Your eyes were unfocused and your arms trembled as you hugged them close to your body in an attempt to shelter yourself. Gaz took a tentative step closer, holding his hands out in front of him. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay. You're okay," he cooed, speaking to you as if you were a wounded pet. Your body flinched away at first, but with more gentle words, you relaxed enough to allow him to place an arm around your shoulders and guide you to sit on the couch in the center of the room. "Hey, look at me." 

Your eyes snapped shut and you turned away from him at those horribly familiar words. Look at me. How could you ever look at him again? He sighed and placed a hand on your cheek. 

"I'm not going to compel you again. I promise." You choked through a couple more sobs. You couldn't trust his word. He'd betrayed your trust irreparably. Even still, his voice sounded so sincere. But didn't it always? You opened your eyes. 

"There she is," he said, smiling softly. "Just breathe for me, okay? In and out. With me." He did his best to guide your breath, and tried to calm you as much as himself. He kept swallowing, his mouth watering at the smell of your freshly-spilled blood. "Nobody's going to hurt you in here," he told you, but you still felt like prey. 

"I c- I can't!" You gasped. 

"Yes, darling, you can. Please, your heart's racing like mad." You knew. You could hear ot pounding in your ears. It would have drowned out Gaz's voice if he weren't so close. And goodness, he was close. 

"Price is gonna kill me!"

"No, he's not."

"Yes he is!"

"He can't hurt you! He can't!" You shook your head, but he continued. "He literally cannot hurt you, love. Listen to me." You quieted yourself the best you could, the rush of blood in your ears quieting minutely. "Once we entered the pact with you to keep you as our familiar, a bond was made. Your pain became our pain. Everything you feel, we feel, too. Price can't hurt you without hurting himself and the rest of us."

"But Ghost hurt me out in the woods."

"And he felt it. We all did. Trust me. He was blinded by his bloodlust, he didn't have the mind to stop and think. He held back as much as he could." 

"How are you holding back, then?" you wondered out loud. Would he pounce on you at any second? Was your time running out? You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the same tension you held in yours with every stinging throb of the shredded skin on your back.

"With great difficulty,' he answered through gritted teeth. He met your eyes, his pupils blown. He swallowed. "Can you please turn around so I can close the wounds?" 

"Close the… you're gonna feed on me like this? Now?" you asked. Your legs tensed up, getting ready to run for your life again. 

"No! No. Not really. I mean, technically, I'll still be- well- consuming your blood, yes. But just what's leaking out already. I won't bite you, I swear. Just- please, you're dripping all over the couch, love.” He tentatively pushed on your shoulder. “And the smell, it's driving me mad. Please just turn around." The desperation in his voice was clear, close to begging. And the stinging behind you was getting harder to ignore with every passing moment. 

You turned around, exposing you bloody back to him. You reached behind you to tug the tattered fabric up your back, but Gaz was quicker than you. 

Rrriiip!

You gasped at the obnoxious tearing sound, suddenly feeling much too hot and much too cold all at once. The remaining fabric of your shirt fell down your shoulders and you crossed your arms over your chest to prevent it from falling off altogether. 

"Gaz!" You scolded, but your admoniment fell on deaf ears, and you gasped once more at the sudden feeling of his soft tongue gliding up your back. 

He licked up the dripping rivulets of scarlet blood that wound down the canvas of your exposed back, before fixing his mouth on the five slashes. The sharp pain subsided to a tingling as one by one, with each swipe of Gaz's tongue, the wounds sealed themselves. His tongue and lips felt so soft and plush. 

You'd never thought to consider the space between your shoulder blades to be an erogenous zone, but as Gaz kissed and licked his way all over you, taking his time to clean every drop of your blood, you found yourself panting with want. His breath was so hot against you, heightened by the wetness of his spit left behind. 

It must be their venom. It has to be some kind of aphrodisiac. 

Gaz kissed his way up your spine and into the scoop of your neck. His lips lingered there. He promised not to bite. 

"I swear, you're the best thing I've ever tasted in both lives," he whispers into your skin. Your body flushed with another wave of heat. 

"What does it taste like?" You asked, voice equally hushed in anticipation- for what, you didn't yet know. His fingertips brushed up your arms. 

"It's hard to describe… it still tastes like blood, that hasn't changed. It's more like our perception of it changes. Imagine going your whole life hating chocolate, and then one day you wake up, and suddenly it's all you crave. And everyone around you smells like chocolate. 

"Some of them smell like cheap candy melt chocolate," he says, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, "others smell like Godiva." He kisses you again, working his way up your neck. "And you, my love…" His lips touch that sweet spot under your ear. "You taste like the whole damn sweet shop," he whispers directly into your ear. His hand grips your arm, guiding you to turn back to face him. His mouth and chin were ruddy, stained with the remnants of your wounds. 

"Like the finest artisanal chocolate this world has ever seen." His eyes are fixated on your lips. Those dark, crimson eyes that you'd pretended were brown because you couldn't help but want to get closer to him. You were closer, now, that much was certain. 

His chest was pressed against your back, the fabric of his shirt a little too rough against the raw, sensitive skin. He really was close. Your breaths, panting in synchronicity, mixed together to form a tiny hurricane in the centimeters between your lips. 

"Bitter and sweet, rich and full." He licked his lips and your eyes darted down to the movement of it; slow, swiping along his bottom lip, collecting your lingering taste. "Addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of you." He smiled. "You'll rot my teeth right out of my head, you're so sweet." 

And then he kissed you. And God, you let him. His hand found itself cradling the back of your head, and you turned to fully face him. You tasted your own blood on his lips again and it was dizzying. 

This paradox of a man. Feeding off of you, draining you, but you'd never felt so alive before. Here in his arms, you were electrified. The terror of hardly an hour before was now long forgotten- a lifetime away. You found life again in the lips of a man who'd lured you to your near-death. 

Your ruined, bloody shirt slipped off your arms onto the floor. His palms rubbed up your sides as he devoured your mouth, though less literally as he did your blood. His tongue had made its way into your mouth at some point, and yours into his. You fell into a rhythm together, somewhere between tender and desperate. God, your heart was racing, and he could feel it. Every thumping beat rattled his ribcage as if it was his own; as if his dead lump of muscle had come alive again, fed by your crimson drippings. 

Your hands, trembling, fisted themselves in his shirt for a moment, then they fluttered like birds to his neck, pulling him closer against your chest. His shirt was still there. You wanted it gone. 

As if he read your mind, Gaz disconnected your mouths to discard his shirt, also wet with your blood, and tossed it on the floor with yours. He stopped to take you in, his eyes gliding over the ink in your skin, and then froze at your breasts: pierced. 

Gaz moaned. He glanced up at you, waiting for your permission. You answered by grabbing hold of his wrists and guiding them up your sides, to the front and finally onto your tits. He looked as if you'd given him the best gift he'd ever received. 

He squeezed your malleable flesh in his hands, rolling them, massaging them. He lit a spark in your cunt, and when his mouth attached itself to your nipple and sucked, the spark caught fire. You grabbed desperately at the short curls of his hair and whimpered. Gaz took this as encouragement, and nibbled lightly on the bud. You jumped, feeling his sharp canines graze your tit, but it never broke the skin. His tongue twisted around your nipple, and then he moved to the other breast.

The cool air against your spit-wet tit made goosebumps erupt under your skin while Gaz gave the same treatment to your second nipple. There was no hiding it: you were wet. His maroon eyes looked up at you while he sucked and you knew that he knew. 

He abandoned your tits to chase after your mouth again. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you tight to his chest. The kiss was sloppy: wet with spit and tinged with blood. 

Gaz guided you onto your back. The leather couch was cool and soothing to your feverish skin. 

"Let me taste you," Gaz pleaded. His hands left their positions on your tits and glided down your body. You arched your back into them, until they landed on your hips, the tips of his fingers just barely hooking into the waistband of your jeans. "Please- fuck- please I need to taste you."

"I thought you already did," you said, unable to resist a little teasing. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at you. 

"I want. To taste. Your fucking. Pussy." He looked you dead in the eye as he said those words, making sure you understood each syllable. Something misfired in your mind, and you suddenly were unable to speak. This wasn't compulsion, though. This was pure arousal that weighed down your tongue. All you were able to do was hold his gaze and nod. He tisked his tongue at you. 

"Say it, love," he commanded. He kissed your lips again. "Go on, tell me what you want. 

"Taste me," you relented. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

"I thought I already did," he threw your words back at you. Two can play at this game, apparently. But you could play it better. You spread your legs for him and arched your hips against his hands. You leaned up and whispered into his ear. 

"Eat my pussy, Gaz." His body shuddered above you. His hands found your button and fly, and he pushed your jeans down your legs until they were stuck around your ankles above your boots. His brows scrunched together in irritation as he struggled with the laces. His eyes glanced up at yours at the sound of a soft giggle escaping your lips. He rolled his eye at you and in a flash, your boots were off and scattered across the floor. He smirked up at you. 

“How did you…?” you began to ask, and his smile grew wider as he rolled your jeans down and off our legs. He kissed his way up from your calves and nipped at the soft fat of your inner thighs. 

“Don’t worry about that right now, love. I’ll answer your questions after I make you cum on my tongue.” You shuddered at the low tone of his words. His eyes scanned over your body, moving down from your eyes to your chest, and finally to your dripping cunt. He lapped at the wet spot on your underwear with closed eyes and moaned into the fabric. He breathed in deeply through his nose, inhaling your musk. He cursed under his breath, already intoxicated on you. 

His hands rubbed up and down your thighs as he licked and lapped at your cunt, teasing you until you whined his name, begging for him to hurry up, to give you more. Finally, he took pity on you and hooked his fingers into your panties and tore them off your body, throwing them into the growing pile of scrapy, ruined fabric on the floor. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking down at your glistening pussy. He was mesmerized at the way it glimmered in the flickering firelight. He teased two fingers through your folds and spread them open. He touched you like the pages of a holy book: with reverence and awe. He took his sweet time studying the way your pussy moved under his touch until once again, you had to snap him out of his stupor. He glanced up at you for the briefest second, and then dived in. 

He licked into your lips and moaned aloud, finally getting a taste of your wetness. You whimpered when the tip of his tongue prodded at your clit, and he took notice right away. He licked it again, once, twice, and then latched onto it, determined to pull more of those perfect sounds out of you. He gazed up at you through his eyelashes, and you couldn’t look away. The fire in his eyes sent a fresh wave of pleasure down your spine. And then you felt it: how easily he slipped a finger inside, and you threw your head back in pleasure.

He curled it into you slowly, pressing up inside you at a spot that made your thighs shake. You couldn’t be bothered to keep quiet, and Gaz couldn’t get enough. He added another finger and shuddered at the way your pussy practically sucked his digits inside. He started to build a steady rhythm, gaining speed and intensity with every thrust of his fingers, every lick of his tongue, every suck of his mouth on your clit. 

You could hardly get enough oxygen in your lungs. Your chest almost burned with need, the tips of your fingers started to tingle. Your moans got louder and louder, until your shouts were reverberating off the walls of the study. Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, something to steady yourself, and locked onto the curls atop Gaz’s head. His name tumbled from your lips. A prayer, a warning, a plea. You were close, and he knew it. He could tell by the way your walls fluttered and gripped his fingers; by the way your hips bucked against his mouth; by the way your back arched and your thighs twitched. He watched you, studying the way you writhed from him. His cock twitched in his trousers. It was him that had you moaning and coming undone on this couch. 

Your orgasm knocked the wind out of you. A sound that was halfway between a moan and a scream left you as your legs locked around Gaz’s head. You threw your head back, your pussy clamping down on his fingers, and gushing over his forearm; your cum added to the puddle of blood and slick beneath you. He groaned, lapping wildly at you, licking up as much of your taste as he could manage, drinking you up like communion wine. Sparks lit you up inside from your belly up your spine. You writhed against his mouth and hands, grinding your hips against his tongue until it was too much, until you felt like you’d burst. 

He lifted his head and let you catch your breath. He watched you twitch from the aftershocks and sucked his fingers clean of your sticky cum. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw him already looking down at you. He took his cue and crawled up your body, kissing your stomach and chest and finally your mouth. He slipped his tongue past your lips with ease and you moaned at the taste of your own cum. His hand cradled your head and the other wandered up and down your body. He settled himself between your legs and grinded his bulge onto your cunt. 

“Please,” he begged into your mouth. “Please, let me fuck you.” You dragged your nails down his abdomen, scratching the sparse coils of chest hair and the hard muscles on his stomach, past his happy trail and down over his pants to grab his hard cock through the fabric. He moaned lowly. 

“Yes,” you panted. “God, yes.”

---

Tags:

@cherry-slushee @iimfae @newcomernewcums @cowboybxtch @quiurifam @sad--pigeon @desert-fern @grizzers @the-wandering-pan-ace @quiurifam @wasteland-babe @obi-wansorrow @tbrfic @tdurmi @xespresso-depressox @mauveserpent @bloodyknucklesforme @330bpm-whiplash @grizzersmama @amazingpandaz-blog @the-pan-ace-writings @kakashiislut @erinwhelan99 @ghost-2513 @confuseddipshit @avalkyrieofparis @beesucculent @enfppixie @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @ofmenanduhhhwellmen @lostmypopsicle @backupgal @wisp0329 @boxofgasoline @frazie99 @lothiriel9 @ummmmmbeans @roaringinthedeeap-blog @daristfx @itsberrydreemurstuff @legalpadawan @darkmelodies27 @discowizard88 @gloomdoomraccoon

[cherry-cristal]

I'm sorry @amazeingartist for always using your things to try new things for my art QvQ (this time, coloring, I suck at it)

Anyways, this is my version of your DTIYS I even try to keep the nose you use for Ghost and his red hair!

Hope you like it :)

[nevesmose]

The chamber was a holding cell poorly disguised as a bedroom, split down the middle by a thick transparent barrier. The inner half was dark, depthless and black as the void.

"And which of my brothers are you?" Konrad Curze asked from somewhere within that darkness.

"Ferrus Manus," his visitor said plainly. "Primarch of the Tenth."

[limitedunderdog]

what are your au headcanons of each creepypasta you draw, like their height, age and what they mostly like to do in their free time?

my au is sooo flimsy and literally has no story holding it together. think slendermansion and that’s it. but i do have some things about them i tend to stick to. also they probs stray pretty far from their sources. haven’t read anything in a long time.

- jeff (my all time fav… love him so much) is 23 and 6’2. he is such an ass and ben is pretty much the only person who can tolerate him. he likes to party on occasion. he loooovez getting ready for the day (though his day usually starts at like 3pm, and ends at 5am). so teasing his hair, makeup, all that. plays guitar, but is only mediocre at it. and when he gets bored he likes to pick fights with people. but he’s a chain smoker, so anything he’s doing, he’s doing with a cigarette between his lips.

- ben is younger, 20 and around 5’6/5’7. ben also likes to mess around with people when he’s bored. but unlike jeff, he prefers scaring them rather than provoking. of course he likes to play video games. he’s an absolute beast on cod:mw2 and a crazy good shit talker. jeff likes to watch and listen and occasionally join in when he’s feeling mean. goes to parties with jeff, too. ben’s really big into music. he likes the medic droid and senses fail and from first to last and i set my friends on fire and 3oh!3.

- nina’s 21, definitely shorter. maybe 5’3 or something. she loves dressing in the most obnoxious outfits she can and trying to convince clockwork to do the same. she loves diy and making her own clothes from scraps she scavenges. nina would have sleepovers every day if she could, but she’s a lot busier than other creeps cuz she’s in college. psychology major with a sociology minor.

- clockwork is 23 + 5’10. jeff likes to ask her what time it is. and she really hates him. she likes to cook, it’s sorta like her therapy. and toby is her total comfort person, so she’s usually around him. she’s also a smoker and loves energy drinks. probably likes redbull or monster best.

- toby’s 23 too, 5’6. he doesn’t mind being shorter than clockwork. he likes sharing his headphones with her and letting her pick the music. he’s totally in love. he plays the drums and he really likes transformers

[lay-z]

So...the weather has been changing here in Germany to my liking (rainy, chilly fall weather), and now I'm sitting at work with nothing much to do except look through my unfinished stories and drafts and I'm feeling nostalgic? Like...there is one "The Quarry" and a COD:MW2 Zombie Apocalypse AU story that I didn't continue that fits this mood and atmosphere like perfectly.

Ya know what ? I'll try to continue them right now!

If you're wondering which story I'm talking about:

• the trouble with wanting | t. hackett x f!reader

• knights in shining tactical gear | ghost x f!reader x soap

[tavtarnish]

I am this close writing a ghost x soap / CoD:MW2 rugby au

[floatingvampire]

Soooo, I've not posted anything in a long while, so I decided to share these sketches I have of an au that's just a meeting of my two current brainrots: Ghostsoap and Bloodborne.

In this au, Simon is a hunter, specifically one of the crow hunters, but instead of wearing a crow mask he wears the skull of the first hunter he killed who had subcombed to the beast plague. His cloak and clothes are inspired heavily by Elieen the Crow because I really liked the outfit for him; not pictured here but Ghost also uses the Blades of Mercy.

Soap is a beast, specifically a blood starved beast of old Yharnam. I also took some design aspects from the cleric beast for Soap here, hence why that torso shot has him standing more upright than a blood starved beast would. I tried to carry over Soap's facial features into his beast form here, I don’t know how well I did but I am proud of how he came out, he looks just a gaunt and generally starved as I imagined for him. I really want to hug him though, he looks so exhausted and sad.

I am obsessing a bit with this au so I'll likely ramble some more when I refine these sketches and slap on some color. Feel free to ask me questions though!

[omgitstatertot]

BARK

the taste of scotch and cigars - chapter one

Rating: M

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fake dating trope, propositioning a stranger in a bar, drinking/mentions of being tipsy (minor), intense makeout in public, hints of exhibition kink, hints of voice kink, absolutely fucking douchebag of an ex, mentions of cheating, I think that's it for this chapter? Most of these will be expanded the further into the story we get, and more warnings will come hehe.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: this is one of the au ideas I've ranted to @catsnkooks about (there are many) and I wanted to schedule the first chapter drop during my vacay because it's been sitting in my wip folder and I wanna get opinions to see if people like this idea/wanna see more. (I mean, I'm gonna post it regardless but I still wanna see if people are into the idea). anyways, enjoy this fun spin on a fake dating trope :)

The burn of cheap vodka as it slid down your throat did little to soothe the ache in your chest. Coming here was a mistake. You should’ve let sleeping dogs lie, let your past stay where it belongs. Instead, you’re submerged in old memories and familiar hurts, the waters of time washing over your head and threatening to drown you in melancholy and diffidence.

The noise of the packed pub pressed in from all sides, buffeting you and keeping you off balance, loud enough that you were barely able to hear yourself think. You’d managed to avoid interactions thus far, but the likelyhood of that dwindled with every second you lingered, waiting for…

Well.

God only knows what you were waiting for.

Draining the last dregs of your drink, the thunk of your empty glass on the wooden bar as you sat it down made you frown and debate waving over the bartender for another refill. You thought for a long moment, before you decided otherwise. If you were going to be interacting with others tonight, you’d prefer to have at least some of your wits about you, and the vodka you’d consumed was enough to take the edge of your sorrow off. Any more though, and you couldn’t be held responsible for what might happen.

You turned around in your seat, scanning the crowd. In the back corner of the pub, you saw them for the first time that night since you’d walked in. The group seemed to be concentrated in the back, thankfully. You’d done a perfunctory greeting with the hosts of this little reunion, and then beelined for the bar and had been sat there since. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure why you even came.

Unfortunately, right as you were looking over at the group, you made eye contact with Christian, the one person you’d been hoping to avoid. He’d been looking in your direction, and when he saw you, he smirked and stood up, beginning to try and make his way through the crowd.

“Fuck,” you muttered as you spun around again on your stool, regretting not having ordered another drink. “God fucking dammit.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you began to wonder if it was possible for you to make a quick escape in the crowd, when your panic was interrupted by a deep and deceptively smooth British-accented voice to your right.

“Everythin’ alright, love?”

Turning your head, you made eye contact with the older man sitting next to you at the bar, and immediately your mouth went dry. How had you not noticed him yet?

He was absolutely gorgeous, with clear, intelligent blue eyes and thick dark brown hair that you wanted to run your fingers through. His cheeks and upper lip were covered in that same dark brown hair, shaved into mutton chops with stubble on his lower lip and chin. He was dressed in a light blue henley that clung to his torso, a hint of a ball chain disappering into the vee of the neckline, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and showing off his forearms. One hand was wrapped around a glass of scotch, and dangling from the fingers of his other hand was a lit Maduro cigar. He had on dark, well worn blue jeans that were moulded to his thighs, and black, slightly scuffed up combat boots.

He looked like the kind of man you’d spent many a shameful night fantasizing about back in high school, fingers ducking below the waistband of your sleep shorts as you clasped a hand over your mouth lest you wake your parents sleeping down the hall.

Those bright blue eyes were focused on yours, and you felt your cheeks heat under his surprisingly intense yet soft gaze. Something deep inside of you, fueled by the vodka, whispered that this was the kind of man you could trust, the kind of man who maybe, possibly would be willing to help a perfect stranger out of nothing but the kindness of his heart.

Maybe it was the alcohol, and you were drunker than you thought. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, this gorgeous, dangerous man who managed to pierce you with such soft, kind eyes. Whatever it was, you lost control over your brain-to-mouth filter, and words began to spill forth.

“My ex is here, he just saw me and is coming this way, and it’s been years since I last saw him, and… god, I don’t have the strength to deal with him tonight, he never fucking takes no for an answer, would you be willing– I mean if it’s not too much trouble, and I could pay you back, but could I ask you–”

You managed to reboot your brain, but not quite fast enough to stop the spew of words from escaping you, and physically biting your own tongue was the only way to prevent you from making an even bigger fool of yourself. Immediately you averted your eyes, tearing yourself away from his piercing gaze as you shrunk in your seat, dread and shame roiling in the pit of your stomach and mixing with the alcohol to make you feel sick.

Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck were you thinking? He just asked if you were alright, he didn’t ask to have your entire life story dumped on him at the drop of a hat. He had to be at least ten years older than you, if not more, you were likely barely more than a silly little girl in his eyes. Shit, he’s probably got a stunning wife and gorgeous kids at home, and here you are, practically propositioning the poor man. Your mama always said you were a no-good, simple-minded child, and here you are, not even ten years outta her house and proving her right once again.

So lost in your self ruminations, you don’t notice the pensive look on the handsome stranger’s face, until suddenly there’s an arm wrapped securely around your waist and you’re being tugged off your barstool and onto a thickly muscled thigh, leaning against against the warm length of a heavily muscled torso. You somehow manage to not leap out of your skin in surprise, even when you feel the brush of his lips against the outer shell of your ear, his voice a low growl, gravel grinding against pavement.

“I’m more’n willing to help a pretty lil’ girl like you, love. No debt necessary. ‘Sides, a man who doesn’ understand the word no? Princess, that ain’t a man at all.”

Dreaming. You’ve gotta be stuck in some kind of alcohol intoxication induced fever dream, because there’s no fucking way that this is your life right now. Shit like this doesn’t happen outside of cheesy romcoms and trashy dime store novels. Let alone at random pubs in fucking Liverpool.

You’re not given the time to delve more into the ramifications of dreams induced by too much imbibed alcohol because your ears are abruptly assaulted by a reedy, nasally voice that you wished you could forget, but was burned into so many of your adolescent memories.

“Sweetcheeks! Goodness, it’s been awhile! You know, I wasn’t sure I’d see you here, we were all pretty surprised you showed up.”

The stanger-who’s lap you were perched-on turned at the interruption, his hand sliding from your hip across your belly, palm hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. He hooked his finger in your belt loop, fingers pressing reassuringly into the meat of your hip as his forearm felt like a bar of iron against your abdomen. The positioning was oddly possessive, like it meant more than him making sure you didn’t tip off his thigh and onto the dingy floor of the pub. His glass of scotch was abandoned on the bar, the arm not holding you streched out on the wood, cigar dangling from his fingers. You turned your head to look at the last person in the world you wanted to see, although you were distracted slightly from your ire by the slow drag of lips along the length of your jaw, the bristles on your stranger’s beard tickling the sensitive skin. It was an act that was surprisingly soothing as it was intimate.

Schooling your features, you looked at the face of the man who’d held your entire heart in his hands and shattered it on the ground without a second thought. Half a decade hadn’t dulled the pain, although you did a remarkable job at covering it up.

“Christian. Wish I could say it’s a pleasure.”

He pouted, an altogether unattractive look, although years ago it had been one to tug at your heartstrings. “Awe, don’t tell me you haven’t missed me, at least a little bit?”

You fixed him with a glare, even as fury began to burn low in your belly. “Why exactly would I be missing you, Christian?”

He rolled his eyes, as though the answer was exceedingly obvious, and he thought you dumb for even having to ask. “Awe, babes, you’re not still hung up about that little incident, are you? Even your momma thinks you’re overreacting, sweetcheeks.”

You cocked an eyebrow, even as you subconsciously sank further into your stranger’s embrace, his hold on you soothing and helping to keep you grounded. The admission that he still talked to your momma stung more than it should have, but then, she’d been heartbroken when you divorced who, in her eyes, was the most perfect embodiement of a son-in-law to ever grace God’s green earth. Figures she’d refuse to cut contact with him, even though you had.

“Hung up? Little incident? I came home to find you fucking Paisleigh, my best friend, in our fucking bed. And then I find out it wasn’t just the once, but practically every single week of our relationship, with about three dozen different girls over the years. I would say I have every right to still be pissed at you, Christian.”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault, is it? Men have needs, babes. I was just doing what I needed to, since you certainly weren’t fullfilling ‘em. You hardly needed to move halfway across the world cause you got a lil’ upset about it.”

It took every shred of self control you had to refrain from launching yourself off of your stranger’s lap–and dear sweet god, you’re just now realizing you don’t actually know his fucking name–and strangling the idiot in front of you. Honestly though, it was probably less about your self control and more about the way his arm tightened around you, his fingers hooking tighter around your belt loop. He brought his other hand up to take a slow drag off his cigar, the richly sweet smoke curling around your body as he exhaled, his chest pressed comfortingly against your back. He let his hand drop, resting it on top of your thigh, fingers carefully keeping the cigar away from the fabric of your pants.

You felt the movement of his head as he gave Christian a look, glancing up and down before scoffing darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. He only held you tighter, even as he opened his mouth, and the rich smoke of his voice filled your ears, deep and dripping honey, sending sparks straight to the fire in your gut.

“You’re no man. You’re barely more ‘n a immature little boy, a waste o’ space n’ air. If you’re not willin’ to stay faithful, then ya shouldn’t be in a relationship. If you weren’t satisfied, it certainly wasn’t somethin’ she was doin’ wrong.” He punctuated his words with a kiss to your temple, and dammit if it didn’t make you wanna melt into a puddle on the floor.

Christian puffed up, looking extremely offended, albeit ridiculous considering he was skinnier than a stick. “Do you have any idea who I am, old man?”

You’re trying very hard not to panic, because you didn’t have time to tell your stranger anything before this conversation, but you shouldn’t have worried, because he simply replied with a shrug of his shoulders, and a short, clipped, “Nah, should I?”

Dammit, you thought, trying to hold back a laugh. You didn’t know he was funny too.

If anything, that only pissed Christian off more. “Sweetcheeks, you didn’t tell your little friend here about your husband?”

“Ex-husband,” you hissed, eyes narrowing and body tensing at the way Christian spoke, all amusement draining from you at the sound of him acting so damn dismissive, it made you wanna claw his eyes out.

“Shh, is alrigh’, love,” your stranger whispered in your ear, and to your surprise, the tension bled back out of your limbs, the low timbre of his growl soothing the fury boiling inside you. Unfortunately, Christian rudely interrupted.

“And just who are you supposed to be?”

Your stranger chuckled, the vibrations rumbling pleasantly against your back. “Nah, I’m nobody special. Jus’ the one who took advantage of your colossal fuck up and married the sweet thing you let get away, ain’t tha’ right, love?”

It took every ounce of control you had to stop the surprise from showing on your face at his declaration. This was so far beyond anything you could’ve ever hoped for, you didn’t quite know how to handle it. There’d been no hesitation on his part, no awkward pauses or stuttering. Just a steady declaration that he was apparently your (fake, fake you reminded your brain) husband.

Christian’s cheeks were turning a ruddy color, nearly incandescent with rage. You should’ve realized that this little charade was gonna push him too far, especially when he bared his teeth and snarled.

“I pity you, sweetcheeks, you’re such an obvious charity case I should’ve known. No way is another man willing to settle down with you, especially considering the fact that you’re used, broken goods. Did’ja tell him that, before you trapped him, babes?” He growled, spittle flying. “Quieter than a doormouse in bed, she doesn’t even know how to properly pleasure a man, else I wouldn’ta needed to find someone else, isn’t that right?”

Ok, that was it. You were going to deck Christian here and now. You were done letting him have all the power, letting him walk all over you like he had for the entirety of your relationship. Just as you placed your hands on the forearm around your waist to push it off you so you could fight your fucking ex, a firm hand on your jaw distracted you, turning your face to the side and tilting it up, then slightly chapped lips were covering yours.

Oh.

Your eyes fluttered shut as calloused fingers smoothed over your jaw, cupping your face as your gorgeous, dangerous-looking stranger slowly pried your lips open and plunged his tongue into your mouth, stroking the length of it alongside your own tongue. You followed his lead, opening up beautifully beneath him, letting him kiss you deeper as he plundered your mouth, growing more heated, more passionate with every brush of his lips against yours. His beard scratched gently at the sensitive skin around your mouth, but beard-burn was quite literally the last thing on your mind. The entire world faded away, until it was just you and your stranger, and the deep, possessive way he kissed you.

He claimed you with his mouth, there was no better way to describe it. He drew back slightly, only so he could bite at your lower lip, teeth pulling at the darkened skin and making you let out a surprised moan before he dove back in, open mouthed and messy. He sucked on your tongue, making you whimper softly, which only spurned him on even more. His fingers tightned on your jaw, keeping you steady against his onslaught, stealing kiss after kiss. He stole the very breath from your lungs, every time you pulled back to gasp for breath he simply chased you, greedily depriving you of precious oxygen.

He tasted like scotch and cigars, the smooth burn and sharp bite of sweet smoke mixing to create something so uniquely him that you honestly couldn’t imagine him tasting like anything else. You wondered if he tasted the vodka on your tongue, or the coconut of the lip balm on your lips. Whatever your taste, he couldn’t seem to get enough.

A loud cough broke the bubble you’d found yourself enveloped in as he kissed you, but even still, he didn’t let you jerk away, pressing one, two, three kisses in quick succession against your swollen and tender lips, glossy and slick with spit.

Your eyes slowly opened, finding him already staring at you, his pupils blown wide, inky black surrounded by a pale, thin ring of blue. His fingers stroked the skin of your cheek, almost reverent as his gaze flickered between your own wide eyes and your ravaged mouth.

Incoherrent sputtering drew your attention away from the man who’d just kissed you–a fucking stranger–like you were the only two people to exisit in the world and not just at a pub in the middle of Liverpool, and you slowly slid your eyes from his to look at Christian.

You had to fight the urge not to laugh. Christian somehow managed to look equal parts dumbfounded and embarrassed as hell. Considering the way you’d just been kissed felt like it had to break some kind of public indecency law, you weren’t too surprised at the mix of emotions on his face, although they were quickly giving way to anger once again.

He didn’t get to interject, however, as your stranger spoke, his voice barely more than a growl. “If you’d been any good in bed, then maybe you’d have some kinda idea about all the pretty sounds my wife can make, but somethin’ tells me you weren’ ever enough to earn those, and like hell am I ‘bout to let you learn how she sounds when she makes ‘em now.”

Abruptly, he stood, easily hoisting you off his lap to stand on the ground, although his arm stayed secure around you and not letting you take even one step away from him.

“Hol’ this for me, love?”

He handed you his cigar, before digging in his back pocket to pull out a wad of cash, throwing it on the bar and making a quick gesture at the bartender to indicate that he was closing your tabs.

He turned back towards your ex, making eye contact even as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist and brought your hand up to his mouth so he could take a drag from his cigar still gripped between your fingers, breathing in deeply before exhaling, chuckling at the disgusted look on Christian’s face.

“My wife ‘n I are leavin now, cause I’ve been deployed too damn long and I don’ feel like wastin’ another second with bloody pricks who mattered so little in her life that she doesn’ even mention you.”

With that, and a gentle nudge, your stranger began to steer you out of the pub, sliding his arm from where it was still wrapped around you, instead slipping his hand into the back pocket on your jeans, cupping your ass and giving your ex a little show, and causing your heartbeat to race. The cool air hitting your face as you stepped out onto the streets of Liverpool felt like being reborn, as you felt the tension that had been gathering all of the last few weekes in preparation for today just… fade away.

The two of you walked a bit away from the door to the pub before your stranger slid his hand out from your back pocket, leaving you immediately missing the security and warmth he’d provided, even with just that little touch. You turned to look at him, silently offering his cigar back, which he took, but just let it dangle from his fingers. His expression was sheepish, and he rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. It was endearing, and you found yourself having to violently squash the part of you that said to just go for it and kiss him again, just to see if he’d still react the same way without an audience.

“I do apologize, ma’am,” he offered, and you blinked, thrown a bit. Why on earth was he apologizing to you? Shouldn’t you be the one apologizing, for even asking a total stranger a favor like that in the first place?

“I might’a taken things a bit far back there, but no one should be talkin’ to ya like that, love. It don’ matter who they were or what they used’ta mean to ya.”

To your horror, you felt your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears. You were so used to being the one blamed for the failure of your relationship, being the one told that you must’ve done something wrong to force a man like Christian to seek someone outside of your marriage, that to have someone tell you that it wasn’t ok for you to be treated that way was like a balm on an old wound you didn’t realize had ripped back open.

You had no idea how to respond to what he’d said, and at a complete loss for words, you blurted out the first thing to come to your mind.

“I don’t even know your name?”

His laugh was deep and warm, and you desperately wanted to take it inside you and hold it’s comfort there for the rest of your life. He smiled at you, eyes twinkling, and held his free hand out.

“Captain John Price, British SAS, at your service, love.”

You took a deep breath even as you placed your hand in his, trying not to show how the sound of his title falling from his lips sent a heady rush of arousal through you. You’d thought he might’ve been military, and the confirmation was doing unspeakable things to you.

“I-, uh, sir-” you started, only to be cut off as he brought your fingers up to his lips, brushing them across the backs of your knuckles and making your knees go weak with the look he leveled you with.

“Love, not to be crass, but I’ve had my tongue down your throat and my hand on your arse. I think you can call me John.”

[eowynstwin]

disquiet comfort / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off. - ao3

John hears the creak of your bed springs the next morning.

He’s not surprised by it—you’re not the first neighbor he’s had, only the first he’s met. He knows how thin the walls are now, and has long passed the point of finding it annoying. He listens as the sound of your taps coming on filters through drywall and insulation at a low hum, thinks he can hear the buzz of an electric toothbrush. He wonders if you can hear his razor going as he trims his mustache.

It feels nice to have this odd company, he thinks. The two of you, going through the same motions. It strikes an old, abandoned chord—he hasn’t woken up with anyone in a long, long time.

He puts his razor down and squashes the thought flat. His neighbor—his kind, pretty neighbor—does not need him to think like that. Even if your eyes had traveled the length and breadth of his body before making it to his face.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, giving himself a flat look. He isn’t used to civilian life. Answering the door shirtless had probably been some sort of faux pas. If you’d been looking, you’d probably been more disconcerted than anything else. That’s the long and short of it, he tells himself, because there’s no room for anything else.

John is never very good at being home. The things that keep him alive out there—hyperawareness, sharply defined mission parameters, strict operational regimens—are, at home, needs that go unmet. Liverpool is not a popular terrorist hotbed he needs to pay attention to. He isn’t going to die if he forgets to buy milk. And he can only go to the gym so often.

But he needs something to do, or he’s going to go crazy.

So today he does on leave what he dreams of in the field: he has his first of two showers for the day, makes himself breakfast in his own kitchen, and turns on the telly for the noise. It’s some dumb morning show, with too-clean hosts shilling for weird kitchen tools. Easy to ignore.

Inevitably, he thinks about Mexico. About Shepherd. About Chicago, and Hassan, and Laswell telling him he needs to get some goddamn rest before he kills himself trying to stop a war that isn’t even happening.

“Yet,” he’d ground out.

She’d just stared at him with dagger-sharp eyes and told him to go home.

John bites into his toast harder than a grown man told to take a fucking vacation should, and turns up the volume.

Three soft, polite taps sound on the wall.

John blinks. Remembers the previous morning, what he’d said to you. The remote is in his hand before he thinks about it, the mute button depressed beneath a quick thumb.

The quiet is like the end of a gunfight. Unsteady.

He waits. He doesn’t know what for. The silence stretches. He notices a shaft of sunlight coming through his window, little motes of dust dancing in the air, as he looks around his own flat for some reason. It’s habit—surveying a battlefield after it’s been passed over by violence.

He looks back to the space above the TV. Rises carefully from his seat. Goes over to the wall.

Raps his knuckles twice against it. All good?

Immediately there are two taps in response. Yes, thanks! And the break of the still silence is like a soap bubble popping. John breathes, and then realizes he hadn’t been.

There are no further knocks. It disappoints him, but he does not expect them. It’s just a friendly interaction between neighbors.

It doesn’t matter. It feels like something has unknotted in his chest.

He feels almost like a voyeur as the day goes on. He hears when you work in your kitchen, notes the muffled clang of a pan on the stove. He hears your dishwasher run later, and briefly wonders at the utility of using it for so few dishes.

You’re on the phone at one point, but he can’t make out the conversation. He only half-tries to, but the even the indistinct, low sound of your voice is comforting. It reminds him of late nights in the barracks, listening to bunk mates talk while trying not bother anyone else. The closest to domestic comfort John has really ever had.

You turn music on at one point, something soulful and a little moody. John thinks it might be Marvin Gaye, but he’s not sure. The urge to knock on your door and ask is a strong one, but he doesn’t think you need a lonely old soldier bothering you in the middle of your day. At least, not any more than he already has. And before he can figure it out for himself, he hears you exclaim “Oh, shit!” and the volume immediately drops.

He has to smile at that. It’s a rare luxury for him to experience these days, that kind of consideration.

Something in his chest gives a little jump when he hears two knocks on his wall again. Sorry, he thinks you’re saying.

He knocks twice back. All good.

He should not feel so invigorated by this exchange.

You leave the house a little after noon—he hears your door open and close, and the jingle of keys followed by footsteps quickly retreating. Then, your noise is gone.

John and silence do not go well together. Too quickly, the quiet closes in, and John thinks if he stays in his own home a minute longer he’ll suffocate from it—so he takes your cue, and leaves. He isn’t really sure what to do, but he has to do it anywhere else.

He gets home after you do, sore from the weight racks and full on pub food and a few pints. The sky is dark and the sidewalks are illuminated in yellow lamplight, and the air hums with the wind of cars driving in the distance. He sees your window lit up bright and warm, and the relief it fills him with is disproportionate to how anyone should feel knowing that their neighbor is home.

Where did you go during the day, he finds himself wondering? What are you making for dinner? What will you do once you’ve eaten?

John realizes he’s standing there staring at your window, and scowls at himself. He’s a fucking creep, that’s what he is. A pretty neighbor talks to him once, fucking welcomes him home like any nice person would, and suddenly he’s pining like a stupid little schoolboy.

He goes inside. Hears you in your kitchen again and convinces himself he’s ignoring it. Tries to find something to stay awake with. Has one cigar more than he’d planned for the day, and thinks at least he’ll get to go out and get more sooner—something to do with the wealth of time he didn’t ask to receive.

He’s already in bed, second shower finished, when he hears activity on the other side of the wall. He hadn’t really been falling asleep, but he’s wide awake now, and feeling like a pervert as he listens to your bath come on.

He hasn’t gone to bed with anyone in a long time, either.

John lays there in the dark, eyes open, and tries to ignore how easy it is to breathe as the water runs muffled only a few feet away. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he can hear again the tiny buzz of a toothbrush a little after the flow shuts off. He listens to the creak of your bed and does not think about how warm your skin must be, how softly the sheets must fall around your body.

He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep. He isn’t thinking about listening to your breathing beside him. He isn’t drifting off imagining the smell of your hair on his pillow…

He hears a tiny buzz again. Brushing your teeth a second time? No, it’s closer now…

Oh. OH.

John’s eyes fly open. Your bed creaks again. He is rigid under the covers, every muscle tensed. He breathes consciously, testing the limits of his diaphragm, counting to three between each inhale and exhale. He is desperate that his pulse remain even, that his blood refrain from rushing through his ears and other parts.

A small sound. Breathy. Low.

John slaps his hand against his thigh before it can move any further inward. He curls his fingers around the hem of his briefs, grips the fabric as if it’s going to save his damn life. Clenches his other hand into a fist, digs his nails into his palm.

What expression is on your face? What is the scent of your toothpaste on your breath?

What angle are you holding that vibrator at?

You give a low moan again.

His breath shallows out. John considers giving the wall a tap but dismisses the option immediately and ruthlessly. He will take his secret audience to the fucking grave. And he’d shoot himself before denying you this—and, he thinks shamefully, denying himself this, too.

He should get up. He should go into his living room and give you privacy. Your bed creaks again. He remembers his own mattress tends to the same disruption. He can’t move, because it would effect the same outcome as a knock—you’d know exactly how thin the walls are, know that he’s right there and that he’s only leaving after he’s already gotten an earful.

Another sound, higher. John isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. What did your skin feel like? Would his fingers fit you better than that toy? Would his cock?

He thinks he feels a nail break skin. He tries to think of anything other than the throb of blood and heat between his legs, between your legs.

You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off.

John knows you’ve buried your face in your pillow to quiet yourself. His entire body twinges with the disappointment of it. He breathes so lowly as to be silent, to give space to your noise, and waits.

But the buzzing stops. Your bed shifts again, and then all is silent.

Wait. What?

Was that it?

The silence stretches. John does not move. That was it.

John does not think about how much longer he could’ve made that last. He does not think about teasing you with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Does not picture your legs hung up high on his hips.

His cock aches. He ignores it.

The gym tomorrow. And then a run. Maybe a drive to the coast, and a dip in the cold ocean.

It wouldn’t be enough, but it had to be something. John isn’t going to get a minute of sleep, and he’s going to be hearing that cut-off moan for a long, long time.

next

[celenawrites]

— a soft life: unofficial prologue

Summary -

Retired and domesticated, Johnny and Simon look forward to the next step in their life as a couple - parenthood. However, initiating this process turns out to be a lot trickier than usual.

And then enters you, a tired grad student who is desperate and willing to be their surrogate for some much needed cash. Needless to say, they find themselves orbiting you - like planets to the burning sun.

Warnings - A/B/O dynamics, Metaphorical ramblings of 'killing' parts of one's personality, reader is implied to be an immigrant and POC so expect topics of misogyny, sexism and threats of forceful marriage/parenthood to pop up in later chapters, Unbeta'd and unedited contents so mistakes are inevitable, etc.

Word count - 1, 128.

series masterlist || read on ao3

Your eyes burn. 

The black cursor blinks against the empty white expanse of your Word document, taunting you and your incapability to muster up anything to write for your thesis. You shut down your laptop after staring at the blank document file for what seems like hours, barely mustering up the concentration needed to finally name the topic of your research thesis. 

You lean back against the black ergonomic chair and it creaks under your weight, and you can feel the way your back cracks as you stretch your arms over your head. You take off your glasses, and then let your palms rub at your aching eyes as you contemplate what more you could do to distract yourself from your imminent doom. 

Between your laptop and piles of printed papers, textbooks and notes lies an opened manila envelope that has delivered devastating news to you at a crucial point of your life. 

The education system is unfair in many ways, and going into academia and research is definitely not going to be a walk in the park for you. But your passion for the subject had you undeterred - leaping at the first chance of pursuing your postgraduate degree from one of the most prestigious universities in all of the United Kingdom. And yet, the printed letter you had received last week is threatening your dream and you do not know if there is any way for you to salvage it. 

You have rapidly applied for financial aid, scholarships, internships and even odd jobs - but most of the potential employers have either ghosted you or put your name on a never-ending waitlist. You cannot wait till next year to know if they would hire you for minimum wage, damn it. 

By the time they reach out to you, you might already be well on your way back home. And you do not want to go back home. 

A few tears of frustration bubble up in your eyes, leaving hot tear tracts on your skin as you try to wipe them away. You need a break. God knows when was the last time you had slept. 

At moments like these, when life was too much and the stress made the idea of death all the more inviting to you, your inner voice - your Omega, someone you have suppressed and killed with your own violent hands, would resurface into your life like a phantom and she would haunt you with incredulous ideas and sweet impossibilities. Need someone, need Alpha, she would whisper to you all sultry, Wanna be taken care of. Too much, too much, too much-

And you would bury her remains again. 

You cannot be soft. You cannot be kind. You cannot let people know you care. 

It would only get you killed. Or worse. 

You get up to leave the room on shaky legs and your knees buckle after staying so still for hours on end. You enter the small kitchen, put the kettle filled with water on the stove and turn it up to high heat as you lean against the island and rub your hands over your languished face. You’re so tired. So fucking tired. 

The kettle simmers over the fire, letting out a small hiss from its spout. You pay it no heed. You think and think and think of all the possible ways you can salvage this mess of a situation - only to end up with nothing. 

The market hasn’t been kind, and you do work as a TA and some freelance work online as an editor to ease your financial worries, but it is not enough. 

You can always take up more shifts at the floral shop, but that can also possibly interfere with your academic schedule - which is the last thing you could possibly want. You can always call back home, but the very idea of it fills you with dread and makes your stomach turn and sicken you even more. You could-

The kettle lets out a loud whistle, steam oozing out of it rapidly and the mobile phone in your jeans rings at the same time, startling you into action. You turn and hurriedly turn the stove off, letting the kettle rest on the island as it lets out all the steam stored in the ceramic vessel. 

You abandon the pot of leafy concoction, opting to go outside into your living space to finally pick up your ringing phone. You wipe your clammy hands on a hand towel lying nearby before you swipe the green button to pick up the call. 

“Hello?” you state your name, “Who is it?”

“Good afternoon, Miss” the feminine voice greets you over the mobile, “This is the Larksky Fertility Clinic”. 

Your heart stills. 

You read the email the clinic representative had sent you after you got off the call with her. 

Alice was her name. Alice sounded like a kind woman. 

You read through the attachment files in the mail. The pamphlet outlined the vision and works of the fertility clinic, highlighting their doctors and the various fertility testing and treatments they offered to people and couples alike. The other attachment files consisted of the bare minimum information about the couple that are currently seeking you out in order to conceive. 

Mr. Simon Riley and Mr. John Mactavish. 

Both are ex-military - one of them is a personal fitness trainer and the other runs a security company. They’re willing to negotiate the price for your ‘assistance’; which is something you’re grateful for, even though you’d have done it for free once upon a time. 

While you have always been unsure about parenthood being the right path for you (and your personal aspirations and fears wouldn’t necessarily allow you to indulge in such ideas just yet), you have always wished to help people create the families they deserve. And you believe this call to be some sort of sign, corny as it might sound to some. 

Maybe it's divine intervention. Or manifestation. Or some spiritual signal. 

You have always been willing to help others out in any way possible - from taking on extra workload and sharing necessities to blood donations and volunteer work. At one point, you had been looking forward to helping people out with completing their families - eager to see them so ecstatic about becoming parents. The idea of doing this for money solely leaves your mouth dry, as if you have swallowed cotton - and yet, yet. 

It wouldn’t hurt to try, anyway. Sending out a response through your email, you confirm the time and date of the meeting with the clinic. You console yourself  and reason with your heart (or what is left of it anyway) - you need the money, you always wanted to do this, now is a good time anyway. 

A/N -

I decided to post this almost scrapped prologue in hopes to motivate myself and to keep on writing some more. Hopefully, I will be able to post more in May. Also, forgive the few grammatical errors in this piece, I haven't been too keen on correcting such errors at the moment. I will eventually clean this up later on. I just wanted to put this out there so that I can work on the later parts of this series.

[cherry-cristal]

This but better

@amazeingartist sorry I didnt color

[roseofdarkness0]

Soap: exists

Fandom: Hmm yes, perfect

Soap: ?

Fandom: dumps 4 masked dudes on top of soap

Soap: !

Fandom: Here you go boyfriends <3

This is call out post for me specifically but also just at this point Soap is going to get all the masked boyfriends and I for one am not complaining

[meraus]

Ghost has DID au

Takes place after events of cod:mw2(2022). Ghost knows he’s an alter and Simon doesn’t know he has an alter. Soap is at ghost’s place for reasons when he agitates ghost enough to pull off his mask and reveal Simon, who’s immediately hostile to this stranger that’s standing in his living room acting like they’re familiar. Soap thinks ghost is pulling his leg, but when he gets Simon to put the mask on and ghost comes back, he finds out just how real it is. Soap realizes ghost can’t possibly be cleared for duty, and ghost confirms soap is the first and only one to know.

Not a full fic, more a complete outline- lord know that will take so many more words and I’m not up for writing all of them. Written entirely in my notes app which doesn't recognize soap and ghost as names lol.

Ghost can suppress Simon for short amounts of time without the mask, but only if he’s prepared. So when one day they’re in the field facing hostiles and the mask comes off by accident, soap has to get to a severely freaked out Simon, in his experience a civilian dropped in an active war zone, before anyone notices. Or at least before Simon gets himself killed or ghost’s absence fucks the mission.

Where ghost grows fonder of soap, Simon starts seeing him as a bad omen. When Simon sees soap, shit has usually hit the fence and will only get worse, considering the quickest way to get ghost back seems to be to intimidate Simon into relinquishing control. This development of Simon wanting to avoid soap makes it significantly harder to bring ghost back in critical moments. Soap also struggles with the morality of letting it go on like this, enabling this set up ghost has created.

When he brings it up, suggesting ghost gets treatment, ghost immediately shoots it down. Simon also doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t even want to speak with soap. Trying to tell Simon what’s going on builds his anxiety and triggers ghost to take over. Enough repetition of soap forcing ghost back in causes him to become another trigger for Simon.

Soap doesn’t see Simon anymore, and doesn’t think he ever will again. Ghost doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want Simon there with soap, maybe doesn’t want Simon at all. He gets on fine, better even, when it’s just him. He likes what he’s got set up for himself and Simon compromises that. If the army ever finds out about Simon, everything he has will go away. And what does Simon even have for himself? He doesn’t have family, doesn’t have friends, doesn’t have a job or way to provide for himself. Hell, he doesn’t even know who he is or what he’s capable of. All Simon has is fear and memories of things best left forgotten.

So it works, right up until it stops working. Because the thing about soap is that he’s safe. He’s trustworthy, reliable, on his way to become a better man than ghost’s ever been or can hope to be. If soap is there, if the environment allows it- ghost can drop his guard. He thought it just meant being able to sleep on transport and the like, but soon finds out that sometimes what feels like sleep to him is just Simon being shoved back to the forefront.

The first time, they’re in a car with two other people. Soap hears ghost mutter an expletive, sounding taken aback. It puts the others on high alert immediately, and himself as well, but for a different reason. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, no imminent danger, ghost doesn’t sound like this usually, and when he snaps his head around to look at ghost, he can see the switch clear as day. Simon is occupying the body even with the mask on. Soap covers for Simon’s slip up and silently warns him to keep his mouth shut until they can figure this out.

Through these moments of unplanned control, Simon slowly starts learning about his other side. Ghost and Simon don’t blend together, it’s more like both of them are breaking each other down. It’s messy and more importantly, dangerous. Ghost decides he needs to cut soap off, for his own well-being. Simon decides he needs to keep soap close, to guide him through the unknown and fill in the blanks.

It’s a losing battle for ghost. He can’t very well cut clean ties with soap- they’re on the same team, always in the same places, always having to share information. And besides that, soap is… he’s soap. He’s who ghost would consider his closest friend and ally. He doesn’t want to cut soap off, even if he needs to. And considering soap isn’t planning on going anywhere, cutting him off would mean uprooting the life he’s built so far. The best course of action, ghost decides, would be to somehow kill Simon off forever.

Simon, however, isn’t eager to go. Not at all. Maybe once, when he had nothing and not a clue about the world he was living in, he was easy to keep down. Now, though, he feels he has a place in the world. People who admire and respect him, even if it’s not really him they’re looking up to. And maybe even if he doesn’t know entirely how to keep that, earn it for himself, it’s alright. He’s comforted by knowing he’s got a good friend in soap, helping him to find out.

Soap doesn’t want to help him there, though. He can’t risk it. Simon can’t do the things ghost can, even if he has the muscle memory, he doesn’t have the instinct or training. Simon is a liability in the field, and through him, so is ghost. Soap is more pressured than ever to tell their captain what’s going on and in doing so betray the trust of his best friend- both of him. Ghost switches to Simon during a mission and it gets people killed.

Soap comes to a breaking point and he confronts ghost. They have what would be a shouting match, if there wasn’t a need for discretion. Punches are thrown and threats are made. Ghost does things he wouldn’t normally do to preserve who he is, fully seeing the irony in it but not knowing another way to achieve his goal. Soap and ghost break apart, much to the dismay of Simon. Soap is avoiding him now, regardless of which him he is. He’ll only do what’s mission critical and leave it at that. Simon finds it’s much harder to be in ghost’s shoes when he’s not told where and how to walk. The only upside is that what’s wrong with ghost gets blamed on whatever’s going on between him and soap.

When it’s Simon’s turn to confront soap, he gets told if he can’t handle it, then do them all a favor and stop trying to be ghost. The stakes of his fight for dominance with ghost get laid out for him. Simon already knew, but he never truly realized, as he does what he’s always done when it becomes too much; he makes ghost deal with whatever is too difficult for him. Simon doesn’t want to do that anymore. He realizes if he wants to live, he needs help. He needs to destroy ghost. The prospect is frightening and thinking about it allows ghost easy access to slip back in, overhearing soap’s words meant for Simon. He realizes he’s done for if Simon gets control again, so he clings to consciousness, digging his nails in until they break.

Ghost is reckless. He’s purposely putting himself in danger, going out of his way to scare Simon into obedience. If it’s too much, he won’t come out. Maybe if he finds the absolute limit of what his psyche can handle, paralyzes his other with fear, Simon will never want to return. He’s aware that he has no way out. If he slips up, he dies. It’s just a question of where and how.

Soap can’t do it anymore. He curses ghost for letting him find out, putting this responsibility on him, putting him between a rock and a hard place. He informs the captain of ghost’s condition, even knowing he will also face consequences for keeping it hidden. When asked how long he knew, he answers ‘a while’. When Ghost gets dismissed, he is also asked how long soap knew. He says soap only just found out.

Life for ex-military personnel with a dismissal on grounds of a pre-existing condition is rough. Even more so when the years of combat are marking your skin like a neon sign reading ‘danger’. Ghost gets a few weeks of psychological help and no benefits. Price can’t do much for him there, it’s bureaucratic bullshit- a one size fits all solution that lets the army wash its hands clean of him and his problems. He’s saved up a nice sum, but not enough that it’ll let him go into early retirement. Not that he’s the type for retirement, anyway. He doesn’t know what to do with himself out here. Going home- if you can call it that- between mission is fine. He doesn’t have to stick it out long. It’s different now that he actually has to settle. He considers letting Simon figure it out.

Simon who got them into this fucking mess, never actually considering what his actions will do to them because he’s never had to deal with the consequences of them before. Simon, who’ll probably get so overwhelmed by it that he might finally decide it’s best to put ghost in charge, after all. Active war zones couldn’t cut it, but the realization that beyond that the only thing awaiting them is the monthly psychiatrist bill and endless jobs applications without response might do the trick. Even if the thought amuses him, even if he starts considering dying might be best after all, he still clings to control. It’s his own fault anyway, for showing soap, for not being able to keep it under control afterwards. Soap, he thinks, who he’s never going to see again.

But he’s wrong. There’s months of radio silence between them, and then suddenly soap is on his doorstep. He hadn’t texted or called, despite having ghost’s number, just shown up. Soap takes one good look at him and knows which him he is. Ghost looks back and for the first time in months he feels his control slipping. He’s about to tell him to get lost and slam the door in soap’s face, but before his mouth can form the words, soap asks him why ghost covered for him. Why didn’t he face consequences for helping ghost cover up his medical status?

Really, there’s only one answer. The same answer that has ghost step aside to let soap in. It’s because he’s not done right by soap, and soap didn’t deserve to get any shit for or from ghost.

They catch up. If it were an interrogation, ghost would be in the hot seat. He’s got more to tell and the majority of what soap’s been through can’t be told. In that afternoon they find a new foundation. It’s brittle and shaky, careful not to touch on the important pieces, the things that need to be said, because saying them wrong could have the whole thing collapse, but it’s something. Soap sticks around, coming back every time between deployments, and they have something.

Ghost finds a life again. It’s not satisfying, it’s not something he thinks he’ll ever gets used to, but it’s his and it’ll do. He picks up some dangerous jobs to keep Simon at bay, but it’s not enough. He’s comfortable, he’s got it figured out, and he’s terrified. He’s the alter. If Simon comes out again and settles in this cushy life, he loses it all again. He can’t let Simon take this from him. He actively works against his treatment, stopped going at all in the last few weeks. There’s things that are his that he’s desperate to keep. There’s soap on his doorstep every few months, smiling at him wide and calling his name.

And that’s the most pressing issue. He keeps slipping around soap. The time he wants to be in his body the most is the time he feels the least solid in it. He thinks Simon wants soap, too. Not like ghost does, though. He doesn’t crave him with an edge of desperation, ghost knows, because he hasn’t lost yet. If Simon wanted it bad enough, he could win the struggle.

He takes up sparring with soap. If his adrenaline is high and his body goes into combat mode, it’s easier to keep Simon down. He puts on his face mask and takes soap down to the gym he frequents. The employees greet him by his name, what they think is his nickname, just as everyone else does.

He knows soap will press the issue, yet he’s still not prepared for it when it happens. Soap asks him if he’s just going to continue like this, if he’s planning to never let Simon out again. Ghost is honest with him, to a degree. He tells soap he doesn’t want to give up what he has and that Simon will erase him and take it for himself. He says Simon doesn’t deserve it.

Soap reminds him he’s in the best place he’ll be to figure himself out. Maybe he won’t be erased, maybe he’ll be merged. There’s no way, he says, that ghost can just cease to exist. Soap doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Ghost knows he doesn’t, because he’s spend hours researching it. There’s too many unknowns, too many likely to happen worst-case scenarios. There’s a dread that seeps in when he thinks about not having his life for himself.

What then, soap asks, is so important that it can’t be shared? Ghost hesitates to answer. This is the part of their foundation that can’t be touched, for fear it’ll break. It’s the part they’re always stepping over, have been for years, even when all was right with them and soap didn’t know Simon.

Ghost is in love with soap. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to risk it. What they have is enough, it’s a lifeline he can’t afford to cut. Still, with the pressure on him, with soap in his face and trying so hard to do what he thinks is best for ghost, with the thought of ‘what if’ plaguing his mind, he confesses.

Soap physically, noticeably, backs down. He’d known, on some level, that ghost felt this way about him. He was different to ghost, special, it was obvious in how they interacted with each other. He’d caught ghost looking at him, not in an indecipherable way, but clear as day in a way he told himself must be his wishful thinking. Soap can pretend it’s not there, even when he looks at ghost that same way, even when ghost’s undivided attention makes his whole body tingle with excitement, a moment where he thinks if he reaches out then ghost will meet him halfway.

Even so, soap can’t reach out. He feels if he tries, ghost will live up to his name and soap’s fingers will go right through. Ghost isn’t a person, so much as a personality. How am I supposed to love you back, he asks ghost, when you’re like this? There’s no security- ghost can disappear at any time. It would be a constant state of dread, a form of torture where he thinks he’d much rather gets his teeth pulled. Soap wants to say yes so bad, he’s a risk-taker anyway, in his line of work he could die at any time, so why wouldn’t he just dive in head-first? But if he did, it’d be unfair to ghost- to Simon- either of them. Both of them. Ghost can’t progress if soap holds him back. Figure yourself out, he tells ghost, and then tell me again.

Soap deploys again. Ghost, like before, is unsure if he’ll see him again. He curses Simon, breaks the mirrors in his house, hates the face they reflect back at him. Ghost is at his lowest point, and Simon takes over.

Simon has no clue where he is, ghost had moved to a new place, more suitable for full time occupancy. He snoops around and discovers what ghost has been up to. He makes a new appointment at the psychiatrist.

The woman who greets him wears a friendly smile and says she’s glad to see ghost back. When Simon tells her she might have to wait a bit longer on that, actually, her smile turns from friendly to beaming.

I don’t actually know shit about dissociative identity disorder and the treatment so I’m not dipping my whole toe in for this part, consider everything I say on the topic to be absolute trash for realism BUT Simon makes progress. A fair amount, really. He does his best to settle into the life ghost set up, confronts the trauma that created ghost in the first place, and discovers trauma he wasn’t responsible for acquiring. He has memories now that don’t feel like his own. He flips back and forth between himself and ghost and the lines get blurred. The more he learns, the more he feels sorry for ghost. As well as a strange type of guilt. He viewed ghost as his adversary when he learned of him, but really he was a scapegoat. A crutch Simon has depended on for so long that even he feels it’s unfair to call himself the host. He still has trouble seeing ghost as a part of himself, but the more he dips into his psyche, the more familiar he becomes.

Ghost is a whole person, Simon realizes. That’s why it’s so difficult to work with him. He’s complex and intricate and it’s not just a detached caricature of what Simon as a child thought a tough guy should be. Every time he connects with things that are distinctly ghost, it’s overwhelming.

Ghost doesn’t fight him when he goes looking, Simon feels like he’s almost showing off. But that’s not entirely right, if there’s one thing that defines ghost it’s his need to remain unknown. Simon doesn’t know why ghost is letting him access all of it without push back, until he digs too deep. He touches on a memory that seems recent, it’s in his new place and soap is there. The words sound like gibberish and it’s not a clear picture. When he tries to focus on it, suddenly he’s shoved out. It’s not the easy pull he’s become used to, the feeling like reality shifts and everything becomes hazy. It’s like getting pushed off a cliff and landing on a rock.

The psychiatrist asks ghost what happened there. He’s not ready for that, ghost tells her, he’s missing the pieces that make it come together; he needs to earn it first. And ghost, surprisingly, helps him. Sometimes, it’s like he’s being fed pieces, things he didn’t go looking for just appear before him. Every time he gets that feeling, he sees soap. Simon realizes that’s the thing ghost really wants him to understand; why soap is important.

He’s noticed before that ghost has many memories he doesn’t really care for, victories and milestone anyone else would hold dear. What he's careful with is his memories of people. Simon has to be delicate when he encounters a person whose name he knows but never learned, but even then soap is a special case. Memories of gaz and price come flowing in seemingly randomly order, but almost everything soap-related is chronological. Like ghost is telling him it’s important to get this one exactly right, really understand.

They work at it for a year and some months, and Simon understands ghost now. He still can’t fully see ghost as himself, but he’s not a separate entity either. It’s like they’re opposite sides of the same coin; different on the surface level, but ultimate the same. They’re through with almost everything ghost deems important, and that means he can’t stretch for time any more. Simon has a good feeling he knows what this final memory of soap is, the one he touched on too soon and hasn’t been allowed near since.

He feels the hesitancy in his own mind to dig it up. He feels exactly what ghost is feeling when he recalls it. It hurts. It’s elation turning to horror turning to grief and a cocktail of other emotions swirling around in him. And it’s the missing piece of the puzzle. It’s why ghost wanted him to understand after fighting him for so long. It’s the turning point that allowed Simon control. They’ve been doing all of this because if they live, they want a future, and he’s in love with soap. Ghost, Simon, either and both, just him. He’s in love with soap. He wants a future with soap in it.

It’s been too long for him not to realize soap must've come back from deployment without going to see him. He’ll have to take the initiative. He opens his contact information and goes into the text window. He knows he can’t text this, but he’s afraid to call. Besides, who knows if soap can even call, or what time zone he’s in. Their last message exchanged was over two years ago. The anxiety is eating away at him. What if soap’s given up on him? What if he took too long? What if he’s not adequately recovered, and soap rejects him again?

It takes him another few days to send a message. A curt and demanding ‘let’s talk’. He send another text, this one reading ‘please’. He drops his head in his free hand and groans. He should’ve waited another few days and come up with something good.

Soap texts him back hours later, waking him up by the distinct ping of a new message. Blending with ghost unfortunately also meant taking over his annoying, paranoid, militant habits, like any unexpected noise stirring you awake. Soap texted him ‘now?’. Simon replies ‘what works for you’. His phone rings right after he sends it.

The conversation lasts over an hour. Simon bites through the anxiety of sharing his personal life when he doesn’t know where he stands with soap and tells him how the treatment has been, how it’s going, what life is like, everything he deems important for soap to know. What might convince soap to come around again. Soap seems unsure of how to talk to him, too. But soap is good with people, he’s a natural conversationalist and he’s got his charm to fall back on. It’s not as bad as Simon feared it might go. Soap says he’ll stop by next time, though he doesn’t say when next time is.

Simon thought next time would be when he talks to soap again, but turns out that comes a lot sooner. Soap texts him the next day. A few days after that, they’re on a call again. Soap laughs more freely and becomes less guarded with every exchange and soon he’s saying stuff like how nostalgic it is to have ghost in his ear. Asks Simon to say some military shit, anything really. He laughs loud and long when Simon says, ‘how do two oceans greet each other?’. He hadn’t even said the punchline.

Soap also tells him how gaz and price are fairing, as well as sparse updates on Alejandro and rodolfo, who he’s still in contact with. Simon’s glad to hear about them. When ghost still had control, he’d been in contact, though always short messages and nothing meaningful. When Simon took over, he didn’t know how to talk to them. He barely knew them, didn’t really know anything about them. He’s come to know them through the memories and it’s a bittersweet feeling to know he has had these people in reach and kept them at distance. Though, now that soap opened the gate way, he starts receiving more wake up texts.

Then one day his phone stays silent. He slept through the entire night. It immediately sets him on high alert. He texts soap, and thankfully rather quickly receives a response. ‘Busy. In a bit.’ It reads.

In a bit turns out to be five hours, when there’s a knock at his door and there stands soap, smiling at him, saying ‘my schedule’s all cleared up now, so if you’re not-‘.

Simon interrupts him to say what he’s been wanting to say all this time, what he hopes soap has been waiting to hear. ‘I love you.’

And soap says, ‘I love you, too.’